The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (25 page)

Zelig tracked the
dieb
to a somewhat nice house somewhere in the city. He'd never even been to America let alone New York City, so he had no idea where. The
dieb
stood on the porch, conversing with a woman.
Must be his wife.
The two embraced, kissed a number of times, and the
dieb
left. Then the woman retreated into the house.
 

This dimwit better be heading back to the warehouse.
It grew tiresome following the thief through a foreign city in a foreign time. Zelig's bones were chilled to the marrow, and his fingers frostbitten. Slipping his cold fingers into the sleeves of his coat, Zelig took a slow pace behind his enemy. He remained in the shadows. The
Führer's
unsettling words still played across his mind.
 

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

***

The assassination attempt on General Sheridan failed, as Grand Dragon Verdiss presumed it would. Under the eerie, starless veil of night, ten men approached Baton Rouge's old state capitol from the rear. They climbed the sloping cliff overlooking the Mississippi river. The glow of lights at the building's backend were noticeably absent. The assassins didn't seem deterred.

Good, they think their success is guaranteed.
 

Verdiss watched it unfold several nights ago in the boiling water of the pot he plied for divination work. It was a fool's errand, which was its precise purpose. Nevertheless, he was curious.

The assassins broke into two groups. One stayed at the rear of the gothic building, while the others flanked to its left. They stayed pressed against the walls, and crept to the front. A large, round tower stood at either side of the stairway leading up to the main entrance. Iron bars covered each of the stained glass windows. Even Verdiss found the lack of light they offered disconcerting.

“This ain't right! There's no lights, there's supposed to be lights,” a stocky man said. “This ain't right.” He pulled on the sleeve of the assassin in front of him with childlike pleading.

Verdiss smiled. The man's fear hissed in the cauldron, coming out at the Grand Dragon like playful laughter.

“Shut up! Maybe Gerry forgot to light them,” said the taller man. In the lead, he turned back to the stairs, and ascended them. Cautious. Looking back. “Follow me and let's get these carpetbaggin' scum.” He pulled a revolver from his belt. Creeping up the stairs, he kept scanning ahead of him.

Pointless.
By the way the man moved, Verdiss could tell he was moving near-blind.
 

“You see anything?” A stockier man squirmed his way next to him. “If we had any horse sense, Evan, we'd be outta here!”

Evan, the larger man, stared into the blackness above him. “The night does well to hide us
,”
he said.
 

But there were no lights in the windows like their spy had said there would be. Of course, Verdiss had everything to do with it. Another smile crossed his deformed lips. He watched on like normal men watch at a whorehouse.

“Just do as you're told, Strom.” Evan's gaze shifted from the sky to the windows.

He started to stand, but seemed to think better of it. Evan moved to the main door. The men behind him watched, nervous, as he placed his hand on the doorknob and twisted it. Locked.

Of course, you blinking idiots.
Verdiss grumbled and rolled his eyes.
 

Screams and death cries roared from the rear of the building, piercing the dark silence like a knife through paper. The noise thundered for a minute. Then went silent. Evan and Strom exchanged wide-eyed stares, with weapons in hand, when the main door burst open in a blaze of gunfire.

Metal pierced, cut, slashed, and tore through flesh and cloth alike before the assassins could cry out in pain. Mists of blood filled the air, and settled on the Capitol lawn.

Verdiss's shoulders sagged as he watched in displeasure. The onslaught blazed in the black void of night for what seemed like far too long. Then a moment later, it ceased. Carcasses littered the lawn.

Thoroughly disappointing.

A bearded man, skin like rubies, stepped out over the bodies. He set upon the them, sifting through their belongings, pulling pistols and blades from bags. He felt for pulses, glanced at a cold, lifeless face.

“General,” the sinewy man called out. “General, it's all clear. All the damned seceshers are dead. There's no sign of Narce. Blasted deadbeat wasn't here.”

“Thank you kindly, Major Jones.” The chunky General Sheridan stepped out onto the stairway. “I assumed that coward would not come." He wiped some of the still misting blood from his pants. “There is something about this that concerns me. Perhaps those fellows gave us a warning for naught.”

Verdiss exhaled deeply. The arrogant ape-like man who so loved Lincoln sounded like a gibbering madman. He might
try
to speak with eloquence, but he failed to deliver.
Doubt he's read a page of Shakespeare. Perhaps seen a play, and I am certain he owns a copy of some great work he's never read.
The bitter taste in Verdiss's mouth soured.
That's how much I loathe you, Sheridan. At least, Lincoln's dead.
 

The major grunted as if to agree, but had nothing to say. A long moment passed before either of them spoke again.
Like two dumb mutes.
 

Sheridan broke the silence. “I have a feeling this was a distraction. If the
fearsome
and terrible Grand Dragon wanted me dead...why, I believe he would kill me himself.” He turned and headed toward the main door.
 

Perhaps more intelligent than an ape.

“Oh, and Major Jones.”

“Yes, General?”

“Dispose of these foul things before they stain the yard—” Before Sheridan finished his sentence, he closed the door, leaving Jones alone in the middle of a massacre.

Verdiss waved the image away from the glassy water of his pot. A poor performance, but he accomplished one objective. He wouldn't speak of it to anyone, including his Nighthawk, Narce. Those ten men perished because they could not be trusted. If Verdiss was going to expose himself to his henchmen for what he was—not a proud white Christian. Verdiss needed protection during the long, grueling ritual. He needed men he could trust while he pulled the
Geist Führer
from his time into theirs. That's how he'd expose himself as a Grand Dragon who indulges in
voodoo
.
 

He stepped back from the cauldron and its divining power. Standing in the humid barn he chose for the ceremony. Spacious, with summits of hay looming over the floor, save the fifty-foot encirclement in the barn's center. It took him the past two nights to arrange it. Soon he'd carve and lay down the
veves
the dark ritual required.
 

Pulling the Dragon's Blood from a secret pocket in his robe, Verdiss caressed the gem's smooth surface. Through his thick gloves, the stone's power tingled his welted flesh. He savored it. Part of Verdiss wanted to keep the gem for himself. Who knew the untold power it could bring him? However, it had a better purpose.

The heavy barn door slid open, screeching on unoiled hinges. “Grand Dragon.” Narce entered, his face taut with concern. His emerald eyes seemed dull and wistful, as if his mind was somewhere else. “I done told the men about the ceremony. Some is nervous, but them agonna stay due to the money you gave them. Hoyt akeepin' them calm—”

“The lengthy, ugly one?” Verdiss asked, too consumed with preparing the
voodoo
rite to remember anything else. Narce nodded, tugging on his auburn muttonchops. The brute seemed troubled, and Verdiss already knew the answer before he asked the question: “What troubles you, good Nighthawk?”
 

A moment of silence stretched on before Narce answered. His brow crinkled in thought, something he rarely did. “The black's woman...What's agonna be done with her?” He sounded
soft.
 

“I have seen you mesmerized by her beauty," hissed
Verdiss, turning to face Narce, his red eyes gleaming from underneath his hood. “She belongs to our enemy, to be used as needed to complete our goal. If she dies, then so be it. I hope this is not
too
distasteful for you.” He drew his hood down, leaving it draped upon his shoulders, revealing his deformed visage. He watched Narce grimace at the mountain of welts that was his face.
 

“Push this she-devil from your mind. Remember, her lover will come for us. You can deal with him yourself. When we dispatch him, I will reclaim the Pharaoh's Staff. Once I possess the
Geist Führer's
soul within the Dragon's Blood, we will then turn our attention to recruitment. It will take time, but you and I will be rid of our enemies. And of course, keep a company of slaves." Verdiss turned his back on Narce. He returned to his cauldron, resting his gloved hands on the pot's brim.
 

“With respect to the compulsory components, have you gathered them all? The garlic? Snake skin? All the herbs I listed for you, the grapes, the bat guano, and the blood?” He interrogated Narce, excitement leaping from his flicking tongue like a lightning bolt. Everything needed to be precise—any misstep could cause dire and irrevocable consequences.

“We agonna, Grand Dragon. Bunch of the men gone to town to get the rest. Davis been akeepin' track of that...and of Jeb's runnin' about. And like you says, they awaitin' at the crummy ole buildin' near the park. Thinkin' about it, Grand Dragon..." This must've taken Narce several nights to conjure up. "I think we should hide some of our boys up in the loft.” He pointed to the loft above, which surrounded the barn below. “They'll have good lookout spots when them boys come ahollerin'.”

Verdiss kept his gaze deep within his pot, searching for the courage to complete the daunting task. Unsure, but fueled by blinding vengeance. His betrayer. And hatred of his own people. A part of him hated that he hated them, but that made him hate himself even more.

The Nighthawk remained long moments, still tugging on his muttonchops. Then, as if satisfied with his thoughts, he headed for the door. Lumbering through towers of hay. He slid the creaking door open again. The cold night air billowed in as if seeking shelter from its own frigid touch. Narce stepped outside and paused to hear Verdiss's words on the wind.

“As for our enemies...hate all, curse all, and show charity to none.”

***

The barn door screeched shut. Narce inhaled the cold air, a refreshing change from the stifling Louisiana heat. He left the Grand Dragon to his fuming. Narce needed to wrestle with his own demons. And the little fuckers were hell-bent on annoying the fuck out of him. Still, he enjoyed the brief walk in the starless night.
Odd
. Not a cloud in the sky as far as he could see. Nor the pallid twinkle of heavenly light.
Not a good sign
.
God warnin' me not to work with this devil?
Not a church man, but Narce considered himself a good Christian.
 

His path led from the old, ragged barn sitting in the back yard to a farmhouse in the same condition. Hopelessness oozed from the barn, an unnatural chill only bad magic gave off. Or maybe worse. It threatened to swallow Narce whole, so he hurried across the cornfield. The abandoned house he and his men commandeered sat on the city outskirts. Yonkers stood ablaze like a myriad of burning candles on the horizon.

Narce watched the glow, then stepped onto the rickety porch. Aged planks of wood buckled under his massive stature. He opened the marred door that led into the back parlor. Once, it must've been beautiful, but now stood bare and rotting. Only the floral wallpaper, with a faint glimmer in the candlelight, suggested its exquisite past.

“How's you adoin?” He eyed Keturah, trying to sound less fearsome than he assumed he had. He closed the door with a bang. Then regretted it when he saw her flinch at the noise. Narce soaked up the woman's beauty—her high cheekbones, slender, pointed face, and hazel eyes the color of chocolate. Something about those fierce yet gentle eyes reminded him of Countess. His heart ached. There couldn't be any love between he and Keturah. Fuck, he hadn't even heard her talk except for wild shrieks and cuss words in a dialect he couldn't understand.
 

She let out a growl, then grunted.

“Me, too.” Narce grunted in return. He slouched on the ground next to her, feeling the fragrant warmth of her body. He breathed it in, bringing the scent deep into his nostrils. It tingled every part of him.

“I ain't ever think one of ya were purdy. I ain't know what about ya that makin' me crazy...them eyes maybe.” Narce pointed at Keturah's face. She returned with a glare. Those brown disks casting fire at him. “Remind me a lot a hers—” He fell silent. Kill Jebidiah, take her as his own, and leave the Grand Dragon. No, that wouldn't work. Where would they go? How would they live? Would she even go with him?

“I spent all my time akillin' yer kind. Hell! Befo' the war I worked as a slave hunter with my ole boy Darkness. Him outside in them stables. He a good dog. Anyhow, we tracked all the slaves through them swamps, trudgin' through muck and gators . . . horrible bidnis. The smell makes it hard for the dogs to follow them runaways, probably why them went through the bayous. This was befo' I bought that piece a shit plantation. I was with this girl. Only girl I ever loved...I'm supposin' you'd say. Every night I'd get home, atalkin' about what runaway I caught and how much cash Darkness and me got.