Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Hoping that this craziness was a common occurrence, and no other Restless would come running to find out why the sOrcerer was making so much noise, Bellamy hurried on down the gloomy corridor until a wall cut off his view of the other man, and, theoretically, vice versa. He cautiously slipped his face through a heavy oak door with a cut-glass knob, then stiffened in surprise.

  Once, presumably, the chamber had been 3 spacious bedroom belonging to one or more children. A small wooden horse on wheels and a toy chest, their paint faded and worn, sat abandoned in a corner. But currently the place was a shrine somewhat reminiscent of the one on Geffard's riverboat. A table with a red and white checkered cloth served as an altar. Atop it were skulls, bones, a crossed shovel and pick-ax, a garishly painted cross wreathed in a feather boa, and rows of crudely made brown candles, burning with a sickly green and radiating chill.

  Unlike the altar on the Twisted Mirror, this one emanated a palpable feeling of sickness and malevolence. But that wasn't what had startled Bellamy. Rather, it was the life-sized statue of Marie standing in the center of the room. The Queen's willowy form, crown of ostrich plumes, and severely beautiful face were unmistakable. Her features were contorted in agony, her knees were giving way, and she was fumbling ineffectually behind her back, trying to pull out the dagger stuck between her shoulder blades.

  Smaller images, dolls and puppets, some lying on the floor and others reposing on tables and shelves, radiated outward from the central figure in yet another intricate pattern. Some were crudely made, but it was obvious that each of them depicted Marie also, always in a position of torment and humiliation. One version was being raped by a creature like a hideous monkey, another had had its eyes torn out, and a third hung impaled on a spit. Occasionally black light flowed sluggishly through one of the images, or leaped crackling from one to another.

  Bellamy was sure they were voudoun dolls, designed to exert a destructive influence on the Queen, and that they were responsible for her inability to contact the Orishas. He'd finally found the evidence he needed.

  He wondered if he should destroy the display while he had the chance, but his ignorance of ghostly magic made him hesitate to tamper with it. He stepped into the room, then stood irresolute, trying to decide. The hunchback resumed his howling.

  Finally Bellamy approached one of the smallest images, a clay portrait of Marie with her hands and feet cut off, and gingerly picked it up from the dusty floor to examine it. His hand prickled and itched. Then, abruptly, voices sounded on the other side of the door. The sorcerer's wail had masked them till now.

  Bellamy frantically scrambled through a closet door. Old clothes on wooden hangers penetrated his insubstantial flesh, stinging him. Their musty smell tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze.

  He didn't hear the door open, but the voices came closer. Evidently the speakers were abambo. "—yowl like that for hours on end," said a man. Though he'd only- spoken to Chester on one occasion, Bellamy was almost certain he recognized the computer operator's prissy, petulant tones. "It's excruciating. How are the rest of us supposed to get any work done? You never should have included them in the plan."

  "We needed helpers who exist naturally on the bright side of the Surface," said a deeper, richer voice, sounding amused. "We couldn't do everything with possession and psychokinesis. You have to admit, the Black Spiral Dancers have been abundantly useful to the loa."

  "The Banes they conjure into the Underworld are useful," Chester replied. "But whenever they try to do anything else, they mess it up. Take Dunn. He's been chasing the Arcanists for days now. He claims he's going to trap them tonight, but you watch, he'll foul that up, too."

  Bellamy twitched in shock.

  "Don't be such a pessimist," said the other ghost. "Every important aspect of the grand design is proceeding nicely. This marvelous engine of destruction, for example. Can you perceive how much stronger the curse has grown? It won't be long before Marie is too feeble to rise from her throne or think a coherent thought."

  "I hope so," Chester said. "Is there anything else you want to see?"

  "I guess not. I hope you don't feel I was checking up on you. It's just that I get nervous if I don't touch base with my allies once in a while. Thank you for indulging me."

  Bellamy realized the other wraiths were about to leave. Without divulging where Dunn had laid a trap for Astarte and the Arcanists. He put the clay doll into his pocket, and then, gun leveled, stepped back into the room. Chester and his companion, a plump, bald, bearded black man with the inky stains of a Pardoner on his fingertips, were already moving toward the door to the hall. "Hold it," the FBI agent said.

  Chester jumped and lurched back around. The Pardoner turned more slowly. "What is this?" Chester quavered. "Who are you?"

  "It's your friend Agent Bellamy," the Pardoner said. "He found a Masquer to change his appearance."

  Bellamy frowned. "How do you know that?"

  The plump wraith shrugged. "We can discern a lot of things."

  "Well, you'd better discern that I'll kill you if you don't tell me about Dunn's trap."

  "At least we'll have company on the road to the Void," the Pardoner said. "The sound of the shots will bring our friends down on your head."

  "With Fido screaming his lungs out down the hall?" Bellamy replied. "Maybe, but I'll risk it. Now talk. Or do I have to kill one of you to convince the other I'm serious? If so, then this is your unlucky night, Chester. I got pretty darn sick of you back in the cemetery."

  Trembling, Chester opened his mouth to speak. "Don't you say a word!" the Pardoner growled.

  "Dunn arranged for the New Orleans Police to find your remains," the computer operator said, ignoring his fellow prisoner. "He got the discovery reported on TV.

  And—"

  In the blink of an eye, the Pardoner changed form. Now he was naked and hulking, his ebon scales gleaming with an iridescent sheen, as if they were coated with oil. Twin reptilian faces jutted from his single head. Hissing, ivory fangs bared, he raised a peculiar weapon, a length of wood edged with bits of black stone, and rushed Bellamy.

  The FBI agent recoiled, firing. He thought he'd hit his assailant—with the massive creature virtually filling his field of vision, it was difficult to imagine how he could miss—but the strange sword hurtled at his throat anyway. He threw himself to one side, and the stroke missed him by a hair. He staggered, recovered his balance, and fired again, emptying the magazine.

  The reptile man reeled backward. Concentric rings of shadow streamed outward from the holes in his chest.

  Bellamy spun toward Chester. He expected to see the wraith in the wire-rimmed glasses pointing his snub-nosed revolver at him. But instead the Creole was fleeing through the wall dividing this room from the next. Maybe he wasn't carrying his gun tonight.

  The FBI agent gave chase. Plunging through the partition, he found himself in a computer room much like the one in the werewolves' lair. The scrawny, gray-headed Creole lunged at the Pentium on the desk beside the window and laid his hands on the casing. Instantly his body became translucent, while his hands slid into the plastic as if they were being taken up on rollers. The hard drive chattered.

  Bellamy realized that in another moment Chester would vanish into the machine, beyond his reach. He grabbed for the Creole's arm, but to no avail. His hand passed right through his enemy's flesh, just as a mortal's fingers would slide unimpeded through his own.

  In desperation, Bellamy leaped across the Shroud. Fortunately the barrier was thin here, as it was in most Haunts, and he accomplished the shift in an instant. He swept the PC off the desk, then popped back into the Shadowlands.

  Falling, the computer dragged Chester's arms down with it as if his hands were sealed in a concrete block, wrenching him off his feet. When it crashed to the floor, he gasped in pain.

  Bellamy made another grab for him, and this time found solid flesh to seize. He jerked Chester across the floor, away from the damaged machine. The Creole's hands fl
ailed out of the casing. For a moment they were as flat as sheets of paper.

  Bellamy dived on top of him. The other ibambo thrashed, trying to get away. His struggling filled Bellamy with rage. He battered Chester with his pistol, then dropped it and snatched out his shortsword, poised the blade for a thrust at the Creole's throat.

  Astarte's face, with its piercings, black makeup, and customary provocative half sneer, flashed before his inner eye. If he killed Chester, there'd be no one left to tell him where Dunn was lying in wait for her. He hammered his opponent's forehead with the pommel of the sword, stunning him momentarily, then pressed the blade up under Chester's chin.

  Bellamy's Shadow writhed in disappointment.

  Ignoring the unpleasant sensation as best he could, the FBI agent said, "Stop fighting or I'll cut your throat."

  His glasses lost, his face a patchwork of shiny scrapes and bloodless gashes, Chester glared up at him. "All right."

  "Dunn's plan. The local police found my body." The thought of such a thing, of himself lying cold and inert in a drawer in a morgue, made him queasy. "The story made the news. Tell me the rest."

  "He also made it appear that the cops recovered the notebook you and the girl stole from my office."

  Puzzled, Bellamy frowned. "What made him so sure Astarte didn't have it already? Never mind, that's not important. What was the point of all this?"

  Despite the blade pressing into his neck, Chester smiled a nasty little smile. "Isn't it obvious? To lure your Quick friends out into the open. Dunn believes they'll go to the police station to steal the notebook. If so, they'll do it tonight, before the city authorities can identify your remains and involve the FBI in the case. Your Dancer colleague is lying in ambush."

  Surely, Bellamy thought, his mortal allies weren't dumb enough to blunder into such a snare. But deep down, he knew otherwise. They weren't stupid, far from it, but by now they must be utterly desperate to get a line on the Atheist conspiracy before their supernatural enemies finished killing them off. Moreover, Astarte could be reckless and impetuous at the best of times, and at the moment she was no doubt distraught with rage and grief over his murder. She might well go after the notebook, even if Marilyn and the other Arcanists had sense enough to stay away.

  The air seemed to grow hotter and thicker. The hissing of the Nihils took on a rhythmic, pulsing quality, as if they were laughing. "Which station house?" Bellamy asked.

  Chester hesitated. "Give me your word that you'll let me live."

  Bellamy pressed harder with the shortsword, slitting his captive's skin. Chester gasped and went rigid. "You'll live," the FBI agent said, "but only if you tell me within the next five seconds."

  "All right!" Chester said. "It's the one on Elysian Fields, just a few blocks from the cemetery."

  "I remember seeing it," Bellamy said. He wished he could stay and interrogate Chester a while longer. The little weasel undoubtedly had a lot more to tell him. But Astarte might already be in mortal danger.

  His shadowself whispered that she was probably already dead.

  Scowling, thrusting the ghastly thought out of his mind, Bellamy bashed Chester once again. The Creole thrashed and then went limp, his head lolling to the side. His captor watched him for another moment, making sure he was really out, then sprang to his feet.

  The shaman's howling died away. New voices murmured from the same direction. Evidently someone else was ascending the stairs.

  Perhaps somebody had heard the fight, or missed Chester and the two-faced creature, and was coming to investigate. In any event, it was clear that Bellamy couldn't exit the way he came in, not right now, and with Astarte in danger, he couldn't hide and wait until the coast was clear, either. He ran at the exterior wall and leaped through it, out into the night.

  He plummeted as fast and hit the ground as hard as a mortal. He tried to. roll out of the fall, but something went wrong. With a burst of pain, his right leg snapped.

  For a. second, panic yammered through his mind. Grimacing, he suppressed it. He knew how to fix this. Antoine had taught him. Trying not to think about the sentries who at any moment might notice him sprawled on the grass, he drank in the residue of sorrow which pervaded the property, then willed the energy to heal him.

  His leg straightened. He Seemed to feel the two ends of a broken bone align themselves and fuse together. When the pain dwindled, he scrambled to his feet and then through the bars of the wrought-iron fence.

  No one shouted after him, Or fired a shot. He'd gotten away free and clear—

  The sky roared.

  Startled, Bellamy looked up. Waves of blackness streamed out^of the north, occluding the stars. Then the wind smashed into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Bits of hot, flying grit, so tiny he couldn't see them, cut him as if he were caught in a sandstorm.

  At first he thought a tornado had touched down, or that a hurricane had blown ashore. Then he noticed that the trees weren't writhing, nor was the litter skittering down the street. Whatever the nature of the storm, it Only existed in the Underworld.

  Which was good. It would make it easier to get where he was going. Leaning into the wind, his ragged coat streaming out behind him, he staggered forward.

  Then his shadowself flowed into the forefront of his consciousness like a tide of sewage surging down a pipe.

  Appalled by the malice and perversity, the sheer insanity that he now perceived dwelling inside him, Bellamy dropped to his knees, his throat and belly clenching with the dry heaves,.' He felt his awareness dwindling as the parasite fought him for control of his body. He tried to scream, Not now! But his mouth wouldn't form the words,.

  Shuddering, her heart pounding, Astarte stared down the hall at the huge, black beast that was Dunn. Emotions ground together in her mind. Terror. Hatred of Bellamy^ killer, and outrage at seeing his body used for a plaything. Guilt that this situation was a setup after all, and she'd pressured Marilyn to march right into it.

  Instinctively she clutched at the latter feelings, embracing them to hold total panic at bay. She slipped her hand into her pocket; and gripped the cloth bag, Dunn's inhuman leer stretched wider.

  "Even if the charm has any magic left," Marilyn quavered, "that one won't work on a creature like him."

  Astarte fumbled with the catch on her purse, which stubbornly refused to yield and grant: her access to her pistol. Dunn still just stood and watched, toying with them, drawing out the moment. "Oh, Marilyn," Astarte said, "I'm sorry!"

  "How comforting," Marilyn sneered, slipping her hand inside her garish plaid sports coat. "No, forgive; me, I didn't mean—"

  Dropping to all fours, transforming in an instant, Dunn became a creature more akin to a true wolf, but six feet tall at the shoulder. He charged, fast as a cheetah.

  Astarte had once stood on a railroad crossing while an Amtrak train hurtled at her, frantically blowing its horn, just to see what it would feel like. She flashed on that moment as she recoiled.

  But Marilyn stood her ground. Her hand whipped out of her coat with another hand, a brown, twisted claw like the appendage of a mummy, clutched inside of it. To Astarte's amazement, the severed hand grasped a stubby white candle, and somehow, the taper was alight. As she recognized the grisly artifact for what it was, a talisman called a Hand of Glory, the occultist brandished it over her head and jabbered something in Latin.

  The black wolf stopped suddenly, stumbled back as if he'd struck an invisible wall. Astarte remembered the story Bellamy had told her, of how Marilyn had fended off another supernatural attacker with a mystical device called the Cross of Hermes.

  Still grinning, his pale eyes gleaming, Dunn drove forward again, more slowly this time, struggling against the power Marilyn had raised against him. He moved as if he were shoving his way through a thick hedge. His heavy claws dug into the dingy linoleum for traction. Astarte smelled his musky, zoo-cage scent.

  The flame burned dazzlingly bright, consuming the candle with unnatural speed. Molten wax flowed down
over Marilyn's hand, but she didn't seem to notice the blistering heat. "Run," she said. "The ward won't hold for long."

  "I can't," Astarte said. She finally managed to tear her purse open and take out her gun. Her hands were still shaking so badly that she had trouble releasing the safety. "This is all my fault."

  "Don't be stupid," Marilyn said. The mummified hand began to crumble, showering flakes of dried flesh. Dunn pushed a yard closer. "There are police downstairs. Send them up here."

  Astarte shook her head. The cops would never arrive in time, and even if they did, they'd probably freeze or run away as soon as they got a look at Dunn, just like everybody did the first time. Holding her automatic in both hands, the way Bellamy had taught her, she sighted down the barrel. After a moment her hands stopped shaking, and then she fired.

  The gun barked. She hit the black, leering beast about half the time. Dunn twitched at the impacts, but didn't go down, or even falter in his efforts to close the remaining distance. Blood only flowed from the holes in his shoulders and muzzle for a few seconds, and then the wounds closed.

  Why, thought Astarte despairingly, hadn't she and the Arcanists equipped themselves with silver bullets? But it simply hadn't seemed feasible, not while they were on the run. And for all she knew, it wouldn't have made a difference anyway.

  The pistol was empty. She ejected the spent clip and rooted in her handbag for the spare. The candle blinked out, and the Hand of Glory disintegrated into dust. Dunn lunged forward, and, strangely calm in that final moment, she realized there wasn't enough time left to reload.

  Flecks of foam flying from his gaping jaws, his ivory fangs gleaming, Dunn sprang at Marilyn. The occultist reflexively thrust out her hands to fend him off. And something exploded into existence inside and around her, like a halo.