Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  I shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” Her phone rang. She answered it, listened for a moment, and said, “No, I’ll come down for it.” She hung up and said to me, “There’s a delivery at the reception desk for me. Shall we walk down together?”

  I said apologetically, “I’ve taken up too much of your time again.” I rose to my feet, figuring that fetching the package herself was her way of getting rid of me.

  “Not at all.” She opened the office door and gestured for me to exit ahead of her. “I always enjoy discussing such interesting subjects.”

  In the hallway, I looked at the pretty Vodou drapeaux that had attracted my attention yesterday. Today, thanks to the books Puma had given me, I recognized some of the printed names which had previously meant nothing to me.

  “Legba,” I said, reading the name aloud.

  “Papa Legba,” Catherine corrected me. “He guards the crossroads between the physical world and the spirit world, the intersection where the human and the divine can communicate—if Papa Legba allows it.”

  “This pretty symbol that covers his flag . . .” I traced the shape of the design with my finger, seeing it more clearly now that she had defined it. “It’s a cross, isn’t it?”

  Catherine nodded. “Representing the crossroads. It’s the vévé of Papa Legba.”

  “The what?”

  “The vévé—the symbolic design. Each loa has a unique one.” She explained, “To invoke a loa during a ritual, the practitioner draws the spirit’s vévé on the ground, using flour or ashes or perhaps colored chalk.”

  Looking at an attractive vévé in bright colors on the next flag, I read the name aloud. “Ogoun.”

  “Ah, yes.” Catherine stood beside me as I admired the drapeau. “Ogoun is the loa of fire, war, and male fertility.”

  “He sounds aggressive,” I said.

  “Like all the Vodou loa, his nature is complex,” she said. “Ogoun has a hot temper and can flare up angrily if aroused. He’s a patron of warriors and workers. He’s strong and masculine, and he fights for freedom and justice. On occasion, he can also be quite sexual.” She concluded with a smile, “And like many of the loa, he likes his rum.”

  We moved on to the flag that had startled me yesterday, the one depicting a dagger piercing a heart.

  “Erzulie Dantor,” said Catherine. “The Petro aspect of Erzulie.”

  “That’s what Max said. I gather the Petro aspect is sort of a dark side?”

  “Yes. The Rada are the benevolent family of loa to whom worshippers pray most of the time, to raise luck and invoke healing,” she said. “By contrast, the Petro loa are angry, violent, and dangerous. And just as we all have our dark sides, there is a Petro counterpart to most of the Rada loa.”

  I followed her down the hallway and began descending the stairs with her. Thinking of Mama Brigitte, the loa whose name haunted young Shondolyn’s dreams, I asked about her more famous husband. “Is Baron Samedi a Petro spirit?”

  “Ah, the Lord of Death.” She shook her head. “No, he’s a Gédé loa. They oversee the realm of death and watch over the deceased.”

  The deceased—like Darius Phelps? As I continued walking down the stairs, I wondered if there was a connection between his zombie and the lady loa in Shondolyn’s dreams.

  “And Baron Samedi’s wife, Mama Brigitte?” I asked. “Is she in the same line of work as her husband? Dealing in death?”

  Catherine paused to look over her shoulder at me in evident surprise. Yesterday, I hadn’t even known what a loa was; now I was asking about a very specific one.

  “I’ve been doing a little reading,” I said.

  “Good for you!” There was a touch of condescension in her tone, though she seemed sincere. “Given your newfound interest in Vodou, do you plan to attend the ritual on Sunday?”

  “Ritual?” I repeated.

  “Yes.” As we reached the ground floor, she explained, “Mambo Celeste has decided it’s time to hold a community ritual. She came to see me today, shortly before you did, to schedule it. There’s far too much going on at the foundation tomorrow for it to take place then, but the day after should be fine.”

  So evidently the mambo had heeded Puma’s request. I knew that Max would want to attend, and I thought the ritual would be a good opportunity to scope out the local Vodou community for suspects—or for the bokor’s potential victims.

  “Shall we see you there?” Catherine asked.

  “I look forward to it,” I said.

  At the reception desk, Catherine accepted a small package from Henry, the nice man who greeted visitors and sorted the mail. He told me, before I could ask, that my purse still wasn’t here.

  Catherine was obviously about to ask me what this exchange meant when, instead, her attention was attracted by a new arrival at the front door.

  “Ah, your friend is here again,” she said without noticeable warmth. Frowning, she added, “And he seems to have brought a small horse with him.”

  I turned to see Max and Nelli enter the building. Biko came in behind them, carrying his fencing gear.

  “Ah, Esther!” Max smiled. “I hoped we would find you here.”

  Upon seeing me, Nelli gave a little whoof! of pleasure and trotted forward to greet me, her tongue hanging out of her massive jaws and flicking bits of dog spittle around the floor as she crossed the lobby.

  I patted Nelli’s head in greeting and said apologetically to Catherine, who was looking at her with an expression of mingled distaste and apprehension, “She’s very hot.”

  “Indeed!” said Max, joining us. “The temperature outside is grueling. How do you do, Dr. Livingston? It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Dr. Zadok. Biko.” Catherine glanced at the two men briefly, then returned to eyeing the dog.

  “Allow me to introduce my canine companion,” Max said to the anthropologist. “This is Nelli.”

  Catherine said, “I’m afraid we don’t really allow . . .”

  Nelli slobbered on her in friendly greeting.

  “Oh, dear,” said Max, gazing with dismay at the large smear of dog drool that now stained Catherine’s silk skirt. “My apologies. Will this help?” He produced a crumpled hanky.

  Catherine regarded it with almost as much disgust as she’d just shown for Nelli’s saliva. She cleared her throat and, in an impressive display of self control said, “No. Thank you. Fortunately, I keep some spare clothing in my office. I think I’ll just go . . . change.” She beat a fast retreat and disappeared up the stairs.

  Cheerfully oblivious to her sartorial solecism, Nelli panted happily as Biko scratched her ears. I realized he probably missed his dog.

  Biko said to me, “Puma has convinced the mambo to hold a ritual. Day after tomorrow.”

  “I know. Dr. Livingston just told me.” I moved away from Henry’s desk and, once we were out of earshot, I conferred with my companions in a low voice. “How’s Shondolyn?”

  Max said, “Puma and I are both convinced the child has been targeted by the bokor—though the reason for this is currently a mystery to us. We are working on protective measures but, given the evident strength of our adversary, that may not be enough. Therefore, I consider it essential to her safety that she be removed from this vicinity. Fortunately, she has relatives in Maryland with whom she can stay. We have just come from walking her home, where she will speak to her mother about it.”

  “Good,” I said with relief. At least that was one innocent we could get out of harm’s way. “Did you three find anything during your hunt last night?”

  “Nelli picked up some scents that really excited her,” Biko said.

  “Unfortunately,” said Max, “one of those scents turned out to be a young man delivering Chinese food to a residence.”

  I said critically to Nelli, “Can’t you tell the difference between kung pao shrimp and a zombie?”

  She wagged her tail.

  “Hey, you want to keep your voice down?” Biko said
to me as he glanced in Henry’s direction. “Anyhow, we did come across a few signs. More claw marks. A disemboweled squirrel. Stuff like that. Mostly around the park. And then . . .” He gave Nelli an exasperated look. “Our fearless familiar freaked out on the steps leading up to the old watchtower.”

  I glanced at her. She was looking intently at Biko now, her tail still twitching a little.

  “She was snuffling around like crazy,” Biko said. “Then she started barking, howling, growling, and going nuts. Running up and down the steps the whole time.”

  “Hey!” That certainly sounded relevant. “And then what?”

  “Then,” Max said regretfully, “a patrolman came upon us and told us to leave the park or he would arrest us.”

  “We’re lucky it was just a patrolman,” Biko said. “With the racket Nelli was making, I’m surprised no one sent a fire truck.”

  She started panting and wagging her tail again, her beaming facial expression suggesting that making noise and attracting attention had been exactly what was required of her.

  Biko said judiciously, “Working with animals is tricky.”

  “Indeed,” said Max. “But at least we have an obvious starting place for our next nocturnal investigation.”

  “Will you be leaving Nelli at home this time?” I asked.

  “She will guard Puma by night,” Max said, “while we are out hunting.”

  “Good plan,” I said.

  “And you?” Biko asked me.

  “I’ll be waiting tables in Little Italy tonight,” I replied. “And I’m scheduled for a double shift tomorrow, since I’ve been away from the restaurant for a week.”

  “Lame,” said Biko. “We’re fighting Evil in Harlem while you’re downtown waiting tables and collecting tips?”

  “I have bills to pay, D’Artagnan,” I said. “Besides, brute force really isn’t my strong suit. If you’re planning to kill the baka when you find them, you don’t need me for that. Not with a sword in your hand and a mage by your side, while a trusty canine familiar guards your sister.” I paused. “Wow, put like that, you should have your own TV show.”

  “Yeah, well, before I become a big television star, I’ve got to go teach a class. I’ll see you two later.” Biko raised his fist. “Be cool, bro.”

  Max raised his fist and bumped it with Biko’s. “Peace out.”

  “I see that you two have been getting along well,” I said to Max as Biko walked away.

  “He’s an excellent young man,” Max said with approval. “And he has been kind enough to instruct me in some most engaging local dialect.”

  I decided I should use the foundation’s phone to call Lopez and find out when he planned to drop off my purse. I didn’t want to hang around this lobby for no good reason. I was just about to say so to Max when Nelli suddenly went stiff all over and started growling. Her hair stood on end, her ears were pricked alertly, and her posture was so erect that it made her look even bigger than she was.

  Startled by this sudden and unusual shift to an aggressive attitude, I followed the direction of her gaze—and saw Mambo Celeste entering the lobby with her immense snake draped around her shoulders. Nelli’s growling got louder.

  “Max,” I said. “Take Nelli outside.”

  Recognizing the danger, he tugged on the dog’s pink leash. “Nelli, come!” He tried to pull her toward the door. “Nelli.”

  Nelli didn’t even seem to hear him. She started trembling with emotion, her hostile gaze fixed on the snake.

  The mambo’s eyes flew wide open when she saw Nelli standing in the lobby while Max continued tugging futilely on the leash. When she realized Nelli was growling at her—or, rather, at her snake . . . Instead of holding still or backing away slowly, either of which would have made sense, she instead shook her fist at Nelli and started shouting in Creole, the French dialect of her native Haiti. Her agitation bothered Napoleon, who started squirming.

  The mambo’s shouting, fist-shaking, and swaying motion, combined with the snake’s increased activity, convinced Nelli that the threat she thought she perceived was real and immediate. She lunged forward a few steps and started barking ferociously at Napoleon.

  “Nelli, no!” I snapped. Then I yelled at the mambo, “Shut up! Hold still! You’re upsetting the snake and the dog!”

  Henry, the receptionist, was neither young nor athletic, but he was brave. He picked up a tall, skinny wooden sculpture that decorated the reception desk and brandished it at Nelli, maneuvering himself to stand between her and the mambo, whose shrieks had now reached decibels that competed with Nelli’s agitated barks.

  Max yanked so hard on Nelli’s leash that he lost his balance when she lunged again, and he fell down. Startled by this, Henry backed up a step. This accidentally brought him into direct contact with Napoleon, whose neck was eerily stretched out toward Nelli as he stuck out his tongue to catch her scent. Frightened by the contact—or perhaps mistakenly believing the snake was attacking him—Henry turned around with a startled cry and hit Napoleon with the wooden sculpture.

  The snake recoiled so violently from this blow that his flailing weight made the mambo lose her balance and stumble sideways into the reception desk. Perhaps disoriented by the mambo’s staggering, Napoleon started trying to coil around her head and shoulders, evidently trying not to fall off his familiar perch.

  Nelli’s barking grew hysterical, and she lunged toward the snake with violent determination. Max maintained his grip on her leash, so she dragged him laboriously across the floor as she struggled to get closer to the mambo and the coiling boa constrictor.

  Trapped between the ferocious dog and the snake that appeared to be attacking the shrieking woman, Henry was waving around his wooden sculpture and screaming in panic, unable to decide which animal to strike first.

  “Stop!” I shouted at him. Then I wrapped my arms around the dog’s neck. “Nelli, no!”

  As she lunged forward, my foot tangled with Nelli’s leg. Fearing I was about to break my ankle, I scrambled desperately to move my foot into a less dangerous position. I felt something tug and then snap as it caught on my shoe. Nelli howled in shock, and I felt warm liquid gush down my bare ankle and onto my shoe. I looked down and was horrified to see blood all over the place.

  Nelli staggered for a moment, yelping in pain. I realized that, in my scrambling, I’d accidentally torn off her dewclaw, a residual toe that grows on a dog’s foreleg.

  “Nelli!” I cried, racked with guilt and still afraid she’d tangle with the snake if I let go of her.

  Bleeding, yelping, and barking, Nelli staggered forward a few more steps. Wrestling with the frightened snake, the mambo fell onto the reception desk. This trapped part of Napoleon’s body under her considerable weight, and I could see the snake go into full panic mode and start fighting for its life. The mambo’s resultant shrieks competed with Henry’s screams as he continued waving around the wooden carving.

  Biko came dashing into the lobby with his sword. From his perspective, it evidently appeared that we’d all been attacked by a lunatic with a lethal sculpture, and now a wounded Nelli was trying to defend us. So he lunged forward and shoved the point of his rapier against Henry’s chest. “Drop it!”

  “No!” Henry howled in response to this new attack.

  “Biko!” Catherine Livingston shouted from somewhere nearby. “What are you doing?”

  “Drop it!” Biko moved his arm and Henry cried out, evidently feeling the tip of the sword prick his flesh.

  The chubby mambo was still lying across the desk, fighting with the boa constrictor. Catherine was shouting. Biko was stabbing a man who was brandishing a piece of art. Max was being dragged along the floor. I was clinging to a hysterically barking Nelli, and there was blood all around us.

  This, then, was the scene that greeted Lopez as he entered the lobby of the Livingston Foundation with my purse in his hands.

  15

  “Police!” Lopez shouted. “Everyone FREEZE!”

 
I’d had no idea his voice could be so piercing.

  “Police! NO ONE MOVE!”

  Henry and Catherine fell silent. Biko froze and looked at Lopez, a comically surprised expression on his face.

  Nelli was still panting anxiously and growling, but she ceased barking. Even the mambo’s shrieks reduced in volume.

  Still clinging to the dog, I was shoved aside and fell down. Nelli yelped in surprise as she was seized from behind, and then she started choking. I looked up to see her dangling from Lopez’s grasp on her pink collar, her-front feet flailing in midair as she gasped and coughed.

  “Biko! Stand down,” Lopez ordered. “Right now!”

  Biko lowered his sword and backed away from Henry, but he turned a hard stare on the man.

  Lopez glanced at the wooden sculpture. “Drop it.”

  Henry dropped it. Catherine gave a little moan as it cracked and splintered upon hitting the hard floor.

  Looking at the shaking, sweating older man, Lopez said in a clipped voice, “Go sit down.”

  Henry nodded and staggered over to the wall, where he slumped down into one of the lobby chairs, at a safe distance from both Nelli and Napoleon.

  Still holding the struggling dog, Lopez said urgently to me, “Is this your blood?”

  “Huh? What? Oh!” I shook my head, still disoriented. “No, it’s Nelli’s.”

  He turned his attention next to Mambo Celeste. An extraordinary expression crossed his face as he watched her struggle with her writhing snake. He lowered Nelli to the ground and, keeping one hand on her collar, he used the other to reach for his holstered gun.

  “No!” Catherine, Max, and I all cried at once.

  “It’s her pet,” Catherine said. “It’s just frightened.”

  “Good God.” Lopez left his gun in its holster and instead used his free hand to reach down, grab Max by his shirt, and haul him to his feet. “Can you control your damn dog?”

  “Well, now that she is somewhat calmer, I believe—”

  “She needs a vet.” Lopez handed Nelli’s leash to Max.

  “Nelli!” Max cried in alarm, realizing that her blood covered the floor.