The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (24 page)

 Muddled chanting arose, then came into focus. “
Non nonmen djab fè ou mwen mouri restavèk, ak alò li.
” Haitian Creole. The
bokor!
“In the name of the devils, I make you my deathly servant, and so it is!”
 

A conjuration spell, Crispus realized.
Deathly servant? He doesn't mean...
His legs wobbled. They wanted him to turn and run before he made it down the stairs.
 

No!
He'd prove he wasn't the boy Rayford thought he was, or the ne'er-do-well Jeb said he was. Legs relaxed, and the convulsions subsided.
Be brave
. Sighing, he pulled the Pharaoh's Staff from his sack. Warmth seemed to emanate from the flawless stoneware. Comforting warmth. With the power to unite the world, as Narmer himself united Egypt thousands of years ago, he could face whatever evil controlled Nathaniel Calderon.
 

Crispus came to the end of the staircase. A hellish landscape lay before him. Shaped from the earth, and poorly at that. The ceiling was supported by large wooden beams. An obsidian altar, long and flat, stood in the center of the ill-lit room. Atop it rested two flickering black candles, barely pushing back the unfathomable darkness. A dead lizard, small wooden bowl with powdered sulfur, wooden pestle, and several herbs were arranged between the candles.
 

Scanning the shadowy room, making certain he knew the layout, as Jeb would, Crispus found the stench's source. A
zombi
sat on the earthen floor, its legs tucked underneath it. What was left of its putrid, tattered skin was pulled taut over bones. Empty, soulless sockets served as what Crispus took to be eyes. Grimy patches of dead hair clung to its head.
It
pounded a small wicker drum in its lap.
 

Nathaniel stood over the black altar, shaking a decorative rattle. On the other side of the altar sat Darden, bound in rope and gagged. Crispus recognized him from the train station in Baton Rouge.

Nathaniel or whoever he was, withdrew a leather-bound book from a satchel at his feet.

The Magus Liber!

The
bokor
opened the book to a page marked by a silk
cloth, and read aloud. “I call upon the dead, the damned, the cursed, the
loa
of death! I bind this man's soul to my own. Give me his power, his strength, his life energy. Give me his body to command.” Magical powers electrified the air. Waves of heat surged out from Nathaniel like the epicenter of an earthquake.
 

Crispus gulped. What could he do against a
bokor
wielding
fenwa
majik
? Then he caught Darden's gaze. Those big eyes pleaded, begged, and cried for help.
Save me!
 

“
Samedi!
Lord of the Dead, I invoke thee. I pray to you and demand this man come under my reign—” When the
zombi
ceased banging on its drum, Nathaniel wheeled on it. “What is this meaning of this?”
 

“Master, someone comes.” Uninhabited eye sockets fell on Crispus standing on the bottom steps. He pointed at him, bits of flesh dangling from its boney hands. “What should I do?” it asked. A raspy voice from a rotting voice box.

Show courage and you will be courageous.
Crispus straightened his back. “Um. Good sir, I require the
Magus Liber
and I will not leave without it. I suggest you give it to me." He clicked back the hammer and aimed his pistol at Nathaniel.
 

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed on him, his finely shaped brow furrowed. “How dare you! Do you know who I am? I am Tillemont Darkwa, the Great
Bokor
of New Orleans, Master of the Dead—“
 

“One dead person, actually.” The
zombi
pointed out with a sneer that matched its voice.
 

“
Shut up
, you stench-ridden animal, or I'll put you back in the ground where you belong.” Nathaniel glared at the carcass.
 

Eyes darting from the
zombi
to its master, Crispus couldn't focus. Not his aim or his thoughts. He only managed to take a step closer toward the
bokor
. A part of him felt like he was invading an argument between Keturah and Jeb.
What are you doing,
you dullard! You fool! Take your chance!
 

With a wave, Nathaniel turned back to the altar. “Pierre, kill this insolent buffoon. I must finish turning this one.” He went back to chanting from the
Magus Liber.
As the dead man lurched to its feet, Nathaniel took up the
pestle and began to mash the lizard's corpse and herbs into the sulfur.
 

Pierre the
zombi
wobbled on its rotted legs, several bones jutting out. “Are you ready to die, flesh-bag?” It lumbered toward Crispus, the bones in its legs moaning.
 

How do you to kill the dead?
Crispus didn't have time to reason it out, so he turned his pistol on the shambling carcass and fired. Pierre took it in the head. Skull fragments popped in the air. Crispus heard the bullet ricochet off the earthen wall. The
zombi
continued to lurch forward.
 

How do I kill it?

That momentary thought gave the
zombi
time to reach out with its bony hands, and grab Crispus by his neck. Decayed skin felt like sandpaper tipped with jagged ice. Crispus grabbed the hand and tried to pry it off him, but the
zombi's
brittle bones held an unnatural strength. Instead, Pierre fell on him, forcing Crispus to the ground. Blow after blow, the
zombi
cackled, pummeling Crispus with enough force to crack his jaw.
 

Crispus howled in pain. Struggling against the cadaver and through his throbbing jaw he managed to cry out. “Fallon!” Mouth open, the creature's stench sprang down his throat, trying to make him retch again.

Fight. Somehow you have to destroy this thing. Save Darden, get the book, be the hero!
 

With one hand Crispus forced Pierre's decomposing body up, then yanked a knife from his belt with the other one. Quick and fluid, Crispus dug his blade into the creature's side. It shrieked, less out of pain and more from surprise.

Finished with the concoction, Nathaniel dumped the mixture of powdered lizard, herbs, and sulfur on Darden's head. “Arise my undead minion. I am your master and you are my slave. In the name of
Samedi
, the Creator of Dread, Lord of the Dying, it is so!”
 

Pierre scratched at Crispus's throat, but his eyes were on Darden. Eyes empty and devoid of life, the train conductor shambled to his feet.

I failed. The poor man's soul is lost.
Cuts left on Crispus's skin by Pierre burned with an unnatural cold. He stabbed at Pierre again. Though the carcass wailed in agony, it seemed unharmed by the attacks. Darkness
engulfed Crispus. Agonizing pain from those blistering cold claws overpowered him.
It hurts! It hurts!
He hung between this life and the next. Life would end when Darden reached him. The newly undead shambled over to enjoy Crispus's demise.
 

Laughter rumbled from Nathaniel. “You will be my next vic-” A thunderous bang resounded through the room. Pierre stumbled off Crispus. Confused, Crispus hobbled to his feet with his knife in hand, keeping his eyes on the two
zombi
. Both carcasses gazed at something past him. He didn't know what terrified him most. The emptiness in their eyes or the
fenwa majik
that enlivened their corpses.
 

“Are you okay, Crispus? I'm sorry. I couldn't hear anything from the second floor.” Fallon came down the dirt stairs, Starr pistol in hand.

“Stop talking and shoot them!” Crispus leapt out of the way, pushing his back to the wall.

A quizzical, unnerved look crossed Fallon's face. “What—what—are those
things
?” Pierre's dark sockets focused on him. Edging forward with a sneer on his decayed lips.
 

Fallon seemed to understand.

“I have an idea! Take care of them!" Claws tore cloth and flesh as Crispus shoved his way past the
zombi.
In one lunge he closed the gap between he and the
bokor
, peals of gunfire erupting behind him. Before Crispus could land his attack, Nathaniel uttered an incantation, rubbing bat guano and sulfur together.
 

Some invisible force yanked Crispus out of the air. Crashing to the ground, he felt a heap of rocks climb atop his chest. A weight so heavy his limbs went numb.
Don't believe it. Don't believe it.
Crispus fought himself, willing away whatever thing lay atop him. He managed to drag himself along the ground toward the
bokor
.
 

“You cannot defeat me, fool! I am the scourge of Louisiana and Master of the Dead—stop fighting!” Nathaniel wheeled on the two carcasses arguing over Fallon. Pierre pulled the boy by his arms while Darden yanked on his legs.

“He's mine. I was just turned. I should get to kill him,” said Darden, baring already rotting teeth.

With a sneer, Pierre growled. “That makes no sense. I've served Tillemont all along.
I
get to kill the fleshbag!”
 

“God damn it!” Nathaniel screwed up his face. “Both of you eat the dratted child. Just be quiet.”

Crispus wouldn't leave this chance to fear like he had before. With all his willpower, he heaved himself onto his knees.
What would Jeb do? Jeb would overcome the spell by any means and bury his blade in the bokor's gut.
His sister and niece needed him, Rayford died protecting him, Lafayette died helping him, and Crispus would be damned if he let their deaths be in vain.
This Geist Führer won't destroy my people because I was too weak to fight.
 

A clumsy lurch forward, a stab upward, and Crispus's knife lanced the
bokor's
belly. Blood oozed from the wound, and Nathaniel's eyes went wide. Crispus twisted the blade. The
bokor
stumbled back, clutching his wound. Outrage filled his eyes as they narrowed on Crispus. “How dare you!” The
bokor
sneered. Then fell to his knees and collapsed forward. Dead.
 

Like gears in a machine, Pierre and Darden toppled over, lifeless like they should've been. Fallon dropped to the ground with a grunt. “Is that it?”

Crispus rose to his feet. Then inspected Nathaniel's body. “I can't believe that worked. Maybe without the
bokor
there's no one to believe these poor souls could function?” A sound theory.
 

Fallon dusted himself off, and kicked Pierre. “What the hell were those things? They look like dead people—isn't that the train conductor from Baton Rouge? What is he doing here?”

He rambled off several more questions, but Crispus ignored him. Instead, he busied himself rummaging through the
bokor's
body
.
I know it's here. There!
He rolled the body over and grabbed up the
Magus Liber
. Cracked, black leather enwrapped the book, yet Crispus's finger glided over the rough surface like it were silk. “Amazing.”
 

“What were those things?”

Shadows danced across the room, fueled by the waning candlelight and an eerie darkness. Securing the book in his satchel, Crispus shambled over to Fallon. “I don't know for sure—here help me." He leaned on Fallon, rubbing his throbbing jaw. Just then realizing it felt like a knife buried in his face when he talked.
Must be broken.
 

“We going to meet Jeb now? I'm sure he'll be proud of you,” said Fallon, helping Crispus climb the dirt stairs.

Crispus grimaced, sharp pain shooting through his jaw,
as he mumbled. “I hope." Even that was too much. With Fallon's help he blundered up the stairs. Crispus hesitated and took a glance at the result of the bizarre encounter. Twice-dead carcasses,
voodoo
components sprawled on the ground, and a dead white man possessed by a
bokor.
I hope Fallon's right.
 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Confusion wrapped itself around Zelig like a vice. Its entrails left him in a stupor. The words were clear in his head. He knew what the
Führer
had said, but still.
 

Victory is at hand. I have retreated to my bunker. Find the scepter. Hurry! Hurry!

The
Führer's
voice had sounded frightened, as if he were running or out of breath.
 

Zelig had spent the chilled dismal night mulling it over. He half paid attention while following the
dieb
-leader, ducking from alleyway to shadowed doorstep. Was the
Führer
in danger? The question weighed on Zelig like the Taunus mountain range. But he continued following his enemy, as instructed. The dimwit was out for a walk.