The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (23 page)

A scoff escaped the ogre as he glared at Bettina. He turned and stormed past his two
claats
still holding Jupiter. Keturah forced him to keep adjusting his hold on her—she'd get out of his grubby hands soon enough. “I says stop moving.” When he tightened his grip, it felt like a vice crushing her body. “Leave the buck.” With a cold glance, he nodded to Jupiter. “And grab that liddle bitch here, too. The Grand Dragon'll be happy with us today.”
 

Grand Dragon? What's the Grand Dragon? What that mean? These the boys Jeb be talking about?
Keturah fought harder with nails and teeth, but it was useless as the ogre lumbered through the house. All she could do was listen to the violence. Jupiter howled, flesh tearing, followed by more cackles. Then a final scream from Bettina. The sickening sound of a body dragged across wood.
 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Eight

 

Crispus's excitement came out of him like sweat.
Tonight is the night.
He'd prove to Jeb he wasn't a ne'er-do-well dandy who started trouble for everyone around him.
No, I'm a capable, trustworthy, strong man.
The very thoughts made him sweat and with the chilled wind hounding him the beads turned to ice on his skin. He walked straight-backed through the glowing streets of New York City. Head held high and chest puffed out.
Ha! Let Nathaniel Calderon try to use his voodoo on me. Nothing will stop me tonight.
Fallon followed at his heels like a puppy, his teeth clattering.
 

Of course, Jeb objected to letting him and Fallon fetch the book Nathaniel stole. A victim of
voodoo
possession made this layman more dangerous than Crispus let Jeb believe. Obviously, whoever possessed him now controlled great magic—the rite is no easy feat.
The worker must be old. People don't try to avoid death until it closes in on them.
But Crispus kept the most dire fact even from Fallon. No
voodoo
worker can perform the possession ritual without first mastering the power of the dead. At least that's what Crispus's tomes told him.
 

It didn't matter. The
Magus Liber
contained the Narmer legend and Cornelius said he needed it to understand the staff. So, Jeb agreed to Crispus's idea: he'd use the cloak to become invisible and sneak into Nathaniel's home to steal the book.
 

Simple enough.

“I think this is it?” said Fallon.

Crispus felt his slender hand tug at his coattail. “Where?” Looking around, he couldn't find any homes or buildings he'd associate with a intellectual bigwig. Rather plain structures built with cold, talentless hands. “It is dark out.” He meant to remind himself, but found Fallon wearing a scowl and pointing to a Italianate Victorian a few yards away. “No...” the rest of Crispus's words were lost in the night.

“It's the right address,” said Fallon through clattering teeth.

Nathaniel Calderon's house looked like any other of its kind, a pitched roof, two small towers adorning the front, both floors boasted arched windows. Indeed, impressive, ornate, but there was something off about it. Looming in the darkness, it spread an aura of monstrosity over Crispus like a bird of prey spreads its wings. Two arched windows served as cavernous eyes, the plain door its leering mouth, and the towers its greedy claws waiting to seize them.

He heard Fallon at his side let out a whimper. Crispus wanted to say something, anything to settle both their nerves. How can one calmly face a monster? There
was
evil in the house. A dark moroseness that would never leave him. Instinct set Crispus's legs atremble—he fought to keep them from jerking him away and heaving him down the street.
 

Fallon gulped. “I don't know about this. There's a
voodoo
man. Skeery. Even the house is skeery.” An eerie light oozing from one of the arched windows seemed to transfix his gaze. Crispus saw it too.
 

The illumination was perverted by something. It didn't flow in waves like rays of sunlight. Instead, it trickled out like blood dripping from a wound.
Go on, Crispus. This is your night. You have a pistol, you're well versed in voodoo...I think.
 

“I don't see anybody inside, thank God. Maybe he went to bed?” Shifting his belt around, Fallon smacked his lips, his nerves taking hold. “I don't think so—sorry, I'm rambling. I do that when I get scared.”

Crispus kept his eyes on the front door. Its vicious lips twisted in a sneer. “There must be a back door. I'm sure he has a temple. A
bokor
temple.” He and Fallon exchanged worried glances. Then Crispus pulled the green cloak out of his satchel. “You take it.” Crispus unrolled it and pulled the tattered cloth over Fallon. He couldn't. He
wouldn't
kill someone. Not again. Not after Lil Juris. If anyone was going to die tonight, it'd be Crispus.
 

Sighing, Fallon nodded and wrapped the cloak around his thin body. “Thanks, Crispus. I'd sure like to be able to see Tempest again. She's some beautiful. I wonder what she's doing right now—” Crispus squeezed Fallon's shoulder, stopping his rambling in mid-sentence.
 

“Follow me. When I get us in, you check the upstairs. I'll take the first floor. Yell if you're in trouble—and, believe me, I'll yell if I'm in trouble. You have your weapons? I'm afraid we may need them.” Crispus strode toward the staircase to the door. Scouting around him, he found only vagrants far off down the roadway

“I have them. Be careful!” said Fallon, but the wind's howl muffled his cry.

Crispus heard only a whisper as he crouched down at the staircase. But it was enough to pull his attention from the abominable house over him. If he hadn't heard Fallon, he knew he would've broken under the weight of the thing. With a sigh, Crispus climbed the doorsteps, moving as to not make a sound. A new house and in good condition, there were no loose nails or boards to rattle under his weight. When he reached the door, he took a few moments to inspect the lock.

Fine quality. New. Strong metal. Small spindle. I can do this.
The lock into Narce's plantation was of better quality than this one, and Crispus had no problem getting in when he found the right time to.
 

Crispus pulled a tubular lock pick from his sack. A six-inch piece of metal with a sharp point to manipulate the spindle of a doorknob, which controlled the latch bolt.
The information you find in libraries.
The pick slid into the lock. He wiggled it around until he felt it catch inside the spindle. Then rotated it clockwise, and the latch bolt clicked open.
 

“Success.” Crispus hoped acting courageous would subdue the horrible fear the house-creature clutched at him with. It didn't work. Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and edged the door open. A peek in. No one.

When he motioned Fallon forward, the boy was already gone, hidden by the cloak's magic. Crispus crept inside, followed by the invisible Fallon, who slid the door shut. Gas lamps hanging from the walls lit the elegant parlor with a fashionable glow. It boasted the finest trappings: a Boston rocking chair stenciled with gilt and floral designs, an oriental carpet, a grandfather clock, and several Sleepy Hollow armchairs—named for the story by Washington Irving, who was fond of them. A ruby-encrusted lamp sat atop a rosewood coffee table.
 

Across the room at the back wall, a stairway led to the second floor. Crispus sat a moment engrossed by the finery. The amount of money it took to furnish just the parlor could feed all of Allenville for years.

Each step of the staircase groaned as the invisible Fallon sneaked up to the second floor. Crispus grimaced, waiting for the creaks to stop. When they did, he crawled to the coffee table and found a copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
. It'd be easy to pocket it, but he decided against it.
This isn't the time for that.
And the thought it could somehow
have a hex cast on it sent a shiver through him. The whole place felt like a hex. He turned away from the book, convincing himself it
must
be hexed. Then crawled past the staircase to a door across the wall. Crispus put his ear to the wood and listened. No sounds.
 

He pushed the door open to find a long, narrow hallway with several doors on either side. An open doorway at the other end led into a kitchen. Even the dinner table was intricately cut and...
veves!
Etched all over the legs and sides, he could see
voodoo
carvings. No idea what they meant, but many were headless men with items in their hands.
This worker's definitely a bokor.
 
 

The stink of burnt fur and rotting flesh seeped into the hallway. It clawed its way down Crispus's throat. He gagged on it, then pushed open the door to his right. He stumbled, or rather fell into the room to escape the stench. With a quick kick, the door banged shut.
Drat!
If this
bokor
hadn't heard him heaving, he must've heard that. There was no point in doing anything about it. How could he outsmart a
bokor?
This was his territory. No matter what, he'd find Crispus first.
If
he was any kind of
bokor.
Crispus fumbled to draw his pistol, the least he could do to prepare
.
 

Ready to face whatever was in the room, Crispus found only a cramped library. What seemed like thousands of books lined four towering shelves. Nathaniel Calderon's house proved to be a treasure trove of intellectualism. Somehow that made the monstrosity lurking in the structure seem less horrible. Crispus couldn't help letting himself be taken captive by all these tomes. Famous titles ran wild among the shelves: the
Codex
Runicus
,
Barnaby
Rudge
,
David's Psalter
,
Faust
—parts one and two—the
Magna
Carta
, and Dante's
Inferno
. He forgot about the
Magus Liber
he'd come to collect. He'd never see such a vast collection of books again.
 

Nathaniel's copy of
Don Quixote
was bound in red leather, most likely calfskin. Hundreds of years' worth of cracks and stress on the rough material felt like silk against his fingers. Thoughts of the great knight riding his skinny horse, Rocinante off to battle a terrible dragon, which was a windmill, raced through Crispus's mind.
 

Drumming broke him from wandering the world of literature. A strange cadence he hadn't heard before. Then
a rattle of wood joined the drums. A bizarre symphony of Creole music. “No...” Crispus gasped. The
bokor
was right below him, performing a
voodoo
ritual. He could feel the drums vibrating through the floor.
There must be a basement.
 

Crispus fell to the floor and began a frantic search for a hatch. All the while, the cold malicious music echoed through the house. It chilled the blood in his veins, twisted his stomach in a tight knot. It stood over him like death.
Be brave. Be brave. You can do this.
 

Even if Crispus tried to flee, to run for safety, he couldn't. That fiendish melody called him, luring him into the house's bowels. He pulled up a inconspicuous rug from the floor. A trapdoor.

 Something in the music told him the book was down there in the basement. It made sense, he thought as he pulled open the trick door. Sound waves came up the earthen steps that led below. They mocked Crispus, daring him to come for the
Magus
Liber
. It could've been his imagination but the words were as clear as the sound of his deep breathing.
 

Come if you dare, Crispus. You coward. We have the Magus Liber. You cannot hope to face us. You're a scared little boy. Jeb is right about you, boy.

Crispus inhaled and exhaled.
It's not real. The dark magic only works if you believe in it. It's not real.
He stepped onto the earthen stairs.
 

You should go fetch Fallon. A little boy like you needs protection.

That made sense, too. But no.
There's no time.
Crispus started down the stairs. Walls carved out of the earth and lined with jagged edges clawed at him, trying to keep him from going farther. Even the air did its best to stop Crispus. Musty, dank, and soiled with the stench of decaying flesh, it wafted up at him like a vengeful banshee. The need to retch returned. Crispus swallowed the vomit.
Keep going. You're not afraid.
 

Baleful music grew louder and resonated in Crispus's thoughts, banging on the walls of his skull.
Ignore it. Jeb would tell you to ignore it.
He kept going, descending the stairs, fighting against the deathly fetor.
 

Please let him not hear me
.
Please lord.
Crispus had years of experience slinking in and out of places. Often
breaking into white libraries to study the books at night. But if the music knew he was coming, wouldn't the
bokor
too?