The Arcanum (14 page)

21

MARIE COULD SEE the fear in Antoine’s eyes as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror of the Lexington sedan. The beads in his braids clicked together as he surveyed the desolate lots and tenements of Talman Street in Brooklyn. Blacks were gradually crowding out the Irish settlers, and the thin young men on the sidewalks, clad in moth-eaten jackets, surveyed the car with dead stares.

Antoine pulled his top hat down to shadow his eyes, absently fingering the cat bones that encircled the hat’s brim as he searched for the building they wanted. Marie regretted involving him. But she was not the divine
mambo
here in New York, only a potential usurper to the powers already ensconced. This was the territory of the dreaded
houngan
Tito Beltran, a West African witch doctor of the Dogon. Her presence in the city would not have escaped him, and she could not rely on her reputation to protect her if Beltran perceived a challenge. Complicating matters were the political maneuvers to unseat her currently ongoing in New Orleans. A cabal of rival voodoo clans and crooked politicians had joined forces to drive her and her followers into hiding. And that was not to mention the many bounties on her head. No, if Beltran perceived Marie to be in a position of weakness and felt he could strike with impunity, she would be walking into the mouth of a crocodile. For it was not simply voodoo that Beltran parlayed, but thriving drug and prostitution rings: profit businesses that he protected with knife and bullet. And the young men on the street corners were not jobless hooligans, but soldiers and lookouts.

However, if there was a spyglass on the occult underbelly of the city, it belonged to Beltran—and for that Marie needed him. For all her ridicule of Lovecraft and his ways, his words mirrored her visions. A necrotic hand was enclosing the city, the spiritual oxygen being cut off. When she closed her eyes, Marie thought she could see the dying light, and the hopelessness of that vision overwhelmed her fears.

The Lexington pulled up to 154 Bridge Street, a four-story brick tenement with boarded windows. “Don’t do this, Mam’zelle,” Antoine said in Creole-French, turning to Marie in the backseat.

Two long-boned sentries stood on the stoop of the building, their hands in their jacket pockets.

“Stay and wait,” she answered him, also in Creole, and reached for the door handle.

“No, I’ll go first,” Antoine insisted, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Marie watched as Antoine exchanged a few words with the sentries and allowed himself to be frisked. Then he was taken by the arm and led into the vast, condemned structure.

“You stupid woman,” Marie muttered to herself as she stroked the gris-gris tied around her neck. It was a small redflannel pouch filled with rock salt, a lock of her mother’s hair, and the ground-up bones of a water moccasin. It was powerful protection—hopefully more powerful than the magic she was about to confront.

Minutes later, the sentries reappeared and descended to the sidewalk. One of them opened the car door and offered his hand. “Come, mam’zelle,” he said.

Marie took the sentry’s hand and allowed herself to be escorted into Beltran’s lightless den.

The corridors were lined with slouching men in their twenties. Some held pistols in the bands of their trousers, and the strength of their hostility quickened Marie’s pulse. Teen prostitutes smoked furtively, and ducked away at the sight of the voodoo priestess.

Marie was led into a large five-sided room with as many doors, and a large
vever
drawn in cornmeal on the floor. It was a symbol of power, indicating that the
houngan
was guarded by vengeful
loas.
The altar was immense, and took up two of the five walls at the back of the room. It was littered with dripping candles and hundreds of wax, wood, and clay fetishes, along with dozens of the Nkisi carvings of West Africa, each driven with hundreds of nails. Each nail was a curse—proof of the
houngan
’s liberal use of black magic for punishing his enemies.

The smell of the lamps hanging from the ceiling made her stomach churn: oil mixed with ground pepper and corpse powder and burned in coconuts to drive away enemies.

Beltran’s ten prized fighting cocks strutted in their cages, steel spikes fitted over their beaks and foreclaws.

And seated in the center of the room, ringed by three muscular giants with pistols at their hips, was a small black man in white pants, a white Cuban shirt, and white shoes—Tito Beltran. He wore a talisman around his neck: a cobra skull painted with the blood of a dove. He held a handkerchief to his mouth and breathed in the vapors of crushed eucalyptus—medicine for his chronic asthma. His round face dripped with sweat, and Marie saw it had soaked through his clothing. It seemed that the air around Beltran was fifty degrees warmer than anywhere else.

At the sight of her, Beltran lowered the handkerchief and clapped his hands softly, singing with a raspy voice:
“Eh Yeye,
Mam’zelle Marie, Ya, Yeye, li Konin tou, gris gris. Li te kouri
lekal, aver vieux kokodril. Oh ouai, ye Mam’zelle Marie. Le
knonin bien lie Grand Zombi.”

“Yeye”
meant “esteemed mother,” and the song was one sung by her mother’s followers years ago in the Bayou. It was both a sign of respect and also one of subtle mockery. Marie did not smile as Beltran wheezed into his handkerchief, chuckling to himself. It was at that moment Marie realized Antoine was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s my boy?” she asked Beltran, a bold question that went outside the bounds of normal voodoo etiquette.

The slight was not lost on Beltran, who rolled a lunk of spit in his mouth, “Best to show respect in my house, child. Dis ain’t no swamp now.” And Beltran pointed a stubby finger at the floor.

With her eyes locked on Beltran’s, Marie swept her skirts aside and knelt. She bowed her head reluctantly, and spoke her words to the floorboards. “For your health,
houngan.
” Marie placed a gris-gris of powdered sassafras and hummingbird bones by Beltran’s white shoes.

“Rise, girl,” Beltran wheezed. He had dropped all pretense of treating her as an equal, and his voice dripped with disdain.

Marie stood, flushed with anger. Beltran leered at her, his eyes deliberately lingering on her breasts and hips.

“Where is Antoine?” she asked again, her voice sharpened by fear.

“Why don’t you tell me what make you so bold, Marie-girl? You t’ink de gris-gris don’ make it no insult? You comin’ here? Whut my boys to t’ink, eh?” Beltran coughed and cupped his mouth with the handkerchief.

“I want information ’bout the killins on the island. I’d like to find who’s doin’ such things. I ’spect you want the same, seein’ it’s a sheddin’ o’ blood on your sacred ground.”

“People die all the time, Marie-girl. It’s de nature of t’ings,” Beltran answered, with a sneer.

“It’s more than that and you know it,
houngan.
I ’spect you know a lot more than you tellin’, an’ I just say this: you in danger, too. His magic is powerful. We all in danger.”

“Sorcerer he may be, child. But at least he know how to give de proper respect.”

Marie’s throat grew dry.

“He don’t bring me no dried-up gris-gris as an offering.” Beltran flicked the pouch across the floor with his shoe. “He bring money to Beltran. He tell me, ‘
Houngan,
if dat nigger hairdresser’s daughter come to you, den you do de right t’ing.’ He tell me you tryin’ to steal his book of magic. He tell me, dat nigger queen spyin’ on him like a spirit, seein’ t’ings she ain’t sposed to see.”

“You a bigger fool than I thought,” Marie hissed.

Beltran’s guards moved to encircle her. Marie’s hand went instinctively to the pouch around her neck.

Beltran leaned over in his chair. “Your mama’s lock o’ hair won’t save you, girl.” And Beltran snapped his fingers.

A vivant opened one of the five doors, revealing Antoine, tied to a chair. His top hat was upside down on the floor and a white sheet was held over his head by a guard. A painted skull dripped on his muscular chest. Marie could see the outline of Antoine’s mouth beneath the sheet as he sucked for air.

“He can’t breathe,” Marie said.

“Let him breathe, Bobo,” Beltran growled.

The bare-chested guard drew a knife from the pocket of his jeans and thrust it into Antoine’s throat. A bright spurt of blood shot from the wound, and the boy’s legs kicked furiously at the chair.

“Non!”
Marie screamed as she lunged for him. But rough hands grabbed her and forced her to the floor. She tore the skin off her knees trying to fight Beltran’s men, but she couldn’t shake them. Her arms were drawn tightly behind her back.

Beltran slid his hands into heavy gloves and shuffled to his cages.

Tears slid down Marie’s cheeks as she watched the life ebb from Antoine’s body and rivulets of arterial blood pattered onto the floor by his bare feet.

Beltran freed a black-and-tan cockerel from its cage. Its wings beat furiously. “Dis is Monsieur Pepe.” The rooster’s steel claws ripped at the air. Its beak was open in a silent scream as it writhed in Beltran’s grip. “My best fighter.” Beltran shambled toward Marie, holding Pepe out.

One of Marie’s captors yanked her head back, loosening the knots on her silk scarves. They spilled like water down her shoulders, freeing her hair.

“Pepe so smart ’cause he know de best way to win a fight is not to go for de throat;
non.
Best way is to blind your enemy. Go for de eyes first. Scratch dem out.” Beltran brought the cock nearer to Marie’s face. Its claws slashed and its steel beak snapped. Black feathers floated in the air.

Marie could feel the bursts of wind on her cheeks. “You don’ want this,
houngan,
” Marie warned, steeling herself for the first cuts of Pepe’s claws.

“You won’t die, girl; not yet. Not until I’ve tasted you. I jus’ want your eyes, child.”

Pepe snapped at her face, only inches away now.

Suddenly, a tremor shuttled up Marie’s arm and across her chest. Her legs spasmed violently. Her throat swelled and her pupils rolled back, showing only bloodshot white. Her captors struggled to hold her down, such was the strength of her seizure. Marie’s teeth were clenched, yet a deep groan erupted from her belly.

Pepe’s flailing body abruptly buckled. The rooster’s neck stiffened and its claws went rigid. Then it gasped and flailed weakly, its tongue stretching out of its mouth like a tiny purple finger.

Marie’s captors exchanged nervous glances.

The voodoo priestess was still in the throes of a pitched frenzy. Her entire body shook with a force that threatened to dislocate her bones and tear her open. She bucked under their hands as Pepe thrashed from side to side. Beltran thrust Pepe closer to Marie’s face, but in that instant, the bird’s neck dangled, lifeless, over Beltran’s fingers.

One of the guards released Marie’s arm and backed away. In that moment, Marie freed a concealed ivory-handled knife from the folds of her skirts and drove it into Beltran’s white leather shoe, through his foot, and into the wood of the floor.

Beltran howled and dropped Pepe, who landed with a soft thud. Beltran himself was overcome with a wet jag of coughing.

Marie tore herself free of the other guards. She pointed a rigid finger at the two men who’d held her, and the fury in her eyes sent them scrambling.

Antoine’s killer also dropped his knife and bolted through one of the doors.

“Out!” she screamed, and the remaining vivants fled into the corridor.

Surprisingly, only the prostitutes remained, gazing through the doorway in mute fascination as the voodoo queen circled the coughing Beltran, who knelt on the ground, trying to free his foot from the blade. His lungs convulsed and stringy drool slung from his gasping lips.

But Marie didn’t touch him. Instead, she walked to Antoine’s still body and ripped the pillowcase off his head. The boy’s face was rigid with terror.

“This man who paid you to kill me, what was his name?” Marie asked sweetly.

Beltran’s breathing was labored, and he reached for his handkerchief with its dose of eucalyptus. But Marie slid a toe under the handkerchief and flung it across the room. Then she leaned down and whispered, “His name,
houngan
.”

Beltran tried to wriggle away from her, but cried out as his foot twisted under the knife. He stared at her with fear, one hand clenched to his chest. “Da-Darian.” Beltran was convulsed from coughing. When he could draw another breath, he added, “That’s all I know, Ye-ye.” But it was too late for respect now.

Marie loomed over him. His hands came together in a gesture of prayer and mercy, but there would be none. “Darian? That’s his name?”

“Oui, mam’zelle.”

“Merci.”
Marie smiled as she straddled Beltran’s chest, pinning his arms with her thighs. She pulled the pillowcase, still fresh from Antoine’s body, over his head. The old man thrashed as she twisted the pillowcase tighter, watching as the outline of Beltran’s mouth vainly sucked for air.

In a few seconds, he was dead. Marie released him and swayed, wrung out by emotion. But then she felt eyes upon her, and turned to the teen prostitutes at the door. They neither smiled nor frowned; they merely stared at her impassively.

Marie lifted her chin and summoned what little strength she had left. “I got each one of dem faces o’ yours locked in my mind now. So, get home to your mothers an’ fathers an’ don’t ever come back here, ’less you want to see Marie Laveau in your nightmares.” She took a step forward, and they scattered like frightened pigeons, pouring out the front door and into the street.

Marie, meanwhile, braced herself on the doorjamb and gave in to a warm flood of tears.

22

“NO ONE APPLAUDS the return of the Arcanum more than I do, Arthur. But I fear it may prove too little, too late.” A. E. Waite sipped his Darjeeling as a tuxedoed waiter replaced the ashtray at their table.

Doyle had arranged the meeting with Waite—one of the premier cabbalistic scholars and renowned mystics of the day—at the Union League Club on Thirty-seventh and Park. Arthur Edward Waite had run the Isis-Urania Temple of the Golden Dawn in London. He had written dozens of occult books, and designed the most widely used Tarot deck in the world. The mystic had a bushy thicket of black hair swept up and to the left, and a curly moustache. His black topcoat and trousers were immaculately pressed.

“Duvall always spoke of you with respect,” Doyle said.

Waite nodded at the compliment. “He’ll be missed. And not only for his friendship. These are dangerous days, I fear. There is a terrible dissonance in the occult world. Blavatsky’s dead, as are Westcott and Woodman. Duvall was one of the last with his finger in the dam. I’m certain that with his death comes anarchy. A cancer will rise in his place.”

“Crowley,” Doyle said without prompting.

“A venal monstrosity,” Waite agreed, his lips pressed tight. “Whether or not he’s personally responsible for Duvall’s death, I don’t know. But what I do know is, he did all in his power to weaken him, isolate him, and set him up for the killing blow.” Waite placed a cigarette into his holder. “Now there are no institutions left to stop him. He’s undone them all.”

“Surely, the Freemasons—” Doyle began.

“They’ve no influence, Arthur; they’re too exposed. The Rosicrucians are paralyzed with internal squabbles. And when that pillar falls, God knows what secrets will spill out. Laugh if you will, but part of me thinks Crowley planned it all along, over the course of years, so there would be no authority left to challenge him. The Golden Dawn is no more. And the O.T.O. is nothing but a breeding ground for Crowley’s occult terrorists. I’m sorry, Arthur, but the Arcanum is all that’s left between our world,” Waite blew a smoke ring that folded into a half-moon “and his.”

“And the Book of Enoch?” Doyle asked.

“That’s what worries me most. It’s Crowley’s field of study, you know. My Lord, he thinks he’s the reincarnation of Edward Kelly, Dee’s medium. He sees himself as divinely chosen to interpret Enoch’s words.”

“But does even Crowley possess the audacity for such a brazen act? Surely he knows he’s being watched.”

“Does he? By whom? Duvall was Crowley’s only rival.”

“So, we’re alone, then.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m neither a warrior nor an investigator, only a humble student of the mysteries. However,” Waite lifted a round object off the floor and placed it gently on the tabletop, “I can offer you this.”

Waite pulled out a battered wooden case bound in red leather, with star imprints on its face. He lifted the fragile lid to reveal an object about the size and shape of a tennis racket without the handle. It was black, smooth, and featureless, though it didn’t appear to be made of steel or stone.

Doyle looked up at Waite with questioning eyes.

Waite smiled. “The obsidian mirror of John Dee.”

Doyle’s eyes flashed, and he gazed at the object with renewed respect. “Duvall searched for years.”

“Yes, but on the wrong continent. It was accidentally brought years ago to the Americas as expedition treasure, and traded to the Natives. Truth be told, I’ve yet to glean its secrets. But its powers are legendary. I hope you have better luck.”

There was a gleam in Doyle’s eyes as he took the case from Waite. “I know just the man.”

LOVECRAFT FELT CONFINED. Proximity to Crowley was always unsettling. His chest was tight and his hands were wet. And Crowley seemed to relish the tension, using it against Lovecraft like a turning screw.

A mousy waitress came to the table. Crowley ordered for them, his eyes fixed on Lovecraft. “Two coffees, my dear.”

The bookshop café on Church Street was warm and musty with old cigarette smoke. There were only a few scattered customers—New York University students, mostly, and a hobo or two. Cakes and pastries sat in a glass case, and a bean grinder chewed loudly while the girl fixed their coffees at the counter.

Finally, Crowley spoke. “My condolences, Howard. You must be suffering.”

“Why waste your breath?”

“I’m not without feeling. The loss must be terrible.” Crowley frowned and shook his head as though feeling it himself.

“No matter. He’ll be avenged,” Lovecraft said with a certainty that surprised him.

Crowley raised a mocking eyebrow. “Spoken like a true Duvallian acolyte, with all the accompanying bluster.”

“Was it you?” Lovecraft asked.

“If it was, my boy, what could you possibly do about it?”

“It would be a mistake to underestimate me.” Lovecraft chewed a fingernail as he made his threat.

Crowley laughed.

Lovecraft flushed. “Perhaps it was you who had me imprisoned as well, to cover your tracks?”

The waitress delivered the coffees to their table. When she had gone, Crowley sipped his with apparent amusement. “If I meant you harm, Howard, you’d know it.” He tapped his sharpened nails on the cup. “And as entertaining as it would be to dance you about on my string, I’m a busy man with appointments to keep.” Crowley paused. Lovecraft sensed he was reluctant to say what came next. “I didn’t kill Duvall,” Crowley added, eyes flashing, “though I certainly celebrated the news.”

“Then who did?”

“I’ve no idea. But whoever did should be canonized.”

“I think you’re lying,” Lovecraft insisted, though he knew he was playing a perilous game.

“And I think you’ve grown soft,” Crowley answered with a sneer. “You could have been a true master, but you chose to serve that buffoon Duvall instead.”

“Duvall was a magus,” Lovecraft countered.

“Duvall was a collector,” Crowley hissed. “A hoarder of treasures he could never hope to understand.”

“Then why are you here? Why are you even speaking to me?”

“My reasons are my own.”

Lovecraft suddenly realized the truth. “You’re in danger, too,” he said.

Crowley looked contemptuous. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, you are. He perceives anyone with knowledge of Enoch as a threat. Duvall, myself, you . . .”

“You’re reaching,” Crowley growled.

“Am I?” Lovecraft leaned across the table. “You’re afraid you’re next.”

Crowley exploded from his seat, upsetting his coffee, and loomed over the demonologist. “How long before they’re all hunted down, eh? Are you such a virtuoso that you would presume to play me? You’re smelling smoke while the forest burns!”

“Tell me who it is,” Lovecraft persisted, though he shrank back in the face of Crowley’s fury.

“You want your killer? I want the Book,” Crowley snapped, baring his sharpened canines.

Lovecraft felt a sinking in his stomach. “You
do
know him.” “Perhaps.” Crowley sat back down. “So, what’ll it be? The choice is yours. Bargain with me. Betray your friends. Find a killer.”

Lovecraft’s thoughts raced as he struggled to keep up with the master tactician. It was no accident that Crowley was a grand master of chess. Lovecraft assumed for the moment that Crowley was being truthful and had nothing to do with the murders. So if he wasn’t interested in the Lost Tribe, why did he want the Book of Enoch? What other secrets did it contain? The thought troubled him deeply.

“And why should I trust you?” Lovecraft asked, hating himself for his shaking voice.

“For the best reason. You haven’t a choice.”

“But you’ve given me no proof.”

“And you’ve wasted quite enough of my time.” Crowley got up again. He stalked past Lovecraft, who still wrestled with his thoughts.

Suddenly, Crowley’s hand snaked around Lovecraft’s throat, and the sorcerer hissed in his ear: “Just remember. While you agonize, the heavens scream.” His nails dug into Lovecraft’s skin.

“Tell me his name,” Lovecraft gasped.

“ ‘What’s in a name, the lookout cried’?” Crowley whispered, and in the next breath was gone.