“Well now,” Amelie said, “that’s more like it.”
The woman turned away, and the moment broke. The air itself seemed to slump back. Aubrey touched my shoulder, and I startled. Around us, the cultists were starting to move. At the head of the stone steps that led down to Jackson Square, Amelie Glapion stopped and turned, looking over her shoulder at us.
“You waiting for something?” she asked. “Come on.”
EIGHTEEN
Someone walking down the street might not have seen anything. An old woman walking pretty well with her cane. A few people accompanying her. A teenager leading a younger girl by the hand. Three touristy-looking types looking unaccountably nervous. A deeply black man with a long face and goofy smile walking by himself. Another group walking in the same direction. A white man in a Hawaiian shirt strolling behind the rest. Apart from everyone moving in the same direction, there was nothing about it that looked different than any other night in the French Quarter.
It felt like being marched to prison.
The Glapions and half their followers before us, Mfume and the other guards behind. I wondered if this was the kind of negotiation Eric had done, and if it was what had gotten him killed. Ahead of us, two of the cultists stepped close and put supporting arms around Amelie Glapion’s waist. Wherever we were going, it had to be close.
We turned down one street, and then another into a side street so narrow, I couldn’t imagine two cars actually passing each other. Thin trees pushed up, bare as sticks and struggling toward the sky. The brick buildings were painted over, pale colors turning to shades of gray in the darkness. The wrought-iron rails of narrow balconies looked thin enough to break between two hands, and the air stank of a backed-up sewer. All the doors we passed were closed, all the windows dark. I had the sense of walking into a tendril of dead city, as if the destruction of the Lower Ninth had cut a blood vessel, and even here where the city hadn’t suffered the flood, its tissue was dying.
Amelie and her entourage stopped at what had once been a storefront, its windows smeared now with gray paint. I was close enough to see Amelie’s eyes close for a moment. When she opened them again, there was a stiff determination in her expression, but no strength. One of the cultists—a woman—fumbled with a key chain, unlocked the door, and stepped aside. Amelie Glapion led the way like the general of a failing army, and the rest of us fell in behind her. Aubrey, beside me, shuddered as we passed the threshold, but that was all.
Inside, we passed through a wide space with dark wooden flooring worn in a pattern that outlined where shelves and pathways had once been, through an ornate archway that numberless coats of paint had muddied, and into something that might once have been an office. A particleboard folding table stood in the center of the room, a tablecloth of yellowed lace stretching across it. Fifteen or twenty lit candles burned at either end, black candles on my right, white on my left; the air was hot from the flame and stank of hot wax and honey. An ancient carved-wood chair sat on the other side of the table like a throne.
Three canvas army cots were against one wall, pillows and sleeping bags on each. The one farthest from me had a stuffed bear, worn from use and affection. As I watched, Daria walked to that last cot, threw herself onto it, and turned to look at us.
It reminded me of the gang warfare scenes from The Godfather and of the safe house I’d bought in Pearl River. Amelie Glapion and her granddaughters had gone to the mattresses, and so had we. Amelie Glapion made her way to the throne, sat carefully in it, and turned her gaze to us like a queen considering the ambassadors of some particularly ill-favored nation. It was theater. It was the appearance of nobility and power, confidence and influence built out of baling wire and bubble gum; the trash and debris of the world transforming itself into something holy. The Church of Something from Nothing, and for a moment, I felt genuinely moved by it.
The rider in her—Legba—spoke again.
“You have come to my city uninvited and unwelcome,” it said with the old woman’s tongue. “You come with the tools of a thief and an assassin, and you conspire with the outcast. For any of these, I would break your flesh and cast you into darkness. But the hollow one tells me you fought in my child’s defense.”
Sabine, behind me, spoke. Her voice was strong and musical.
“She did, Maman Legba. Everything he said was truth.”
Amelie Glapion cast a sour, inhuman glance over my shoulder at her granddaughter, then shrugged.
“For this I grant you indulgence. Now you say you’ve come for my help against the outcast,” the rider said. When it spoke again, the depth and power were less, the voice more human as if the thin, ill woman were grabbing the microphone from a fallen angel. “Why the hell should I believe that shit?”
I stepped forward. Legba’s eyes, snake-black, stared out at me from Amelie’s face. I remembered its shining skin, its teeth, the presentiment I’d had that first time we’d met that it would die or I would.
“Karen Black lied to me,” I said. “She told me that there was a killer loose and that she needed my help to stop it. I didn’t know she was Carrefour’s horse. And she is, right?”
“She is.”
The voice came from the shadows to my left. Mfume was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. His smile was strangely encouraging.
“Okay, then,” I said. “She called me here under false pretenses. And then she… sent me away again. But a friend of mine’s still with her. He’s sleeping with her. He doesn’t know what she is either.”
“He’s an idiot,” Amelie said. Or Legba. Or maybe they agreed with each other.
“He is sometimes, yeah,” I said. “But he’s my friend. And I want him back.”
“And you need my help to do that,” Amelie said. It was strange hearing the two separate beings in the single voice, but I felt I was getting the feel of it.
“Yours, yes,” I said, then nodded toward Mfume. “And his.”
“What price are you offering?” Legba asked.
The room was silent. It was what Karen had asked me. It was how, I had to think, Eric had gained his wealth, his power. I didn’t know what to say. I hated how much I sucked at this part.
“I’m offering to help you break Carrefour’s power,” I said. “I’m your enemy’s enemy. As long as that’s true, we can work together.”
“Well ain’t that convenient,” Amelie said, though I had the sense that Legba within her was considering the offer. “You work with her, you dance to her tune, you screw up my home, and then you come here all ready to get behind me. How do I know you’re not still working for her, just getting in here so you can stab me in the back? Hmm?”
It was a fair question, and I didn’t have an answer.
“What price are you asking?” I said.
“A pact,” Legba said, and I knew from its voice the word meant something deep. I had heard a little about agreements with riders and wizards and other nasties. Binding of intention was the phrase that came to mind. I felt something in my belly squirm and flutter, and then settle.
“I will accept a pact with you,” I said and immediately thought, Holy shit, I will?
Amelie Glapion rose and held out her right hand. I stepped forward to meet her. When I put my hand in hers, her fingers closed on mine like a trap. Her will, her qi, the caduceus—like spirits of woman and rider pressed into me, and reflexively, I pressed back, the heat in my belly rising to my shoulder, down to my hand out through my fingers. When Legba spoke, I saw Amelie’s teeth had changed to the rider’s forest of knives.