‘It was inevitable,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Yoshi. I’ll take care of it.’ She leaned over the desk and pushed a button on the intercom. A man’s cultivated voice answered, and Otille said, ‘Can you come meet my other guests?’
‘Oh?’ A rustling noise. ‘Certainly. I’ll just be a few minutes.’
‘Do you need any help?’
‘No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ve been looking forward to this.’
‘The Rigaud Foundation,’ said Donnell suddenly; he had been staring at Ezawa. ‘They’re funding the project.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ezawa.
‘And I’ve got the family disease. Christ!’ He turned to Jocundra. ‘The new strain. They dug it out of her damn graveyard. Right?’ he asked of Ezawa.
‘Half right.’ Ezawa peered at Donnell, then settled back, building a church and steeple with his knitted fingers, tapping his thumbs together. The harsh lamplight paled his yellow complexion, making his moles seem as oddly shaped and black as flies, and despite his meticulous appearance, he looked soft, inflated with bad fluids.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘the entire project is a creation of the Foundation, of Valcours Rigaud specifically. He spent most of his later life trying to create zombies, and amazingly enough achieved a few short-lived reanimations. His method was clumsy, but there was a constant in his formulae - a spoonful of graveyard dirt placed in the corpse’s mouth - and so I was led to my own researches.’ He sighed. ‘You, Mr Harrison, were injected with bacteria bred in Valcours’ grave, as were Magnusson and Richmond. But…’
‘That’s impossible,’ blurted Jocundra. ‘Valcours is buried in the crypt. There’s no dirt. The bacteria couldn’t have bred.’
‘His head,’ said Otille; she was tying and untying the sash of her robe. ‘They buried it down by the pool.’
‘As I was saying,’ said Ezawa, frowning at Jocundra, then turning his attention back to Donnell. ‘You and Magnusson received a hybrid strain. One of the thrusts of the project, you see, has been to isolate a cure for Otille’s hereditary disorder, and with that in mind, we interbred Valcours’ bacteria with a strain taken from another grave located here on the grounds. The grave of Valcours’ magus, his victim. Lucanor Aime.’
‘And Aime,’ said Donnell coldly, more calmly than Jocundra might have expected. ‘His patron deity, that would be Ogoun.’
‘Ogoun Badagris,’ murmured Otille.
‘Astounding, isn’t it?’ said Ezawa. ‘The good magician and the evil apprentice still warring after over a century. Warring inside your head, Mr Harrison. When Otille suggested the hybrid, I ridiculed the idea, but the results have been remarkable. It’s enough to make me re-embrace the mysticism of my ancestors.’ He gave a snort of self-deprecating laughter. ‘The entire experience has been quasi-mystical, even the early days when the lab was full of caged rats and dogs and rabbits and monkeys, all with glowing, green eyes. Pagan science!’
‘You’re going to die, Ezawa,’ said Donnell angrily. ‘Just like in the movies, and pretty damn soon. One morning after this breaks, after the papers start howling for your blood, and they will, you can count on it, that old time religion of yours will stir you to wrap a white rag around your head and sit you down facing the sunrise with a fancy knife and a brain full of noble impulse. And the ironic part is that you’re going to be swept away by the nobility of it all right up to the time you get a whiff of your bowels and see the tubes squirming out of your stomach.’
He broke off and looked toward the door. Only Simpkins was there, but Jocundra heard dragging footsteps in the hall. ‘Who is it?’ asked Donnell, whirling on Otille.
‘He says he can feel you, too, but from much farther away,’ Otille’s voice devoid of emotion.
‘Our latest success with the new strain,’ said Ezawa. ‘He’s much stronger than you, Mr Harrison. Or he will be. I think we can credit that to his having been a full-fledged psychic, not merely a latent one.’
Donnell leaped toward Otille, furious, but Simpkins intercepted him and threw him onto the floor. Otille never blinked, never flinched.
‘Fisticuffs,’ said a man at the door. ‘Marvelous! Wonderful!’
He wore a black silk bathrobe matching Otille’s, carried a cane, and the right side of his puffy face was swathed in bandages; but both his eyes were visible. The irises flickered green.
‘Papa!’ Jocundra gasped.
He regarded her distantly, puzzled, then inclined his head to Donnell in a sardonic bow. ‘Valcours Rigaud at your service, sir,’ he said. ‘I do hope you’re not injured.’
Jocundra took a step toward Ezawa. ‘You killed him!’ she said. ‘You must have!’
‘It’s questionable he would have lived,’ said Ezawa placidly.
‘Did you kill me, Otille?’ Valcours affected a look of hurt disillusionment. ‘You only told me I had died.’
It was impossible to think of him as Papa anymore. He was truly Valcours, thought Jocundra, if only a model conjured up by Otille. Death had remolded his face into a sagging, pasty dumpling, reduced all his redneck vitality into the dainty manners of a moldering, middle-aged monster.
‘I had to,’ said Otille; she walked over to him and took up his hand. ‘Or else you wouldn’t have come back.’
Valcours drew her into a long, probing kiss, running his free hand across her breasts. He cradled her head against his chest. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘The joys of life are worth a spell of mindlessness and corruption. Don’t you agree, Mr Harrison?’
Donnell sat up against the wall, his head lowered. ‘What have you got in mind, Otille?’
Valcours answered him. ‘There’s a world of possibility to explore, Mr Harrison. But as far as you’re concerned we’ll keep you around until I learn about the veve, and as for your beautiful lady…’ Before Jocundra could react, he prodded her breast with the tip of his cane. ‘I believe a fate worse than death would be in order.’ He laughed, a flighty laugh that tinkled higher and higher, traveling near the verge of hysteria. Tears of mirth streamed from his eyes, and he waved his hand, a foppish gesture that should have been accomplished by a lace handkerchief, signaling his helplessness at the humor of the situation.
‘You had your chance,’ said Otille bitterly to Donnell. ‘I wanted you to help me.’
‘Help you rule the universe, like with the evil fairy there?’ Donnell said. ‘I thought you wanted to be cured, Otille. How could I help you with that? But you don’t want a cure. You want zombies and horrors and icky delights. And now’ - he cast a disparaging glance at Valcours - ‘now your wish has come true.’
‘Be still!’ said Valcours with a hiss of fury. He raised his cane to strike Donnell, and Jocundra recoiled, bumped against Simpkins, and jumped away from him. In his rage, Valcours possessed a melevolence previously muffled by his effete manner.
‘You know, Ezawa,’ said Donnell, ‘you’re in big trouble with all this. Maybe even bigger than you could expect. What if this fruit really is Valcours, what if you’ve really worked a miracle?’
‘What if?’ Valcours was once again the dandy, complaining of a gross indignity. ‘I’m the very soul of the man! Like the resin left in an opium pipe, the soul leaves its scrapings in the flesh. The essence, the pure narcotic of existence! Whether my dispersed shade had misted up anew, summoned forth by modern alchemies, or whether all is illusory, these are questions for philosophers, and have no moment for men of action.’ He giggled, delighting in the flavor of his speech.