Bones, feathers, pebbles, and oddly carved pieces of wood radiated outward from the werewolf s feet, defining a complex abstract pattern on the floor. Titus floated in the air before him, motionless, head slumped and hands dangling at his sides. Threads of flickering scarlet light wormed their way across his body, reminding Bellamy unpleasantly of the strands of animate pus that had squirmed into his head. But the crisscrossing bands of radiance weren't the only peculiar thing about the old wizard's unconscious form. After a moment Bellamy realized that Titus was smaller, He'd been little before, stooped and shrunken with age when the junk spider had captured him, but now he was only about four feet tall.
' He's shrinking," Antoine hissed.
Bellamy glanced down. The alligator was peeking through the door, too. The human took another cautious look at the werewolf, making doubly sure the three- armed horror really didn't seem to sense their presence, even though he obviously perceived Titus, the focus of his ritual. "Yeah. I think you were right, it's a kind of Mia Watu. The wolfman is stealing his power."
"We've got; to stop it," Antoine said.
"Can we?" Bellamy asked. "Do you know an Arcanos to affect things on the other side of the Shroud?"
"No," Antoine said. "We'll have to go back to the Haunt and get somebody who. does."
Bellamy grimaced. He was afraid Titus would be dead before they got back, but he couldn't see any alternative to Antoine's plan. Feeling helpless, useless, he began to step backward.
The wolfman stopped chanting and snarled. His red eyes blazing, he glared directly at the intruders. Obviously, he had suddenly noticed their presence. He brandished the bone in his left hand.
TWELVE
Bellamy felt something sticky touch his face and eyes, as if he'd blundered into an invisible strip of flypaper. He blinked reflexively, lifted his hand to brush the noisome feeling away, and then the phantasmal substance jerked him staggering forward, out of the wall and toward the werewolf, as if he were a fish on an angler's line. Snared by the same magic, Antoine slid thrashing across the floor.
The pulling stopped. Reeling, Bellamy clawed at his face, trying to tear away the stickiness before the magic could yank him forward again. After a second the sensation vanished. He tried to pivot toward Antoine<:
And he did manage to flounder partway around, but the motion felt strange and awkward. When he saw that, like Titus, the writhing, hissing reptile was levitating, he realized that his own bare feet weren't touching the cold, gritty floor anymore, either.
Dangling in the air, unable to walk, he could neither flee nor advance on the wolfman to attack him hand-to-hand. Leering at him, the hideous creature made a grating, rhythmic sound. After a moment Bellamy realized the Black Spiral Dancer was laughing.
The human hurled his short sword at the werewolf s face. Fie was hardly an expert knife thrower, nor was the weapon balanced for use as a missile, but somehow he hit the target anyway. The point of the black blade caught the werewolf squarely in the left eye.
And then it fell away, without doing any damage. Because, of course, it and the monster were on opposite sides of the Shroud. The werewolf laughed again, then resumed his incantations.
Worm-like strands of crimson light began to crawl over Antoine and Bellamy's bodies. The FBI agent slapped and brushed at them frantically, but couldn't touch them, couldn't extinguish them or knock them loose. The tendrils inflicted jabs of pain, as if they were nipping at him with tiny fangs. As he swiped at his left hand, trying desperately to dislodge one of the lights, he saw his middle finger shorten until it was no longer than his ring finger.
Like Titus, he was shrinking. Being devoured. He flailed, alternately struggling to plant his feet back on the floor and to swim through the air to within striking distance of his tormentor. Neither maneuver worked. The werewolf leered at him, baring multiple rows of crooked yellow fangs.
The sight of that mocking, inhuman grin filled Bellamy with hate. He redoubled his efforts to get at the beast man. still to no avail. His rage and desperation swelled and swelled inside him, and then agony ripped through his body. He fell heavily to the floor.
The pain only lasted an instant. As he lifted his head, he saw that the worms of light on his body had disappeared. So had the floating forms of Antoine and Titus, and the hissing, glinting Nihil cracks in the walls.
Bellamy realized that somehow he'd crossed over to the Quick side of the Shroud. Immediately he felt a pull, a suction, not from any definable direction but unmistakable nonetheless. Death was trying to draw him back into its country.
Desperately, without even knowing how, he fought to remain where he was, and felt the force of his will anchor him in place. He could stay in the Skinlands for a little while, though only until his concentration wavered.
The werewolf snarled, and drops of his hot saliva spattered Bellamy. The monster started chanting and brandishing the femurs considerably faster than before.
Bellamy wondered why, instead of continuing his sorcery, the creature didn't just make a grab for him. Huge and powerful, armed with vicious fangs and talons, the wolfman couldn't possibly be afraid to battle him hand-to-hand. Indeed, though at least the FBI agent now had a fighting chance, he knew that the odds against him were long indeed.
Then he remembered something Marilyn had told him. Supposedly it was dangerous for a magician to break off a conjuration in the middle. Maybe the werewolf was hurrying on toward a safe stopping point, after which he'd pounce on his opponent.
And just maybe, if Bellamy disrupted the ritual before the beastman could babble the proper phrase, it would hurt the creature.
The human grabbed for some of the bones, stones, and pieces of wood arranged on the floor. Even that simple action impaired his concentration, and at once he felt himself begin to slip back into the Shadowlands. He squinched his eyes shut, strained to anchor himself anew, and the pull abated. Struggling to keep his will focused, clenched, he swiped at some of the ritual objects again, jumbling them and effacing a part of the pattern they defined.
Crackling arcs of blue electricity, or something resembling it, danced across the floor. One brushed Bellamy's ankle, convulsing him, flinging him four feet into the air, nearly disrupting his control of his newfound talent and tumbling him back across the Shroud. But the werewolf endured worse. He was at the center of the storm, and the miniature thunderbolts blazed into his flesh repeatedly, like whips, or blades, or striking cobras. His body shuddered spastically, and a smell of charred meat and fur suffused the air.
After several seconds the discharges subsided. Blinking at afterimages, Bellamy waited to see the beastman collapse. Instead the monster took a lurching step, recovering his balance, then dropped the long bones in his hands, and lunged at his human prey.
though the werewolf's injuries had slowed him down, Bellamy just barely managed to scramble out of his way. He snatched up a length of pointed, intricately carved bone and spun around on his knees, thrusting wildly. A huge, clawed hand ripped at him, shredding his shirt. A split second later his weapon plunged into the werewolf s groin.
The wolfman reeled passed Bellamy, twisting the bone out of his grip in the, process. Staggering, the deformed creature pawed feebly at the makeshift weapon, evidently trying to pull it out. Then he made a rattling sound and collapsed.
Bellamy studied the monster warily, making sure he was truly dead, until a surge of pain distracted him. Examining his shoulder, he found white, bloodless gashes. The werewolf s claws had done more than tear his shirt. He just hadn't felt the cuts till now.
A Second and surprisingly intense throb of pain Served to break his grip on the world of the living. Instinctively he clutched at it with his mind, trying to remain, but this time to no avail. The darkness grew somewhat brighter, and Titus and Antoine swam into view, free of scarlet glowworms and no longer suspended in the air. They'd also regained their proper stature.
The hoodoo man was still unconscious, but Antoine was awake. Tail rustling against t
he floor, he hurried up to Bellamy. "Good work," the gator said. "Is your shoulder bad?"
"I think it'll be all right."
Something about the human's tone or expression must have concerned Antoine. He cocked, his head. "Are you all right?"
Bellamy hesitated, not quite certain how to explain. They'd won after all, and he'd discovered a strange new talent in the process. He ought to be jubilant. But for a few moments, he'd been alive again—well, nearly—and now he was mired once more in the cold, hollow realm of the dead. Perhaps his shadowself was tainting his perspective, but at that moment, the anguish and frustration of it were almost too much to bear.
"I'm fine," he said gruffly. "Let's get the old man back to the Haunt before something else happens."
THIRTEEN
Peering this way and that, his gloved hand clutching the revolver in his pocket, Manuel Gayoso de Lemos, Anacreon sworn to the Smiling Lord and one of the three Governors of Natchez, prowled the festering alleys of Under-the-Hill. Allegedly, the riverfront district wasn't as dangerous as it used to be. By enlisting Mike; Fink and other notorious outlaws in his crusade against the Heretics, an enterprise which had yielded plenty of loot, Montrose had reduced the incidence of common robbery and slave-taking. Still, under normal circumstances Gayoso would never have come down here without a squad of Legionnaires for protection. In fact, unless he'd been needed to put down an insurrection or repel an invading army, he wouldn't have come at all.
He was sorely tempted to abandon his errand and return to the Citadel. But he'd promised his secret advisor a fee for telling him how to dispose of Montrose, and he was afraid to pay it anywhere near his rival Anacreons. If they ever learned what he was up to, they'd have all the excuse they could possibly need to cast him down. A high-ranking Hierarch could get away with a wide range of cruel and capricious acts, but not with what he had planned.
Frenetic zydeco fiddling and a murmur of conversation sounded ahead. Rounding another corner, Gayoso saw a decaying shack with a green skull and crossbones crudely painted on the side. Presumably this was the tavern known as the Green Head, where Montrose had begun assembling his private army. Beyond it gleamed the black, malodorous expanse of the polluted Mississippi.
Gayoso had been told that the person he sought could generally be found in this vicinity. Peering about, he spotted a narrow lane lit by crimson barrow-flame lamps. Male and female wraiths struck seductive poses in the doorways and windows of the derelict buildings, exhibiting themselves to the riffraff sauntering up and down.
Scowling behind his blue silk hood with the elaborate silver trim around the eye holes, his long leather coat swishing around his ankles, the Governor tramped forward. A burly ruffian with the golden eyes, muzzle, and mane of a lion hailed him jovially. The Anacreon inclined his head, but didn't speak. If he kept silent, no one could identify him by the sound of his voice.
Whores called and beckoned. Many had consulted the Masquers to enhance their erotic appeal. One woman looked like the young Katherine Hepburn, another sported a luxuriant equine tail, and a third employed a red wooden rod to demonstrate the prehensile attributes of her genitalia. One prostitute, a flesh sculptor himself, assumed the form of whoever stopped to look at him, offering potential customers the opportunity to couple with themselves.
The little street was only two blocks long. As he neared the end, Gayoso began to suspect that the object of his search wasn't working tonight. In a way, it was a relief. But at the same time, now that he'd mustered the resolve to perform this particular chore, the prospect of ending the night with it undone, of having the danger and unpleasantness still hanging over his head, exasperated him.
Then the form of a thin little girl, her long black hair done up in pigtails, emerged from the gloom. Unlike the other denizens of the area, she wasn't doing anything obvious to call attention to herself, which was probably why he hadn't noticed her before. Dressed in a white blouse, a plaid skirt, knee socks, and saddle shoes, she sat alone on a crumbling stoop, head bowed, crooning to the Raggedy Ann doll cradled in her lap. Whispers, moans, and the smack of naked bodies bumping together sounded from the rotting brick building at her back.
As Gayoso approached, she lifted her head and gave him a shy smile. But the childish expression wasn't perfect. For an instant a calculating glint shone in her large brown eyes. Evidently, as the Hierarch had heard, she'd died a schoolgirl and retained the form of one, but in the years since, her personality had matured, or at least coarsened. His anticipatory guilt eased slightly.
Leather squeaked on the pavement. Startled, the Governor pivoted. The twin horns of his jester's cap flopping, his expression an odd mixture of eagerness and misery, Valentine was hurrying toward the child prostitute also.
Gayoso hadn't expected to encounter his servant here, but he supposed it made sense that the dwarf preferred a lover of his own stature. The Anacreon quashed an impulse to turn and scurry away. After all, Valentine had already seen him, and evidently hadn't penetrated his disguise.
"Hi, Daphne," Valentine said, eyeing Gayoso a little warily. "If you can, I want to spend the whole night with you. I've got the money." He dug several oboli out of his pocket.
The little girl gave Gayoso a coy smile. "You look like a nice man," she said. "I'd love to have you for my daddy. But you just heard, Vally asked me first."
Gayoso reached inside his coat, removed a bulging pigskin change purse, and tossed it onto the stoop. It landed with a heavy thud and a clink.
Daphne's eyes widened. "Gosh!" She turned to Valentine.
The jester said, "I don't have that much. I wasn't expecting an auction. But I can get you more in a day or two. And I.. .I really could use your company tonight."
Daphne caressed Valentine's cheek and lips. The little man actually quivered. Gayoso felt a twinge of contemptuous amusement. "You are so sweet," she said. "Come back tomorrow. We'll play then."
"Don't say that!" Valentine said. "I come to you every week. I've given you plenty of money over the years. I thought you liked me, at least a little."
"I do," said Daphne. "Except for when you get all icky. So don't be that way. Run along until tomorrow." Her voice hardened. "Or else I won't be able to play with you at all anymore."
Valentine glared at her for a moment. Then he dropped his eyes, jammed his money back in his pocket, and trudged away.
Daphne stooped and picked up Gayoso's purse. "Come inside," she said, simpering, her tone sweet and girlish once more. "I'll show you my special room. My favorite place."
"I have my own place," replied Gayoso, taking pains to speak softly. "Somewhere more private. Let's go there."
Daphne gave him a coy but appraising look. He imagined she preferred to ply her trade in the brothel behind her, where, perhaps, she had allies at hand if someone tried to cheat or hurt her. "I don't know," she said. "I'm not supposed to go farther than the corner. Mama says I'm too little."
Gayoso customarily carried a spare soulfire crystal or two, in case the ones currently powering his gun ran out of energy. He removed one of the black, sparkling orbs from his pocket and tossed that to her also.
She snatched the magical gem out of the air. "Well, okay. I guess I can go. Since I'll be with my Daddy." She alit from the stoop and took his hand. Her fingers felt tiny and fragile.
People leered at them as they headed for the corner. Gayoso had sampled a number of exotic pleasures since his induction into the Hierarchy, but he'd never felt any inclination toward pedophilia, and his stomach churned with mortification. He was glad to escape into the less-traveled maze of alleyways beyond.
At first Daphne prattled. Did he like little girls? Did he think she was pretty? Did he like tickles? What about hugs and smooches? Gayoso did his best to enter into the flirtatious spirit of the conversation, but as tense as he was, it was difficult, and the nearer they got to their destination, the edgier he became.
Daphne gave him another speculative look. He was afraid his gruffness had alarmed her,
that she'd try to back out of their assignation, but instead she asked, "Are you mad at me, Daddy? Do you think I'm a naughty girl?" Her bubbly manner had turned timid and submissive.
"I saw what you did," Gayoso replied coldly, trying to play along.
To his surprise, she blushed. Lacking blood, most wraiths were incapable of that particular feat. "In the garden with that little black girl," she said, her voice hushed with bogus shame. "Kissing each other's pee-pees. I know it was dirty. Am I going to get a spanking?"
"You'll see," Gayoso said. "This is the place." He glanced about, making sure no one was watching, then led her through the peeling surface of a wooden door and on up a dark, nanow flight of stairs. The interior of the abandoned office building smelled of dust and cockroaches.
Daphne's head turned back and forth. Gayoso presumed she was searching for a bracing jolt of secondhand misery. He knew she wouldn't find it. Unlike many old structures, this one didn't reverberate with the echoes of ancient sorrows. That was why no ghost had chosen the place for a Haunt. Why Gayoso had been reasonably confident no one would discover the room he'd prepared, or interrupt him before he completed his task.
When they reached the second-floor landing, he gestured to the door on the left. "In here."
"Yes, Daddy," Daphne said, still all cowed and apprehensive. She glided through the panel, and he followed.
The sickly green light of several barrow-flame candles glinted on the conquistador rapier, cuirass, and morion which Gayoso had left in the corner when he donned his disguise. A large, hissing Nihil, radiating twisting fissures like the tentacles of an octopus, yawned in the middle of the floor. Several darksteel knifes, a rubber-ball gag, a set of chains, and a tarnished silver hand minor lay on the dusty table beside the pit, while freshly painted sigils and hieroglyphics decorated the walls. The Hierarch had no idea what the symbols represented. He'd merely drawn them according to his benefactor's instructions. But they emanated a palpable sense of malevolence.
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