Unsympathetic Magic (15 page)

Authors: Laura Resnick

BOOK: Unsympathetic Magic

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Most of them were enthusiastic, engaged kids, and we had a lot of fun. So I was really glad that Jeff had offered me this opportunity.

After we wrapped up the class, Jeff and I stayed behind to answer a few students’ questions while most of them drifted out of the room, laughing and chatting. Max waited for us by the open door. I was by now feeling ravenous and hoped we were going to question Jeff over a (very) late lunch, rather than set off immediately for the spot where I had seen Darius attacked by gargoyles. I was about to ask Jeff if he had time for a meal, when Max gave a startled cry.

“Esther! The huntsman!”

“What?”

I looked over at Max and saw that he was pointing down the hallway, in the direction from which we had come earlier.

Jeff said, “Huntsman?”

Max cried, “A young man armed with a sword!” And he set off at a run.

I
set off after Max.

Jeff followed me. “What’s going on?”

“Max!” I cried. “Stop!”

The sword-wielding young man hadn’t threatened me last night, but that didn’t mean I thought it was a good idea to run after him and jump on top of him. Which seemed to be Max’s plan.

Shoving past startled students, Max disappeared through the swinging double doors at the end of the hall. I ran after him, apologizing to students as I pushed them out of the way, then I plunged through the double doors, too, letting them slap shut in my wake. Right behind me, I heard Jeff give a howl of pain.

Max ran across the lobby of the building. The man at the reception desk who had initially welcomed us here today looked worried now. As Max disappeared through another set of swinging doors on the other side of the lobby, the man called out, “Is there a problem?”

Behind me, Jeff cried, “I don’t know! Esther! What’s going
on?
”

I dashed after Max and through the double doors, hoping that Jeff, hot on my heels, would be more cautious this time.

Directly ahead of me, Max cried, “Halt!” and seized his quarry by the shoulder. They were the only two people in this corridor.

I caught up to Max and found him wrestling with . . . a boy who looked about twelve years old. The kid was wearing a white fencing jacket and carrying a French foil with a protective rubber tip on its point.

The boy looked more startled than alarmed by this sudden seizure. He was wrestling with Max and saying, “Whoa! What is your
problem?
”

Jeff caught up to us. “What are you
doing?
”

Max said to the boy, “In the interests of safe and rational discourse, I must ask you to lay down your weapon.”

“Max!” Jeff said. “Let him go!”

“Max, let go,” I urged, putting a hand on his arm. “This isn’t the huntsman.”

“What
huntsman?
” Jeff snapped.

A young man came through the doorway of a nearby room. I suddenly realized that I heard the click and clash of metal blades coming from that room—the sound of swords hitting each other.

The young man’s face registered surprised recognition when he saw me. “What are
you
doing here?” Like the boy, he wore a white fencing jacket. He carried a rapier in his hand.

Startled, I pointed at him in dumb silence.

Max looked at him. “The huntsman?”

I nodded.

The young man, who was athletically lithe with a stern face, close-cropped black hair, and mocha skin, said to me, “You can’t come in here dressed like that! What’s the matter with you?”

“I haven’t had time to change,” I snapped.

Jeff said, “You two know each other?”

“No,”
we said in unison.

The boy in Max’s grip said impatiently to the young man, “Biko, will you tell this dude to let me go?”

To the boy, Biko said, “We do not refer to elders as ‘dudes.’ ” And to Max he said, “Take your hands off this boy right now.” Biko looked about eighteen years old, but he had the presence and gravitas of someone twice that age.

Max immediately released the boy. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.”

Biko looked at the kid and nodded his head toward the open door. The boy obeyed the silent command and, with a look over his shoulder that indicated he thought we were all crazy, went into the room from which Biko had just emerged.

“A fencing class,” I said, realizing what the sound of clashing swords and the white jackets meant.

Biko frowned at me. “What are you
doing
here?”

“This is most embarrassing,” Max said. “I fear we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. And I am to blame.”

“I’ll say,” Jeff muttered.

Biko looked at him. “Are these people with you, Jeff?”

Jeff sighed. “Yes.” He made brief introductions. “Esther Diamond, actress. Dr. Max Zadok, madman. Biko Garland, fencing instructor.”

“Why are they here?” Biko asked him, ignoring the introduction.

“I’m filling in for Jeff,” I said.

“Oh, that’s right.” Biko nodded. “The gladiator gig. Scheduling conflicts.”

I looked at Jeff, too. “Gladiator? That’s the kind of ‘athlete’ you’re playing?”

“Biko helped me prepare for the audition,” Jeff said. “I needed some sword fighting moves.”

“Gladiators didn’t fight with rapiers,” I said.

“The rapier is the weapon I’m best with,” Biko said calmly, “but it’s not the only one I know how to use.”

“Is that why you took it hunting with you last night?” I said. “Because it’s the one you use best?”

He looked at me, then at the two men, then back at me. His face didn’t give away anything, and I wondered what he was thinking. Then he said, “Class isn’t over. These kids need my attention.”

He turned to reenter the training room.

Max said, “Were you hunting a zombie, by chance?”

Biko froze, and all three of us looked at Max in surprise.

“A
what?
” Jeff said.

“A
zombie?
” I said.

Biko just stared at him, frowning.

“Well?” Max said. “Was that what you were hunting last night?”

“Biko, man,” Jeff said. “I’m sorry about this. I don’t really know these people. I’ll get them out of here now, and we won’t even talk about this again. Okay?”

Jeff took my elbow in a firm grasp and tugged. I jerked my arm away from him, looking from Max to Biko. I repeated, “A zombie?”

“Reanimation of the dead,” Max said. “Exactly what we were talking about this morning.”

“Holy shit,” Jeff said. “You really
are
a madman.”

“I don’t like people cursing around these kids,” Biko said absently, still staring at Max.

Jeff ignored that. “Max? Esther? Shall we
go
now?

I said to Max, “Now you’re saying I saw a
zombie
last night?”

Biko’s gaze flashed to me.

“Are zombies a sign of the apocalypse?” I asked, feeling confused.

“God, what
are
you into these days?” Jeff asked me in horror.

Biko said to me, “You saw something last night?”

I looked at Max. He nodded.

I looked at Jeff. He was staring at me as if seriously rethinking the wisdom of letting me spend time with his students.

Then I looked at Biko and said, “I saw Darius Phelps last night. About a block past where I saw you.”

Biko look puzzled. “You mean you saw his body?”

“No, I mean I saw him. Walking and talking.” I added, “Sort of.”

“You didn’t see Darius,” Jeff said firmly. “He’s dead.”

“Jeff’s right.” Biko nodded. “It couldn’t have been Mr. Phelps. He’s . . .” His gaze shifted to Max, and he drew in a sharp breath through his nostrils. “No.” He shook his head. “No
way
.”

Max said to him, “Wait a moment. If you weren’t looking for Darius Phelps, then what
were
—”

Jeff said impatiently, “Darius is
dead,
I’m telling you. I was at the funeral.”

“What was he buried in?” I asked suddenly, turning to Jeff.

“A
coffin,
Esther. Like most people.”

“No, what was he wearing?”

“How should
I
know?” Jeff said.

Biko said, “It was closed-casket funeral. But I heard Dr. Livingston saying that he’d asked to be buried in his tuxedo.”

I gasped and clasped my hand over my mouth.

“Figures,” Jeff muttered. “He was a pretentious bastard.”

“Oh, my God,” I choked out, feeling cold again.

“I know, I know,” Jeff said. “Don’t speak ill of the dead and all that. And, yes, it’s too bad the guy died young. Even so, I don’t see why I should have to start pretending I liked him, just because he’s dead now. I never pretended when he was alive, after all.”

“Max,”
I said. “A tuxedo!”

“Yes, my dear.” He patted my arm.

“A zombie?” I said, trying not to think too hard about the fact that I had been alone in the dark with him. It. Whatever. “You really think so?”

“As soon as I saw those drapeaux upstairs,” Max said, “it seemed an inescapable conclusion.”

“Whoa, time out,” Jeff said. “How does gaudy folk art lead you inescapably to the conclusion that—that—that . . . Christ, I can’t even say it, it’s so crazy.”

“That Darius Phelps is a zombie now?” Max concluded for him. “Well, it is, of course, possible that he was reanimated by some other means—”

“Oh, like
what?
” Jeff said. “Who the hell goes around reanimating corpses?”

“Various cultures throughout the ages, Jeffrey,” Max said patiently. He was accustomed to being disbelieved. “Whether seeking immortality or using the dead to terrorize others, reanimation has been the study of many mystical practitioners. It has also been the solace of billions who have believed in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and of those who believe that they themselves will be resurrected on Judgment Day.”

“Or when the Messiah comes,” I added, not wanting my team to be left out of the discussion.

“But you’re not talking about someone who’s been resurrected by God Almighty,” Jeff pointed out.

“No, indeed,” Max said. “I believe a much lesser—but nonetheless formidable—power is behind the reanimation of Darius Phelps. And although many possibilities exist for explaining this phenomenon, it seems rather foolish to ignore the one staring us in the face. Mr. Phelps, after all, worked in a community where Vodou is practiced.”

“Watch it,” Biko said. “You’re stepping on dangerous ground now. My sister is a servant of the loa.”

“I am most respectful of her faith,” Max said. “But every power may be used for evil ends, when in the hands of the wrong person. And since there is a tradition, on the dark side of Vodou, of raising zombies from the grave . . . My hypothesis is that this is the fate of the unfortunate Darius Phelps.”

Jeff asked with somewhat malicious interest, “Are you accusing Mambo Celeste of doing it?”

“Traditionally, such a thing would be abhorrent to a mambo,” Max said. “More to the point, we are far from being able to accuse anyone, Jeffrey. We have very little information at the moment. But it does occur to me, all things considered, that we are probably looking for a bokor.”

Biko made a startled sound. He was gazing wide-eyed at Max.

“A what?” I said.

“A bokor,” said Max.

“A dark sorcerer,” said Biko, nodding slowly. “Someone who practices black magic.”

Max eyed him. “I gather I am not the only one to whom this possibility has occurred?”

“No,” Biko said. “Not the only one.”

“But you were not aware of Darius Phelps’ transformation. So what led you—and your sister, I presume—to this suspicion?” Max paused before asking, “What exactly you were hunting with deadly intent last night, Mr. Garland?”

The young man let out his breath. “I think you’d better call me Biko.”

“You were hunting last night?” Jeff said. “In
Harlem?
”

Biko nodded. “Yes.” He looked from Jeff to me, and then to Max. “I was hunting baka.”

After a moment of puzzled silence, Jeff said, “Back of what? Back of where?”

“No,” Biko said. “Baka.” He enunciated slowly. “Baka.”

I gasped so hard that I choked. All three men looked at me. “That’s what he said!”

Looking at me with an expression that I remembered well from our days as a couple, Jeff said, “Yes. Just now. He said ‘baka.’ So what, Esther?”