Bedlam's Edge, page 26
A dozen or so worshippers were still gathered around the remains of a feast at a long table to the left, but slow drums started up in the right corner. After a few minutes, more drummers joined them. Still other worshippers shook rattles in time with the beat. A heavy incense Zeke couldn't identify filled the air.
Colin led the way past, giving the veve a wide berth. He indicated it. "Cornmeal and iron filings," he said quietly, his voice almost lost to the drums.
One by one the remaining worshippers began to dance, feet stamping and hips swaying. The tempo increased, as did the dancers' speed. Zeke watched, mesmerized, as they threw their bodies around.
Colin leaned over and murmured, "Soon. One of the hounsi, a student for the priesthood, will be the vessel. Say nothing unless you are directly addressed, for the Loa are . . . whimsical."
At that moment, the drumming reached a frenzy. A plump girl with ebony skin, wearing the white robes of the hounsi, shrieked and fell to the ground by the poteau-mitan, still writhing in time to the beat. The priestess immediately raised her to her feet and bowed deeply.
The girl—no, Zeke thought, it's the Loa—stepped past her and touched something on the altar. The priestess bowed even more deeply as the Loa returned to the poteau-mitan. "You honor us, Mawu Lisa, blessed Loa of Creation. Let us worship you and serve you."
The Loa waved her hand in dismissal, and focused on Colin and Zeke. Colin stepped forward, avoiding the margin of the veve. After a moment Zeke followed. The priestess inclined her head, then joined the priest at the altar.
"You are here, Ambassador." The possessed girl's voice held maturity borrowed from the Loa filling her. "We are flattered. Your reputation precedes you; I never thought to have Irindilel's Hound in my court. May Olorun smile upon you. Give me the stone."
With an effort, Zeke kept his face impassive while his thoughts whirled. Ambassador? Irindilel's Hound? What the hell does that mean?
Annoyance flashed across Colin's face, but he hid it quickly and bowed, a flick of his hand indicating that Zeke should imitate him. "I am honored to be in the presence of the Blessed Loa of Creation. I regret, O illustrious one, the stone still eludes me, though I am on its trail. Yet why should such a trivial matter come between friends? You know I search for it, as you know my reputation. I will retrieve your stone. Why need the treaty expire because of a pickpocket?" His voice was soothing, reasonable.
Suddenly Zeke realized the elf was working a subtle magic. He focused his Bardic vision and saw soothing tendrils of powder-blue power reach out to caress the Loa, then spread to the rest of the room. "For well over a century there has been peace between the Loa and Elfhame DeepRiver. Why should we throw it away when we have tried in all good faith to uphold our end of the bargain? I will find your stone for you, madame."
Bright-orange confidence now overlaid reasonableness. Zeke hoped the Loa was as susceptible as he was.
"Soft and gentle are your words, Monsieur le Prince, but while I feel our stone, darkness clouds her. Without her magic, no treaty can exist, and great harm may befall if you do not take care."
Susceptible, but not susceptible enough. Cryptic, too. And what the hell . . . an ambassador, and now Colin's some kind of elven prince as well?
Mawu Lisa walked over and gave Zeke the once-over. Energy touched him like insubstantial fingers and his skin tensed as power from her flirted with his shields.
"I see you have taken this one under your protection?"
Colin moved forward, as if to step between them. "Yes. He is mine."
Always.
"Poor little Bard." And she pinched his chin. "Irindilel's Hound with a pet Bard. Just fancy!" Zeke stiffened, but before he could protest the notion of being anyone's "pet," she turned to face Colin.
"Enough, my fine Prince. Restore the stone before our faithful have their festival, and all will be well between us. Otherwise, the treaty will expire. You will have to tell your brother you failed to bring home your rabbit."
Colin recoiled as if struck, then simply smiled, nodded, and said quietly, "I will find your stone, Mawu Lisa, and deliver it to the Loa before the Krewe of Oblata parade tomorrow."
Zeke hoped his face showed determination rather than the confused jumble of questions that filled his brain. Whatever the elf's play, he'd back it. But after ten years, maybe the two of them were overdue for a little talk.
* * *
Been a while since I've heard that. By Danu's breath, I hate that nickname. Who have I gotten really angry at me lately? Let's add "The Hound" to that list of things to explain to Zeke. The whole diplomat bit was bad enough. He would not be happy with the full truth.
Culéoin was mouthing a pro forma formula of gratitude and farewell, anxious to get on with the real job—after all, the clock was ticking—when the six French windows exploded inward around half a dozen figures. Men, or what appeared to be men; Culéoin never assumed anything. Glass showered the length of the sanctuary.
More crowded in behind the first wave, movements rough and uncoordinated, but once inside they walked in unison, even those at opposite ends of the room. The stench of the grave preceded them. He now recognized these beings as the truth behind Hollywood myths of the living dead. Zombies were no more than unfortunate souls, wills first paralyzed by a powerful poison then spelled away by a caplata, an evil sorcerer.
Culéoin had never encountered such a powerful psychic stink before. He'd once had an encounter with a human weapon called tear gas; this was much worse. Most of the worshippers doubled over retching; a few fought their way out the shattered French windows while others, tears streaming from blinded eyes, blundered into the path of the zombies and were knocked to the floor by clublike fists.
He shook his head and the spell-generated reek faded. Only Zeke, the priestess and priest, and a handful of hounsi were still on their feet, unaffected.
Culéoin looked for the nearest exit, or barring that, the best place for defense. Not my fight.
It's always your fight.
What's happened to my Mardi Gras?
A tangle of zombies and fallen worshippers blocked the door. No way out there. And none of these poor humans are going to be of any use. The treaty required him to help the Loa in any case.
Six zombies surged toward the altar, defended only by a handful of hounsi and the priest. The largest zombie knocked him aside as they swarmed the altar, pawing the contents. A collective moan came from their throats, and they turned and began searching for . . . something.
The Loa looked at Culéoin expectantly.
"Zeke? Ever fought zombies?"
"Fought 'em? Never seen 'em before, bro."
"Just follow my lead." Culéoin smiled, he hoped reassuringly. I tried so hard to keep him away from all this. Now we're fighting zombies together. All thanks to that idiot Norenlod. Then he bowed to Mawu Lisa. "On your behalf, madame."
One set of zombies was nearly upon them, another coming up on one side, and while they didn't appear to be killing anyone, Culéoin wasn't keen on the idea of being knocked out, either. Time to do something.
He quickly sketched a protective bubble over the Mawu Lisa—she could leave at any time, of course, but it cost nothing and the Loa appreciated such gestures. Beyond the Loa, another group of zombies had the priestess backed into a corner. Supported by two hounsi, she stood tall and proud, chanting and working her spells while the two men blocked approaching zombies with their bodies.
Culéoin moved to flank and protect Zeke. Sure, he's a fully trained Bard. But he's never been in any kind of fight before. Unless your reports are wrong.
They're not wrong. He would have told me.
Like you've told him about your life.
No time now. He sent an exploratory trace of power into the mind of the nearest zombie. As it made contact, he tagged others and sent the tendrils of force searching back the psionic pathways to the mind of the person controlling them. All seven had the same lime-green magical energy signature, as distinct and personal as DNA.
In the corner, both hounsi were down. The priestess's magicks were not made for this sort of defense. She would be of value in despelling the men—a priestess so favored by the Loa must know the zombie counterspells—but she was no warrior. First he must finish this.
He felt the gathering of Bardic magic and looked over at Zeke. The musician easily avoided a clumsy blow, then opened his mouth and sang a single wordless note. Culéoin's tracing net started to give and he quickly redirected his attention. Pinpointing the energy signature, he sent a blast back through the psionic highway he'd created. Hot red fire consumed cold lime and severed the spell giving control of the men's will to the caplata. Energy feedback shocked the nervous systems of the zombified men; they collapsed, unconscious.
Zeke, where's Zeke?
Culéoin looked back at Zeke just as the clear tenor voice ceased. A deep blue glow enveloped both Bard and . . . Culéoin blinked. It was no longer a zombie facing the Bard, just a confused-looking man in an ill-fitted black suit. The glow faded; another black suit, this one still occupied by a zombie, knocked the disorientated man aside and reached for Zeke. He ducked.
"Too many!" he yelled.
"Let me help," Culéoin said, and opened his own mouth in a warm baritone C. No words; he fed pure tone to the Bard, who caught it, added harmony, power. For a moment, blue light washed through the room, around five bewildered mortals, a Bard, and an elf. It faded, along with echoes of a simple chord that held the riches of an entire chorale.
Elegant solution, that. Clever boy, he's so appealing. I want to . . . no, you mustn't take Aerienne's path.
Look at all that he is, then remember your sister. Your course is set.
"Didn't know I could do that." The Bard helped one man up, then looked at the former zombies. "Y'all okay?"
The Voudoun priest, dignity unmarred by a bloody nose, rose unsteadily to his feet. Swaying slightly, he said, "They will know their own desires again."
He waved to several shame-faced worshippers making their way back to the sanctuary. They began clearing the fallen, black-suited and white-robed alike, and Culéoin gratefully left them to it.
His mind shaped a soundless whistle, the one that summoned his elvensteed. Danu alone knew where the cursed stone was, but he had precious little time in which to find it. At least he could count on Shadow's Cloak. Then he turned to the Loa.
Her aura flared in a confusion of towering rage, fear, and deeper emotions. Culéoin tried to pick out the threads, but he'd seldom dealt with Loa; the aura was unfamiliar and jumbled with that of the young girl the Loa possessed.
"This desecration grieves me, blessed Mawu Lisa." Culéoin gave her his best High Court bow. "Yet I rejoice at the privilege of battle on your behalf. May this remind you of the trust between Loa and DeepRiver, and our treaty."
"Treaty?" Fury darkened the aura to a flame-shot inky purple. "There is and can be no treaty."
Victory had relaxed him. This unexpected outburst snapped him back to full attention. What am I missing here?
The Loa spoke with patently false patience. "The scepter our handmaid was to carry. Together with the stone and the power of the crowd, it renews our spell and blessing on our servants' city."
She meant the silver baton the priestess had been holding, Culéoin realized. His eyes searched for the woman, but the Loa spoke again. "You need not look. Our servant fought hard, but our people's enemy has stolen it. Long has he gathered dark powers for this purpose. Now we have no scepter. We have no stone. We—you, Monsieur le Prince—have no treaty."
A dozen thoughts clamored. He'd not been told of the scepter, but it came as no surprise; many spells worked only when two objects came together. Anyone willing to attack the Loa to get the scepter must already have the stone. Norenlod might have had some help making a fool of himself this time.
Be honest, Culéoin. You knew this was more than a simple mugging; no ordinary thief could have shielded the stone. But how could a mere caplata know to approach Norenlod? Something still does not make sense.
Long practice kept his thoughts out of his voice and off his face. "I gave my word you would have the stone. So you shall, and the scepter as well. But the treaty . . ."
"What think you might befall, mon cher prince, should one cast the spell after evil returns to this city?"
Evil would indeed return, a century and more of pent-up energy, should the spell that symbolized the treaty not be renewed. By now, the spell was worth more to the Loa than the treaty. In fact, from their perspective, there was no reason to sign the treaty without it. When he returned to DeepRiver, he'd have to point that out to Irindilel.
Worry about that later. He thought through Mawu Lisa's question. The spell amplified psychic energies it was fed, and kept out opposing ones. It had been reinforcing positive energies and holding back negative for one hundred and sixty human years. No one had ever considered what might happen were it allowed to lapse and then be recast.
Culéoin now did so. Once the spell lapsed, as it would if he failed to return stone and scepter in time, the Mardi Gras crowd, seething with raw energy, would be open to the negative power that would come rushing back to fill the void left by the spell. If the caplata then triggered it, with the crowd still present and filled with dark energies . . . I spoke truly when I called the stone a bomb. A very large one, which feeds on itself. The human term, he remembered, was critical mass.
New Orleans would be devastated, and much of the rest of the country. As the psychic blast fed back and fed back, like a microphone on overload, even Underhill would be affected.
Zeke whispered, "Colin? What's she mean?"
"It would be . . ." He paused, searching for a word, then gave up and used the simplest. "It would be bad."
The priestess, white robes fouled and torn, joined them. A massive bruise covered one side of her face. She stood alone, Culéoin thought, shamed, and bowed deeply.
"Lady. I will deliver stone and scepter on the morrow, into your own hands. This I vow."
* * *
Shadow's Cloak drew up to the curb outside the temple in answer to his call. Elvensteeds were the Underhill equivalent of horses—if a horse could assume any shape it wanted and required no assistance on its rider's part. She had chosen her most glamorous appearance, a jet-black 1956 Mercedes 300 SL gull-wing coupe.
Zeke gave a low wolf whistle of respect and ran his hand down one silken fender. Culéoin smiled as the normally silent elvensteed made engine-noises of appreciation. Her feminine curves, proud sleek nose, trim V of a tail, and winged doors had seduced many a man, and she knew it.
Zeke has seen too much this night; I should send him home, Culéoin thought as they got in. Should have thought of that one earlier. Already there were bound to be more questions than he really wanted to answer.
Culéoin frowned, searching the contents of one pocket. An hourglass a quarter-inch tall, a silver penknife, several small crystal marbles, each containing a single spell. La Chasseuse was not there. He had better luck with the other pocket. Whispering softly to her, he sat back as the cube, a tightly wrapped essence of Seeking that glowed dull red, quickly unfolded itself. He looked over at Zeke.
"Now that I know his energy signature, I can use this spell to track down the man who sent the zombies. Find him, find the scepter, find the stone. No problem."
Culéoin smiled at Zeke, who smiled back, but the easy comfort between them was strained. Culéoin could almost hear the questions piling up.
Norenlod, you idiot.
La Chasseuse's cube was gone, unfolded to a shapeless red glow of Magus force hovering over his hand. Culéoin slipped one hand around it and stroked it lovingly.
"What're you petting?" Zeke asked.
"My hound," Culéoin replied dryly. "Once she's set on her scent, even Magus-sight won't reveal her presence to anyone except me and mine."
He lowered the window and released the little ball. It hovered just off the ground in front of Shadow's Cloak, who faked the appropriate shifting noises as she moved out into traffic following the energy essence.
Before the silence between them got too awkward, Zeke took pity on him and said, drawling out each word, "So that's diplomacy."
Culéoin chuckled. He is kind. "Some days go better than others."
Zeke grinned then relapsed into silence. Zeke's waiting. Say you're sorry. Confess. Tell him what you are.
No.
Several times Zeke seemed on the verge of speaking; Culéoin braced himself for the inevitable. It came. Zeke sketched a vague circle encompassing Culéoin, the Elvensteed, and the day's events.
"So why didn't you ever mention all of, well, this?"
Culéoin took his time replying as Shadow's Cloak cornered particularly fast. Because you didn't need to know. It didn't touch you, and I wanted to keep it that way. "Because all of this . . ." He repeated the gesture. "Is not what I come to Mardi Gras for, muirnín."
They were slowing now, turns coming less often. La Chasseuse hesitated, bobbing up and down in place, then stopped decisively in front of a padded black-leather door.
* * *
As they entered the exclusive club, Zeke Washington no longer worried about what had happened to his Mardi Gras. He worried about who or what his lover really was.
He knew this place only by repute, since his tastes had never run to leather and chains. The padded door set the tone for the interior, which combined black leather and gleaming brass on every bit of wall not covered by mirrors. He'd agreed when Colin had suggested another kenned change in wardrobe, but this just felt wrong.
Zeke ran his thumb down the side of his pants, uncomfortable. He'd started the evening in his favorite jeans and a Thelonious Monk T-shirt. First they'd been morphed into Elven Court garb. Now his jeans were so tight he expected to find each individual thread imprinted on his skin, and the T-shirt, sleek black leather instead of cotton, exposed half his chest and back behind lacing that crisscrossed almost to belt level. The effect suited the club's ambiance better than Zeke's own clothes, but that made him even more uneasy.
