The Demi-Monde: Winter (31 page)

Again the coy lowering of Ella’s gaze; the girl was such a tease. ‘WhoDoo magic is de magic ov sex. De union between de Spirit World and de Demi-Monde is best made when de body and de soul are conjoin at orgasm. To be a mambo you gotta search fo’ de constant, de unfailing, de eternal orgasm.’

Vanka pulled at his collar. By ABBA, it’s getting hot in here.

‘So yous see, Yous Holiness, iffn an evil baka was to take me … well, there’s no knowing what ah might do.’

‘And how do you intend to rouse the desires of the Spirits?’ There was more than a hint of excitement in Crowley’s voice.

Ella reached up and unhooked the tie that held her cloak. The cloak sighed to the floor, revealing Ella – or, more accurately, the mambo Marie Laveau – in all her glory.

The three men stood stock-still examining the vision of loveliness that stood before them. Vanka had seen such costumes when he’d been to some of the more risqué revues in the Quartier Chaud but he’d never thought any woman in the ForthRight would be brave enough to wear one.

Ella’s costume was remarkable more for what it showed than for what it hid. The black chiffon material flowed over her long, stunning body like a dark mist. From what he could see in the half-light, the costume consisted of a loose dress gathered around Ella’s waist by a five-inch-thick black leather belt. That the chiffon was virtually transparent and that she seemed to be naked beneath it was unsettling enough, but the slits cut artfully into the dress meant that most of her legs and a considerable part of the rest of her body were uncovered. There was a lot of firm young flesh on display, flesh which Ella had decorated
with strange symbols and images of snakes drawn in thick black ink.

The ephemeral fabric of the costume left no doubt as to the wonders concealed – partially concealed – beneath. For a moment Vanka wondered whether he should play the gentleman and avert his eyes.

Fuck that.

Crowley had no such reservations: he stepped closer in order to get a better look at Ella. ‘You are a remarkably beautiful woman, Miss Laveau,’ he oozed, his voice thick with lust, ‘and I can see why these baka of yours would try to possess you. You look positively … Lilithian.’

Lilith.

Crowley was right. When Vanka thought about it the way Ella was dressed did remind him of the pictures he’d seen of Lilith. Lilith was meant to have been the most powerful, the most evil woman who had ever walked the Demi-Monde and she’d been a Shade too. He wondered if Ella had adopted the guise of Lilith deliberately. That was when he remembered that she’d pretended to channel Lilith during their first séance.

Funny he’d never thought of it before.

Crowley edged nearer to Ella. ‘You confirm to me that your race, being more brutal and bestial than the Anglo-Slav people, is more closely in tune with the earthier appetites that DemiMondians are sometimes – unfortunately – prey to. And this pandering to these inclinations, as you so rightly say, is vital in the performance of magic. My own investigations have led me to the conclusion that magic is fuelled by sexual energy and I sense an enormous erotic potential in you, Miss Laveau.’ He stretched out a hand and drifted a finger across Ella’s right breast. ‘You have the Mann rune drawn here. Why?’

‘De Mann rune,’ breathed Ella, as Crowley’s fingers orbited
her nipple, ‘is de sign ov sensual, erotic love and ov de wearer being one who indulges in de most dissolute sex. Tonight, to conjure de Great Lord Bondye, ah must show him ah am ready to pay for his services. And Great Lord Bondye always demands de use of mah body as payment.’

This Bondye’s no fool, decided Vanka.

Crowley swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps, after the performance, we might meet to discuss WhoDoo magic further?’

Ella curtsied. ‘Dat would be mah honour and mah pleasure, Your Holiness. A mambo like me is always ready to commune wit a powerful magician like yous.’

With that a very red-faced Crowley swept out of the ballroom.

When the door had shut behind him, Ella began to giggle. ‘By the Spirits, he had me worried there. He got a little too close to the hounfo for comfort.’ She giggled again. ‘But then it’s always so easy to distract men!’ She smiled at Vanka and Burlesque and gave them a twirl. ‘So guys, what do you think of my outfit?’

‘Nice tits,’ was Burlesque’s verdict.

The knock on the door of Trixie’s bedroom came just before eight o’clock. When she unlocked it and peeped outside she saw Captain Dabrowski standing there. He examined her.

‘Excellent. Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought. The trousers are good and the boots look very practical.’ He handed her a cap. ‘If you would push your hair up under this, I think we will have a better chance of passing you off as a soldier.’

‘A soldier?’ asked Trixie as she quickly pinned her long hair up and covered it with the cap.

‘You’re very popular with my men, Miss Dashwood; they think you’re very good-looking. So to avoid you being recognised
it’s best that we try to smuggle you out disguised as my batman. You’ll need this as well.’ The Captain handed Trixie a leather holster which, when she unbuckled its flap, she found to be holding a small Colt revolver.

‘I have no use for this,’ she announced.

‘This is no time for feminine niceties, Miss Trixie. You must learn to protect yourself.’

‘Oh, believe me, Captain, I understand that. It’s just that I have no use for such a small-calibre revolver.’ She pulled back her jacket to show the huge Mauser she had holstered on her belt. ‘When I shoot at the SS, Captain Dabrowski, I intend to kill them, not frighten them.’

‘Have you ever used a pistol before?’

With a deftness that belied her soft, delicate fingers Trixie pulled her revolver from its holster, snapped it open and checked that it was loaded. ‘Yes, I can fire a pistol, Captain. My father considers me quite the sharpshooter.’

‘Good. Just remember, if things go badly don’t hesitate to shoot. But if I were you, I’d be inclined to save the last bullet for myself. Now, if you’re ready …’

Vanka stood in front of the hounfo, waiting for the audience to arrive, desperately trying to calm himself, to still the trembling in his hands and stop himself conjuring up images of Checkya torture chambers. It was too late now for something to turn up. He was a dead man.

How could Vanka Maykov, the cat who always walked by himself, have got himself into such a dangerous muddle? It was all Ella’s fault. Everything had started to go wrong the moment she’d entered his life. He tried to stop thinking about her, to concentrate on the job in hand; the thought of her in that costume didn’t do anything for his peace of mind.

Ella.

Ella who was now crouched on the floor in the middle of the hounfo completely covered by her cloak. Boy, was the audience in for a surprise.

A wisp of acrid smoke tugged at his nostrils: it was a horrible smell that tickled at the back of his throat. Burlesque had lit the two braziers set up in the ballroom and heaped on dried leaves from a plant Ella called epimedium. Vanka had never heard of the stuff but it was making his head swim, as was the rhythm the drummers were beating out from up in the minstrels’ gallery. ABBA only knew where Burlesque had conjured these maniacs from but they were playing their drums VERY LOUDLY. Ella called the music – music? – she had written for them rada music and said it was a vital ingredient in WhoDoo rituals. Vanka had his own name for it.

He didn’t know how much longer he could handle this unrelenting assault on his senses. He gave his head a shake but couldn’t seem to drive away the fug that was clouding his mind and if ever there was a time to remain sharp-witted, this was it.

Suddenly the doors of the ballroom crashed open: their audience had arrived and it was an august audience at that. Even as he bowed his greeting, Vanka spotted Heydrich, Crowley, Clement, Beria …

Beria.

Foul up tonight and Beria would ensure that his days on the Demi-Monde were very short.

Very short but unbelievably fucking painful.

Striding arrogantly into the hall, Heydrich took the tall chair directly in front of the hounfo with Beria seated to his left and a slim and heavily veiled woman to his right. Next to Beria was Crowley, who was looking decidedly out of sorts, with Comrade
Commissar Dashwood perched uncomfortably alongside. There were a couple of other dignitaries making up the rump of the audience but with one exception Vanka didn’t recognise any of these supernumeraries.

The exception was General Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev, unmistakable in his trademark white uniform and ridiculous whiskers.

Skobelev, commander of the ForthRight army and the man who had fought the Royalist Poles to a standstill at the Battle of Warsaw. The General was a living, breathing hero and, more importantly, the man who had come within an ace of killing Vanka, the man who had sworn to revenge his family for the insult Vanka had inflicted by bedding the General’s sister.

Of all the rotten fucking luck. Of all the people he hadn’t wanted attending the séance.

Vanka almost panicked and for a moment wondered whether he shouldn’t just grab Ella and run for it. Then he remembered that he was wearing a mask and managed to get control of himself. It was impossible for Skobelev to recognise him; the mask completely covered what was left of the bruise on the side of his face.

He stood up straight and made a signal to the percussionists pounding away in the minstrels’ gallery. The music stopped but unfortunately the hammering in Vanka’s head kept right on going. Taking a deep, calming breath, he strode forward to the front of the hounfo acutely aware that every stride he took brought him nearer to Skobelev. He was sure the bastard was studying him.

‘Comrade Leader … Comrade Vice-Leader … Your Holiness … comrades and ladies.’ He pitched his voice as low as he dared, hoping that Skobelev wouldn’t recognise it.

The bastard was studying him.

‘Tonight, the mambo Marie Laveau, the foremost practitioner of WhoDoo magic in all of NoirVille, will commune with a Daemon. She will use her occult power and her psychic wiles to dominate the Daemon’s will and bend it to her bidding.’

Skobelev leant forward in his chair trying to get a better look at Vanka. Automatically he edged back as far into the shadows as he dared.

‘Behind me you see a hounfo, a WhoDoo temple built especially for tonight’s performance. Using the hounfo, the mambo Laveau will entice the loa, the Spirits, into this the physical world. Then by her spells and her incantations and her feminine allures …’

That got a reaction …

‘… she will persuade the mightiest of these loa, Great Lord Bondye, to possess her. Only the Great Lord Bondye has the power to overcome the will of a Daemon. Once possessed by the Great Lord Bondye, no secret can be withheld from mambo Laveau.’

Such was the intensity of Skobelev’s interest that Vanka decided to cut things short. He made a hurried bow and glanced towards Aleister Crowley. ‘Your Holiness, if you will bring forward the Daemon.’

Crowley grunted up out of his seat and clapped his hands. From the side of the room two SS guards used their batons to prod a young girl – slim, medium height with raven-black hair – forward, persuading her to limp across the polished wooden floor of the ballroom until she was standing in the middle of the hounfo facing the audience.

Vanka was a little disappointed. He had always imagined Daemons to be great hulking creatures with tails and horns, creatures who breathed fire and smelt of brimstone, but instead he was being presented with a rather nondescript and skinny girl.

Daemons obviously weren’t all they were cracked up to be.

Nondescript and skinny though the Daemon was, from the way it struggled with its guards it showed it was a feisty little piece. But its struggling didn’t last long: one of the guards gave it a backhand slap across the face that sent it spinning to the floor. For an instant the mask of defiance the Daemon wore slipped and Vanka saw a frightened girl beneath. Instinctively he stepped across the hounfo to take the creature by its arm and help it back up onto its feet. Unfortunately that necessitated stepping out of the shadows.

Seeing him in the limelight, Skobelev started forward in his seat like a dog scenting a rabbit. He beckoned to one of Crowley’s aides and began an animated discussion with the man. Vanka tried to keep calm.

After a moment’s hesitation the Daemon accepted his help but it obviously wasn’t happy about it: from the glare it gave Vanka he was certain that if its hands hadn’t been bound it would have tried to scratch his eyes out. He was also pleased it was gagged: his head was pounding and he wasn’t in the market for a lot of screaming and shouting. He gave a second signal to the musicians and immediately the drumming began again, but now it was slower, more ponderous and more ominous.

Vanka led the Daemon to the altar at the furthest end of the hounfo and indicated that it should lie on it. The Daemon tried to refuse but as Vanka pushed it forward he managed to get close enough to whisper in its ear. ‘We’re here to rescue you, so don’t struggle. Understand?’

The Daemon’s eyes widened and it gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Vanka moved back to the front of the hounfo. Skobelev was now whispering instructions to two Checkya guards.

He was saved by Ella. As the drumming gained in volume, Ella, hidden under the cloak, began to twitch.

The séance had begun.

When Ella’s mother had been alive, she had insisted on her daughter taking dancing lessons. But that was a long, long time ago. Now all Ella had to guide her in her WhoDoo dance was her own imagination, the remembrance of any number of music videos she had watched, the clips she had seen of Josephine Baker performing her danse sauvage and the beat of the drums. All this informed her that she should emerge from beneath her cloak slowly, sinuously, undulating her long supple body to the rhythm pounding through the ballroom. So, like some strange serpent sloughing off its skin, Ella wriggled off the cloak covering her, to emerge, spiralling and squirming, into the half-light. And as she emerged, she drew astonished gasps from the audience.

The astonishment might have been because she was black. She knew from her discussions with Vanka that for a black woman to perform before that architect of racial purity Reinhard Heydrich was simply unprecedented. When she had met the man – the Dupe – in Fort Jackson she had seen firsthand how Heydrich felt about blacks and she had come to understand that he had poisoned the ForthRight with this hate. She could feel the audience’s revulsion. The vibes she was experiencing told her that Heydrich and his crew didn’t just hate blacks, they abhorred them.