Flesh Circus (14 page)

The thing inside the man’s body chuckled wetly, smacking its lips, and I heard the groaning of leather as his body erupted
into wild motion. But I was just a half-second quicker, and the wine I sprayed across the candleflame blossomed into blue
flame just a fraction of a second before he would have smacked into me. I flung the taper too, shaking the flame out, and
the sudden curtain of darkness gave me another critical half-second before I grabbed him by the throat and
shoved,
still dribbling blue-flaming wine from my lips.

It wasn’t pure theatrics. There’s not really enough alcohol content in cheap blessed wine to ignite, but sorcery helps—and
the contact, mouth meeting flame or spit booze, is a symbol understood by the creatures in this man’s body. It’s what their
followers do as an offering or a protection.

And it’s hard for the body’s natural protective reflexes not to trigger when there’s a ball of blue flame coming straight
at the vulnerable eyes. That reaction gave me a thin wedge and a chance to drive it home.

I was on the mattresses over him, my knees on his shoulders, one hand on his forehead,
pushing.
My aura sparkled and flamed, and the thing inside him exploded out with a shotgun’s cough.

His screaming took on a harsher tone. I fell, hitting the floor with a thud, various implements in my coat digging into my
flesh, and it tried to strangle me before my aura sparked again, sea-urchin spikes driving it away. It tried again, howling
obscenities in a sweet, asexual child’s voice, and I shoved at it with a completely nonphysical effort, screaming my own imprecations.
The scar was a live coal, pumping sorcerous force up my arm.

There was a
crack,
the physical world bowing out in concentric ripples of reaction, and a weird ringing noise. The man on the mattress was still
screaming, and Saul’s growl spiraled up. Mixed into the noise, there was splintering wood and a sudden weightlessness.

I hit hard, narrowly missing clipping my head on a countertop, and little peppering noises resounded all around me. I blinked,
chalk dust and splinters hanging weightlessly before descending in lazy swirls. The peppering noises were little bits of wrapped
candy, falling out of thin air and smacking down around me with sounds like a hard rain.

Eva’s face came into view. She was chalk-white, dark bruised rings under her eyes, and she frankly stared for a few moments.

Saul peered through the huge hole torn in the ceiling, his eyes shining green-gold. The sound of the victim’s rubbery sobbing
gradually overwhelmed the rain of candy. There’s nothing like hearing a grown man cry like a three-year-old.

Especially when that cry is blessedly, completely human. But we weren’t done yet, and I struggled against sudden inertia,
my body disobeying the imperatives I was giving it.

“Well,” Eva said. “
That
was impressive.”

I blinked. Twice. It had knocked me right through the ceiling. “Shit,” I muttered, and the world grayed for a moment before
I came back to myself with Eva gasping and Saul suddenly
there,
his face looming over mine.
No,
I wanted to say, but I couldn’t make my mouth work for a half-second, gapping soundlessly like a fish.
NO, go back up and watch him—

It was too late. The flexing of the world completed, a hard snap with a thick rubber band. Or maybe it was leather peeling
and popping free. The high-pitched, childish laughter came back, ringing, and more candy pelted down like stinging rain. Another
rending, splintering noise, and the laughter was receding, along with a wet thudding sound, then light pattering footsteps.

Our victim, Trevor Watson, was on the lam.

T
his is getting seriously weird.” I crouched on the cellar stairs, easily, running my smart eye over the candle-lit walls.
“The wife had no idea?”

“She was adamant.” Eva, behind me, was round-eyed. “I didn’t think to look in the basement.”

“Don’t worry about it. You did exactly what you should have. There was no indicator the guy was into voodoo.” The candles
were arranged on an altar draped with green and gold, novenas flickering, a crudely done painting of the Trinity fastened
to the concrete wall. A brass dish of sticky candy, a bottle of rum, and a few other implements, including wilted bunches
of chrysanthemums. It was thick down here; the padlock on the outside door leading down to the cellar was new, and this whole
thing was beginning to take on a shape I didn’t like at all.

“Well, there was the chanting. But I didn’t twig to it.” She folded her arms.

I decided there were no traps lying under the surface of the visible and rose, stepped down another stair, and crouched again,
watching. “I said you shouldn’t worry about it. This guy wasn’t anything more than a low-level novice. Any serious practitioner
would have some defenses down here.”
Though I’m not sure yet. Slow and easy and by the book, Jill.

Saul was outside smoking a Charvil. If Eva felt bad about not checking the cellar, Saul probably felt just as bad for letting
the victim—or whatever was riding him, to be precise—get away.

To be even more precise, I knew
what
was riding our victim, but I didn’t know
why.
I had a sneaking suspicion I’d find a connection to whatever was happening out at the Cirque, though.

I hate those kinds of suspicions. I moved down another stair, scanning thoroughly, but I found nothing that would tell me
our victim was anything more than a secret follower. A complete and utter novice who shouldn’t have been able to fling curses
while under a
loa’
s influence—who shouldn’t have even been able to be ridden.

It’s called “being ridden.” Like a horse. The
loa
descends on one of the followers during a ritual, and gains certain things from inhabiting flesh. Having it happen to a solitary
practitioner isn’t quite unheard-of, but it only happens where the practitioner has sorcerous or psychic talent to burn.

This guy had no markers of initiation, intuition, or sorcery. At
all.

I stepped off the last stair, boots clicking and my coat weighing on my tired shoulders.
I really wish I wasn’t getting the feeling these things are connected.
The cellar was narrow, meant for nothing more than storing a lawnmower or two, and the candles made it hot and close. The
guy was lucky his house hadn’t burned down. But if the
loa
were taking such a particular interest in him, his house was probably safe.

They do take care of their followers, mostly. If you can get their attention. But the trouble is, once you have their attention,
it’s the scrutiny of creatures without a human moral code. Capriciousness might not be cruelty, but when wedded to power it
gets awful close sometimes.

The altar looked pretty standard. Twists of paper and ash half-filled a wide ceramic bowl, used for burning incense for communications,
or the names of enemies. The only thing that didn’t fit was a cup.

It was an enamel camping-cup, a blue speckled metal number that looked easily older than I was. The blue sparkled for a moment,
something running under the metal’s surface, and my hand arrived to scoop it up with no real consideration on my part. It
was a reflex, and one I was glad of, because one of the candles tipped over and spilled flame onto the altar.

“Oh god
dammit,
” I yelled, and yanked the cup back, tossed it into my left hand, and jabbed the right one forward. Eva let out a short blurting
cry as the fire ate into dry wood—he had his altar sitting on fruit crates, for God’s sake.

Smoke billowed. Etheric force pooled in my palm, and the sudden blast of heat against my face stung both smart and dumb eyes.
“
Fuck!
” I yelled, and snapped my right hand back
hard,
the scar singing a piercing agonized note into the meat of my arm as I yanked.

The flames died with a whoosh, all available oxygen sucked away. I backed off in a hurry.

“Jill?” Eva sounded about ten years old, and scared. Of course, producing flame is one of those things that tells a regular
exorcist to call me in a hurry, but we weren’t dealing with Hell here.

Or at least, we weren’t dealing solely with Hell.

Huh.
“Everything’s cool, Eva.” The cup was a big chunk, and my pockets were on the full side already. But I now had a good idea
where I could go to find out more about all this. “We’re going to clean up here, then I want you to go check on something
for me, and I’m going to do more digging.”

“More digging? Do I even want to know?”

Smart girl. “Probably not. I have to go out and visit the bitch of Greenlea.”

“Great. I’ll just let you do that, then. What am I checking on?”

“You’re going to call Avery and check on another victim.”
One that we’ve got in the bag, thank God.

Greenlea is just north of downtown, in the shopping district. If you’re really looking, you can sometimes catch a glimpse
of the granite Jesus on top of Sisters of Mercy, glowering at the financial district. But Greenlea’s organic froufrou boutiques
and pretty little restaurants don’t like seeing it. Sometimes I think it’s an act of will that keeps that particular landmark
obscured from certain places in the city, especially around downtown.

Saul waited until I set the parking brake. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I peered out the window, scanned the avenue.

This district is just one street, with two high-end bookstores, vegan eateries, a coffee shop, and a couple of kitchy-klatch
places selling overpriced junk. A few antique stores cluster down at one end, and a fancy bakery and two pricey bars at the
other. It’s the kind of well-fed, quiet little upwardly mobile granola enclave you can find in pretty much any American city.
Sometimes you can find two or three of them in the same metropolis.

Two blocks off the main avenue—Greenlea itself—the crackerbox houses are pushed together behind their neat little gardens.
They’re old houses, on prime property, and people who have an address out here are jealously proud of it.

On the corner of Eighth and Vine, two and a half blocks away, is Sunshine Samedi. I’m sure some of the trendoid yuppies think
it’s a Buddhist term, too.

“He got away.” Saul’s face was shadowed in the half-light. “I thought—”

I didn’t want him to keep going with that particular mental train. “Don’t worry about it. He didn’t come downstairs, right?
We didn’t have to peel him off Eva, and we’ll find him soon enough.”

“Still.” He even sounded upset. I glanced at him. He looked haggard in the half-light, and I wished I had time to sit him
down for a good talking-to. Only what would I say?

“Don’t, Saul. You’re my partner, and a good one. You did fine.” Did he really think I was going to yell at him for being concerned
because I’d been knocked right through the ceiling?

But it wasn’t like him. He was my partner, and he knew better. Whatever knocked me sideways wouldn’t put me out of commission;
I was just too tough and nasty. He should have stayed where I put him.

But maybe he wasn’t able to. Like he’s not able to touch you anymore without flinching.

I looked away and unlocked my door, hoping he couldn’t read my expression. “Come on, let’s go see if she’s in.”

Of course she’d be in. She never left the house.

A little coffee-shop and bakery with carefully watered nasturtiums in the window boxes sat in a brackish well of etheric depression,
congested like a bruise. It wasn’t the congestion of Hell, but it was thick and smelled rancid—not truly
smelled,
but more sensed with that place in the very back of the sinuses where instinct lives. The closest I can figure is that the
brain has no other way of decoding the information it’s being handed, so it dredges up smells out of memory and serves them
up.

In any case, it was more than strongly fermented here, just on the edge of turning bad. Etherically speaking.

The coffee here was horrible and the baked goods substandard, but that wasn’t why people came. It most definitely was not
why the place was still open, especially in a neighborhood where people were picky about their shade-grown espresso and organic-flour
croissants.

Chalked signs writhed over cracked concrete, a ribbon of walkway and a naked patio holding only a terra-cotta fire-dish and
chimney on three squat legs. To get back here, you had to lift the iron latch on a high board gate and wriggle past some thorny
sweet acacia that hadn’t been cut back. The smell cloyed in the nose, curdled and slipped down the throat, and I gapped my
mouth a little bit to breathe through it. I’m sure Lorelei left the acacia there deliberately, and coaxed it into growing
large enough to pick people’s pockets—or rend their flesh.

The backyard was cool, holding only a ghost of the day’s heat. There was no moon, and the porch light buzzed a little, illuminating
nothing. The garden pressed close, far too humid for the desert.

Her water bill must be sky-high,
I thought, just like I did every time I came here. Which wasn’t often. Once every three years or so is often enough for me
to keep tabs on the bitch of Greenlea, as Mikhail often called her. Lorelei kept her nose clean and wasn’t directly responsible
for any murders, so all things considered she was a minor irritant in a city filled with major ones.