The City of Lost Fortunes

by Bryan Camp

  Not a plan, exactly, he’d never really trusted those. More like a trick. Setting a few things up and seeing how they played out.

  It all hinged on the pearl, a comment Regal had made about being invisible, and a card handed to him by a god. Not a tarot card, though.

  A business card.

  With an address printed in blood-red ink.

  Chapter Twelve

  Of all the things he’d prepared himself to find when he confronted Regal in his apartment—supernatural thugs and angelic SWAT teams and evil shadow creatures and even a visit from Mourning himself—he hadn’t expected her to ambush him with research.

  Regal had shoved all his living room furniture into one corner and used the space to pile books and printouts of obscure websites all over his floor. If the research to summon the Red Door had been a high school paper, Regal now had a doctoral dissertation scattered across his living room. A huge standing whiteboard—which must have been a motherfucker to carry up the stairs on her own—loomed over all of it, with the names of the players at the card game written in different colored markers, circled and bisected and connected with questions and arrows, like a schizophrenic’s conspiracy wall. Books were stacked on top of each other, Post-it notes poking out from their pages, or held open with the aid of other books. Most of them were his—judging by the gaps on his bookshelves—but some were recent acquisitions from the public library, according to the stickers on their spines.

  Regal, dressed in a Star Wars tank top and jeans tucked into mid-calf leather boots, stood in the center of this hurricane, half humming and half singing along to “Still Fly” by the Big Tymers—which was playing from a laptop on his kitchen counter—a coffee mug in one hand and an open book in the other.

  She turned at his entrance and smiled, a little sheepish at being caught. “Welcome to the Batcave!” she said, her arms spread wide to take in all her work. If it was an act, it was a good one. Even though his skin crawled with suspicion, Jude decided to play along.

  “Made yourself at home, didn’t you?” He nodded at the mug in her hand. “I’ll forgive you if that coffee’s fresh.”

  “Deal.” She dropped the book on one of the piles and tiptoed her way out of the mess and into the kitchen. “How’d it go at the voodoo shop?”

  You mean the ambush? he thought. “Tell you all about it in a second,” he said, instead. “Let me get into some fresh clothes, first.”

  He slid the satchel off his shoulder and let it flop onto the counter next to her laptop, trying to make the gesture nonchalant, even though it was anything but. His bedroom door was at just the right angle to see the corner of the kitchen from down the short hall, so he was able to watch the bag the whole time he traded his jeans for a pair of loose-fitting gray slacks and tugged on an old Voodoo Fest T-shirt, the skull logo eerily similar to Barren’s bone-faced leer.

  The closest Regal came to his bait was to set his cup next to the satchel and turn the music down on the laptop. Did that mean she was trustworthy? Or that she’d recognized his act of leaving the satchel unguarded as a test?

  Back in the living room, he picked up the coffee and drank, so grateful for the sweet, dark caffeine, that he didn’t consider poison or drugs until he’d already taken a swallow.

  He’d make a terrible spy.

  With Regal sitting cross-legged amid her research, obviously waiting for him to fill her in on what he’d been up to, Jude skipped the foreplay and launched into an account of his past few hours, starting with a lie. He’d decided to keep deceiving Regal about the return of his gift, so he told her that the visit to the voodoo shop had been a waste of time, that he hadn’t learned anything they didn’t already know. Then he told her about the sensation of being pursued he’d felt outside the shop, how he’d been sure that something dark and deadly had been waiting for him.

  Even though he was watching for it, Regal’s face didn’t betray any hints of subterfuge or hidden agendas at this. Her only reaction was to ask if he thought they were the shadows in his mother’s painting, a question he answered with a shrug, admitting that while it seemed likely, he couldn’t really be sure.

  He told her about fleeing into the cathedral, about Hē’s appearance, and how the angel told him that he was caught in a paradox, that he couldn’t win the game. He said he’d talked to a fortuneteller in the Quarter to learn a little more about the game he was caught up in, and explained the “past/present/obstacle/turning point/future” structure of the poker hands, but he left Opal out of it entirely, referring to the fortuneteller as a “he.”

  When he pulled out his cards to show her THE HERMIT, he discovered a third card had been added to his hand: THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

  A green circle inscribed with arcane symbols dominated the center of the card. On top of the wheel was a sphinx holding a sword, an Egyptian headdress covering up Dodge’s bald head. Each of the four corners of the card held winged figures: Hē in the top left; a cross between an eagle and an ibis wearing Thoth’s spectacles in the top right; a bloated, dead lion with Scarpelli’s face in the lower right; and in the lower left, a bull with Legba’s wrinkled old man’s face capped by curved cruel horns. The left side of the card held a long, brightly colored serpent, and the right showed a jackal god Jude recognized as Anubis, who guided souls to the Underworld.

  Sitting cross-legged and blindfolded in the center of what could be either a circle or a wheel, but was clearly meant to be the card table, was Jude.

  It didn’t show him anything he didn’t already know, but the sight of it still sent a frisson tickling down his spine, a confirmation that the greatest obstacle in his path was the game, the gods in it, and his inability to see what to do next.

  Regal’s reaction to the card was somewhat more animated. “Fuck the police, Jude! This is it!” She hopped to her feet in a single graceful move that Jude’s knees wouldn’t have appreciated and lunged at the whiteboard. She wiped off a giant question mark in the middle of the board and wrote “Fortune” in the empty circle left behind. She capped the pen and tapped the word with it. “Right here, this is what all the gods at the game have in common.”

  Jude opened his mouth to argue, but she waved him off and went to one of the piles. She searched through it for a second and pulled out a few printouts from the Internet. “Here, listen: At least one deity can be found in every culture to whom is ceded the control of fortune or destiny, whether through the art of divination, through the parceling out of luck, and sometimes both.”

  Despite himself, Jude felt her enthusiasm eroding some of his suspicion, felt himself sliding back into the role of her mentor. Her friend. “Please tell me you didn’t just google ‘What do angels, vampires, and Legba have in common,’” he said.

  She only spared him enough attention to give him the finger without looking at him. “We already know Dodge is a fortune god, and Legba can fit the pattern by being a Trickster figure, but for Thoth—which of these shit-chute piles did I put it—ah!”

  Jude titled his head so he could see the titles of the stacked books she was picking through: Voodoo Practices of the Caribbean. A Treasury of Saints. The Vampire in Folklore and History. A History of God. Trickster Makes This World. She snatched up a thick leather-bound tome titled Myth, Ritual, and Religion, vol. 2, flipped it open to a pink Post-it, and stabbed the page with a triumphant finger.

  “There,” she said, “stop with the cunting commentary and read, so you may accept my brilliance and despair.” The words she pointed to read “Hermes Trismegistus.” She flashed a mischievous smile, like a kid who knew where the Christmas presents were hidden. “Hermes ‘Thrice-Great,’ get it?” When Jude didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me I have to explain syncretic myths to a demigod. I swear to your daddy I will punch you right in the dick.”

  Jude didn’t rise to that bait, despite the temptation. “You mean like voodoo, right? The way myths link across cultures through common bonds, like when African slaves were confronted with Roman Cath
olicism. Instead of converting, they started calling the loa by the names of saints and martyrs that matched up, like St. Peter and Legba.”

  Regal was nodding as he spoke. “Right, right, exactly. Thoth and Hermes, same thing. That’s how a god of scribes belongs at a poker table full of fortune gods.”

  Jude thought of the visions his gift had shown him of Dodge, memories of being something else long ago. He thought of his suspicions about Mourning, and the questions that Mourning had raised about his involvement in the game. Remembered what Hē had said about the prize they were playing for being the ability to reinvent themselves. Maybe it wasn’t just Thoth. Maybe all the gods had gone by different names, had led different lives.

  Regal stood at the whiteboard again, redrawing a line between her notes on Legba and on Thoth, scribbling “Hermes,” and then drawing an arrow to her notes on “the angel.” “Like a lot of Trickster figures, Legba and Hermes are in-between kinds of gods, ferrying communication between the worlds of gods and men. The crossroads, right? Well, that’s how the angel fits in.”

  “Because the word angel comes from the Latin for messenger,” Jude said, quoting from what Augustus—one of the monks who looked after his mother at the abbey—had once told him. A tingle crept along Jude’s scalp and down the back of his neck. Tricksters. It made so much sense, seemed obvious now that it was written in front of him like this. They’d even been playing a game of fate.

  Regal gave him a mocking little soft clap. “Look at the big brain on Jude. Plus, what kind of messages do angels bring you? They tell you about your place in God’s plan. Your destiny.”

  Jude stepped up to the whiteboard and rapped the vampire’s name with a knuckle. “The crossroads, in-between thing applies to vampires, too. They’re not alive and not dead. Eat but are never nourished, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s part of Tricksters too,” she said. “Anansi, Loki, Hermes? They’re always hungry.”

  “There’s one problem with all of this.”

  “What’s that?”

  He touched a finger to his own name written on the board. “Me. I’m not a fortune god. I’m no Trickster.”

  Regal laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “No. You’re just half of one.” Jude turned to her, but before he could speak a word of argument, she started counting off on her fingers, like she was reciting a list she’d come up with long ago. “First, you’re charming as fuck. Don’t give me that look—this isn’t a compliment; it’s a statement of fact. People like you, even when you’re a prick. Strangers trust you. Just about everyone swallows whatever lies you feed them, even when those lies are as ripe as seven layers of dog dookie. Two, your preferred method of conflict resolution is the lie, the trick. The ‘Oh shucks, Your Honor, I thought I was banging your sister, not your wife—can’t we accept an honest mistake and be friends?’ Which would fetch anybody else an ass-beating, but because of point number one, you slide on by, slicker than a greased politician.”

  She was waving her hands as she spoke, her face getting red, her tone getting more and more intense. Jude couldn’t think another word for the expression on her face other than anger, which didn’t seem to make sense.

  “Three, you know things, or you did before you pissed it away. That spooky ‘lost things’ magic touch of yours? That’s exactly the sort of thing a Trickster would pass down to his bastard kid. ‘Oh, did you lose something of great personal value? I can find it for you if the price is right.’” She poked out her thumb, the one she’d decided to save as her closer. “Last, and the real icing on the cake for me: you’re the luckiest son of a god I’ve ever met. When you’re in the car, I never hit a red light. Never. No one else can depend on public transit in this city for reliable transportation, but you’ve never had to wait for a bus or a streetcar, have you? I mean, Christ, Dubuisson. You’re a black man in New Orleans. We’ve done some shit, you and me. Broken into places we shouldn’t’ve, stolen things. Any black guy I’ve ever known gets pulled over like once a month, just for existing. Not you, not even when you deserve it. Not once have I seen you get harassed by the cops. Things just always seem to work out for you, don’t they? You know how I found your number the other day? It wasn’t some spell like I told you. I just dialed a random number and you answered. It wasn’t me. It was you. Your magic. Your goddamn luck. You weren’t even—”

  Her jaw clenched, as she literally bit down on what she was about to say.

  “Come on,” Jude said. “Get it all out. You’ve obviously been holding on to this for a while.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Say it.”

  When she spoke, the Regal Sloan act fell away. No brash vulgarities, no over-the-top attempts to shock him, to keep him at arm’s length. Her words were soft. Almost a whisper. “You weren’t here for the storm,” she said. “Day before the whole world goes to hell, I get a text that you got ‘a thing to take care of’ and then, poof. Peace the fuck out. Almost a year before I know you’re not dead.” She swallowed, shook her head. “Even if it’s not intentional. The luck thing. Even if it’s just instinct. I was your partner, Jude. I thought I mattered. But you tricked me, didn’t you?”

  There were all sorts of things that Jude wanted to tell her. That he’d left the city that day because his mother had been on the edge of one of her episodes. That he’d only been half-aware that a hurricane was in the Gulf, something only a native New Orleanian would believe or understand. That it had been over a month before he’d even been able to get back into the city. That once he had, his magic had torn through him so powerfully that he hadn’t been able to function for months more.

  That he hadn’t died, but he hadn’t really been alive, either.

  None of those things mattered, though. Instead, he went into the kitchen and got a bottle of El Dorado, a twenty-one-year-old rum distilled somewhere in South America that he saved for special occasions, like funerals or an unexpected visit from one of the loa. He poured two shots—one for him, one for Regal—and brought them and the bottle into the living room. He pressed Regal’s glass into her hand, and—once she grudgingly took it—he clinked it with his own. He waited for her to look at him, to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not enough, but I’m sorry.” When he raised his glass to his lips, she did as well, draining her rum and then holding the glass out for another. He poured more for the both of them, and then pointed to the whiteboard with the hand holding the bottle. “So what you’re saying is, I got invited to this card game because I am, fundamentally, an asshole.”

  She choked on her drink, coughing and laughing and cursing all the same time. When she recovered, she squeezed one eye shut and considered him. “No,” she said. “Only half.”

  They endured an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Jude’s thoughts churned, trying to work through the implications of what Regal had said. If he was a Trickster like all the gods at the table, then it was possible that any one of them could be his father. Even the white folks. Tricksters were skin changers. Swapping race was amateur hour if you could go from man to bird to fox as simple as flipping a jacket inside out. Legba or Dodge he could probably handle. The angel was too weird to even consider. The vampire, though? Jude shook that image from his mind and stood, setting the bottle of rum on the counter and gesturing to the mess of books and paper on his floor with his half-empty glass. “So this is what you’ve been up to since we split up outside the voodoo shop? I thought you had a lead on Thoth. Or Hermes. Or whatever we’re calling him.” It was an obviously awkward attempt to change the subject, and only worked because Regal was eager to do the same.

  “Oh, right. Forgot to mention that before. According to my source, he’s got a bookstore downtown somewhere. No sign on the door, only deals in rarities, if you get me.”

  He did. Most members of the—for want of a better term—supernatural community were born into it, either because they weren’t quite human, or because they came from a family of practitioners. Or, like Jude,
a little of both. There were a few, though, who were on the fringes. Either they belonged to a family who had fallen away from the traditions, and tried to gather accounts of real magic from the scraps of gossip, family legends, and lies, or they found their way to someone willing to teach them through faith, perseverance, and luck—the way Regal had found Mourning. For those desperate few, a grimoire or amulet of real power would be worth any price, provided they could find the right market.

  And if the guy running the market sounded a little odd and told you he was the Egyptian god of scribes, you said, “Sure you are, of course. Love the Nile. What kind of spells have you got for sale?”

  “When do I get to meet your source?” he asked.

  “Soon as you introduce me to Leon Carter and tell him he can trust me, instead of getting me stoned on horny juice and sending me off to play while you two have a quiet little chat.” She shot him a meaningful glance. “He’s fine, since you asked.”

  Jude pretended to finish off his empty glass of rum to hide his grin. “That’s not exactly how it went down,” he said, “but point taken.”

  He went back to the counter and poured another couple of fingers of rum in his glass, partly to give himself something to do with his hands, partly to numb that creeping sense of guilt for ever having doubted Regal. Her anger, her distance, her strange behavior. It was all his fault. He thought about what came next and gave himself another generous splash before replacing the cork.

  For courage.

  “Got anything else planned for tonight?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

  “Nothing I’ll be sad to skip. Why? What’ve you got in mind?”

  Jude took the business card the vampire had given him out of his coat pocket, the one with his address in red ink. “Scarpelli told me I had to give him an answer for his offer of employment by tonight, and I’ve got this, well . . . it’s not a plan exactly. More of an idea . . .”