Tropic of Darkness

by Tony Richards

  And so there was no choice. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but he could see no other options.

  He needed to request help from the other side, from the world of spirits and orishas.

  Gilliard had stopped moving altogether, stunned by everything he’d seen. The high priest felt confident enough to let him go. It was time to forget about his immediate surroundings, and focus his attention elsewhere.

  So he pushed himself up on his knees. And—throwing his arms wide—began to chant the most powerful magic that he knew.

  * * *

  She was still hiding under the table in another room. But words—snatches of arcane phrasing—came floating to Dolores.

  And for a while, the only thing that she’d been able to hear had been the shrieking of the fierce, unnatural wind the twins had summoned up, punctuated by sharp yells from the men.

  But now, she could hear an actual voice. It was perfectly clear, like it was in the room beside her. The familiar tone and cadence of a Santería spell. But she had never come across this one before. It sounded weighty and obscure and very powerful.

  She found the courage, at long last, to uncover her head and lift it. Every syllable was puncturing the darkness, sending tremors through the fabric of the night. The whole house seemed to fill up with the sound. Even her skin was resonating to it.

  Dolores recognized it as the Babaaláwo’s voice. And, when she figured out what he was chanting, a newborn fear began to grow inside her.

  She’d half suspected this when he had first arrived. She’d somehow sensed how far the high priest was prepared to go. And now, her worst misgivings were taking form.

  The exorcism having failed, the man was resorting to more desperate measures. Far more dangerous, their consequences totally impossible to predict. He was enlisting otherworldly help, trying to conjure up some spirit to assist him. Something stronger than the twins.

  It was the only chance he had of beating them. But still, she couldn’t think of a more reckless course of action. Those who dwelt on the far side could be—to put it very mildly—less than reliable allies. Fickle and irrational, drawn whichever way their whims might take them. They could just as easily turn against the man as rally to his side.

  The truth was, there was no real telling what would answer his new prayer, or even what it might do once the fight was over. Part of her wanted this whole thing finished with, and sided with the twins.

  Kill these fools! The priest especially, before he goes too far!

  She would go back to the patterns of her normal life. Back to the way that it had always been. However much she hated her existence, it was something she had grown accustomed to. It was familiar.

  But she touched her belly. And those thoughts died away.

  Little girl child?

  The bridge of her nose creased up. She felt dampness growing in the corners of her eyes again.

  If you knew what the future held in store for you, what would you want me to do?

  When Dolores really thought about it, all her doubts subsided.

  If I’d been asked that, how would I’ve replied?

  There was only one answer. It was plain, and swelled inside her head until the pressure almost hurt.

  She was the first woman in her entire line who’d had the smallest glimmer of a chance like this. And what manner of hell awaited her in the next life, if she didn’t take it?

  So she slid out from beneath the table, her face burning with indignation. No stopping now. No going back. And if she died in the attempt, taking her unborn daughter with her, well then, that would be a freedom of a sort.

  The Babaaláwo appeared to be barely halfway through the spell, and time was running out. The sisters would never allow him to finish it. She had to give him those additional few moments.

  Her gaze flickered over to some candlesticks propped up on the sideboard, settling on the tallest one. It was long and narrow with a heavy base, a perfect weapon. So she took it, and went out.

  The scene in the hallway made her falter again. She had not been expecting this. She recognized the young man. Now, his impaled corpse was dangling from the chandelier. His weight had made the whole structure tilt over to one side. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he’d gone down on the upright spikes. One of his shoes had fallen off, was lying in a pool of blood. And he’d been no more than a young boy really, barely out of his teens.

  Dolores sucked a breath in through her teeth. And then, she ran to the foot of the staircase. And hurried up.

  * * *

  He was moving.

  Jack was frozen rigid, hadn’t shifted so much as a muscle since the high priest had let go of him. But, glancing to the side, he saw that he was closer to edge of the circle than he’d been. He could feel the floorboards sliding underneath his palms. He was being edged along, implacably.

  He tried to keep himself in place, his fingers clenching, but did not slow down.

  Even in agony, pinned against the wall, Manuel Cruz had noticed what was going on. He was staring across and shaking his head. But Doctor Torres seemed to be oblivious.

  Jack felt panic start to overtake him.

  “For God’s sake!” he bellowed at the kneeling man. “Whatever you’re doing, do it now!”

  But then a movement from the doorway captured his attention. Something had shifted in the dimness of the corridor.

  * * *

  Dolores slipped inside the room, moving rapidly in the direction of the shelves. The sisters hadn’t noticed her as yet, and this only ought to take a bare few seconds.

  She drew up closer to the glow of the black candles, which were unaffected by the wind. Her teeth were set with grim determination and the candlestick was still clasped between her fists.

  She was staring fiercely at the ranks of covered jars, trying to forget about the twins. She reached the first, and drew herself up as high as she could. Raised the candlestick above her head.

  Then brought it crashing down.

  * * *

  As the first one shattered, Jack heard the most peculiar noise. A sucking sound, like an implosion, but with a harsh, almost electric crackle to it.

  Something flashed out from between the shards, moving so fast that his eyes could not keep track of it. The only thing he got was a fleeting impression. Something like a ball of glowing mist. Except that it seemed to have other shapes buried within it. Human ones.

  It shot up to the ceiling and then faded from view.

  Dolores had turned her attention to the next jar. But now the sisters had noticed. They wheeled around. And she froze, just short of letting rip a second time.

  She stared at them defiantly. That didn’t seem to please them. They lifted their palms in her direction. Made a shoving motion.

  And the woman was lifted clean off her feet. She traveled ten feet through the air before she hit the floor again. Jack watched her gray face crumple.

  The candlestick had gone clattering off, coming to a halt against a skirting board. Dolores was lying in a ragged bundle, absolutely still. But then her head lifted a touch. Her eyes opened a slit. She was hurt for sure, but not out of the fight yet.

  The wind had lessened. Jack could make out a faint scuffling noise. He glanced across, to see that Doctor Hague had returned to the living and was watching what was going on.

  The man raised one of his crutches. He flung it to the housekeeper, yelling out, “Use this!”

  Before the twins could react, Dolores was up on her knees and swinging the crutch around in a wide arc. She took down a whole row of jars this time. The released spirits soared up to the ceiling. But none of them disappeared.

  Jack could see the gloom above him fill with swiftly moving brightness.

  Then some of them swooped back down. He could only stare, frozen, as they rushed at the DeFlores twins.
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  Jack could see more than faces in those softly glowing clouds. There were arms and legs and hands as well. They were in no particular order, a bizarre jumble of body parts. And they made seething noises as they came. The twins reared back. And then the lambent clouds were on them, hurtling around them, pushing through.

  The sisters were both snatching at them madly, their features transformed with shock. Jack watched a phantom go through Isadora’s open mouth, then appear on the other side.

  And a chilling realization took hold of him. These spirits seemed incapable of doing any harm. Their presence and the way they were attacking, though . . . it seemed to infuriate the twins beyond measure. Both of them were bellowing, letting out high-pitched, brittle shrieks, and they flailed at the spirits in an almost palsied fashion.

  Several of the wraiths passed by the edges of the circle. Jack could see the features in their depths. Limpid and misshapen faces gawped out at him briefly.

  One in particular caught his attention. He spotted it several times. A great glutton’s face, with a huge bushy beard.

  “Pierre?” he heard himself gasp as it flickered by.

  The sisters were using their long fingernails to rip the shapes to shreds by this point. But the clouds simply reformed themselves, and then swung back around.

  Dolores was staggering to her feet. Bringing the crutch with her, moving farther along the shelving. She managed to bring down another row of jars.

  Except her next swing never came.

  The twins finally figured out the lack of danger they were in.

  This time, Dolores hit the wall so violently the whole room shuddered.

  Jack watched helplessly as she slid down, leaving a trail of blood behind her on the plaster, the back of her skull crushed.

  And the phantoms stopped attacking, melting off into the walls.

  Total silence fell across the room.

  Torres had finished chanting.

  * * *

  Jack ought to have been looking right back at the two pale faces that were staring at him. But the area of floor between them had captured his attention instead. Unless he was mistaken, it looked even darker than it had been, the light from the candles barely touching it. The thin, caulked gaps between the boards had surely been parallel and straight? That was the only way they could be.

  But the dark lines started shifting as he watched.

  Then they bent around, joining up. Forming concentric circles—circles which began spreading out across the room. They disappeared when they reached the walls, only to be replaced by others.

  They were ripples. Jack took that in with a cold, stark shock. But ripples on wood, rather than water. How could that even be possible? He could not tear his eyes away. He was no longer aware of anything but the strange spectacle in front of him.

  A bulge became apparent at the center of the rings. Something coming now. But what?

  It started to grow in height and width. And at first, it was only black. Jack squinted, and all he could make out was woven hair. And then, smooth skin followed it.

  Eyebrows appeared. And then the eyes. It was a woman’s face. Hispanic features, the skin sunburned to an almost hazelnut color. Beautiful in the extreme, the eyes a bottomless molten brown.

  Her shoulders slid up into view, and then her torso. She was wearing a red silk dress. Jewelry was draped around her neck and wrists, all of it made of white seashells.

  Jack’s gaze went back to her face. And it was utterly impassive.

  The woman simply stood there for what felt like an eternity.

  Then, she lifted an index finger, no more than an inch. And twitched it slowly, beckoning to him.

  The room was plunged into total darkness, every candle going out.

  * * *

  The only things that Torres could hear were his own labored breathing, the other doctor trying to shuffle around, and Manuel Cruz grunting with pain.

  Aldo Torres lost his balance. He swayed drunkenly a moment, then went forward on his palms. Felt something crunch beneath them. Which meant that he had inadvertently breached the circle.

  But nothing came rushing at him through the murk. Apparently, the twins were gone.

  Except—he kept on trying to work it through his mind. He had been calling for assistance from the spirit world. But what had answered him exactly?

  Torres had a vague suspicion, but he kept it to himself. The most important thing, now, was to get Jack Gilliard out of here.

  He began feeling around, still virtually blind. But however much he pawed along the floor, he couldn’t find the American.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was like the lightlessness before the start of all creation. Or like being interred in a casket, a full fathom beneath the tight-packed earth.

  Jack’s first instinct was to reach for Torres. But the only thing his fingers closed around was thin, cool air.

  Once that the initial panic had subsided, Jack took it on himself to grope about, his arms traveling in a full circle, stretching as far as they could go. He still hurt from the beating he had taken, and it was uncomfortable. But he persisted.

  Still, he could find nothing. And Torres had been right next to him, a few seconds back.

  Jack’s arms dropped to his sides—apparently, he was upright now, although he didn’t remember standing. He shuddered, and then became very still.

  What ought he do next? He couldn’t even see his hands in front of him, and had no idea where he had gone.

  After another moment, he took in the fact that there was something around him other than the swamping dark. Something else—a sensation, a gentle, pulsing pressure. It was as if the darkness had been turned into some kind of liquid and that liquid was lapping against his skin. He tried to sort it through his head.

  Like ripples again. But they seemed to be traveling in the opposite direction, coming in toward him this time, rather than drifting out.

  Everything was back-to-front. Jack edged forward a little. And could still not find anyone else, nor hear the slightest sound.

  “Hey!” he yelled out suddenly, the air exploding from him. “Hey, where are you? Anyone?”

  There was no response.

  He thought he could detect another vague feeling of motion. In the absence of anything else to hang onto, he crouched down and tried to grab hold of the floor.

  And could feel nothing. It was no longer there.

  Dizziness overcame him. There was a definite falling sensation in the deep pit of his stomach, as if his entire frame were sinking.

  Yes, he was descending somewhere. Jack felt positive of that. It was the only thing that he was certain of.

  * * *

  He seemed to slow down, a while later. The sensation of dropping eased, then vanished altogether. He appeared to have come to a complete halt. But still the darkness wouldn’t lift.

  This was it, though. Journey’s end.

  Fear swelled up stronger in him. If he’d been sucked into some kind of vortex, where had he washed up?

  There was something solid underneath him this time, but it didn’t feel like wood. More like heavy cloth. A rug? A carpet?

  The blackness lifted very slightly. Jack sucked in a breath as his sight partially returned and he began to make out faint, vague shapes. Some of them were furniture, he thought. A desk. A chair. A cabinet?

  Others . . .

  A large window?

  It came into focus as the darkness bleached to gray. Yes, it was exactly that. There was a scene beyond its panes, which started filling up with color as he watched. Different shades of green, for the most part. But dotted along the sides with patches of primary reds and yellows, and then pastel pinks and mauves.

  He struggled to understand what he was looking at. These were flowers becoming apparent in his field
of vision, lush tropical ones, growing in the gaps in between expanses of lawn and clumps of leafy trees. It was a garden he was staring at.

  He could see iron railings surrounding the boundaries, their shape too familiar for comfort. Could this be the same garden that he’d walked through this afternoon?

  But it wasn’t a shambles anymore. This version was well tended. The railings were enameled a fresh, lustrous black, golden paint along the iron spikes at the top.

  He pulled himself away to watch the room that he was in taking shape around him. It was filling up with color and detail too, the same way that the garden had.

  It looked like some kind of drawing room or study. There were papers and a quill pen in a holder on the desk. And portraits in fresh oils on the walls, most of them of Spanish nobles. A crystal decanter full of port had been set down on a cabinet in the far corner. And it was a rug that he was standing on, expensive, maybe Persian.

  All as immaculately kept as the gardens he’d been looking at. Not so much as a tiny cobweb. Nor a speck of dust. Why was he so certain, then, that he was still in the same house?

  He could hear the rushing of the sea off in the distance. That apart, there was no other sound. There were no birds wheeling in the skies beyond the window. Not a single sign of life could be made out.

  It was like being in one of those paintings on the wall.

  But that didn’t last for very long. A movement brought him lurching around.

  One of the DeFlores twins appeared, as though from a hole in the air.

  * * *

  This one was green-eyed Lucia, her face creased up in a hungry smirk.

  Isadora followed her a moment later, from a point in the air a few yards away. They were both dressed in the style of an earlier age, replete with lace and crinoline and ruffles, their waists pinched to a waspish tightness by the undergarments they were wearing. It was certainly a big change from the way that they’d appeared to him before. But it was no less threatening.

  They stepped over and stood side by side, an arm’s reach apart. Both their gazes battened on him. Jack just felt the urge to run.

  But then, the pair of them did something he would never have expected.