She took her hand away after she had rubbed Dex's head with gem fragments. Licking her hand, she swallowed blood and crystal rock. When she was done, her hand was clean and whole. Taking a deep breath, she reared her head back. Then she spat, spraying Dex's face with more blood and broken precious stone. He gasped, then sagged against Kueur.
His sex in hand, she led him toward the Box's soundproof door between the kitchen and the bedroom. Alioune supported him as he took small, stumbling steps. She rubbed his back at first, then ripped his shirt with her nails. Dex shuddered where she raked his flesh. They led him like a crippled beast into the Box, cooing and crooning tenderly about the healing powers of their love into his good ear. Kueur paused at the doorway, started to turn her head, but stopped suddenly before Max could catch a glimpse of her face. Alioune hurried forward, pushing Dex before her. The door to the Box closed only partway, as if they had forgotten all their training in discretion and safety for the modern Western world.
The winter's weak afternoon sun was streaming into the loft. Max picked up the remote control and drew the horizontal blinds across the scenic window. The mambo lay curled around the tree's planter, eyes closed, sucking on an orange. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Tung had both withdrawn, leaving only two of their associates monitoring equipment. Max wondered if their remote-sensing devices could hear the Beast within him, feel his lust stiff and hot between his legs, see whether the life growing inside him was a boy, a girl, or a monster.
"How?" he asked no one in particular. "Why?"
No one answered. Not the twins, not the legion of men and women walking on paths of supernatural wisdom, not the far-off databases linked to the faintly humming portable computers in the alcove.
Alone.
Looking down the length of the prayer rug at the bulge, he had to laugh. No, not quite alone. He put his hand under the rug, on his belly. His skin was hot. He pressed down gently with his fingers. Inside him, something moved. Kicked.
Max drew his hand away, sucked in breath, waited. Nothing else happened. The past few days of nausea and paralysis came into focus, and he pictured himself carrying an alien other, giving it sustenance, nurturing its existence with his life. He felt as if a wandering ghost had come to live in the worn shell of his body, making painful demands, promising nothing in return. Worse than a demon, whose bold needs and overt methods offered the challenge of battle, the thing within him had insinuated itself into his life without his ever being aware of the intrusion. It enjoyed a subtle intimacy with his body without his knowledge. It used him, robbed him, with every breath he took, as it built a fresh new form for itself out of the antique remnants and battered ruins of his body.
It was as close to him as the Beast had ever been, but at the same time remote. He did not know its feelings or desires. It sapped his strength instead of providing him with power. It did not answer his questions, explain its meaning. By the speed of the entity's growth and silence, it wanted as little to do with him as possible. Max had never felt so old or useless. There was nothing to fight, nothing to do but wait for the baby to leave him.
The child moved again. This time the Beast rattled the bones of Max's body, hissing at the realization that it had to share its host with another. Fed by the Beast, Max's sense of abandonment grew into fear, then revulsion.
Fingers curled, nails scratched at skin. The Beast's rage stoked the fires of Max's resentment, built on fear, until he wanted to tear away his belly and rip out the parasitic creature that had dared nest in his body. He raised his hand. The rug fell away. He stared at his rounded belly, then looked up at his thick, blunt fingers poised to attack.
A knife. He needed a knife. He sat up, thoughts speeding beyond his control, the Beast barking and yipping, driving him every time nausea or dizziness or instinct urged him to pause, consider, stop. Pushing himself off of the couch, Max prepared to hurl himself into the kitchen.
He took a step. Another. Then his legs gave way as if bones and muscle had been sucked out and replaced with fat. He collapsed, broke the fall with his forearms, rolled, came to a halt on his back, breathing hard. The Beast gnawed at his will and snapped at his emotions, but Max lay still, momentarily exhausted, empty.
"Need help?" one of the alcove attendants asked, stepping into the loft with his assistant.
"Fuck off," Max said, letting the Beast into his voice. The two men stopped. Reached up as if to adjust missing sunglasses, straightened ties instead, withdrew.
"It hasn't got a soul, you know," the mambo said in a low, lazy voice, squeezing words past all the food she had eaten. "That's why you can't hear it inside you. That's why you can't feel the bond that links it to you. It's a dead thing, though it has a heartbeat."
"What?" Max asked, raising himself on his elbows. He crawled around the couch on his back until he could see the mambo at the foot of the tree. "Who talks?"
"An old friend."
"I have none. Only dead enemies."
"Not so old, then."
"Who?"
"Legba." The mambo opened her eyes, smiled, waved fingers at him. Drool and chewed bits of food fell from her mouth. "I caused you some inconvenience not long ago."
"Ogo," Max said, remembering the African god, the twins' father, who had recently tracked Kueur and Alioune to America and attempted to use them in fulfilling his quest for his lost twin. Legba had opened doorways for Ogo, as was his power to do.
The Beast urged him to continue to the kitchen, but Max forced himself to focus on the mambo. Instinct told him to sift through the veils of sensation, delusion, and illusion; to listen, reason, understand what was happening.
"That was business. Favor owed."
"I didn't think it was personal. I've never involved myself with you. Why do you care about what's happening to me?"
The mambo shook her head from side to side. "Not necessary to care. Not necessary for involvement. Things happen. Places come and go, like the Nowhere House." The mambo's face suddenly tightened, and her eyes blazed with penetrating focus. "Doors open and close. Like the doors in the House of Spirits, in Painfreak," she said, her voice a guttural growl warped by an odd accent.
The first reference eluded him, but the second clicked. The recent trip Max had taken to the floating, undying sex club in which he had thought the twins imprisoned flashed past him. He remembered finding his way to one of its many wings, the House of Spirits, and walking down a hall with doors, some open, revealing rooms, one with a pool of blood and a four-armed, black-skinned woman wearing a necklace of heads. She had offered him a lotus, a sword, and his reflection in her eyes. The image of her offer had opened the way to his escape from the House of Spirits, but not to his redemption. A chill raced up Max's spine. He shivered, covered his genitals with a hand.
The mambo's face relaxed into its normal visage of possession by the loa. "Sometimes a hand reaches out across doorways. Favors asked for are favors to be returned." The mambo shrugged her shoulders. Her head lolled to the side. "Followers come and go, rise, mostly fall. I'm an old man. I like my steady meal. I help the balance here for someone else, and somewhere else the balance is helped for me."
Max grunted as he made his way back to the couch. As he climbed back on, the mambo stretched, went on all fours, shook crumbs from her blouse and skirt like a dog shaking water from its hair. She stood, leaned on the cane, and looked to Max.
"So who asks you to help me?" Max asked.
"She does not want her name revealed," the mambo said, glancing at the men in the alcove. "But she feels you are not so ignorant as to forget a phone call she once made to you."
Max nodded. Returning from his misadventure in Painfreak's House of Spirits, the same voice that had ridden over the loa had left a message that melted his phone and answering machine. The words were etched in his memory by the smell and. smoke from burning plastic: "Tread gently on the paths of the dead, my son. They are not as generous as the living, nor as forgiving."
"Won't I ever be rid of the dead?" Max whispered, then laughed at his own dullness. Not as long as I kill, he answered himself silently.
"Not as long as you kill," whispered the mambo, half mocking, half growling in the other's voice.
Max stared at the mambo, her words reverberating in-side him. He decided he could trust her loa more than he could most mortals and spirits he had dealt with, except the twins. He gathered the prayer rug and covered his lap, asking, "So what is the favor you need to do for me?"
"Keep watch," she answered, slowly coming around the couch. "See what comes through the doors, what leaves."
"Anything lately?"
"Oh, yes, much traffic." Her eyes darted back and forth dramatically, and then she giggled.
"What did this to me?"
"You did," she said, pointing her cane at him.
"If you're here to help me, do it. Stop playing games.”
“You're the one who's played games. For so many years, you played with innocents. Rape, torture, murder, games like that."
"I stopped. I'm no longer ruled by my Beast. The innocents don't have to be afraid of me anymore."
"But should you still be afraid of the innocents you killed?"
Fear tripped Max's quick answer. He thought he had left his past behind in the House of Spirits. Had he been found again? "The scarves," he said, glancing around the loft. Fighting down panic, he expected to see the scarlet silk that had housed the ghosts of his victims and lured him into Painfreak, into their embrace. The Beast whimpered within.
At that moment, Dex screamed. His cry pierced the loft, startling the men in the alcove. Even Max jumped, half turning and raising his arms to defend against a blow. Pain in the small of his back came as a second surprise, and he eased into a prone position on the couch. The mambo came around, eyes closed, mouth puckered as if savoring the long, drawn-out release of mortal suffering. She felt her way to the table with her cane, then knelt as if in prayer until Dex was silent.
The scream continued for Max, until he realized he was remembering the sound of his own pain when the scarves had seized him in the House of Spirits, when the ghosts of the women he had sacrificed to appease his own and the Beast's hunger had taken him. Entered him. Raped him with his own dark needs and their pain.
No one will ever love you the way I will, the scarves had said.
"The scarves . . ." said Max, giving up his search for red silk. He stared at his belly. Raped. With no seed or womb, what did the spirits of women have to plant in the flesh of living men?
The memory of women and their wombs. The sorrow of giving birth to children, loving them, leaving them behind in the midst of joy or anger, regretting things said and unsaid. And most potent of all, the terrible yearning for the children that might have been brought into the world.
The spirits of the dead had planted the shade of their life-giving power in their life-taker's flesh. The pain of missing not only their own lives, but the lives they had or night have created mingled with his twisted appetites. In the heat of his suffering, on the forge of his agony, the two needs had twined together and linked like strands of DNA. And like DNA, the product of that joining had haunted and shaped the living matter of his body, constructing something new following the secret design of merged desires.
Max wiped the sweat suddenly beading on his brow. Fever burned like glowing coals, as if thoughts leapt and raced so quickly they were setting fire to his flesh. With sickening clarity, he saw how the past had reached out to plant the promise of the future in the living present. What grew inside him now was an idea, an emotion, a potential lost; the union between material and ghostly worlds. What would the future bring?
Was he harboring the avenger of the innocents he had killed? Was the thing waiting to be born so it could kill him, or was the creature in him working its vengeance on his body as it grew, tormenting him, slowly destroying him? The Beast roused itself from its terror and barked an alarm, pushing Max to take action.
"Took a while for the child to take root, didn't it?" the mambo asked, startling Max out of his reverie. "What else can you expect from ghost seeding human, and neither one with the right tools or plumbing? The poor thing's lucky to have taken at all." The mambo hesitated, glancing at Max's belly. "Or unlucky. The bridal bed must have been a place of power."
Dex screamed again, thin and high-pitched at first, his wail tumbling into a guttural, gasping series of cries, as if something vital were being plucked out of his body. Kueur's laughter bubbled out of the Box. "
C'est bon?
" she asked. Alioune's voice wove through theirs, binding sounds of pain and pleasure with the grumbling of raw, inarticulate hunger.
Max shook his head. "I have to kill it," he said, the urgency rising once again in him. "Get rid of this thing. Now." He started to rise, throwing off the prayer rug.
The mambo pressed her hand against his naked belly, pushing him down. The palm of her hand was like a blazing iron on his skin, and he shifted away from her on the couch.
"That's not what you have to worry about yet," she said.
"Get out of my way, loa."