The other Spectre chuckled. "Don't worry about that. We're seeking revenge for atrocities that occurred hundreds of years before you were even born."
Gayoso extended his hand. "Then welcome, ally."
Dunn gazed across the table at the buxom, black-haired woman. Her sensuous lips curved in a seductive, enigmatic smile, her swarthy shoulders were bare, and her necklace of gold coins glinted in the candlelight. Gypsy or not, she looked too young to possess much arcane knowledge. Hell, with her big, brown, bedroom eyes and voluptuous figure, she looked as if she ought to be lap dancing on Bourbon Street, not telling fortunes in a ratty storefront in Metairie.
But even if she was only pretending to occult wisdom, Astarte and the Arcanists might still seek her out. They wouldn't have any way of knowing she was a phony until they got here. The SAD agent took a drag on his hand-rolled cigarette, savoring the pleasant burn of the smoke in his throat and chest, and then blew it out in a blue plume. The fortuneteller wrinkled her upturned nose, but made no other protest. Maybe she was worried that if she objected, he'd tell her to dig his ten-spot out of her cleavage and give it back. Dunn laid his hand on the rickety little table, palm up, beside the wax-encrusted Chianti bottle which served as a candelabrum. "Tell me all about myself," he said.
She picked up his hand in one of hers and slowly stroked the lines in his palm with her fingertip. He suspected that many of her male customers enjoyed the caress. He didn't exactly mind it himself. "I see a strong man with a gentle heart," she said in her Eastern European accent. "I see a deep longing hidden from those around you."
Gentle heart, he thought, amused. What a crock. She was a fake, all right. "Would that be a longing to arrest you?" he replied.
Her eyes widened. "You're a cop?" Most of her accent was gone. Evidently she talked like Maria Ouspenskaya to impress the suckers.
"More or less," Dunn replied. No point in telling her too much too soon. Let her worry for a few more seconds. Nervous witnesses tended to be more eager to please.
The gypsy began to sweat. Dunn could smell the perspiration oozing from her pores. "I thought psychic readings were legal in New Orleans," the woman said. "And that's all I do."
Dunn grinned. "No bujo for you, eh?" She blinked, surprised to hear him use the Romany word for a con game.
"No," she said. "May my blood spill if I am lying." She gave him a sultry smile. "So if there is a problem, if I've broken some little ordinance without meaning to, surely you and I can work it out."
He chuckled. "I appreciate the thought, darlin', but to tell you the truth, this isn't a shakedown. I'm not the local heat, either. I'm FBI." He reached inside his new blue suede jacket, fished out his Bureau ID, and showed it to her.
She swallowed, and the smell of her sweat grew stronger. "I don't understand. What could the FBI want with me?"
"With you, nothing. But you may have been in contact with somebody we do want." He laid copies of the sketch he'd drawn and the photo he'd obtained from the Louisiana DMV on the tabletop. "Have you seen either of these people?"
She glanced down, then shook her head.
Dunn gave her a frown. "Don't be in such a hurry. Study them. The chick with the hardware in her face calls herself Astarte. The guy in the photo is named Marlon Sebastian, but he generally goes by Marilyn. He's a cross-dresser, a pre-op transsexual, actually, and he may have looked like a woman when he came in here."
The Gypsy examined the pictures at greater length. "No," she said, sounding relieved. "I haven't seen them."
"Have you heard from anybody else who claimed to belong to an organization called the Arcanum? Or somebody who wanted to talk about the Atheist murders?"
She shook her head. A strand of her raven hair tumbled across her forehead.
"Well," said Dunn, "if you do, call me." He handed her a card with a phone number written on it. "Help me find them, and the Bureau will pay you a ten- thousand-dollar reward. You'd have to fondle a lot of palms for that kind of bread."
"I sure would," she said. "So yes, of course I'll help you if I can."
When he looked into her eyes, Dunn could see she was lying. Even her greed was no match for her instinctive distrust of the authorities. If he walked away from her now, she'd run like a rabbit. He grabbed her by the wrist and clamped down hard. She gasped in pain.
"Let's get something straight," he said. "For the time being, I own you. You may not pull up stakes and disappear until I give you permission. If you try, I'll find you, and I'll make you, your family, and your whole lousy kumpania sorry. Sort of like this, only more so." He took a final drag on his cigarette, removed it from his mouth, and pressed the glowing tip into the soft skin on the inside of her forearm. She yelped and thrashed, but couldn't break free of his grip. The odor of charring flesh mingled with the other scents in the air.
"Okay," he said, releasing her, "I think that now we have a real understanding. I'll see you around." He rose and ambled for the door.
Behind him, she trembled, rattling her bracelets and necklace of coins, and whimpered.
The moonlit street outside was a hodgepodge of seedy offices, ethnic restaurants, secondhand shops, and consignment boutiques. Though it was only eight o'clock, many had already closed for the day. Dunn surmised that, though at first glance the area seemed innocuous enough, few people cared to. visit it after dark. He wondered if it was a high-crime area, or if the humans sensed the subtle but abiding presence of Something more uncanny. Every city contained such disturbing and enigmatic places, and frequently even other supernatural Creatures found it impossible to divine what manner of force or entity had polluted them.
As he neared his Land Rover, his cellular phone rang. He lifted it to his ear and said, "Dunn."
"That was inspiring," said Chester sourly.
"Don't you have anything better to do than follow me around?" the Black Spiral Dancer retorted. "Does Geffard know how you spend your time.?"
"I think he'd agree he needs somebody to monitor the way you operate. It was pointless to brutalize that woman. Can't you keep your werewolf urges under control, even when you're human?"
Dunn chuckled. "Jeez, what a racist thing to say! And you a member of two different oppressed minorities yourself. You ought to. hang your head in shame. There was a point. She needed to know who was in control."
"What if she cOmplains to the FBI?"
"A grifter like her would sooner slice off one of her own tits than talk.to a cop voluntarily. That was the problem I was solving."
"Well, maybe," said the wraith, clearly unconvinced. "Do you think the Arcanists willget in touch with her?"
"It seems like a long shot," Dunn admitted, picking his way through shards of broken glass, The sidewalk beneath the broken bottle reeked of cheap Rhine wine.
"Then it was pointless. And we're no closer to catching them than we were before."
Dunn sighed. "I will get them, Casper. It's only a matter of time. You play with your computers and leave the man-hunting to the pros, okay?"
"I'd like nothing better," said the ghost in his snottiest tone, "But it seems that we have a new problem. Something else you Dancers have screwed up."
"What are you talking about?" Dunn asked.
"It turns out your Galliard friend Cankerheart kept a journal," said Chester with bitter relish. "Among other things, he wrote about the plan. The document used to be in your safe house by the cemetery. Now it's missing."
"And we're just finding this out now?"
"Cankerheart was in Lafayette when the rest of us decided to clear out. Somebody else moved his possessions for him."
"Great. If it wasn't for bad luck, we wouldn't have any luck at all. Anyway, you think Bellamy and Astarte swiped it."
"It was on the bookshelf in my computer room. They went in there."
"But you didn't notice them taking it. Careful, Chester. You're coming dangerously close to admitting that a glitch might be partly your fault, and I know you'd never want to do that."
&nb
sp; "He must have grabbed it when I was too busy inside the PC to look out," Chester replied. "My job was to protect the electronic files. I didn't even know the stupid notebook was there, and I couldn't have done anything about it from my side of the Shroud anyway. It wasn't my responsibility."
Dunn rounded a corner and his mud-spattered white Land Rover came into view. One of these years, he reflected absently, he really should get it washed. "All right," he said, "calm down. It was nobody's fault, and even if it was, the important thing now is to assess the damage. Dare I hope that old Cank wrote his girlish confessions in some top-secret mystical script that only Dancer sages are supposed to know?"
"Well, yes,, apparently so," said Chester grudgingly. He sounded as if it pained him to admit that the situation might not be an utter catastrophe after all. "But that doesn't mean the Arcanists won't decipher it. That's precisely the kind of thing they're good at."
Dunn unlocked his vehicle and climbed behind the wheel. "They can't decode it if they haven't got it. Let's try to figure out if they do. For starters, let's assume Bellamy was the one who found it:"
"Why should we?"
"Because he was a good agent, trained to be observant." Dunn turned the ignition key and the engine roared to life. Tires squealing, the Land Rover shot away from the curb. "If he did pick it up, he would have held on to it, not handed it off to Astarte. Once again, because of his instincts. He wouldn't entrust evidence to a civilian if he didn't have to, not even his girlfriend."
"What about when he decided she should run while he stayed behind to delay you?"
"Maybe if he'd thought of it, but he didn't. I know because I'm observant, too, and I had my eye on them from the moment they realized they were being stalked right up until the second they split up."
"Then where is the journal? You did a lot of damage to Bellamy's body, electrocuting him and then clawing the corpse like a maniac—"
"I had a hole in my chest. It hurt. I needed to express my feelings."
"—but even so, if he had the notebook, some fragment of it should have survived."
"For a little while we were playing hide and seek in the boneyard. He must have ditched it somewhere then."
"If he came back for it—"
"How? He's ;a slave now, remember still getting indoctrinated. There's no way the Queen's people would let him run around on his own. And even if they did, he's on the wrong side of the Shroud to so much as touch the damn thing. I'm sure that if we look for it, we'll find it ourselves." He smiled. "You know, we might even be able to turn this, to our advantage."
"How?" Chester asked.
"Astarte knows Bellamy lifted the journal. She and the Arcanists must wish they had it. If they thought they knew where it was, it might flush them out of hiding."
"What are you going to do," Chester sneered, "run an ad in the classifieds? Found: spiral notebook filled with mysterious hieroglyphicsf They'll never fall for that. They'll suspect a trap."
Dunn floored the gas pedal, making it under a traffic signal just before it changed from amber to red. "Then we'll have to be a little more creative, won't we?"
TWENTY
"Again," Titus said.
Bellamy lifted an eyebrow. "So soon? I'm still beat from the last one. And I don't want to be exhausted when we finally get in to see Marie. Speaking of which, what's the hold-up, anyway?"
"She's the Queen, warmblood," Antoine Said. "She'll see us when she's ready, and that's all there is to it."
"Meanwhile," said the stooped old sorcerer, his wizened features currently painted half blue and half green, "you should practice. You have an extraordinary natural talent for penetrating the Shroud, but raw ability can only take you so far. You must learn to use your Arcanos reliably and precisely, even when you are weary. Otherwise it will fail you when you need it most."
"All right," said Bellamy, because after all, Titus was right. It didn't matter how tired he was. He had to master the art of crossing over to the world of the living. It would help him in the fight against the Atheist conspiracy, and it was the only way to communicate with Astarte.
He turned to the white, pink-eyed rabbit in the wire cage. The animal belonged to Titus, who evidently used its blood in some of his spells. Bored, the other abambo cooling their heels in the waiting room Came closer to watch. The cold green light of the barrow-flame lamps gleamed on their faces.
Trying not to let his audience distract him, Bellamy focused his will. Titus had taught him that there were several ways for a ghost to penetrate the Shroud. He'd start with the easiest and work his way up. When he felt ready, he reached into the cage and stroked the rabbit's warm, soft flank with his fingertip.
Startled, the animal lurched away, Bellamy felt a glow of satisfaction, and also a pang of guilt for frightening the helpless creature.
"Good," Titus said. The spectators murmured approvingly.
Next, Bellamy said, "It's okay, boy. I'm not going to hurt you." Though he spoke normally, Titus had told him that in the Skinlands, his voice; would sound like a whisper. But evidently it was loud enough.. Lifting its ears, the rabbit peered in his direction.
The FBI agent's body quivered with fatigue, and his concentration wavered. Scowling, he struggled to clear his mind, then attempted the next trick, to make himself visible, though not tangible, to the living.
The rabbit recoiled again. According to Titus, it was seeing a semitransparent figure with blurry features floating an inch or two above the floor. Something very much like the average mortal's notion of a ghost. Two of the onlookers began to applaud. Then the double doors to the throne room swung open, and an imperious- looking functionary emerged.
As was the case with many of the Queen's servants, his appearance was an odd blend of modern America and an ancient tribal heritage. Tall and lean, he wore an elegant gray three-piece suit, but with the usual zebra-striped cape on top of it. In his right hand he carried a long assegai, evidently the emblem of his office. Diagonal scars, a shade darker than the surrounding skin, ridged his cheeks, and his front incisors were missing, "Her Majesty will see you now," he said.
Passing between the sentries guarding the entry, Bellamy, Titus, and Antoine followed the functionary into a long, torch-lit hall which smelled of frankincense. The room fairly throbbed with the memory of ancient sorrow, and webworks of Nihil cracks hissed in the walls. A trio of drummers stationed along the right-hand wall tapped out intricate, murmuring rhythms with their fingertips. At the far end of the chamber, atop a three-step dais, was an ivory throne, and, sitting erect and motionless upon it, the slender, severely lovely woman whose features reminded the FBI agent of Nefertiti. A crown of dyed ostrich plumes rose above her head, while behind her stood two towering idols carved from some dark brown wood, as well as another pair of guards armed with automatic rifles and scimitars.
Bellamy felt a twinge of awe—perhaps a product of his aborted magical brainwashing—eagerness, and, to his surprise, a flash of amusement. Because, oddly assorted as he and his companions were, he was suddenly reminded of Dorothy and her friends approaching the Wizard of Oz.
Reaching the foot of the dais, he salaamed as he'd been instructed. Titus did the same, not quite so deeply. The alligator ostentatiously lowered his head.
"Rise," said the Queen in a husky contralto voice. "Titus. Dear friend. I rejoice to see you safe."
"And yet it took me two days to obtain an audience with you," the old man replied. He didn't sound reproachful. He sounded as if he was worried about her.
"I was petitioning the Orishas," said Marie. "I didn't want to break off in the middle. Though I might as well have, for all I accomplished."
Titus frowned. "Perhaps that's a topic better discussed later."
"Do you think we can hide the problem?" asked the woman on the throne. "Doesn't everyone already suspect that the gods don't speak to me anymore? After all these years, I'm tired, perhaps too tired to raise the power. And maybe the Orishas are weary as well, weary of us, weary of
maintaining this one tiny outpost in a hostile land. Perhaps they're ready to abandon it to Les Mysteres, the Deathlords, or anyone else who wants it."
"Your Majesty!" Antoine said, sounding so scandalized that, in other circumstances, Bellamy would have been hard pressed to repress a grin. "If your magic's not working, it's because our enemies are messing with us. Once we beat them, everything will go back to normal. You can't give up!"
She sighed and gave him a sad little smile. "No, of course not, not as long as faithful subjects like you want me to carry on. At least we'll go down fighting, eh?" She turned to Bellamy. "You're the warrior who rescued Titus."
"Actually, Antoine and I did it together," the FBI agent said. "But yes."
"And as your reward, I raise you from Thralldom," the black woman said. "Henceforth you will serve me as one of my guards. Kneel to recite the oath of fealty." The functionary stepped forward with the assegai extended. Bellamy inferred that he was supposed to touch the long, broad spearhead as he swore.
He remained standing. "Your Majesty, I'm grateful for your generosity. But I don't think this is going to work for me. Especially if you're thinking of sending me off to boot camp, or making me stand watch around the Haunt." He smiled at the impassive sentries behind the throne. "No offense, guys."
Marie gave him a stony stare. "For the moment at least, I'm still the monarch of New Orleans. It's perilous to defy me."
"I don't mean to defy you," Bellamy said. "But your difficulties are one facet of a bigger problem, a bigger mystery. I've vowed to crack the whole thing, and as an FBI agent and, I'm told, a natural Proctor, I have the skills to do it. I want to help you as an ally, not a buck private in your militia. I want to help you plan your strategy. And when the time comes to deal with an aspect of the overall situation that doesn't have anything much to do with keeping you on your throne, I want you to help me with that, not get mad at me for deserting my post."
"What 'bigger problem'?" asked Marie.
Bellamy began to relate a condensed version of his experiences, beginning with the night of Waxman's murder. He wondered fleetingly how many more times he'd have to lay out this story, and for whom. He'd already told it to a transsexual occultist, a pair of hideous vampires, and now ghostly royalty. His audiences couldn't get much stranger than that.
Dark Kingdoms Page 47
