Day of the Djinn Warriors (13 page)

Groanin bent down and switched on the bedside light, intending to be helpful, but it had the opposite effect.

Faustina screamed.

“My hair!” she yelled. “What happened to my hair?”

“We think some of the tourists must have been helping themselves to cuttings of it,” said Philippa. “Don’t worry. It’ll grow back.”

Faustina shook her head and bit her lip. “But I look so pale. And what about those shadows under my eyes? I look like a vampire.”

“What do you expect?” said Philippa. “You haven’t seen the light of day for twelve years. Anyone would look a bit Gothic after what you’ve been through.”

“I suppose so,” admitted Faustina.

Faustina used Finlay’s hand to peek under the blankets of the bed in which her body was lying, and then screamed out loud, which was enough to make Groanin drop a glass of water that he’d just finished pouring to help him recover from his earlier shock.

“My clothes,” she yelled. “What happened to my clothes? Don’t tell me I was in that freak show — with no clothes on?”

“You had clothes on in the catacombs,” said Nimrod. “But Philippa took them off and threw them away.”

“Your clothes were in a shocking state,” explained Philippa. “All dusty and moth-eaten. And smelly, too. We couldn’t very well just leave you in them. Not in a hotel like this.”

“What am I going to wear?”

“Nimrod and I got you some clothes from the shops here in Venice,” said Philippa. “I think we got your size right. They’re in the closet.”

Finlay opened the closet and ran his fingers over a variety of expensive-looking designer clothes. “They look — very nice,” said Faustina, getting a grip on herself again. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Thank you, Philippa.”

“Look, if you don’t mind,” said John, who was still feeling Faustina’s blushes himself. “Can we get on with this? I think the sooner there are just us two guys in Finlay’s body, the better. It doesn’t feel right, Faustina being in here as
well. Poor Finlay hasn’t had a shower in two days. He doesn’t want to. Not in front of Faustina.”

“Isn’t that just ridiculous?” said Faustina. “As if I care.”

“You seemed to care quite a lot when I saw your naked body just now,” Finlay told Faustina.

“That was different,” insisted Faustina.

“John’s right,” said Nimrod. “Maybe we’d better get on with it. And then you can tell me about Mr. Rakshasas. And this ‘zombie’ of yours.”

“You make it sound like I made up the zombie,” said Faustina.

“Since you mention ‘sound,’” said Nimrod, “how certain are you about the word you heard? Try to remember. It could be important.”

“It was in the cavern where they were working,” said Faustina. “In China. There was a man there, different from the rest. I couldn’t say who he was except that he was wearing green armor.”

“Green armor,” said Nimrod.

“And it was him who used the word ‘zombie,’” said Faustina. “But the word seemed appropriate somehow, considering the way these guys were behaving. You know: dead, staring eyes and shuffling like they were in some kind of a trance.”

“The Chinese word for ‘zombie’ is something very different,” said Nimrod. “It’s
wui wan xi.”

Faustina thought for a moment and shook her head. “That wasn’t it.”

“It’s just that it’s not a word you would expect to hear in China,” said Nimrod. “‘Zombie’ is a corruption of the word
nzambi
, meaning ‘god,’ and comes from the Bantu language in Africa.”

“There was definitely an
om
or an
ong
sound in the word,” insisted Faustina. “And an
ee
sound on the end. I’m sure of that much.”

“Is it possible that the word that you thought you heard was actually
Dong Xi
?” asked Nimrod.

Faustina frowned. “
Dong Xi.
” She repeated the word several times. “Yes, I think it might have been.”

Nimrod was quiet for a moment.

“Well,” Philippa said brightly. “We solved that mystery, anyway. At least now we know what we’re dealing with. Sort of.”

“What’s a
Dong Xi
?” asked Faustina.

“A warrior devil,” said Groanin.

“Like a zombie,” said Philippa, “only worse. Much worse.”

She told Finlay and Faustina and John about what they’d discovered in the Library of Attila. “Now all we have to do is figure out the part about the bones of the great one called Ma Ko,” she said.

“Is that all?” muttered Groanin. “I say, is that all?”

F
rom his case, Nimrod produced a small syringe containing about a tablespoonful of blood. Finlay eyed the syringe uncomfortably.

“You’re not going to give me a shot, I hope,” said Faustina. “Because I hate shots.”

“No, no,” said Nimrod, showing Finlay the syringe. “Look, there’s no needle. Besides, this is blood. Your mother’s blood, to be specific. It will help to make up for the part of you that was lost when Dr. Thingummy took a sample of the prime minister’s blood when you were in possession of his body. It will give you a bit of color, I hope.” He glanced around. “Groanin, pull those curtains, would you? And open the windows. Let’s get some sunlight in here.”

“I still can’t believe I did that,” said Faustina. “I mean, that I took possession of the prime minister.”

“Call it youthful high spirits, shall we?” said Nimrod.

He sat down on the bed beside Faustina’s body.

“Anyway, there was no real harm done.”

“You think?” said Faustina. “I’ve been locked out of my body for twelve years.”

“I meant to the prime minister,” said Nimrod. “He’s been grateful to me ever since. Offered me a knighthood, which I turned down, of course.”

Everyone had crowded into the bedroom to see what would happen. Nimrod squirted a little of Jenny Sachertorte’s blood into Faustina’s mouth, and smeared some more onto her lips and cheeks, like rouge.

“I wish Mr. Rakshasas was here,” he said. “I’ve never actually done this before. I know what to do, but …” He smeared some blood onto her forehead and her earlobes. “You only need a very little, apparently.” He squirted the rest onto the gorge of her throat, just above her collarbone. “Italy’s a hot country of course, so that should make things easier.”

When the last of the blood was used, he sat back and waited to see the effect that was supposed to take place, and gradually, he did. They all did. Faustina’s skin reacted as if her mother’s blood had been poured onto a piece of blotting paper. Miraculously, all of it was absorbed, with not a trace of it left anywhere on her skin, and immediately restoring Faustina’s pallor to that of a living, normal person. Philippa gasped a little.

“Crikey,” said Finlay. “Are you sure she’s a djinn and not a vampire?”

“Shut up,” said Faustina.

Nimrod nodded with satisfaction. “Well, that seemed to be quite effective, wouldn’t you say?”

“What happens now?” asked Finlay.

“Now it’s up to you, Faustina,” said Nimrod. “If Mr. Rakshasas was right, you should be able to step back into your body without a hitch.”

“Here goes,” said Faustina. “Wish me luck.”

John and Finlay felt her slip out of Finlay’s body, each breathing a sigh of relief that there was now a lot more space. But the hotel room was warm and no one saw what happened next. Faustina lay down on the bed beside her body and rolled back into it. For a moment she just lay there, enjoying the sensation of being herself once again. Everything felt just the way she remembered it. Except for the fact that her scalp itched terribly. She needed to wash her hair. She tried to lift her hand to scratch her head. And nothing happened. She tried to speak. Silence. Panicking slightly, she tried to get out of her body and go back in again, but found that she could not move. In fact, she was stuck.

“Well?” said Groanin. “Shouldn’t something have happened by now?”

“Yes,” admitted Nimrod. He glanced around at Finlay. “You did feel her leaving your body, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“John,” said Nimrod, “slip out of Finlay and take a quick look around the room, in case she’s out here and we can’t see her.”

John was gone for a couple of minutes and when he went back into Finlay, he told Nimrod that there was no sign of her. “I called her name several times,” he said. “If she was a spirit she would have heard me.”

“Then she must be back inside her own body,” said Nimrod. “There’s nowhere else she could have gone.” He grabbed the bedside light and, bringing it near to her eyes, saw her pupils narrow slightly. “As I thought. She’s back in her body. Only she’s paralyzed.” He stood up. “Groanin, pick her up and carry her out onto the terrace. Put her on the sun lounger in direct sunlight. That might do the trick.”

Groanin wrapped Faustina in a sheet and carried her outside onto the jasmine-scented terrace. In the distance, a heavy church bell was tolling dolefully, as if marking the failure of their venture.

Nimrod leaned forward and searched her eyes again. “I imagine she can hear every word we say,” he said. “But after all these years she can’t move a muscle. Hardly surprising when you think about it. Mr. Rakshasas warned me that something like this might happen.”

“Now what?” John asked anxiously. “What are we going to do?”

“We need to administer an anaphylactic shock,” said
Nimrod. “Something that will cause her body to undergo a massive allergic reaction to something relatively harmless.”

“You mean like peanut butter?” said Philippa.

“In a way,” said Nimrod.

“But how? She can’t eat anything.”

Nimrod took out his wallet and handed Groanin a business card and a fistful of money. “Groanin, I want you to go back to the place where we left the car and then drive to Padua. Go to the address on that card and speak to a local pig farmer called Cesare Medici. Give him the money and tell him there’s more if he comes straight back here with you. Tell him we urgently require the assistance of his little friends. He’ll know exactly what you mean. You’ll easily recognize him. He often wears a very long beard. Which reminds me; don’t be nervous when you see him. He’s a little bit eccentric.”

“Eccentric?” said Groanin, feeling nervous already. “Eccentric how? Your idea of eccentric is a little bit more eccentric than what most folk would think of as eccentric. Your idea of an eccentric is very likely what most folk would call ‘monster raving loony.’”

“Perhaps I ought to keep Groanin company,” suggested John. “I mean, Finlay and I.”

“Thank you, Finlay,” said Groanin. “I mean, John. Whoever you are.”

“Oh, very well,” said Nimrod. “Philippa and I will go and look at the sights while we’re waiting for you to come back.
Padua’s not very far. It shouldn’t take you more than two or three hours. Oh, yes. And make sure you buy some of the special honey. Cesare Medici’s special honey is the best in the world.”

From the hotel, Groanin and Finlay took a boat back to the parking lot in the east of the city, and then drove south to Padua, which is the oldest medieval town in Italy, and the setting for one of Shakespeare’s least funny comedies. As Nimrod had predicted, it took about an hour to drive there and to find Cesare Medici’s pig farm.

As they drove up to the house, Groanin rolled down the window and sniffed the air suspiciously. “I must say, it doesn’t smell much like a pig farm,” he said, looking at a sign on the gate that read
PROFUMO VIETATO/PERFUME FORBIDDEN.
“Now why would someone want to forbid the use of perfume on a pig farm? Pigs smelling the way they do.”

“Maybe perfume irritates the pigs,” suggested John. “Maybe you should stay in the car when we get there.”

“If I was wearing perfume, I might agree with you,” said Groanin. “But I’m not. I’m wearing Viola del Pensiero. A very expensive men’s aftershave. I got it at a duty-free shop in Venice.”

“Aftershave’s just perfume for men, isn’t it?” said John.

“It is not,” Groanin said stiffly. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

“Anyway, it’s not the pigs that smell,” said Finlay. “It’s the food they eat. I read that somewhere.”

“I can’t smell anything except Groanin’s aftershave,” John complained.

“It is pretty powerful, isn’t it?” agreed Finlay.

“Leave off talking about my aftershave,” said Groanin. “I say, leave off talking about it, will you?”

Groanin stopped the car in the farmyard and looked around. A small girl about six years old came out of the farmhouse and looked at them inquisitively. Groanin tried a big toothy smile on her.
“Signor Medici, per favore?”
he said in an excruciating Manchester Italian accent.

The little girl came over and pointed at a peach orchard.

“Grazie,”
said Groanin. He and Finlay started to walk in the direction indicated. “So far, so good,” he said. “Nothing much eccentric about her. Or here. This is right nice, this is. Just smell that peach blossom.”

Finlay and John agreed. It really did seem like an idyllic spot. Birds were singing, bees were buzzing, distant church bells were ringing. It was Italy at its nicest. At the far end of the orchard they saw a man with an enormous brown beard. They waved to him but he did not wave back. But very slowly and stiffly he started to walk toward them as if there might have been something wrong with his back.

“Nimrod was right, you know,” said Groanin. “Talk about Rumpelstiltskin. Signor Medici does have the most enormous beard. You could hide a battalion in a beard like that.”

“Maybe it’s my imagination,” said Finlay as they neared the man. “But his beard seems to be
growing.”

And even as Finlay spoke, Signor Medici’s thick brown beard appeared to grow at least another two or three inches, from his chest down past his belly button.

“It’s not growing,” said John. “It’s moving.”

“And it’s not a beard at all,” said Finlay. “At least not a beard that’s made of hair. Those are bees on his face and chest. Honeybees.” Smiling nervously at the man now standing immediately in front of them, he said, “Good afternoon. Signor Medici?”

“Yes?” said Signor Medici, speaking English. “What can I do for you?” Apart from his bush hat and his bee beard he was a hard man to describe.

The air was noisy with the loud humming of bees now. Groanin turned to leave and saw that they were surrounded by beehives. The peach orchard was full of them.

“No, I wouldn’t make any sudden moves, if I were you, Englishman,” said Signor Medici. Even as he spoke, his beard was getting smaller and the bees were landing on Groanin’s shoulders. “In fact, you would be well advised to keep quite still and not to panic. They won’t harm you if you keep calm, okay?”

Groanin closed his eyes as a swarm of about fifty thousand bees settled on his double chin and his fat neck. “Blimey,” he muttered, and blew one away from his mouth. “Help.”

“I wouldn’t speak, either,” said Signor Medici. “In case they go in your mouth and you swallow one. Internal stings
are always the worst. You must be wearing some kind of aftershave.”

“And how,” said Finlay. “He reeks of the stuff. Viola del Pensiero, I think he said it was, if that helps at all.”

“That explains it,” said Signor Medici. “Did you not see the sign on the gate? The one that says ‘Perfume Forbidden.’”

“He thought that you meant women’s perfume,” said Finlay, trying to ignore the solitary bee that was crawling in his hair. He could only imagine what Groanin was feeling like, covered with bees. Groanin whimpered quietly as Signor Medici sniffed the air around him.

“Can you help him out here, Signor Medici?” asked Finlay.

“Your friend,” said Signor Medici. “He smells just like the peach blossom.” He chuckled. “That’s what they like, my little friends. The smell of the peach blossom.” The chuckle turned into a shrug. “He’ll be all right, your friend, if he no make any sudden moves. Bees, they no like sudden moves. But I’ll fix him, no problem.”

Now that the bees had left Signor Medici’s face, Finlay and John could see he was clean-shaven and completely unharmed by the bees. A small, blue-eyed man, with a round face that belonged in a Warner Brothers cartoon. He went to one of the many beehives and took out a frame containing a whole honeycomb. He put this in a large cardboard box and then laid it in front of Groanin. Then, using his hands,
Signor Medici started to gently brush the bees into the box and, gradually, Groanin lost his buzzing beard.

“Thank goodness for that,” he said. “I thought I was toast. I say, I thought I was toast.”

“That would be toast and honey, I imagine,” said Finlay.

“You can laugh, young man,” Groanin said angrily, “but it’s not so comical when you’re the one with a crowd of bees on your mug. I thought my time had come.”

“My little friends, they like your perfume,” said Signor Medici. “That’s what the sign on the gate is for. Can’t you read English?”

So those were the little friends that Nimrod had meant
, thought John.
Bees. But what could bees do for Faustina? Unless he meant …

“There’s nothing wrong with my English,” insisted Groanin. “For one thing, I’m as English as bread and butter. And for another, that’s not perfume I’m wearing.” Groanin mopped his large, heavily perspiring head with a handkerchief. “Not anymore. That’s the sweat of sheer terror, Signor Medici.”

“Why did you come here, anyway?” asked Signor Medici.

“We came on an errand of mercy,” said Finlay. “Our friend in Venice has an urgent need of an anaphylactic shock. We were told your little friends might help.”

“You mean it’s some bees we’re after?” Groanin asked Finlay.

“Sì, sì,”
said Signor Medici. “As well as a beekeeper, I am a registered bee therapist. Bee venom is good for all kinds of
ailments: poor circulation, arthritis, asthma, skin disorders, depression.”

“Depression?” said Groanin. “How’s that work then?”

“If you get stung a few times you don’t think so much about your other problems,” said Signor Medici. “Did you bring money?”

Groanin handed him a wad of cash. The Italian counted it and nodded.

“Okay. I find some of my little friends, put them in a box, and then we go.”

“Can we get some special honey, too, please?” asked Finlay.

“Special honey? What do you know about my special honey?”

“Nothing,” said Finlay. “Just that we were told to make sure we bought some.”

Signor Medici counted the money again. “Okay. You give me enough. I will give you some special honey as well.”

“What’s so special about it?” Groanin asked.

Signor Medici laughed. “I will tell you in the car.”