"You nearly made it that time," said Louise.
"Nearly," said the -Scot, assessing the depleted state of his powers. "I may succeed next time, but it's going to take everything I have, and if I fail, I doubt I'll even be able to stay aloft." Given the resilient nature of wraiths, a fall to the sand below might not destroy them. But it would almost certainly leave them maimed and broken, helpless to defend themselves against any hostile entity that chanced upon them.
"You won't fail," said Louise. "Do it."
He thrust at the flaw. Reality burst and re-formed in an instant. They plunged along the glowing tube, then tumbled into darkness and onto a hard, cold, uneven surface.
Louise tore herself from Montrose's, embrace and scrambled to her feet. He heard hissing, a long blade whizzing in an are, the rustle of his beloved's garments, and then an inhuman screech of agony.
"A doomshade," said the Sister of Athena, "hanging around here for some reason. I got him."
"It's a good thing yWO, were able to sense him," Montrose said, clambering to his feet. "I'm too weak and addled from forcing the passage."
"Are we in the vault's antechamber?''
"Yes, thank fortune, and the portal should function normally now that we're not trying to compel it to do anything unusual. Let's hurry through before the Spectre's death cry draws its comrades down on our heads." Unhindered by the darkness, his Harbinger perceptions revealed the exact location of the gate. Groping, he caught Louise's arm and led her to it. "The opening is right here in front of us. After you."
She stepped forward and vanished. He waited a moment for her to move away from the door on the other end, then followed her. For an instant he felt parched with thirst, and that his body was stretching as if it were made, of rubber. Then he emerged into Chiarmonte's office.
He'd been half afraid he'd find a contingent of doomshades or Legionnaires awaiting him, with Louise already writhing helplessly in their clutches. But the study- was just as he'd seen it last, a dusty-smelling room lit by barrow-fire candles burning coldly in sconces along the wall. A computer and stacks of ancient books sat atop the massive oak desk, among with a darksteel dagger and a leather domino. The magick mirror, an ornate creation with the mask of Charon decorating the top of its golden frame, stood in one corner.
Louise gestured to the glass. "Should we smash it?"
"To stop the Spectres from pursuing us? Absolutely." They overturned the mirror and it shattered on the floor. Montrose wondered without much caring if any Stygian would ever find his way to the Emperor's secret place of power again.
He strode to the desk and picked up Chiarmonte's mask and knife. The weapon would serve until he acquired a sword and firearm. "All right," he said, "the best way to get to the Onyx Tower—"
Thunder cracked repeatedly, like a rapid series of gunshots, and the earth rumbled. The room lurched and shook, tumbling tapers from their sockets and demolishing the stacks of books. The ancient tomes scuttled off the edge of the desk, plummeted, and burst apart against the floor.
"Oh, no," whispered Louise. "The Deathlords' battle has already started."
The guards behind the ivory throne hastily shouldered their automatic rifles. Staring in horror at Marie, the wraith Queen of New Orleans, sprawled motionless at the foot of the dais with black waves of Oblivion washing through her body, Frank Bellamy noticed the warriors aiming at him an instant too late to have any hope of diving for cover.
At that moment, he almost didn't care if they shot him. He'd lost his mortal life investigating the Atheist cabal, a conspiracy of supernatural beings committing atrocities against both the living and the dead. As an ibambo, a spirit, he'd finally been ready to strike back at them, but now, thanks to this one ghastly mistake, he'd blown his chance.
Titus, the wizened little shaman, his face painted half gold and half silver, shouted a word in a language Bellamy didn't recognize. The guards squeezed the triggers of their rifles, but the guns didn't fire. Startled, they faltered, then reached for the hilts of their scimitars.
"Stop!" said Antoine, scuttling forward to place himself between Bellamy and his assailants. His scaly alligator's tail dragged along the floor. "It was an accident. He didn't mean to do it."
"No," said Titus, stooping to pick up the tiny clay voudoun doll which had blasted Marie with magick, a likeness of the Queen with its hands and feet cut off. "He didn't. I knew he'd brought the image into Her Majesty's presence, I'm supposed to be knowledgeable about such things, but I didn't foresee that, separated from the other mannequins, it would pose a danger. So if you must avenge her, slay me."
The bodyguards looked uncertainly at one another, then released their swords.
Antoine turned to peer at the willowy black woman still lying inert on the floor. "If we're done saving Frank's ass," he rasped, "hadn't somebody better do something for the boss lady?"
"Yes," said Titus. He turned to the three drummers stationed along the Nihil- riddled wall, who were gaping at the catastrophe unfolding before them. "Resume your playing. It may strengthen her." The musicians obeyed. Once again, intricate rhythms murmured through the frankincense-scented air of the gloomy hall.
The old sorcerer cast the clay doll away, then squatted to examine Marie. "How is she?" Bellamy asked, feeling wretchedly guilty. It was all very well for Titus to claim responsibility for this disaster, but it was the FBI agent who, hoping to shake the spell-stricken Queen out of her paralysis of indecision, had put the malignant talisman in her hand. Not that he was any expert on voudoun, but still, somehow he should have sensed the danger.
"Well, at least she's not fading," Titus said. "But she will, if I don't leech some of the dark fire out of her." He shifted to a kneeling position. Then, scowling, he rested his hands on Marie's shoulders and muttered under his breath.
The waves of black light racing through the unconscious woman's flesh surged up Titus's arms as well. His scrawny frame vibrated as if he'd grabbed hold of a live wire. After several seconds, he cried out, threw up his hands, and fell over backward.
Bellamy bent over him. "Are you all right?"
"I'll survive," the old man groaned, trying unsteadily to rise. Bellamy took hold of his arm and helped him up. "But I didn't do her as much good as I'd hoped." Marie still lay inert, with bands of shadow oozing down the length of her body, though the ripples flowed more sluggishly than before. "I'm afraid she can't endure much longer."
Bellamy strained to thrust his guilt and anguish aside. To think constructively. "She was sick already, from Geffard's curse. This just exacerbated her condition, right?"
"Yes," Titus said.
"So if we break up Les Invisibles' doll collection, she can still get well."
"Possibly," the old man said, "but—"
"Then in a sense, nothing's changed," Bellamy said. "We came here to tell her that we abambo have to attack the rebels immediately, before the Loa learns that I found the dolls and moves them. And that's still the plan. In fact, this clears the deck to implement it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy that Marie has gotten worse. But the curse was affecting her mind and keeping her from doing what needs to be done. Now you can take command, Titus, and—why are you shaking your head?"
"The people wouldn't follow me to war."
"Why not?" Bellamy demanded. "They respect you."
"I hope so," the sorcerer said, "but that doesn't make me a monarch, anointed by the gods to rule the city. Remember what's been going on here. On one level, it all comes down to public relations. Two rivals have been fighting over the hearts and minds of the populace, each striving to demonstrate that he or she possesses more spiritual power and is thus better suited to rule. Thanks to the recent raids on our Haunts, Marie's malaise, and her consequent inability to commune with the Orishas, it's a battle she was already losing."
Bellamy frowned. "And therefore, if we're going to strike at Geffard, she has to lead the troops herself."
"Yeah," Antoine rasped. "Otherwise people will either figur
e out that she's sick to death, or assume she's afraid to face him. Either way, they'll lose what little faith in her they have left."
The gator's toothy grin seemed to stretch a little wider. "But you know, warmblood, when I talked about 'the people,' that's not everybody. I can round up a few more hard cases like you and me. Guys too ornery to roll over for Les Invisibles even if they are sure to win. We could put together a force big enough to at least do some damage before they take control of the city. What do you say we loyal vassals of the Queen go out in style?"
Bellamy hesitated.
After a moment Antoine grunted. "Never mind. It's okay. I was forgetting, you didn't even know us abambo until a few days ago, and the first thing we did was make you a slave. You don't owe us anything, and you've got other stuff to worry about."
"Well, yeah. I have to protect Astarte. And Marilyn, and the rest of the Arcanists. If they can get the werewolves' notebook translated, it might finally tell me what I need to shut down the whole Atheist conspiracy, not just the part of it that's menacing New Orleans." Bellamy grimaced. "Still, I said I'd help you, and I want to. If we could just think of something better than a suicide mission, a plan with some kind of a chance—hold on a second."
"What is it?" Titus asked.
"Since we can't give the people a Queen, let's give them an impostor." One of the zebra-caped bodyguards gasped. Bellamy gave him a wry smile. "Hey, it worked in The Prisoner of Zenda. And Titus, I know from personal experience that you can turn whoever we pick into an exact double of Marie." Thanks to the sorcerer's Arcanos magick, the FBI agent was currently disguised as a black man.
"It's...an interesting idea," said Titus, frowning. "Unfortunately, it's also lese majesty, and a kind of sacrilege."
"I don't believe this," Bellamy said. "Marie's dying, and you people are more worried about respecting her queenliness than restoring her to health."
"I'm not," Antoine rasped. "He's right, Titus, our backs are against the wall. Screw tradition."
"There's more than tradition involved," the old man said. "Many would regard it as a deadly insult to the Orishas."
"The Queen hasn't even been able to dial up the gods in months," the alligator wraith replied. "That's why we're in this mess. So I can't say that I'm worried that they're hovering over us, just waiting to slap down any impostor who puts on the ostrich-plume crown. If only they did watch over us that way."
"I didn't mean that I thought it would be an unpardonably blasphemous act," Titus said, "simply that many others would. I don't know if we can find a volunteer in the short time we have left."
"I'll do it," said Bellamy, though the thought of having his male body turned into a female one provoked a pang of queasiness which the prospect of changing from white to black had not.
Titus shook his head. "It would never work. I can alter your form and voice, but your body language would still be masculine, and give you away in an instant. We need a woman. I'll just have to start making inquiries, and pray that Her Majesty's condition doesn't become common knowledge as a result."
"Do you think that's likely?" Bellamy asked.
Titus shrugged. "Lately it seems that nothing discussed outside the Queen's inner circle remains g,secret for very long-"
"Great," said the FBI agent, "just great. Still, if we're agreed that this is our only shot, you'd better get started."
"Hold on," Antoine said. "I know somebody who'd be glad to volunteer, if everything you've told me about her is true."
"What are you talking about?" Bellamy asked.
"How about your girlfriend?" Antoine said.
Bellamy gave the gator a flinty stare. "Astarte's alive, Antoine, on the wrong side of the Shroud to do the job. I hope you're not suggesting—"
"Shit, no," rasped the gator. "What kind of guy do you think I am? But Titus knows magick that will yank a sleeping soul out of its body and let it run around in the Shadowlands for a while. I'll bet he can give it a new face, too, just like it was a real ibambo."
"Conceivably," said the shaman. "As far as I know, no one has ever attempted such a transformation."
"And no one's going to try it now," Bellamy said. "This is a bad idea."
"I disagree," Titus said. "Since Astarte isn't one of us, she won't feel she's breaking a taboo by impersonating the Queen. And even in the land of the dead, the aura of life will cling to her. I can enhance that, to create the impression that she's cloaked herself in some potent sorcery. That should encourage our warriors and alarm Les Invisibles."
"I'm telling ^ou, we have to find somebody else."
Titus sighed. "I understand your wish to keep the woman you love out of harm's way. But she's your comrade as well as your lover, isn't she? She wants to help you in your struggle. And how safe will she be in any ease, if our enemies defeat us and overrun the Haunt?"
Bellamy grimaced. "All right. I'll talk to her."
FOUR
Bellamy held Astarte's hands in his. To his dismay, he could tell his touch was chilling her again, though she was doing her best not to show it. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It's dangerous. You'll be the enemy's primary target, and unlike the real Marie, you don't have magick powers to protect yourself."
Astarte snorted. She hadn't had a chance to restore the: spikes and magenta streaks to her hair, or to exchange her brightly colored clothing for her customary black leather jacket and jeans, but the steel rings in her right eyebrow, left nostril, and lower lip were back in place, along with her raven lipstick. "From what you told me, her magick didn't protect her anyway."
"That's right, it didn't, and that's more or less my point. You're going to be even more vulnerable than she was."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right, it's dangerous. I get it already, and I'm not scared. I'd do anything to get even for what Dunn and the Atheists did to Vulture and Marilyn, and I've been waiting my whole life to see the spirit world." Her aura shone with excitement.
"Okay," Bellamy said. He took her in his arms and she kissed him passionately.
He tried to ignore the shivers that wracked her slender body. "Sit down so you won't fall when Titus puts you to sleep. I'll see you soon."
"Okay." She flopped down on the middle step of the dais. He allowed the relentless magnetism of death to draw him back to the dark side of the Shroud.
When it did, the empty hall became the throne room he remembered. Drumbeats whispered through the air. An ivory stone and two tall wooden idols stood atop the dais. Still unconscious, with waves of shadow washing sluggishly through her flesh, Marie lay at the foot of her chair, while Titus, Antoine, and the two bodyguards were gathered around the pedestal. The sentries glared at Bellamy, perhaps because they still blamed him for the Queen's collapse, or because they resented his efforts to warn Astarte of the perils she was about to face.
"It's about time," Antoine growled.
"I had to explain what she was getting herself into," Bellamy said defensively. "It was only fair."
"If you say so," the gator said. "Get moving, Titus. We're on the clock."
"I'm aware of that," the old shaman said testily. "You're not the only one who understands the urgency." He crouched in front of the oblivious Astarte, who was peering about, impatiently waiting for something to happen, and stroked her face with his fingertips. Her eyelids drooped shut, and she slumped back against the steps.
"Now he has to coax her soul out," Antoine muttered to Bellamy. "It generally takes a minute. He could just yank it out, but that would hurt her."
The ibambo sorcerer crooned incantations. His withered hands made intricate passes over Astarte's body. And despite his misgivings, Bellamy felt a thrill of anticipation. It seemed intrinsically wrong to draw any living person into the bleak, savage country of the dead, and yet..."When I asked Titus if there was a way for Astarte and me to be together," he said, "why didn't he mention this?"
Antoine bobbed his wedge-shaped head in the odd gesture that was his attempt at a shrug. "You'd have to ask him."
/>
Astarte's flesh began to glow. Still chanting and gesturing, Titus slowly rose from his crouch, and the radiance followed him upward, from the Quick girl's body into the open air. At first it was merely a haze of light, but it rapidly took on form and definition, its face and limbs emerging from the sheen until it appeared altogether solid, though still surrounded with a trace of the aura of life.
Astarte's spirit form sported the full array of Goth trappings she normally affected. But her face seemed somehow younger, open and unguarded, without the slightest trace of her customary sneer. She peered eagerly about, as if trying to take in everything at once.
"Are you all right?" Bellamy asked.
"Oh, ;yes!" she replied. Laughing, she threw herself into his arms. "You did it, you did it, I'm really here!"
"Actually, Titus did it," Bellamy said, clasping her to him. This time, he thought with a surge of joy, he didn't have to worry about giving her frostbite. "He's the gentleman with the two-tone face."
She smiled at the sorcerer. "Thank you. This is everything I ever wanted." She smiled up at Frank. "Well, almost."
"It's for us to thank you," Titus said. "You're the one endangering yourself to help "Theoretically," said Antoine. "If we ever get on with it. Will you transform her already?"
"Next crisis," Titus said, "you do the magick, and I'll goad and harass you. I need a minute to recover my mystical energies, and then we can continue."
Astarte slipped from Bellamy's embrace and took his hand. "If we've got time, then show me around. Show me everything."
"Good idea," Bellamy said, though he wished he could simply go on holding her. "There are things you need to know. Uh, here's your body. You can see you're still breathing."
In her place, he would have been eager to verify that his mortal shell was in fact still alive, but she barely gave it a glance. "That's good, but I already know what I look like. Show me this world. Show me something magick."
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