The Demon Curse (8 page)

The nets stank of fish. River water dripped from them as they hung on the boathouse wall, and Harry, hidden behind them, flinched as a trickle snaked down his face. He felt Billie flinch too and grabbed her arm, steadying her. Even that slight move, he noticed, made the nets sway, their wetness catching the light. He peered out through the foul-smelling strands and listened to the fishermen.

“We're all here then.”

“Six o'clock, just like you said.”

“Tell us what's going on. Tell us quick…”

There were about twenty of them, tugging wooden stools into a circle. They sat down, delving into tobacco pouches and drinking from their bottles. A couple of men crouched over an iron brazier, and soon flames crept up from it, throwing light around the circle of faces, every one of them staring toward Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes, who were sitting by an upturned boat hull. The faces were suspicious, and Harry heard mutterings, snarls. But they fell silent as Daggerbeard rose and walked toward the sack on the table.

The brazier's flames brightened as he lurched past. Shadows of his bulk slanted around the boathouse. He reached for the sack and emptied it. Feathers, snakeskins, and seeds spilled onto the table. Daggerbeard pointed at the items.

“The demon curse. Don't you worry; it'll do for its victims.” His voice growled through a thin smile. “
The
Islanders
, I mean.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, and he saw Billie doing the same. His hand tightened on her arm. The fishermen were still motionless, but Daggerbeard's shadows hurtled around the room as he strode around the circle.

“We'll free this town of them. Every last one of them!” Daggerbeard growled.

“About time! Filthy folk with their dangerous ways!” Yelloweyes glared at the sack's contents. “Who knows if that stuff of theirs summons demons or not? But once we've done the job, once we've tucked it under the floorboards just where Monticelso's sleeping, once we've sent a little note to the New Orleans police telling them where to look, that little sack'll whisk up demons of one kind, just you see!”

“There'll be rioting in the streets! The Islanders'll be forced to run. No one'll have a doubt they're behind the demon curse, and they'll be gone. And we know what happens then, don't we?” Daggerbeard swung around. “It'll be ours! Fisherman's Point!”

Fisherman's Point.
The words echoed around the boathouse. Harry listened to every lingering trace of them, and with each echo, the business became clearer to him.
So
that's what's going on—these men want the Islanders' land.
Huddled behind the net, he watched the fishermen, who had scowls on their faces and were snarling at Daggerbeard and his friend.

“That's all very well, but when, eh?”

“Three days ago, you asked for our money. What's happened since?”

“Nothing, that's what! You tried this plan of yours, and you failed!”

“Now you're asking for more money—”

“Sure we are!” Daggerbeard bellowed. “It's turned out more difficult than we thought, every bit of it! Right from the very start—pickpocketing the keys from one of the city hall servants. Any of you quick enough to do that? First we had to find out where they hung out and smoked their pipes, near that alleyway. Then there was the snatching itself.” From his jacket, he took out a length of fishing line, a tiny hook dangling from it. His burly hand performed a complicated move, flicking the hook away and reeling it back in again. “Used my fisherman's skills. Walked past him, dropped the hook into his pocket, and the keys just flew into my hand.”

“But that's not all we got! Information too—we eavesdropped on them, hiding in the alleyway,” Yelloweyes added. “That's how we learned when the mayor would be taken out of his bedroom for his treatment, leaving us time to do the work. Clever, eh? And then there's the charms, getting hold of the charms! The Islanders weren't going to just hand us some, were they?” Yelloweyes jabbed a finger at the items on the table, then reached into his pocket and drew out a leather-bound book. “Mayor Monticelso's own book, all about those filthy Islanders and their ways! All about their magic too! Wouldn't have been any good to you though—most of you can't even read.”

“And you wouldn't have had the guts for what we did next either: going around pretty much every apothecary and Chinese medicine shop in town, shaking them down, searching for the exact items we needed!” Daggerbeard snatched up the snakeskin. “Particular skins, particular feathers, particular seeds—we've got pretty much the exact stuff. And who's to say, brought all together, that this junk
doesn't
have some kind of magical power? Brave enough to lay your hands on it, are you? It didn't have nothing to do with Mayor Monticelso, but who knows what else it can do?”

He thrust the snakeskin at the fishermen, who scrambled back with their stools. They were reeling, and Harry felt like reeling too, even though his back was firmly against the wall.
Mayor
Monticelso's book, detailing the Islanders' rituals. Robbing apothecary and medicine shops all around New Orleans.
The new pieces of information danced in his head, and he felt his face grow hot against the stinking net as he remembered the words that had raced from his lips earlier that day.
Of
course
they're behind it…
He thought of how certain he had been that the two men, with their mysterious sack, were responsible for the mayor's terrible state.

They're nothing to do with it. They're just using the situation for their own grubby ends.

“Twenty years we've been waiting for this moment.” Daggerbeard tossed the snakeskin at Yelloweyes, who caught it and dropped it back onto the table. “Us here, we've always felt the same about the Islanders, and maybe others have too. But not pretty much all of New Orleans, like it is now.”

“That Oscar Dupont, he's doing a fine job.” Yelloweyes shuffled from the table, brushing his hands on his coat. “Whipped up an angry crowd…”

“It'll be even angrier soon,” Daggerbeard continued. “They just need leading on. Some bait, something to catch their eyes.” He jerked a thumb back toward the snakeskin, feathers, and seeds. “And that's what we've got. Just need to put it where we need it, that's all.”

“We'll go back. We know the way in now—it'll be even easier!” Yelloweyes was taking his turn to circle. “Who can blame us for deciding to go back later, when we were disturbed? If we'd been caught, we two might have been the ones to get the blame for the demon curse then, not the Islanders—any of you thought of that? But we'll finish the job, don't you worry! We'll plant it all under the floorboards, like we said.”

“It'll sit there, an undiscovered clue.” Daggerbeard grinned. “But it'll be discovered soon enough. Maybe the police will get that little note, or maybe it'll be Oscar Dupont—haven't decided yet.” His grin widened. “One way or another, our little sack of stuff will see the light again and then…”

“Fisherman's Point will be ours.” Yelloweyes slapped a fist into a palm. “As for Mayor Monticelso, gripped by a demon curse—who knows who's responsible for that…and who cares!”

Harry's face grew even hotter. The damp strands of net, warmed by his blushing skin, released their stench even more freely.
Wrong, so wrong.
He stared through the net at the items on the table.
Exactly
the
same
as
the
ones
in
the
ritual
, he thought. The fishermen had worked with care.
Unlike
me.
He remembered looking down at that table just a few minutes before, startled and amazed, trying to move the bits and pieces about in his mind: sluggish, slow, fumbling.
So
wrong…

“Fisherman's Point—the best bit of fisherman's land in New Orleans or anywhere near it!” Daggerbeard bellowed at the fishermen.

“We've always deserved that land. Since always!” Yelloweyes snapped. “Not right that they have it. Decent land deserves decent folk living on it. Perfect for building jetties, as we all know. Catches the currents leading down to the sea too…”

“And the best thing about our plan is there's no one'll want it after the Islanders have gone.” Daggerbeard gathered up the items on the table, scooping them back into the sack. “Who's going to set foot on it, with all the rumors of evil magic?”

“We'll buy it off the city for next to nothing.” Yelloweyes chuckled. “Any of us with a few dollars to spare, we'll be able to grab Fisherman's Point, hut by hut.”

“We'll double our jetties! Our gutting houses and boat-building huts too!” Daggerbeard fumbled after one of the snakeskins, which was rolling away.

“Let the Islanders tie their boats to whatever far-off bit of the Mississippi they get driven to,” Yelloweyes continued. “And if they get driven back to the island they came from, all that time ago, why, then they can tie their boats up there too.”

“The demon curse. It'll work like”—Daggerbeard laughed—“like magic.”

He scooped the last few items into the sack. But he fumbled again, and one of the hawk's feathers fluttered off the table, catching a warm current of air from the brazier. Daggerbeard snatched at it, but it spiraled upward and looped the loop. Harry saw it and flinched, tightening his grip on Billie's arm.

It was heading straight for them. It had left behind the current of air, but it was still journeying on, circling, looping. Daggerbeard was watching it, his eyes following its path, as if those curls and loops reminded him of the cleverness of his plan.

The hawk's feather landed on the netting. It nestled in the strands, just in front of Harry's face, and Daggerbeard wasn't staring at the feather anymore.

He was staring at them.

“Don't let them get away!”

The fishermen's fists plunged into the nets. Harry tried to break free, but the crisscrossing strings drew tight, snaring his hands and feet. Burly arms worked quickly, hoisting the nets into the air, and Harry was upside down, his body tangled with Billie's. He saw the spears and harpoons hanging from the rafters, the brazier's light dancing on their edges. He struggled harder and then felt himself fall. He and Billie, still tangled in the nets, thudded onto the floor in front of Daggerbeard's boots.

“Who are they?” Daggerbeard spluttered.

There was a hook in his hand; Harry recognized it, the exact pattern of its jagged tip. It hovered over him as Yelloweyes pulled expertly at the net, making the crisscross strands slide away. Harry and Billie sprawled on the floor, and the fishermen gathered around, looking down at their catch.

“Get off us! Let us go!” Billie cried.

A burly fist pushed her back down, and the hook hovered closer. Harry's heart pounded. His eyes fixed on the brazier. It was burning quite fiercely, its flames leaping over its edge.
Think
of
something.
He looked back at the fishermen. In among them, Yelloweyes jabbed a finger down at Billie.

“Who cares who they are? Spies, that's
what
they are, and that's all that matters.” Spit flew. “If they've heard… So much for our plan.”

“Good riddance to it! Fisherman's Point belongs to the Islanders, you remember that!” Billie tried to lurch up again but thudded back onto the floor.

“Steady now,” Daggerbeard muttered at Yelloweyes. His fist stayed gripped around the hook. “They're kids.”

“And?”

“So no one's going to believe them, are they?”

“What makes you so sure? Maybe they will, maybe they won't!” Yelloweyes's nose wrinkled. “This girl, what's she doing speaking out for the Islanders? Maybe she knows 'em. Maybe she'll go and tell 'em too. Then the filthy folk'll be ready for what we spring on them, able to explain it away and…”

“Don't you talk about them like that! Don't you dare—”

A heavy hand slammed over her mouth, choking off the words. Harry felt the fishermen's hands grip him too, but he realized his left foot was free. Just a few inches away from it, the table stood with the sack on it.
The
sack, into which Daggerbeard had stuffed the snakeskins, the seeds, and all but one of the feathers.
It lay there, its neck half-tied, its contents safe.
The
same
contents
that
produced, even just a few of them, that smoke.
Harry studied the sack and then checked the brazier again, several yards away across the boathouse, its flames waiting. His boot swiveled, practicing a move, and he slid it slowly across, hooking its toe around one of the wooden legs.

“Maybe best to be safe.” Daggerbeard turned away with Yelloweyes.

“It'll be easy enough.” Yelloweyes lowered his voice. “Already caught them in our nets, like fish out of the sea. We'll just wrap them back up, take them out on our boat. Throw the nets down into the water, like we always do. Who's to say what's tangled up in them…”

“Billie! The spirits!” The words, tiny noises, hissed out of the corner of Harry's mouth. “The Islanders' spirits, remember?!”

A fisherman's hand was covering Billie's face, but Harry could see her eyes. They flickered a few times, and then they squeezed so tightly shut that almost every other bit of her face clenched with the effort.
She
understood.
Harry checked the distance between the sack on the table and the brazier again and adjusted his boot so that it gripped the table leg even more securely. His eyes slanted to the door and he saw, propped next to it, an old rowing paddle.
The
last
bit
of
the
trick.

“Sure, we'll lose some good netting.” Yelloweyes was still muttering. “But that won't be hard to replace and—”

Harry tipped over the table. The sack slid off it, but Harry's boot flew up in time and kicked it at the exact angle he needed. The sack spun, arched through the air, and shot straight down toward the brazier, glancing against the steel rim and tumbling into the flames, which shot up, a furious green. Plumes of smoke sprawled, just like in Brother Jacques's hut but twenty times thicker, and Harry kept his gaze fixed on Billie. Her eyes were still shut, like two screwed-up fists, and he knew the plan would work as he squeezed his own eyes shut too.

“I can't see!”

“What have they done?”

“Don't let them get away!”

“My eyes! My eyes!”

The fishermen's fists fell away. The wooden floor shuddered as boots stumbled and bodies thudded to the ground. Every one of the fishermen, Harry knew, would be digging into their eyes, trying to rid them of that stinging blur, and he felt a faint stinging in his own eyes too as a few wisps found their way through the squeezed lids. He rolled over, boots thundering, hands scrabbling around him, and he kept his face as close as he could to the ground. Only then did he risk a blink.

“This way, Billie! Follow me!”

The smoke was thinner down by the ground. Harry saw scrambling boots, collapsing bodies, and beyond them, the boathouse door. He spotted Billie's hand and grabbed it. His eyes squeezed shut again, but that image of the boathouse door hovered on. He scrabbled forward, tugging Billie after him, and reached the door. He grabbed the paddle hanging from the hook behind it for the last part of the trick, just in time.

“The door! Get to the door, everyone! That's how they'll escape!” one of the fishermen yelled.

Harry held the paddle like a spear and flung it as hard as he could across the boathouse, aiming it so it would fly over the fishermen's heads. He heard a crash and the shattering of a window. The whole boathouse shuddered as every fisherman spun around in the direction of the sound.

“They're trying to get out the back!”

“Stop them!”

Just
like
a
trick.
Harry pulled Billie out onto the steps.
All
a
matter
of
making
your
audience
look
in
the
wrong
place
—and there was nowhere more pointless to look right now than on the other side of the boathouse. He stumbled down the stairs. His eyes were open, and he felt a little blurriness, a mild stinging, but that was all. He leaped onto the soft mud of the beach, Billie landing beside him. They reached their boat, and with a shove of his shoulder, Harry launched it.

“Maybe you were right about the Islanders' magic, Billie,” Harry said as they scrambled into the boat.

“What?”

“About it protecting you. Looks like it got you out of another sticky situation just now. Me too.” He couldn't help a tiny smile from forming on his face as he dug into the water with an oar. “Not a bad stunt, that.”

“Row, Harry! Row!”

They were out on the river, but Billie was pointing back at the boathouse. At the top of the steps, the fishermen were stumbling out through the door, their boots slithering in the wet sand, their fists still rubbing their eyes. Harry made out the voices of Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes, thundering through the rain.

“Stop them!”

Too
late.
Harry tugged on the oars, Billie pulled up the sail, and the boat glided away. Back on the shore, the fishermen were toppling down the steps onto the beach, and a few of them even managed to reach their boats, fumbling and cursing. A couple of skiffs bobbed away from the shore, but the occupants floundered, unable to see. Harry stopped rowing because the sail had caught the wind; the boat shot through the water, leaving the fishermen behind. Billie sat in the stern, looking back at the struggling shapes still visible on the shore. Rain trickled down her cheeks, and her eyes blazed.

“Don't worry. At least we managed to wreck their plan.” Harry slotted the oars into their holders. “If they go back, if they try and put anything under the mayor's bed, we'll tell everyone about it—the Islanders will never get the blame. Anyway, they haven't even got the stuff anymore; it's all gone up in smoke and—”

“It doesn't make any difference, does it?” Billie's head snapped around. Her eyes were glaring at him now, not the men on the shore. “Can't you see that? Can't you?”

The boat flew on. The rain fell even more thickly, coating Harry's face, but he felt it burn away almost immediately. The blush was back, even more powerful than before, and he felt blood throb in his cheeks, his jaw, even down his neck. He looked up at Billie and saw tears spilling from her eyes.

“Sorry, Harry. It's not your fault. It's just…” Her head sunk onto her chest. “So maybe we've managed to stop their plan. But the only reason it would have ever worked in the first place was because this whole city's rising up against the Islanders, isn't it? And we haven't done anything about that, have we?”

“I…I guess not…”

“You saw Oscar Dupont! You saw the crowd—they burned down one of the Islanders' huts, didn't they? Who knows what they'll do next! If they don't discover something under a floor, do you think it'll be long before they find another excuse?” She grabbed a rope. “As far as New Orleans is concerned, this demon curse is still on the loose. So it doesn't matter what we found out back there. The demon curse—until we discover the truth behind it, the Islanders are in as much danger as ever.”

“I know—”

The wind snatched the words from Harry's mouth. He tried to think of other ones, of anything to say at all, but his lips remained still. Crouched in the boat, he ran back over everything that had happened, ever since the moment when those two burly figures had appeared in Mayor Monticelso's office. He thought of how carefully he had followed the two men, how determinedly he had broken into the boathouse to spy on them, how certain he had been.
Wrong, wrong about everything…

“Come on.” Billie's voice was softer now. “Maybe Artie's discovered something. He said he'd have gotten through half of magic and folklore by now, remember?”

The rain drove harder against the sail, making the boat fly on. Clouds of mist swirled in the darkness. Billie frowned, but she seemed to be concentrating on the ropes of the boat, tugging at them so that the boat curved toward the city and its wharfs. Harry joined in, undoing knots.
Maybe
she's right; maybe Arthur will have found something.

The boat sailed up to a wharf. Billie tied it to a post, and Harry followed her along the wharf's planks. Together, they made their way through the rainy streets. The iron balconies dripped, and up in the sky, the dark clouds glimmered around their edges. Thunder echoed all around. Harry and Billie reached the main square and hurried over to the New Orleans Public Library, where a crowd had gathered outside.

Harry stopped. It was Oscar Dupont's mob. He recognized the placards and some of the faces too, even more fearful and hateful than the last time. People were joining the crowd all the time, pouring out of the surrounding streets. Some carried banners; some were carrying poles with lanterns dangling from them, each one bright with flames. In the middle of it all was Oscar Dupont, rain spattering off his bald head, his eyes gleaming, his arms jabbing as he addressed the crowd.
More
hateful
words
, thought Harry, but then he found himself listening to those words quite carefully, taking in each one.

“The demon curse! It has struck again!”

“What's that?” Billie was frozen beside Harry too. “What—”

“Follow me,” said Harry urgently.

He didn't quite recognize his own voice. It hung there in the rain, unusually high, as he threw himself into the crowd. His body felt unfamiliar and awkward too, his legs weak, his arms slow. He tried to push through the crowd and pushed again but remained where he was, and he wondered whether it would be possible to make his way to the front. But then the crowd broke apart in front of him, a corridor forming all the way up to the library's doors.

“Let them through!”

“They're his friends, aren't they?”

“Orphans from a swamp school! They came to city hall this morning!”

“Let them through!”

Harry ran. His legs trembled, but they kept moving under him, and he arrived at the library doors. Billie blundered into his back, and he saw that her face was pale, her mouth open. Together they ran into the hall and saw a group of men up at the top of the library's main staircase. They raced up the stairs, pushed past the men, and stumbled into a domed reading room.

Harry saw him.

He reached out and grabbed the corner of a desk, taking in the piles of books, the scattered papers.

And he saw the boy's body, slightly smaller than his own, spread out on the floor, his back arched, limbs shaking.

Arthur.