“Rise,” he commanded the air.
One by one, the bodies on the ground began to stir. The eerie snapping of bones forcing themselves back into place, limbs twitching, as the creatures righted themselves. They rose again, not dead, and yet not fully alive either. In their eyes glowed a strange purplish light, a cold flame that should never burn.
“Jon? What is this?”
But, saints, she knew. This was the magic that lived beyond the Veil. This was death. And they were zombi. The undead circled around Jon, ready to heed their Conjurer. The hair on Marie’s arms stood on end as she watched the zombi gather around him, awaiting his command. Another stench filled the air, stronger even than the smell of death. It was spilled rum, the ash from a burning cigarette, the cool darkness of grave soil.
Jon’s head suddenly snapped backward. He remained that way—frozen, his face directed upward—as if someone had pulled him by an invisible string.
“Jon?” But he was not Jon.
The loa were here. But he was not simply channeling one of the divines. He had been mounted—fully. His head snapped back into place. When he lifted his face to hers, Marie saw that white powder had been smeared across his cheeks in the shape of a skeleton. His eyes black as pitch. In that moment, Jon was no more.
He was Baron Samedi now.
Jon’s lips twisted as he tipped his top hat at her. “Marie Laveau. Hello, chère.”
He Who Holds Lordship over Death. There were other Barons, but Samedi was the head of the death gods, their supreme. Marie stood motionless before the loa of death. She felt herself within his cold grasp, her throat packed with ash and soil, unable to speak.The Baron did not entreat her for words, nor excuses. He demanded only that she listen and listen well.
The death god stepped toward Marie, the floorboards creaking beneath his ancient weight. He wore Jon’s body easily, a well-tailored suit that fit him just right.
“You keep thinking you can float on between two sides. Back and forth. Back and forth,” the Baron drawled, making a crawling motion with his fingers in the air. “But you ain’t gonna be able to do that much longer, little girl. War is a’comin’. Choose now, and choose good,” the loa ordered, all mirth vanished from his voice. “Orwewill choose for you, witch.”
He would not ask again. This was her only warning.
And then he laughed, a dark, full-throated sound that could crack the sky in half. Jon snapped back to himself, gasping, his eyes light and shining again.
Marie stared at him. He hadletit happen. He had welcomed Baron Samedi into his soul fully, completely, because he had wanted her to take his terrible heed. She understood now that this was not Jon’s will; he was but a pawn in a much larger game. They both were.
But there was no time. In a snap of air, the curtain rose with a flourish.
For a moment, no one dared move. A breathless hush fell over the crowd staring down at the stage, a thousand eyes trying to comprehend what their dull minds could not.
Jon lifted a finger, pointing into the crowd at all those frozen faces.Go, have your fill.
Slowly, the dead began to walk again.
A woman screamed. Then another, until panic exploded like glass, the air crowded with shrieking terror. People surged toward the entrance. But the door was locked. Marie should know. She had locked it. Marie flexed her fingers, still feeling the heat from Legba’s power. She watched as the theater dissolved into a frenzy of silk and carnage.
The zombi fell upon the crowd, moving with feral resolve. Their groaning mouths sank fervently into the flesh of the spectators, skin and bone torn in eager handfuls. A redheaded woman in ivy wasdragged down by her vines, sinking to the floor, where she was wildly feasted upon by the reanimated chimera-man. Another spectator went streaking by Marie, his throat rendered completely open. Blood painted the air. Still Marie would not open the door.
She saw Corbin frozen in their midst. His eyes swept from Jon slowly to Marie. She smiled back, delighted by his fear.I know you’ve broken your own rules,her smile said.Your rules mean nothing now.An alchemist suddenly appeared at his side, seized him by the arm, and in a flash of pewter smoke they vanished from the room.Cowards. Let them run.
Gailon remained, surrounded by a handful of his men. His dark eyes were fixed on Jon with the fascination of a man watching a play conclude its final act. “Jon the Conjurer. You dare violate the natural order of things by playing with the dead?” The alchemist spoke as if he were a thing to be dissected, a specimen in his white-gloved hand.
Slowly, Jon descended the steps, putting himself directly in front of Marie, between her and Gailon. “No more than you dare desecrate the living, alchemist. They were people.Mypeople.”
“People?” Gailon sneered. He held up a hand, as if in correction. “Three-fifthsa person.” A toying gleam touched his eyes. “If that.”
Jon spat upon the ground, teeth bared.Your truth, but never mine.I spit you out like poison.
Chaos still reigned around them all. The zombi fed with wild abandon. But Jon did not seem to notice. The Grand Wizard had his full attention now. “The infamous Brotherhood of the White Hand.” Jon’s voice dripped with mockery and musing. He held out a hand, beckoning the alchemist to dance. “Come with it then.”
One of the alchemists lunged forward. Jon turned to him, eyes narrowed, and Marie felt the chill of death in the air, the subtle shift as it seized upon the alchemist, who froze in place, trembling. He touched a pale hand to his cheek and let out a horrified whine when his hand came back sticky and wet, flesh clinging to his fingers. Flesh. Slowly, skin began to slough from the alchemist’s face, and beneath that, muscle peeled from bone.
He is rotting from the inside out.
Marie stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the frighteningimage of skin falling from place as easily as butter slid from a dish, the horrible gut-turning stench of rot as the alchemist crumbled into nothing at all. A second alchemist cried out, lifting his staff, white hair rippling behind him in a fury as he advanced toward Jon. He too froze midair, screeching wildly as his skin withered and curled from his skull like singed parchment, then peeled, dropping in wet clumps until he wasted down to nothing.
