“A fine truth,’’ Ma’at said scornfully. “I’ve been watching you, Magician. All that talk of a gold sarcophagus, of the heartless priests who raised you from death’s slumber, of what your superiors would do to you if you failed them—!’’
The powerful mage Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh snorted in a thoroughly impertinent manner. “You’ve watched, but you haven’t listened. Then again, if you were an attentive deity, you wouldn’t be in your present fix, would you? I said I had a golden sarcophagus, and so it was: painted. The girl said ’gold’ because that was what she wanted to hear! I never said priests brought me back to life, merely heartless beings. And so they are: I made them myself, my life-sized ushabti, the hollow clay images of servants meant to do my work in the afterlife. But why waste them there, when I had the power to animate them before I died and instruct them to restore me with my own spells when the time was right?’’
“You pour a drop of beer into the Nile and claim that the river is a drunkard’s paradise!’’ the enraged goddess cried. “And how did you dare claim your life would be forfeit if you displeased your superiors in the Beautiful House? You run this place alone, with the help of your ushabtis!’’
“Great lady, I never said I had superiors in the Beautiful House; merely superiors.’’ He gave Ma’at a bland, pious look so deliberately provoking it would have made a stone dog foam at the mouth and added: “The gods.’’
“Miserable slime, Truth is not one of your clay creatures, to be shaped to suit your selfish purposes. It is the flower and the flower’s scent, the light and the shadow it creates, what is said and what is left unsaid! You pick it apart like a roasted goose and feast upon only the pieces you like best, but it is the Devourer of Souls who will feast upon you!’’
At that moment, the door opened and a glassy-eyed man walked stiffly over to Chet. “It is done, O Master.’’
Chet stood, rolled up his copy of Vogue and thumped the man smartly on the head. It made a sound like an empty flowerpot. “Excellent. Tell the client I will be with her shortly.’’
As the ushabti trudged off, Chet turned to Ma’at and asked, “Would you like to meet her? You could be the one to tell her your precious Truth: that as soon as I persuade one last woman to give herself into my power as she has done, then all one hundred thousand of them shall accompany me back to the Hall of Two Truths, and there I shall offer up their hearts to the Devourer of Souls as the agreed-upon price for my safe passage to a blissful eternity! It will be quite spectacular. Thousands of those women—no, more likely tens of thousands—have been living happy lives, convinced that they’ve found the secret to immortality. I’m afraid there will be tears.’’
“I will tell her!’’ Ma’at cried heedlessly. “I’ll tell her, and the two of us will find enough of your other victims to tell the world about you, to make sure that you fail to find the last heart you need to fulfill the bargain! I’ll—’’
“You’ll do nothing,’’ the magician said. “Because Lord Osiris decreed that one word of revelation out of you would nullify our agreement and send me straight to the Field of Reeds, happily ever after. Of course that would also release the spirits of all those devoted ladies, save them from the Devourer . . .’’ He pretended to give the matter serious thought. “You could save them all, but not without saving me. Any hope of that happening, O Ma’at? Tell the truth, now.’’ He laughed and fled just seconds before the goddess threw one of the haut Eurotrash table lamps at him. It smashed against the closing door.
Alone in the waiting room, Ma’at flung herself down on the sofa and howled.
“Hush, dear, you’ll shatter the ushabtis.’’
The goddess of Truth looked up to see the unutterably beautiful face of her sister-goddess, Isis. Osiris’ queen perched on the arm of the sofa, wrapped in the splendor of a thousand stars and shod in a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps.
“O Isis, what am I going to do?’’ Ma’at wailed. “We never thought that little monkey-tweaker would ever find that many women who’d follow him so blindly, even beyond the bounds of death, yet now he’s just one heart away from his goal! He’ll rub my nose in it for eternity! You’re the one who used wisdom and magic to bring your husband back to life as the first mummy, so why couldn’t you have stopped Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh from becoming a mummy on his own terms? Why did you let that piece of camel-spit usurp your wondrous lore for his lowdown ends?’’
Isis shrugged her delectable shoulders. “If we tried to stop mortals from turning every divine gift into a pile of dung beetle balls, we’d never get anything else done. Don’t worry, Ma’at. Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh won’t get within sniffing distance of the Field of Reeds. You know how much I hate people who turn my beautiful art of mummification into something nasty. Remember what I did to those Hollywood cretins? As if you could make a proper mummy just by wrapping someone in linen and dropping him in a coffin! Tanna leaves, my butt!’’
The goddess of Truth dared to feel a slight stirring of hope in her immortal breast. Not only was Isis the queen of the gods, resourceful, powerful, wise, and skilled in magic, she also had one immeasurable advantage over Ma’at when the situation called for getting down, dirty, and done: she could lie like an eat-all-you-want-don’t-exercise-and-lose-twenty-pounds-in-five-days diet guru. “What will you do to him?’’ she asked Isis.
“Nothing. I can’t. My Ossie made a universal oath of nonintervention part of the whole give-you-back-your-real-Feather bargain, remember?’’
“Then how—?’’
Isis smiled. “Sometimes the best goddess for the job is a woman.’’
Even a man who has spent untold ages in the tomb needs his beauty rest. Thus it was that the sorcerer Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh was roused from sleep by the bedside telephone one fine morning a short while after Ashley’s transformation. The voice on the line was sweetly feminine, though unfamiliar, and the words were music to his ears.
“Mr. Smith? My name is Bambi LaRue. I work with Ashley Cyprien. I’ve got to say, I’m really impressed by what a fabulous effect mummification’s had on her career. They just can’t seem to get enough of her, offers everywhere she turns, and the money’s obscene, even for Hollywood. Sure, it’s the novelty of it all, but who cares? Anyway, I think it’d be a smart career move for me to get the work done, too, so how about it?’’
Chet frowned, feeling a bit like a cat that’s woken up to find a live mouse trying to force his jaws apart. “Ms. LaRue, are you sure about this? I mean, did Ashley happen to describe the part of the procedure where we put the sacred cats on standby, take a hook, and—?’’
“The brains thing?’’ Bambi giggled. “I’ve done worse. And Ashley’s still the same, brains or no brains, so I’ll be okay. Look, Mr. Smith, it’s real simple: movie-making is a tough, hungry, ugly business. No one gets out alive. You need an edge if you’re going to make it to the top. I want Ashley’s edge and you’re going to give it to me.’’
“You’re a very . . . decisive woman, Ms. LaRue. And Ashley doesn’t mind the thought of you becoming her competition? Stealing that novelty value you mentioned?’’
Bambi sighed deeply. “Oh God, the silly bitch was right: you must be in love with her or you wouldn’t be trying to put me off. That or you’re the world’s worst salesman. Cute, but I don’t have the time to do your job for you. Good-bye, Mr. Smith, it’s been—’’
“Wait!’’ Chet found himself clutching the heavy, retro-styled receiver with both hands. “Let’s talk.’’
As a magician, Chet could smell the presence of the gods. When he met Ms. LaRue, he made sure to determine that she had nothing otherworldly about her before taking things any further. She was an unnaturally beautiful young woman, a type as common to Los Angeles as minnows to a pond, but she was otherwise clean. She was also a lot more intellectually gifted than Ashley. Chet almost regretted what an easy sale she’d given him. It would have been fun to seduce her and have an intelligent bed partner, for a change.
But business was busi
ness. Like Bambi, he didn’t have time to waste. Not yet, anyway. There were six months to go before his millennia-old bargain came due. If she hadn’t shown up on his doorstep, figuratively speaking, he could have met that deadline in a walk, but getting everything done ahead of time would be a coup. He reveled in the thought of showing up early in the Hall of Two Truths and saying something smug to Ma’at as he presented his swarm of stand-in hearts.
But the journey to Osiris’ kingdom hadn’t lost any of its perils in the intervening ages. He’d need time to prepare the proper spells to gather his enthralled women, to open the way to the afterlife, and to shield everyone from the dangers of the trip. The magic itself wasn’t going to be the main problem. What was going to take time was the shopping.
Once Bambi signed on the dotted line, Chet whisked her off to the Beautiful House, handed her over to his top ushabti, and beat tracks for the farmer’s market. Having purchased all the ingredients for casting spells of utmost darkness and hideous power, plus a chopped salad for lunch, he set to work.
Bambi emerged from the Beautiful House as a card-carrying member of the undead to find a super-stretch limo awaiting her. Ashley leaned out the window and actually said, “Yoo-hoo!’’ From the front seat, Chet beckoned, and she could do nothing but obey.
The trip to the Hall of Two Truths was the same as always—ordeals, beasts, government checkpoints—but in good time Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh once more stood before Osiris, the other gods of the underworld, and the Devourer of Souls. He greeted them all with a show of feigned reverence, but could not resist giving Ma’at a contemptuous smile when he saw the goddess staring at him, clutching her sacred Feather protectively.
“As promised,’’ he said, waving at the long line of women in his wake. “And well ahead of deadline. No pun intended, Lord Osiris.’’
Like the earthly pharaoh, the king of the afterlife carried a crook and a flail as his emblems of office. With the crook he gestured for the Devourer of Souls to come forward, with the flail he commanded the unlucky women to line up and give themselves to the monster. Anubis, the jackal-headed god who guided the dead, performed the formality of reaching into each lady’s chest, murmuring a word of apology before removing the still-present heart, and tossing it to the Devourer. This repeated ritual was no Aztec sacrifice. Anubis withdrew the hearts without bloodshed—after all what blood did the mummified women have left? As each heart went down the Devourer’s gullet, its former owner vanished, though not before sending Chet a pitiful look of complete betrayal.
At first, the victims’ poignant plight caused the implacable gods themselves to look on with compassion. Some were even seen to wipe away a tear. But somewhere around Victim #24,978 the emotional impact began to fade. Tedium gave sympathy the boot. Yawns were stifled. Eyes wandered. Someone set up a hounds-and-jackals game board behind Osiris’ throne. The king of the dead gave the guilty parties a perfunctory glare of disapproval, then declared that he’d play the winner. Woman after woman went to her doom memorialized by the divine equivalent of gosh- that’s-a-shame-what’s-on-the-other-channels? In some respects, the gods of Egypt were only human. Only Ma’at stood as unblinking witness as the Devourer feasted and, in the mortal world, the remaining months until the magician’s deadline slid away.
As for the instigator of the whole sorrowful scene, Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh hadn’t even bothered to watch more than five of his victims lose heart before he strolled off in search of Imhotep, the mortal architect whose creation of the first pyramid had elevated him to godhood. He wanted only the best talent to design his estate in the Field of Reeds.
He was just debating the placement of the wine cellar when a great commotion filled the Hall of Two Truths. The space before Osiris’ throne was chaos. The gods were shouting. The Scales of Thoth was spinning like an amusement park ride. The remaining women were rushing around, shrieking. The lord of the dead was waving his crook and flail like a cheer-leader’s pompoms, vainly trying to restore order. And in the center of it all, jackal-head Anubis had the Devourer of Souls in a fearsome, inexplicable embrace. The monster struggled in his grasp, leonine forepaws thrashing, hippo hindquarters pedaling madly, toothy snout gaping wide while a sickening gray tint crept across her crocodilian features.
“What—?’’ Chet cried just as Anubis jammed his bunched fists into the Devourer’s midsection once, twice, thrice, and Bambi LaRue came shooting out of the monster’s mouth.
Anubis set the Devourer down. “She was choking,’’ he explained.
“What is the meaning of this?’’ Osiris bellowed. “Why did you feed my Devourer a whole woman? You know she only eats hearts, for the heart is the vessel of the soul!’’
“Lord, I tried to feed her this woman’s heart,’’ Anubis said. “It’s just that, well, I couldn’t seem to find it. I rummaged around in there for the longest time, and it was holding up the line. It’s all very nice for the rest of you, but I’ve been doing all the work here, and I’d like to have a little me time before the next century, thank you very much. So I decided to chuck everything down the chute and let the Devourer sort it out for herself. I figured once she got the heart, the rest of the package would vanish, like it always does. I don’t know what went wrong.’’
“I do,’’ said Isis. She stepped down from the royal dais and went to help the regurgitated woman to her feet. “So nice to see you again, dear.’’ She gave Bambi a double air-kiss. “Wasn’t that a fabulous little studio party? I’m thrilled you took my suggestion to ask Ashley about Mr. . . . Smith’s services. I realize we’re off to a rocky start, but being undead will give you a big leg up on the competition in the long run.’’
“No worries.’’ Bambi wiped crocodile drool off her clothes. “I’ve gone through worse. There was one time I had to tell Tarantino that—’’
“Darling, before you go on, do me a teensy favor?’’ Isis engulfed Bambi in her irresistible charm. “Would you mind telling everyone here what you do for a living?’’
“Don’t hold things up with your silly theatrics,’’ Chet cut in. “You’re only trying to put off my moment of triumph. I can tell you what she does for a living. She’s just another actress.’’
“Enh!’’ Bambi did a good imitation of a quiz show’s wrong answer, stupid! buzzer. “I’m no actress, sweetie. I’m a producer.’’
“So that’s why I couldn’t find her heart!’’ Anubis exclaimed. “D’oh!’’
Somewhere in the universe a time’s up gong rang. The Hall of Two Truths filled with a fluttery roar as the broken bargain restored the spirits of all the women the Devourer had already . . . processed. The magician stared in horror as all his victims fled back into the mortal world.
The goddess of Truth grinned full in his face. “One hundred thousand take away one equals what, O Tchet-Ptah-auf-ankh?’’
He didn’t have the chance to pull out a calculator before a very cranky lion-hippo-crocodile chowed down.
SPIRIT
Ghosts. Haunted houses. Spirits running amok among us. Spirits are the incorporeal form of the undead. Sometimes they walk among us, oblivious of their deaths, and sometimes they only touch us briefly, but they always fascinate us, as evidenced by numerous movies and books, ghost tours in New Orleans and small Western towns, and even Halloween.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro shows us a side of Pacific Island cultures we might not want to face. Alan Dean Foster catches up with a famous personality whose living joke becomes his undead “life.’’ Carrie Vaughn proves that death doesn’t have to be the end when you’ve got an important job to do. Even a haunted museum’s secrets can be surprising, with Irene Radford’s deft storytelling.
GENIUS LOCI
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
“And this part of the house is called the gullet,’’ the proud owner declared as they went up the stairs.“Who lived here before you bought the place; do you know?’’ Agatha Pomeroy asked her niece, Bronwyn Sallister, as she followed her up to the second floor. This was her first visit
to the new house and she was very impressed with what she saw of the refurbished Queen Anne Victorian.
“You mean before it was restored?’’ Bronwyn stopped on the landing, allowing her aunt to catch up with her. She was dressed in a mauve silk blouse over beige wool slacks, her light-brown hair pulled back from her face into a ponytail. For thirty-eight, she was in fine condition, burnished with health and fitness. As a part-time librarian for the local historical society, she had achieved a place in the community she enjoyed.
“Yes. That’s what I mean,’’ said Agatha. “From what you said, it was transformed by the renovators.’’ She had taken off the long, pin-striped jacket of her traveling suit, revealing the lace-fronted blouse with a high, frothy neck. Her slacks were a bit wrinkled from the long drive, but she felt neat enough not to need to change clothes yet. A trim woman of middle height, Agatha Pomeroy was striving to keep from admitting her fatigue, but the five-hour drive had left her feeling a bit frayed, and it showed.
“It had been very rundown,’’ said Bronwyn, finding it impossible to imagine her glossy, elegant house anything less than what it was. “It was built in 1894, you know. The man who owned it before the restoration company bought it didn’t bother with it, or so I’m told. He was retired and spent most of his time in Santa Barbara, I understand, with his son’s family. He only came back here two or three times a year, and never stayed more than a month. He said he didn’t like the place, or at least, that’s what my across-the-street neighbor told me. She’s been in her house for thirty-nine years, so she knows everyone.’’
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