"You made a pact with Spectres and werewolves," the wizened old shaman called up to Geffard. "With their aid, you created fetishes to destroy the Queen, and conjured demons into the Shadowlands to harass her subjects and so undermine confidence in her rule."
Geffard chuckled. "And whyever would I do that?"
"To seize the throne yourself," Antoine said.
"An interesting notion," said the loa, "and you have to wonder, who would blame me? Who truly belongs on the throne? A senile old woman teetering on the brink of the Void, hiding in her Haunt, helpless to protect her people from marauding Baka or, rumor has it, even commune with her gods? Or a man in the full prime of his power, who looks after his followers, reaps bounty from the Visible, and shares it with all who care to enjoy it?"
The spectators babbled and shouted, some in approbation and others in condemnation. Bellamy couldn't tell which group was larger.
Titus raised his reedy voice to make himself heard above the din. "Then you admit your guilt."
Geffard grinned. "Heavens, no. I was merely speaking hypothetically. What evidence can you offer to prove your accusations against me?"
"Evidence!" Antoine cried incredulously.
"Yes, Monsieur Lizard, evidence. Does your animal brain recognize the concept?"
"We found your voudoun dolls in the Haunt on Barracks Street," Antoine said.
"Has anyone besides the Queen's sworn men seen the fetishes?" asked Geffard. "And even if some impartial witness has, do you a have a wisp of proof that I helped create them, or even knew of their existence? I ask everyone here, have any of you ever observed me hobnobbing with Spectres or wolfmen? I think not."
Bellamy stepped forward. "We're not going to try your case here and now, Doctor. Surrender, and you can present your defense at your trial."
"I wonder," said Geffard. "Perhaps, once you have me in your clutches, I'll simply vanish. You can tell everyone that, invigorated by my terrible wickedness and my fear of my inevitable conviction and punishment, my Shadow devoured me, and I fell into the Void."
"You have our word," Bellamy said, "that won't happen. We'll give you a fair and public trial. Now come down, or we'll come up and get you. You can see we have a lot more men than you do, and they're better armed to boot. Even your magick can't protect you from all of us."
"So it appears," said the loa, puffing on the cheroot. "And might makes right, eh, and to Hell with the sensibilities of Les Invisibles, compelled to watch one of their own clapped in chains and hauled away on the flimsiest of pretexts, like some poor Jarkie in the bad old days. But ii I have to go to prison, I at least want to hear as much from the Queen's own lips. A prominent citizen, to say nothing of an anointed priest, deserves that much consideration, wouldn't you agree' What about it. Your Majesty? You dragged yourself off your sickbed to attend this lynching. Don't you want to denounce me yourself?"
Inwardly, Bellamy winced. But for once, her expression scornful and austere, Astarte imitated the real Marie to perfection. "I'm content to let my lieutenants speak tor me," she said. "I have no desire to converse with a despicable creature like you."
"No," said the loa, "I'm sure you don't, but I won't take it personally. I imagine you'd rather avoid talking to almost everyone here. And I know why." He snapped his fingers.
For a split second, Bellamy thought he glimpsed a giant figure, its body composed of gray clouds and its eyes pale, radiant slits, looming in the sky above Geffard's head. Then the crowd gave a collective gasp.
At first Bellamy thought they were shocked because they'd all seen the huge apparition, too. Then he noticed where they were staring. At Astarte.
When he turned, he felt as if someone had punched him lit the stomach. Th
"It's a trick!" Antoine bellowed.
"The devil it is," Geffard replied. "My friends, I think we can all see who the real plotters and deceivers are, and what's really happening here. I never conspired against the Queen. But, too trail to bear up under the burdens ot her rule, she fell gravely ill nonetheless. Perhaps by now she's even perished. Either way, those closest to her recognized that I'm her logical successor, and they feared they'd lose their power if the monarchy passed from the Dark Kingdom of Ivory to Les Invisibles. And so they conceived an elaborate scheme to discredit and destroy me. A scheme which required them to raise tip a false Queen. To profane the crown and blaspheme against their own gods!"
Some ui the crowd still looked stunned, while in other faces, astonishment was giv ing way to anger. Even many of t he Queen's own soldiers were goggling at Astarte in dismay, drawing awuv from her in disgust:, or readying their weapons.
It was obvious that if Bellamy and his comrades didn't turn this fiasco around right now, it was going to be too late. The FBI agent, raised his Browning and opened fire on Geffard. Titus swirled his hands in an intricate pattern and jabbered an incantation.
The cloud titan flickered momentarily into view, its immense gray hands poised protectively over Geffard's head. Sparks flashed in front ofthe rebel leader's chest, and Bellamy realized that some power was deflecting or disintegrating his bullets. Nor was I itus's sorcery having any appreciable effect.
"Seize them," said Geffard. The crowd surged in at the African loaders. The majority of Marie's soldiers surrendered their weapons without a struggle. Those who resisted were quickly overwhelmed. Hands battered Bellamy, tore his pistol and shortsword away, and finally immobilized him.
Geffard beamed down at the quay. "Thank you," he said to his supporters. "Thank you for your courage and your good sense. It seems that these traitors are going to experience our justice, instead of the other way around. What shall we do with them?"
"Feed them to the Void!" a Creole soldier shouted. In an instant, everyone had taken up the cry. Bellamy thrashed in his captors' grasp. He knew that even if he broke free, the mob would only subdue again an instant later, but he had to try something. Meanwhile, Antoine writhed, trying to fling off the wraiths who were keeping him on his back and holding his jaws shut.
"So be it," the loa said. "Dispose of the sorcerer, the fellow next to him, the gator, and the warriors who tried to defend them as you see fit. But leave the woman to me. By daring to put on the crown, she's committed a particularly heinous crime, and I feel a responsibility to provide a fitting punishment."
"Screw you!" Astarte shouted.
Geffard laughed. An invisible force tore the Quick girl away from the wraiths who were gripping her arms and up into the air. Suspended ten feet above their heads, she clawed desperately at her neck, as if there were a noose around it.
Bellamy wrenched himself around toward Titus. The two-tone paint on the old man's face was smeared where someone had roughed him up. "Do something!" the agent said.
"I'm trying," Titus said. "But with his god and the adoration of the crowd feeding him power—"
One of the shaman's captors, a huge, moonfaced woman wearing a dozen strands of jade and garnet beads, pressed a darksteel dagger against his throat. "Shut up and stand still," she said. "Don't let me hear another word out of your sorcerer's mouth. Don't let me see your fingers so much as twitch."
Holding his cheroot between thumb and forefinger, Geffard poked it lightly in Astarte's direction, like a painter dabbing motes of color onto a canvas. Each gesture seared a round black dot on the mortal girl's forehead. Bellamy smelled scorched flesh. Saw that the diagonal trail of burn marks appeared to be leading toward Astarte's left eye.
Raising his mystical power, the FBI agent prepared to leap across the Shroud. At least that would free him from his captors' grasp, and then he could shift back and do.. .well, something. But, eith
er divining his intention or simply to be cruel, someone clubbed him from behind him, driving a spike of pain through his skull. His body went limp, and the magick slipped away from him.
The next jab would put out Astarte's eye. Geffard lifted the cheroot higher, like a conductor flourishing his baton. Then the prisoner hurtled backward, away from the riverboat, as if something had ripped her from the Haitian's psychokinetic grip. His dazed view blocked by the crowd, Bellamy lost sight of her instantly. Still half stunned, he struggled feebly against his captor's restraining hands, but was still unable to see what had become of her.
Then the mob gasped, babbled, and parted as they had before, clearing a path. One hundred feet away, Astarte sat slumped beneath an oak, shaking and gasping, with three figures clustered protectively around her. Two of them were African soldiers armed with bolt-action rifles and bayonets. The other was Marilyn, slouched in a motorized wheelchair, bundled up in a blanket, a man's voluminous gray overcoat, and a slouch-brimmed hat. The garments concealed most of her bandages but couldn't mask the reek of blood which wafted from them. Like the smell, her aura—red, pink, and glittering with white sparks—gave proof that she was still alive, yet it was equally obvious that she could perceive her ghostly companions.
Though the Arcanist cut a remarkable figure, none of the wraiths near Bellamy paid much attention to her. Rather, they fixed on the thirteen figures advancing on the Twisted Mirror. A wedge-shaped formation of warriors with Marie striding along at the point. She'd seemed arrogant and formidable before, even with Geffard's curse sapping her strength and will. She moved like a stalking panther now.
If the Creole leader was dismayed at her arrival, he did a good job of hiding it. "Well, well," he said to Marie, "just how many of you are there? Has Titus put you into mass production?"
"I'm the real Queen," she said. "You aren't the only one with allies, bocor. The Quick mage came to me and woke me from my cursed sleep. If you doubt my identity, look at my deathmarks."
"You never did have much of a sense of humor," said Geffard. "I was teasing. Of course I can tell you're the genuine Marie, fragile and faded from your illness but still quite recognizable. As to whether you're still the genuine monarch, or at least, whether you deserve to be, well, that's another question."
She smiled. "Is it?"
"Yes. You accuse me of scheming to overthrow you. It's a lie, but even if it weren't, what would it matter? How did you claw your way onto the throne, woman? How does anyone seize and hold power? Not without a little sharp practice somewhere along the line. No soul endures long in the Mirrorlands before discovering that.
"That being the case, the only thing that truly matters is that you're weak. You admit that you can't even protect yourself, let alone the people of the city. Something was able to render you unfit to perform your duties. If your Quick healer hadn't taken pity on you, you might have remained unconscious indefinitely. And while you were indisposed, your lieutenants committed genuine acts of treason and blasphemy, setting up a false Queen and allowing her filthy white hands to profane the holy royal regalia."
"Desperate circumstances require desperate measures," Marie replied. "My servants did no wrong."
"I disagree," said Geffard, "and so will many others." Peering about at the faces of the mob, Bellamy could see that the Creole was right. "But the central point is that if not for your incapacity, your flunkies wouldn't have had to do anything. Step down, woman, for everyone's sake. New Orleans needs a real monarch. A King who can drive back the Hierarchs the next time they try to annex us, and keep the Spectres from overrunning us."
"And that's supposed to be you?" Antoine shouted. At some point during the interchange, the gator's captors had released him and allowed him to stand, though two Creoles were still pointing crossbows at him. "The Sinkinda have already bought and paid for you!"
Geffard sneered at him. "Be still, you ignorant beast, or I'll hire some Stygian smith to turn you into a belt and a pair of shoes."
Marie ran her cold amber gaze over the crowd. Many wraiths refused to meet her eyes. It looked as if the majority, civilians and warriors alike, were uncertain which leader they ought to support. Such being the case, it would be dangerous for either to command his followers to attack. It was impossible to know who would wind up with the weight of numbers on his side, and in any case, with everyone now mingled together, the battle would be utterly chaotic.
Marie stared back up at Geffard. "You say it all comes down to strength," she said. "Then let's settle our quarrel once and for all, just the two of us, without hazard to anyone else. I challenge you to measure your power against mine. But I warn you, facing your anointed ruler in a duel will be more dangerous than whispering curses behind her back."
"Oh, I don't think so," said Geffard. "Not when the ruler is only a female, and a spent, haggard shell of a woman at that." He tossed the cheroot away and raised his arms.
"Be careful!" Bellamy shouted to the Queen. "His god is here!" As if on cue, the cloud giant flickered momentarily into view behind Geffard. Thunder boomed and crackled, and a fierce wind began to blow. Marie's long, white skirt flapped madly in the gale.
She waved her hand almost casually, and the wind died as abruptly as it had begun. She stared at Geffard, and the deck beneath his feet shattered into splinters.
The Creole's body bobbed, dropping partway through the hole and then levitating back out. He held out his hand and a gourd rattle materialized inside his fingers. He shook it as if he were pounding a nail with a hammer, each clattering beat as loud as the thunderclap had been.
At first the rattling seemed ineffectual. Unfazed, the Queen kept her eyes locked on Geffard. Patches of greenish barrow-flame blossomed on the loa's blue, gold- trimmed uniform.
The cloud titan swam into view behind the Haitian, and this time, it didn't vanish again a moment later. The giant apparition shifted its gray, vaporous hand, and the fires consuming its protege's coat went out. Its lambent eyes pulsed in time with the rattling, which was suddenly even louder.
Marie cried out and stumbled backward. Her left arm withered into a fleshless stick, and bands of shadow rippled beneath her skin.
"I'm the King!" Geffard shrieked, his voice nearly inaudible above the deafening pulse of the rattle. "The crown belongs to me! Say it, bitch, and I'll let you live!"
"No," croaked Marie. She chanted in a language Bellamy didn't recognize, perhaps the same tongue Titus used to work his magick. Her golden eyes blazed.
In one section of the park, the gray daylight turned to darkness. Intricate drumming, the voices of three instruments of different sizes twining together, pattered out of the gloom. The sound wasn't nearly as loud as the grinding beat of the rattle, but for some reason it made the fine hairs on the back of Bellamy's neck stand up in awe nonetheless. A gust of breeze brought him a scorched, dusty smell, and then the rich perfume of an abundance of flowers mingled with the stench of vegetable decay. Though he'd never visited Africa, somehow he knew the former was the odor of the veldt in drought, and the second, the complex scent of a rain forest.
Elephants trumpeted inside the darkness. Monkeys chattered. A towering shadow 'strodetoward the threshold where night met day. Its white, striped headdress reminded Bellamy of images of the Pharaohs. Though it was difficult to see the figure clearly, he knew what if was, too. An Orisha. He'd experienced visions of the African gods when Marie's slave-trainers had tried to brainwash him.
Geffard laughed wildly. "Fine!" he cried. "The Orishas against Les Mysteres. We'll decide once and for all whose reality jfc—"
The words caught in his throat. He lurched around and peered upward, confirming what Bellamy now observed as well. The vaporous giant had summarily disappeared.
The Orisha advanced to Marie's side without ever crossing: into the light of day. Rather, the darkness of his native realm flowed along with him and engulfed her.
Meanwhile, Geffard shrieked at the sky. "Heviyoso! What are yoy doing? Come back!"
> Marie laughed. "It would seem that my gods are stronger, at least in New Orleans. Certainly your patron fears tOiface them."
Geffard lurched back around, his dreadlocks flying about his head. "I don't need Heviyoso," he snarled. "I'll destroy you myself, and your quaint tribal spirit there as well. I won't lose, not again!" He shook the rattle. It was still louder than was natural, but not as loud as it had been with the voudoun god lending it power. The contrast made it sound almost pathetic, and it did no further damage to the Queen.
"Die," said Marie. Fresh green flames erupted across Geffard's body. He swirled his hands in a mystic pass, and the flames burned low for a moment, but then flared up even more fiercely than before.
The Haitian began to scream, flail, and stagger about, finally toppling over the rail. Perhaps he'd thrown himself over on purpose, in the desperate hope that the river water would quench the fire, but he never reached it. He burned to nothingness halfway down, like a meteorite disintegrating as it plummeted through the atmosphere.
Marie turned and knelt to the Orisha. The shadowy figure lifted her back to. her feet, touched her forehead, eyes, and lips in a gesture which Bellamy took to be a blessing, and rested its long-fingered hand on her shoulder. The waves of blackness beneath her skin faded, and her arm swelled back to its normal shape. The Queen pivoted back toward the crowd, and then it was everyone else's turn to kneel. The FBI agent noticed that the rebels and their Sympathizers did so with particular haste.
A vile, acidic aftertaste clung to Bill Dunn's tongue, and his stomach churned. It was remarkable that anyone could brew a potion so nasty that it could sicken a guy accustomed to feasting on raw, rotting human flesh, but Cankerheart had accomplished it. Still, Dunn couldn't deny that the drug worked. If he squinted, he could dimly See into the ghost world. Make out the black riverboat and the figures gathered around it.
Dark Kingdoms Page 78
