As she set her foot on the fifth riser, she froze.
"What's wrong?" Astarte asked.
"I don't know," Marilyn replied. "Perhaps nothing. Do you feel something in the air?"
"No."
"Well, I suppose that since you aren't a natural sensitive, and haven't undergone any mystical training, you wouldn't. But all of a sudden, I do. A kind of psychic pressure or heat, coming in waves from the northeast." She pointed in what Astarte assumed to the appropriate direction.
"What does it mean?" Astarte asked.
"I have no idea," Marilyn answered, still standing where she was.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it's merely...disturbing."
"Well, that's too bad, but if your head isn't going to explode or anything, can't you just put up with it?"
"I could," Marilyn said. "But it's a mystery. An anomaly. Possibly a sign that we should turn back."
"But you don't know that," Astarte said. "It might not have anything to do with us at all."
Marilyn spread her hands. "True enough. Perhaps it isn't even real. Perhaps I'm simply imagining it, because I'm afraid. As usual, I can't tell you anything for certain." She sneered in manifest self-contempt.
Astarte sighed with mingled sympathy and exasperation. "It's okay. You got me inside. I'll handle the rest. You get out of here and I'll meet you back at the motel." She climbed past her companion.
Marilyn gripped her forearm. "No," the Arcanist said. "I said I'd do this and I will. I'm not going to flinch, not this time." Marching upward, nearly shouldering Astarte aside, she took the lead once more.
They reached the second floor and prowled on down another hall. Astarte couldn't help noticing how empty and dark most of the station house seemed to be. No one else was traversing the corridors, and except for the faint buzz of the commotion down in the reception area, no voices disturbed the silence. She guessed that most of the cops working the night shift were on patrol or answering calls. God knew, these days there were plenty of crimes and disturbances to keep them busy.
Astarte and Marilyn turned down another hall. At the other end, an acrylic sign hanging above a Dutch door read Evidence Room. The lower section of the door was closed, the upper, open. Behind it, just barely visible at this angle, slumped a man with his head cradled in his arms on his Formica-topped desk.
Astarte smiled. The guy was obviously napping on the job. He might be a little dazed when they woke him up. Maybe he'd believe the phony paperwork they'd brought, supposedly ordering him to release the werewolves' notebook to them. Maybe they wouldn't have to dope him.
The intruders headed down the shadowy passage. Halfway to the Dutch door, Marilyn halted, sniffing.
"What is it now?" Astarte asked. Then she caught it too. A sickening odor of decay. "Never mind, I smell it. But it's probably just somebody's lunch rotting in a wastebasket." Her companion didn't move. "Come on, Marilyn, we're here, and nothing's happening. Let's finish what we started, okay?"
Her face sweaty, Marilyn gave a jerky nod. "All right." She walked on.
The clerk in the Evidence Room still hadn't moved. Astarte still couldn't see him very well, but she could tell that he seemed to have a terrible case of acne. Bumps studded his mottled skin on the neck and hands, and moist sores pitted it. He looked almost as chewed up as-—
Now it was her turn to falter. Her mind balked too, reluctant to complete the ghastly train of thought it had begun. Then Bellamy lurched up out of the chair, and, his head and limbs flopping, leaned out into the hall to leer at her.
Astarte tried to scream, but the sound jammed in her chest. For a moment she believed that Bellamy's corpse truly had returned to a kind of demonic life, and the idea of such a desecration was the worst horror yet. She felt her mind recoiling, twisting in on itself, then noticed the huge, black-furred hand gripping her beloved's shoulder, its claws sunk deep in his ravaged flesh, and realized the truth.
Bellamy's body was inert. Hidden behind the door, Dunn was manipulating the corpse as if it were some sort of crude puppet. Perhaps it was his idea of a joke.
The werewolf flipped Bellamy into the hallway. When the mangled corpse struck the wall, its right leg fell off. Eyes shining like lanterns, crouching to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling tiles, Dunn bounded through the door.
Bellamy skulked along Barracks Street, gliding from one bit of cover to another, studying the houses. Many were obviously still occupied by the Quick, and consequently unlikely to be Geffard's secret Haunt. But there were also a number of dilapidated, seemingly abandoned structures. He supposed he could search them all, one after another, until he found the one he was looking for. But that could be dangerous if he accidentally encroached on some other ibambo's domain. It could also take time, and some instinct warned him that time was running out.
A hot, almost slimy presence hung in the air. Sometimes it seemed to beat against his face like a poisonous wind gusting in from the north. It wore at his nerves and intensified his sense of foreboding. If there was one thing he didn't need, he reflected sourly, it was another mysterious phenomenon to worry about.
But much as it annoyed him, his shadowself obviously thrived on it. He could feel the parasite bloating in the depths of his mind, moving around, laughing at him. The Nihils seemed to like the polluted atmosphere too. A webwork of fissures in the street hissed more loudly. A glittering black pit in the hood of a white Dodge Neon parked at the curb swelled until it looked as if the front end of the vehicle had virtually disappeared.
Bellamy frowned as a thought struck him. Nihils. He still wasn't sure he entirely understood what they were—doorways to Hell, evidently—but they seemed to be associated with evil, and with certain kinds of ghostly magic as well. Queen Marie's throne room contained a lot of them, and Geffard's stronghold might, also.
He turned and retraced his steps. Soon he spied a crumbling antebellum mansion with flaking cream-colored walls, gray doors and trim, and a stable, slave quarters, and a Creole kitchen in the fenced, overgrown yard behind it. The house was markedly more infested with Nihils than the buildings around it, so much so that it seemed as if it ought to collapse into a thousand pieces. Lopsided shutters and rotting curtains prevented him from peering in the windows.
Okay, Bellamy thought. Assuming he really had found Geffard's hideout, what now? He doubted that it would be easy to approach the place unobserved. The loa must surely have lookouts posted, even if the FBI agent couldn't spot them from his vantage point.
What he needed was a diversion. He hurried to the next corner, where he'd seen a grubby little bar with neon beer logos in the window. Outside it, frowning in concentration, he projected himself through the Shroud. The patina of grime and corruption imposed by the metaphysical barrier vanished. The neighborhood seemed less seedy, the air far sweeter than it had before. He took a deep breath—now that he was here, he was suddenly afraid he'd forget to breathe, and someone would notice— and then, his nerves jangling with anxiety, stepped through the door.
The bartender and some of the customers perched on stools turned to look at him. The fleshy, graying man behind the stick frowned and cocked his head. One of the patrons, a stooped old man in a checked shirt, suspenders, and bow tie, snorted in amusement, scorn, or disbelief.
Bellamy felt a surge of gratitude. He didn't care that, with his clothing in tatters and his black shortsword hanging at his hip, he looked peculiar. What mattered was that, unlike the Villiers family, these mortals weren't quailing in terror. He could pass for one of the living when he wanted to.
It occurred to him that if he really desired it, if he fought with every bit of willpower he possessed, he could leave the horrors and frustrations of being a ghost behind and remain in the world of the Quick forever. Granted, he hadn't managed the trick before, but then he'd been surrounded by spirits and monsters. Now he was among ordinary people in a nondescript little neighborhood beer joint, where the air was hazy with pungent cigarette smoke, a boar's head spo
rting sunglasses and a derby hat hung behind the bar, and a Baywatch pinball machine glowed in the back corner. The utter normalcy of his surroundings would anchor him here until he was completely alive again.
But no. Deep down, he knew that it couldn't possibly be that easy to break the grip of Death, or no wraith would ever remain a phantom. Already he felt the remorseless undertow of the Shadowlands, trying to drag him back. Perhaps his dark side was tempting him with this fantasy of resurrection to trick him into wasting his time in the mortal world. Or maybe he'd simply fallen victim to wishful thinking.
"Are you all right?" the barman asked. "You look a little spaced out, if you don't mind my saying so."
Bellamy smiled ruefully. "You don't know the half of it. Could you please give me a book of matches?"
"Sure." He reached under the bar.
The elderly man in the bow tie sneered at Bellamy. "Wandering around in a stupor with a big knife and your clothes torn to rags. Smoke a little crack, did you? Get in a little fight? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Punks like you are the reason this country's going to Hell in a wheelbarrow."
"You guys don't know the half of that, either," the wraith replied, taking the matches from the bartender's outstretched hand. "Have a good night." He turned and exited the bar.
As he stepped back onto the sidewalk, he felt the insistent pull of the Underworld increase. He hurried down the street to a point where, he judged, he was too far from Geffard's Haunt for anyone there to observe him, but close enough for his diversion to attract plenty of attention.
Using the shortsword, he cut strips of cloth from his jacket, knotted them together, then unscrewed the gas caps of three parked cars. He inserted the makeshift fuses in the vehicles' fuel tanks and struck a match.
The teardrop of fire was warm and golden, like yet utterly unlike barrow-flame with its coldness and unearthly colors. For a moment Bellamy stared at the match, almost hypnotized, as if he could see all the pleasures and wonders of mortal existence swimming in its glow. Then, grimacing, he lit the fuses, allowed himself to slip back into the Shadowlands, and dashed away.
He ducked behind a considerably more modest home on the far side of Geffard's stronghold. Cheerful voices and the scent of spicy food issued from inside. The former sounded unpleasantly shrill and the latter smelled subtly rancid.
Time seemed to creep by, until he wondered if the fuses had gone out. Then three blasts thundered in rapid succession, and a flickering orange light tinged the sky. Debris clanked and banged as it showered down.
Hoping that his ploy had gotten all of Geffard's thugs looking in the wrong direction, Bellamy charged the house. He plunged through the rusty wrought-iron fence and immediately felt a nauseating jolt of energy. Evidently an echo of suffering permeated the entire property. Shrugging off the sensation, refusing to let it slow him down, he sprinted on between two of the crumbling slave cabins.
"Halt!" spat a deep male voice with a Caribbean accent.
Bellamy turned. A lanky black wraith wearing a black leather slouch hat and mirror sunglasses stood in the doorway of the shack on the left, pointing a crossbow at him. Perhaps the explosions had distracted the sentry, but not enough to make him overlook the intruder dashing right past his station.
"I came to warn you," Bellamy said, advancing on the other ghost.
"I told you to halt," the guard replied.
"They're about to attack," Bellamy said, not breaking stride. "From that direction."
He gestured back the way he'd come. "The blasts were a diversion. Oh, God, look!"
The sentry reflexively turned his head a fraction. Bellamy knew it was the only break he was going to get. He sprang.
The crossbow clacked, and the bolt flew past his shoulder. He punched the guard in the throat, then rammed the heel of his palm into the base of the other wraith's nose, flattening it. Either blow might well have killed a living man. The guard didn't disintegrate into the Labyrinth, but he did fall down on the rotting stoop, unconscious.
Bellamy quickly dragged him into the cabin, a cramped, filthy box stripped of all furniture but a straight-backed chair. As he might have anticipated, the aura of misery was even stronger here.
As long as the guard was still around, there was a chance he might awake and raise the alarm. Bellamy felt a momentary impulse to dispatch the helpless ibambo with his darksteel blade. But death and desperation hadn't made him quite that ruthless yet. Scowling, he pushed the temptation away.
He peered out of the shack. No one else was in sight. He ran on to the verandah, swarmed through the railing and up onto the shadowy porch itself.
An instant later he heard voices murmur and the front door of the mansion creak open and bump closed. His mouth dry, he drew his pistol from its holster. Careful to stay below the windows, he crept along the verandah until he could peek out toward Barracks Street.
Three men were ambling toward the gate that opened on the thoroughfare. One, possessed of a murky aura laced with ugly strands of black, was clearly alive and possibly another werewolf, or a Mount with a spirit riding inside him. The other two were ghosts.
They seemed to be going to investigate the explosions, but judging by their casual demeanor, they weren't unduly concerned. Why should they be, when the disturbance had occurred half a block away? In all likelihood, it had nothing to do with them.
Bellamy watched them disappear, the mortal unlocking the gate and the spirits melting through the metal bars beside it, then he warily slipped his face through the mansion's exterior wall.
On the other side was the dusty, ruinous husk of a once-lavish parlor. Two ghosts sat playing backgammon, the sickly greenish light of a barrow-flame lamp gleaming on the oboli, rings, and bracelets they were wagering. Judging from the bolt-action Springfield rifles leaning against the inlaid table, they were soldiers, too.
Bellamy hastily withdrew and moved on, peering into one gloomy, decaying ground-floor room after another. He saw three more of Geffard's henchmen loitering around, but nothing else of note.
All he'd established so far was that the mansion was one of the rebel leader's strongholds, and that wasn't good enough. He needed evidence that something treasonous was going on here, and that meant he was going to have to sneak inside and search. He shifted his shoulders, trying to work the tension out, and took a deep, steadying breath. Then he glided through the wall into what had once been a library. The room still stank of reeking paper, but the moldering books had mostly vanished from the shelves, replaced by someone's collection of human and animal skulls. The empty eye sockets stared at him, and then someone moaned.
Raising his pistol, Bellamy whirled, but no one was in sight. After a moment, the whimper sounded a second time, and he discerned that it was coming from upstairs.
He wondered if someone was being held prisoner up there. Some poor soul who might be able to divulge the details of Geffard's perfidy to his rescuer. He moved to the doorway, peered warily out, then stalked on down the corridor. He had to slip past the parlor to reach the staircase, but fortunately the backgammon players didn't glance up at the doorway. The rattle of dice followed him on his way.
As Bellamy ascended the stairs, the groaning suddenly changed to a string of softly articulated syllables. He had no idea what the words meant. He didn't even recognize the language. But something about the sibilant, hateful sound of them made his skin crawl. It was like the auditory equivalent of the hot, greasy feeling in the air.
Okay, maybe it wasn't a prisoner. Bellamy skulked on, even more cautiously than before.
Ragged scraps of wood littered the landing. Some agency had crudely demolished the ceilings and interior walls of the first three bedrooms on the right, possibly to create a chamber wide and high enough to accommodate occupants larger than a man.
Nevertheless, to all appearances it was a man, albeit a hunchbacked, naked, freakishly deformed one, who stood in the middle of the cleared area, his aura threaded with dark, pulsing veins, string warts dripp
ing from his upraised, twisted arms. Croaking and chanting, he swayed back and forth, and a shimmering in the air before him, like the sheen of a floor-length mirror with the glass itself missing, shimmied with him as if the two of them were dancing. Crystals, bones, and symbols drawn in reeking blood and dung surrounded his splayed, blemished feet in a complex pattern.
Crouching near the top of the steps, peeking through the newel posts in the banister, Bellamy was all but certain that the freak was a werewolf sorcerer like the one he and Antoine had encountered, except that this specimen was currently wearing what passed for his human form. What's more, the FBI agent had a hunch that the column of glow was a gateway such as Titus had spoken of, which allowed the alien demons to pass from their native dimension into the Underworld.
He grimaced, because, although he was confident he was right, it was only supposition. He still needed more to break Marie out of her paralysis of indecision.
It looked as if, by ascending the steps, he'd come to the right place to find it. Evidently this was where the conspirators worked their black magic, and conceivably did much of their plotting as well. Unfortunately, to continue his search, he'd have to pass through the hunchback's field of vision, and not just for an instant, either. He had at least ten yards to cover.
Would the deformed man see him? The other shaman had, but he'd been in his monster shape, and also intent on devouring Titus. He'd adjusted his inhuman senses to perceive ghosts, and even so, it had taken him a few moments to detect Bellamy and Antoine's intrusion. Whereas the hunchback was currently human, and presumably not looking for wraiths. In fact, he seemed to be in some sort of trance. Maybe Bellamy could slip right past him as easily as if the warlock were an ordinary person.
Or maybe not. Ultimately, there was only one way to find out. Bellamy swallowed, stepped up onto the landing, and strode forward.
For the first few paces, nothing happened. Then the hunchback clenched his fists, threw back his head, and howled like a beast. Intent on shooting the werewolf before he could cast a spell, Bellamy started to shift himself across the Shroud, then realized the outburst had nothing to do with him. The hunchback was still staring at whatever it was he saw inside the shimmer. Slowly, his wavering cry fading, he dropped to his knees.
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