Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  I screamed and tried to lunge forward. In sheer reflexive fear, Jeff kept a firm grip on me, stopping me from moving.

  Lopez pulled the iron rod out of the brazier, raised his arms overhead, and held the burning rod in his bare hands, his facial expression completely blank.

  18

  “Lopez!” I screamed in horror.

  He remained kneeling on the floor in front of the glowing brazier, his naked torso gleaming, his muscular arms raised high overhead as he held the glowing iron rod in his hands. His eyes were half-closed and unblinking, his face relaxed and strangely blank.

  “Let me go!” My nose twitched from the irritation of my gris-gris pouch as I struggled with Jeff, frantic to get to Lopez and—and—and . . . Actually, I wasn’t sure what I would do. But getting him to let go of the red- hot iron bar seemed like a good place to start.

  “Holy shit!” Jeff repeated, still restraining me.

  Mambo Celeste was standing next to Lopez. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him to look at her, but I heard her voice raised exultantly and was aware of her swaying in a dance around his kneeling form, her arms spread wide as she chanted and shook her rattle.

  His face still calm, almost sleepy, Lopez suddenly leaped to his feet and whirled around in a circle with the glowing rod, twirling it overhead with his hands, then letting it slide down his arms so he could make the thing dance around his torso, moving like a martial artist practicing with a bamboo staff.

  That was when I finally realized that he wasn’t getting burned. His flesh was unmarred, and he seemed to be in no discomfort at all.

  “Whoa!” said Jeff. “He works out, doesn’t he? Very flexible.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said.

  I watched in numb shock as Lopez tipped his head back and plunged the fiery rod into his mouth. The crowd cheered, clapped, and chanted with ecstatic enthusiasm as he eased the glowing rod into his mouth, inch by inch, like a sword swallower, until an alarmingly large portion of it had disappeared down his throat.

  “Has he ever done this before?” Jeff asked me.

  “Of course not!” I snapped, panting with fear and panic.

  When Lopez finally pulled the iron bar all the way out of his mouth, it was still glowing.

  “How did he do that?” Jeff wondered.

  Then Lopez held the rod like a spear and, with a guttural war cry, threw it across the room, over the heads of the worshippers. Flying straight as an arrow, it crashed into Napoleon’s cage, causing the glass to shatter. The breaking glass and startled cries of the nearby people were loud enough to make me look reflexively in that direction. The boa constrictor was unharmed, but it was frightened enough to move off its branch and tumble out of its cage.

  “So now that snake’s on the loose in a room packed with people,” Jeff said. “Great. What was your friend thinking?”

  “He’s not thinking! Can’t you see?” My heart was pounding so hard I felt dizzy, almost nauseated. “He’s possessed!”

  “Seriously?”

  I felt a hand grasp my arm and turned to see Max standing beside me, his gaze fixed on Lopez. “He has become a cheval.”

  “A what?”

  “A cheval—er, a horse. That’s how it’s described in Vodou. He has been mounted and is being ridden by Ogoun, the god of fire and war.” Max squeezed my arm reassuringly. “I know it looks frightening, but it’s a blessing. A sign of great favor.”

  Jeff said, “It looks damned dangerous, if you ask me.”

  Lopez accepted a bottle of rum from a smiling celebrant, raised it to his lips, and tilted his head back. Throat working rhythmically, dark golden skin gleaming, he didn’t even pause for breath, but simply drank the whole bottle, draining its contents. When he was done, he tossed the bottle aside, wiped his mouth with his forearm, and—speaking in Creole—demanded more rum. Someone gave him another bottle. He drained that one, too.

  “Max,” I said desperately, “he’ll get alcohol poisoning!”

  “Maybe the fire god can handle it?” Jeff said doubtfully.

  “There usually aren’t any ill effects afterward from being ridden by a loa,” said Max.

  “Usually?” I repeated.

  I watched the mambo chanting loudly in Creole and waving her rattle around Lopez as he swayed and his eyes rolled back in his head. As she encouraged him to take yet another bottle of rum, I remembered that I thought she was an evil bokor and a murderess.

  “I’m putting a stop to this!” I said.

  “Esther, no!” Max grabbed my arm again as I tried to move forward. “That could be very dangerous!”

  Jeff grabbed my other arm. “He’s right! A lot of people here are guzzling rum, not just your boyfriend. They seem happy and harmless, but do you really want to risk spoiling their ceremony now that they’ve had a few drinks?”

  “You shouldn’t disturb someone who’s in the middle of a possession trance,” Max warned. “And insulting a loa who has mounted a celebrant is fraught with potential peril!”

  “Would this thing hurt Lopez?” I asked anxiously.

  “Ogoun has a fiery temper,” Max said. “Forcing him to dismount could be dangerous for you.”

  The man dressed as Baron Samedi poured a bottle of rum all over Lopez’s arms and torso while the mambo, using a thin piece of burning wood, followed him around Lopez’s body, setting the rum alight so that Lopez’s flesh was covered with rum-soaked flames. His skin still glowing with fire, he seized the bottle from Baron Samedi and drank more rum.

  The mambo rubbed fire and rum into his skin while he drank thirstily, her palms moving along his naked torso and over his shoulders while people around them danced and sang.

  “Well, I don’t care if the loa is offended!” I told my companions. “I want that woman’s hands off Lopez. Right now!”

  “Oh, crap,” Jeff said as I tore myself out of his restraining grasp and starting forcing my way through the crowd. The swinging gris-gris pouch made my eyes sting. I ignored the discomfort and stayed focused on Lopez.

  “Esther!” Max cried. “Wait!”

  “No! This has to stop!” I shoved people aside as I forged a path to the possessed police detective. “It’s dangerous! And so is that woman!”

  I forced my way into the center of the ceremony and crossed the floor to Lopez’s side. I grabbed the bottle of rum as he was about to raise it to his lips again.

  “Stop!” I said. “Lopez! Can you hear me?”

  He kept his grip on the bottle without any apparent effort, though I was trying hard to pull it out of his grasp. He swayed a little as he looked at me. He seemed to see me, but there was no light of recognition in the blue eyes that met mine.

  “Lopez?”

  The mambo started shouting at me in Creole. After a moment, she switched to English, telling me to leave him alone, to go away.

  When she grabbed me, I shook her off, saying, “Don’t touch me! And don’t you touch him again, either!”

  She grabbed me again, and this time I slapped her hand away. She hissed at me like a cat.

  Lopez’s heavy-lidded eyes watched this exchange impassively. Then he grinned, slid his free arm around my waist, and pulled me against his naked chest. He ground his hips against mine, and I gave a startled gasp when I felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal. I suddenly recalled that Ogoun was also the god of male fertility. Flustered and embarrassed—we were surrounded by people—I tried to push him away. It was like trying to move a boulder.

  His lips came down on mine, and his kiss was bold and lascivious, his mouth hard, his tongue thrusting and stroking. I struggled, and he bent me backward over his arm until I was disoriented and dizzy, clinging to him for balance as he plundered my mouth with hot insistence, filling my senses with a fog of rum, fire, sweat, warm skin, and hard, flexing muscles. I couldn’t breathe or move or find the floor with my feet. My head swam with darkness and heat as he went on kissing me greedily, taking what he wanted and draining me of my will.

  B
y the time he stopped, I was so desperate for air, I thought I would faint. Even so, when he lifted his head, my mouth followed his, craving more punishment from him. He noticed, and it pleased him. He gave my ribs a ruthless squeeze, then laughed and raised the bottle to his lips again, downing more rum. With his head tilted back and his throat working, his hand slid down to my buttocks and he pulled my hips tightly into his again, then thrust against me with graphic intent.

  I drew in a sharp breath and struggled again, trying to pull away while I choked on a cloud of cayenne pepper rising from my gris-gris charm. Lopez lowered the bottle to look at me. His smiling lips shone wetly with rum, and his liquor-soaked breath was probably a fire hazard. His long-lashed eyes were seductive with sleepy amusement as he held the bottle to my lips and murmured suggestively to me in Creole.

  I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear enough. I shoved the bottle aside and, hoping to snap him out of it, slapped him sharply across the face.

  He laughed again and let me go. Startled, I staggered sideways into Jeff, whose arms prevented me from falling down. Clutching me, Jeff sneezed in response to my peppery aura, then shoved me away.

  “Well, you certainly took charge of that situation,” he said. “So what’s the next part of your brilliant plan to bring him to his senses?”

  “Max?” I said sharply.

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

  “Think faster!”

  “This problem is somewhat outside my experience,” the mage said apologetically.

  Lopez was dancing with a couple of young women now, swaying and writhing cheerfully with them. Ogoun was quite a flirt.

  All around us, people were clapping rhythmically, singing, dancing, and smiling. Several people were moving wildly, perhaps in the throes of spirit possession themselves.

  “New plan!” I said to my companions. “Max, you distract the mambo. Jeff, you get a bucket of cold water.”

  “We’re going to throw cold water on him?” Jeff said. “That’s your plan?”

  “Anyone with a better idea is welcome to make a suggestion!” I snapped.

  “Step back!” Max warned.

  He shoved the two of us away from the brazier as Lopez returned to it and reached into its red- hot contents with both hands. He scooped up a pile of glowing coals and washed them sensually over his chest and arms, eyes closed in apparent ecstasy. His skin remained unharmed, though I noticed the falling coals left behind some nasty burn marks on his khaki trousers. Even dry cleaning wouldn’t save those pants after this escapade.

  “A bucket of water, Jeff! Now,” I said. “Let’s not wait until he sets the building on fire, huh?”

  “Right. Okay. I’ll go get—Whoa! What now?”

  Lopez staggered backward, moving with sudden awkwardness. Then he stood still, swaying dizzily.

  “Is he okay?” Jeff asked.

  “Lopez?” I said, stepping toward him.

  Looking as if he suddenly found it difficult just to remain on his feet, he put a hand up to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. He made an inarticulate sound, then shook his head a few times, as if trying to clear it.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Lopez? Can you hear me?”

  He collapsed like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. One moment, he was swaying dizzily; the next, he was lying at my feet, head thrown back, eyes closed, body inert.

  Lopez lay unconscious on the floor of the hounfour, sprawled out atop the remnants of the vévé of Ogoun that Mambo Celeste had drawn there.

  “No! Don’t put him down here,” I said to Jeff as he, Max, and I carried Lopez’s unconscious body into my apartment. “Let’s put him on the bed.”

  Max was wheezing from the effort of carrying Lopez up my stairs. He and I each held one leg while Jeff, walking backward, carried the weight of Lopez’s torso and shoulders.

  “Give me a minute,” Jeff said, still trying to put down the limp body. “I’ve got the heavy part.”

  “Oh, come on.” My back was starting to hurt. “It’s just a few more feet. Keep moving.”

  Max said to me, “The detective is heavier than he looks, isn’t he?”

  “You’re just tired,” I said.

  We’d had to carry Lopez out of the hounfour, up the stairs, and out of the foundation, and then we’d had to carry him down the street until we reached an avenue where we could hail a cab. Stuffing him into the backseat of the taxi had been no easy feat, either; he didn’t bend and fold that easily when he was unconscious. And I thought I had strained something when pulling him back out of the cab upon arrival at my apartment a few minutes ago.

  “No, this guy is heavier than he looks.” Jeff shifted Lopez’s weight in his arms, trying to get a better grip on the limp detective, then started backing toward my bedroom. “Good muscle development. Does he have a personal trainer?”

  “Hey! Careful with his—” I winced as Lopez’s skull thudded against the doorjamb of my bedroom. “Head.”

  “Oops.” Jeff said, “Good thing he’s already unconscious.”

  “Yes,” I said tersely. “Everyone knows that a head injury doesn’t really count unless you’re awake for it.”

  Max and I shuffled forward awkwardly as the three of us maneuvered the body through the doorway. Lopez’s left arm stuck out at an angle that prevented entry. I reached over to nudge it through the door. As a result, I dropped his leg, unable to retain my hold on it with just one hand. My gris-gris pouch bounced against my chest, making my eyes water.

  “Goddamn it!” I said. “Where the hell is Biko?” The young athlete’s strength would certainly have been useful in this endeavor, but we hadn’t seen him since our meeting in the training room.

  “And what happened to Puma?” Jeff added as he and Max hauled Lopez to the bed and, with one last burst of effort, dumped him onto it. “I didn’t see her at all at the ritual, and she’s the only reason I went! We sure could’ve used her help. She probably has some idea what to do with someone who’s become a shovel.”

  “Cheval,” Max wheezed, sitting down on the bed to catch his breath.

  “Whatever.”

  I glanced at Max with concern as I climbed onto the bed beside Lopez and started trying to arrange him more comfortably. “Jeff, get him a glass of water.”

  “The boy just drank about a gallon of rum.” Jeff eyed Lopez. “Do you really think he needs more liquids inside him when he’s in no condition to use a toilet?”

  I said, “A glass of water for Max.”

  “Oh! Okay.” Jeff left the room and went to the kitchen.

  “I’m still really worried about alcohol poisoning,” I said to Max as I looked down at Lopez’s peaceful face.

  I put my head against his chest and listened. His breathing and heartbeat were steady and even. The temperature of his skin felt normal. He didn’t seem to be in any physical distress. But he smelled like a distillery and was dead to the world.

  After his collapse, I had realized we would have a hard enough time explaining Lopez’s unconscious condition to a cab driver without also having to explain why he was half- naked; so I had found his shirt and, with Jeff’s help, wrestled him back into it. I unbuttoned the garment now and pushed it aside, so that I could examine his torso and confirm under calmer circumstances that he had not suffered any burns or injuries during his bizarre experience at the Vodou ceremony—where celebrants had assured me with reverence and good cheer, as he lay unconscious on the floor, that what had just happened to him was a good thing.

  Lying on my bed now, motionless but breathing evenly, his body was smooth and warm. There was a light dusting of black hair across his chest and a thin, faded scar on his stomach—possibly from an appendectomy.

  “No burn marks,” I said, torn between relief and amazement. “Nothing.”

  “I believe it is likely that the alcohol he consumed will also have no ill effects,” Max said soothingly. “Ah! Thank you, Jeffrey!” He accepted the glass of water that
Jeff carried into the bedroom.

  “I just turned on the AC,” said Jeff. “Hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” I said absently, realizing it was stuffy in here. I turned off the air-conditioning whenever I went out. I couldn’t afford to waste money cooling an empty apartment. “Take off his shoes.”

  Jeff shot me resentful look, then knelt down and wrestled with a surprised Max for possession of his foot.

  “No, I meant Lopez’s shoes,” I said with forced patience. “We need to make him comfortable. I don’t know how long he’ll be like this.”

  “Oh! Right.” Jeff sat down on the other side of the bed and tugged off Lopez’s sandals, which he tossed on the floor.

  We had initially argued about where to take our unconscious companion. Scared to death by his oblivious condition, as well as by having just watched him consume a shockingly large quantity of rum, I’d wanted to go straight to a hospital. But Max had thought it unnecessary, and Jeff had considered it a terrible idea.

  “A cop turns up in the ER unconscious and floating in booze?” Jeff had said. “When he wakes up there, how’s he going to explain his condition to the staff or to the NYPD?”

  I didn’t want to inflict a professionally damaging situation on Lopez, or possibly even a career-ending one. So, hoping that it was the right decision, I had chosen to bring him here, where I could keep an eye on him while he slept it off.

  I leaned over him now and stroked his dark hair away from his forehead. Gazing down at him, I prayed that Max was right and he didn’t need medical attention.

  “How did this happen to him?” I wondered aloud.

  “Yeah, what gives?” Jeff said. “One minute, he was being a cop. The next, he was playing with fire. Weird.”

  “Spirit possession often occurs very quickly,” Max said. “It just usually involves much more preparation—dancing or worship or meditation.”

  “He wasn’t preparing at all,” I pointed out.

  “Preparation is simply a way of inviting the spirit to possess the worshipper,” Max said. “It does not necessarily follow that possession will occur. Nor does it mean a spirit cannot choose to possess one who hasn’t actually invited it.”