Cemetery Dance

LES POUPÉES VAUDOU

MAGIE NOIR

MAGIE ZWARTE, MAGIE ROUGE

SORCELLERIE, HEXEREI MAGIE

RITUEL DE PROSPÉRITÉ FORMULES ET POTIONS MAGIQUES

The shop's filthy front window had a huge crack across it, repaired with duct tape. The rest was almost entirely obscured by bizarre hanging objects — bundles of hair, skin, feathers, canvas, straw, and other more obscure and vile — looking materials.

D'Agosta eyed the shop. "You're kidding, right?"

"After you, my dear Vincent."

D'Agosta got out, Pendergast following. The door to the shop opened with a groan of rusty hinges, setting off a tinkling of bells. D'Agosta was immediately overwhelmed with the cloying smell of patchouli, sandalwood, herbs, and old meat. An ancient African American looked up from behind the counter. Upon spying Pendergast in his black suit, the man's face abruptly shut down, like the slamming of a door. He had a tight helmet of gray hair, and his face was pockmarked and remarkably wrinkled.

"May I help you?" The flat tone and blank stare managed to convey the exact opposite sentiment.

"Are you Monsieur Ravel, the Obeahman?"

The man did not answer.

"I am Aloysius Pendergast, of the New Orleans Pendergasts. Very glad to make your acquaintance." He came forward, hand extended, employing his richest New Orleans parlance.

The man stared at the proffered hand, clearly unmoved.

"Pendergast, formerly of the Maison de la Rochenoire, Dauphine Street," the agent went on. His outstretched hand did not falter. D'Agosta was amazed at how quickly Pendergast could assume a completely new personality. This one appeared to be that of an affable, eccentric New Orleans aristocrat.

"Maison de la Rochenoire?" A glimmer of recognition kindled in the bloodshot eyes. "The one that was burned back in '71?"

Now Pendergast leaned forward and said, in a low voice, "Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi."

A long silence, and then Ravel raised an enormous hand. Pendergast clasped it in his.

"Welcome."

"This is my associate, Mr. D'Agosta."

The man inclined his head.

"The others — they are frauds," said Pendergast. "Thieves and scroungers. You — you are different. I know I can trust your root — work and merchandise."

The man inclined his head in agreement and said nothing, but D'Agosta could see he was grudgingly pleased by the compliment.

"May I?" Pendergast gestured with an ivory hand around the interior of the shop.

"Look, but please do not touch."

"Naturellement."

As Pendergast began one of his leisurely strolls, hands clasped behind his back, peering into everything, D'Agosta glanced around the shop. It was packed with hanging bundles; cabinets that ran from floor to ceiling with hundreds of tiny drawers; perfume containers; tins and small boxes; shelves of glass bottles containing herbs, colored earths, liquids, twisted roots, and dried insects. Everything had tiny labels, meticulously handwritten in French.

Pendergast returned to the shopkeeper. "Most impressive. And now, Monsieur Ravel, I must make a purchase. A rather unfortunate purchase. It seems a friend of mine has been made the target of magie noir. I need to make a preparation, anarrêt. "

"Tell me the ingredients, and I will get them." Ravel placed a tightly woven basket on the counter.

"Bois — caca leaf."

The man came from around the counter and darted a hand at a high drawer, pulled it out, removed a wrinkled leaf, and placed it in the basket. It gave off a fearful smell.

"Bones of a white cockerel and flesh of a curly cock, crushed with its feathers."

Another swift procurement from an obscure corner of the shop.

D'Agosta watched the process with mounting incredulity. Pendergast was acting a little strangely. He wondered if it had anything to do with the agent's extended trip to Tibet last summer, or the difficult ocean crossing he'd endured. Or maybe it was yet another hidden facet of Pendergast's personality that he was glimpsing for the first time.

"Alligator's tooth and champagne verte."

A small vial of liquid was added to the growing pile.

"Powdered human bone."

At this, Ravel hesitated, went into the back of the shop, emerged with a small stepladder, reached up above one of the cabinets, and brought down a glassine packet of the kind used by drug dealers. It was filled with ivory powder. He added it to the basket, eyes on Pendergast.

"Water used to wash a corpse."

A longer pause before Ravel returned with the requested item.

"Holy water." At this, Ravel stopped, staring at Pendergast. Then, once again, he went into the back and returned with a tiny ampoule. "Will that be all, I hope?"

"One thing more."

Ravel waited.

"A consecrated host."

A long, hard stare. "Monsieur Pendergast, it seems your friend… is facing something a bit more dangerous than mere black magic."

"True."

"Perhaps this is out of my league, monsieur."

"I had so hoped you could help me. My friend's life is in danger — grave danger."

Ravel gazed at Pendergast sadly. "You are aware of the consequences to you, monsieur, for employing the envoi morts arrêt?"

"I am well aware."

"This friend must be very dear to you."

"She is."

"She. Ah, I see. This… host you ask for, it's going to cost."

"Expense is no object."

Ravel dropped his eyes and seemed to think for a long time. Then, with a long sigh, he turned and disappeared out a side door. After several minutes, he returned with a small glass disk made from two large watch — glasses, fitted together and sealed with silver trim, inside which was a single wafer. He laid it carefully in the basket.

"That will be one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars, monsieur."

D'Agosta watched in disbelief as Pendergast slipped his hand into his jacket, removed a thick sheaf of crisp bills, and peeled them off.

As soon as they were back in the Rolls, Pendergast cradling the basket of items, D'Agosta exploded. "What in heck was that all about?"

"Careful, Vincent, do not jar the merchandise."

"I can't believe you just shelled out a thousand bucks for that woo — woo crap."

"There are many reasons, and if you could transcend your emotions you would see why. First, we have established our bona fides with Monsieur Ravel, who might in the future turn out to be an informant of no little importance. Second, the individual pursuing Nora may well believe in Obeah, in which case thearrêt we are about to fashion could be a deterrent. Finally" — and here he lowered his voice—"ourarrêt might work."

"Might work? You mean, if a real zombii is after Nora?" D'Agosta shook his head in disbelief.

"I prefer to call it an envoi mort."

"Whatever. The idea is ridiculous." D'Agosta stared at Pendergast. "You told that guy your house in New Orleans was burned by a mob. Your aunt Cornelia made some reference to it, as well. Was that where you learned about this voodoo and Obeah? Were you involved with that shit when you were young?"

"I'd prefer not to answer that. Instead, let me ask a question: have you ever heard of Pascal's Wager?"

"No."

"A lifelong atheist is on his deathbed. He suddenly asks for a priest so he can confess and be absolved. Is he behaving logically?"