I got no hits at all for Amelie, Daria, or Sabine Glapion. Not even a MySpace page. I wondered if being a voodoo queen meant being technologically pure or something. I tried loa and got a little over eighteen million hits, including things like the Logistics Officer Association, letters of agency, and the Mauna Loa Observatory. I found a Wikipedia article on voodoo gods, and then another three or four references that explicitly disagreed with it without ever agreeing with one another. Damballah was the voodoo spirit of the snake. Or Baron Samedi was. Or Carrefour. Or Legba.
I paused.
Legba.
It was what I had said during the fight in the lobby, the name I had called the old woman and the shining snake. There was a pretty detailed article about Papa Legba on a site Chogyi Jake had shown me, but when I tried to read it, I found myself losing the sense of it. I bookmarked it and promised myself I’d look again when I was functional. I shut down the laptop and stumbled into the shower.
I ran the water cool, and it woke me a little bit. I still felt the exhaustion, but I didn’t have the same sense of being caught half in dream, unable to wake up or go down to sleep. I washed my hair twice, just because it felt good to do it. The hotel had a white terrycloth robe with its logo embroidered on the right breast, and I had just wrapped myself in it and stepped out of the bathroom when a knock came at the door. My heart ramped up a little.
“Who’s there?” I said.
“It’s me,” Ex said. His voice sounded odd.
I hesitated, then went to look through the peephole. It was Ex, and he was alone. I gathered my qi, the mystic energy that let me do the little bit of magic I could. I pulled the energy up my spine and into my eyes, using it to see through enemy spells, but Ex was still just Ex. I opened the door.
The stink of alcohol was the last thing I’d expected, but he smelled like the mop at a liquor store. His eyes were red, and he was unsteady on his feet.
“Ex?” I said.
He nodded a half a beat late. He was drunk off his ass. I had never seen Ex drink to excess. I’d never seen him do anything to excess. He pointed at me, his expression almost comically somber.
“You,” he said, then paused. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not to me. Not to Aubrey. Not to anyone.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No,” he said. And then, “Yes, but that’s not the point. It’s that you are just fine. You don’t owe anyone anything. Eric was great, but you don’t owe him anything. Or Aubrey.”
“What room are you in?” I asked, reaching back for my key card on the dresser. He was on the same floor, but not the same hallway. Key card in the pocket of my robe, feet bare, I took Ex by the elbow and steered him back to his room. An older couple in evening wear passed by us, and I saw myself for a second as they would see us. A young woman with her hair still wet. A slightly older man with his hair coming out of his ponytail. Both of us had to have circles under our eyes dark enough to approach raccoon masks. The woman of the couple smiled at us indulgently.
Scenes like this weren’t uncommon in New Orleans, I guessed.
I opened Ex’s room with his key card, then stepped him through the threshold, turned him around, and pressed the card into his hand. He looked at it like it was a note from God, written on his flesh. His balance corrected two or three times while I watched.
“Get some sleep,” I said.
“You don’t owe an apology to anybody,” Ex repeated.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded solemnly, then leaned forward unsteadily and kissed my forehead. Even drunk, he was weirdly paternalistic. Maybe especially drunk. Still, there was something endearing in it. I closed the door.
My experience with alcohol was seriously limited. Apart from my brief sixteen-year-old rebellious phase and two semesters at ASU, all I had were old sermons about poisoning my body and blunting my God-given judgment. Still, as I padded back to my room, I would have put a hefty bet that Ex wasn’t going to remember our little conversation in the morning.
In bed for the second time, snuggled deep under the sheets, it struck me that Karen’s walk with me and Ex’s drunken visit were probably related. The pair had spent the day together, and whatever had prompted Ex to decide I needed reassuring he’d probably shared with Karen. And she had taken the hint. The idea was a little embarrassing, but it was also sweet.
I wondered, sleep soaking my brain, my eyelids heavy as weights, if in the rush and confusion of my new, chaotic life I had maybe found people who really did care. Chogyi Jake and Aubrey and Ex. Maybe Karen Black.
That someone as confident and powerful as Karen might give a rip about my feelings was the most flattering thought I’d had in weeks, and as I lost consciousness, I let myself be comforted by it. It wasn’t so bad feeling vulnerable when people had my back. I didn’t analyze what Ex had said with any particular care.
If I’d understood what he’d actually been trying to say, it would have saved us both a lot of pain.
SIX
The inside of my new house in Pearl River was pretty in a Spartan way. Without any furniture, the rooms echoed a little, and the space felt bigger than it probably was. It smelled of fresh paint and bleach. The five of us walked through it in the wandering but focused way people get when they’re planning a defensive position. There were big picture windows in the front living room and back in the kitchen that looked out on the green grass and trees on the verge of popping out new leaves. Those would be a problem. On the other hand, both front and side doors were solid-core with double dead bolts and interior latches.
The Realtor was an older woman, her hair dyed a soft auburn and her face caked with too much makeup. I thought she looked a little stunned. I tried not to say anything spooky about riders or kidnapping teenagers.
“The former owner was a very dear man,” she said. “Lived here for thirty years.”
I nodded. There were deep marks in the living room carpet. The couch had gone here, the coffee table there. Something wide and heavy along the wall, the line of crushed nap the only evidence of its passing.
“It looks great,” I said. “Do you have the key to the shed too?”
“Of course,” she said, fumbling with her purse. Chogyi Jake took the key from her, smiled, and went out the back door toward what would soon be our holding cell. I signed a few papers, shook the Realtor’s hand, accepted the bottle of cheap celebratory champagne she’d brought, and ushered her out.
I’d spent two days sleeping, eating, talking to Karen and Aubrey, Ex and Chogyi Jake, and then sleeping some more while my lawyer cut through the red tape, waived the inspections, and sent me the papers I needed to sign. I had inherited dozens of properties around the world, but this was the first one I’d bought myself. It was mine, free and clear.
Ex stood at the front window, watching the Realtor’s car wind down the drive, past a stand of trees to the road. His white-blond hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, his face had the focused, almost angry look that seemed most comfortable on him. I hadn’t brought up his drunken visit to my room, and neither had he.
“Well,” he said. “I guess we’d better get to work. Aubrey, can you help me haul that box?”
“Sure thing,” Aubrey said from the kitchen.
“I need to put this in the fridge,” I said, hefting the champagne.
“No fridge,” Aubrey said as he walked past.
“What?”
“No fridge,” he said over his shoulder. “Range. Oven. Sink. No refrigerator, no freezer.”
“Well, little tomato,” I said to the small black bottle, “I guess we’ll have to drink you warm. That sucks.”
Karen Black walked down the narrow stairway from the second floor, the stairs creaking with each step.