Emma Bull - Bone Dance

“Me?” I shrugged. “It’s swearing, not invocation. You pick up habits from your neighbors.”

“If you were hoodoo, maybe you would swear by somebody else. Chango is not the master of your head. That’s Legba’s symbol around your neck, you know.”

My hand went to my throat before I thought about it. Sherrea’s pendant was lying outside my shirt. “No, I didn’t know.”

China Black nodded. “It is always in Legba’s veves: the figure for androgyny and metamorphosis. It is why Legba and all his cousin spirits keep the gates and the crossroads. Do you like practical jokes? Legba is a trickster.”

She seemed to want a response, but I couldn’t think of one. The gates I worked had to do with semiconductor technology, and in the last few days I’d discovered I had a positive distaste for change. As for practical jokes, it could be suggested that I was one. I certainly wasn’t going to take up the matter of androgyny with her.

“So your information was that three people—or maybe four—would appear, join forces, and raise whatever passes for hell in this pantheon,” said Frances thoughtfully. “You think we might be them. Pigs might get pilot’s licenses, too, but I don’t think so.”

China Black didn’t seem insulted. “How so?”

“I’ve come to raise a very limited and specific sort of hell, in a localized area. You found the three of us in close proximity because what I’m about to do would be likely to splatter on Mick and Sparrow if they’re nearby. Far from joining forces with them, I was hoping to get them out of range before I started.”

“That’s very noble of you,” said Mr. Lyle, his dark face exquisitely grave. It had been so long since he’d last spoken that I jumped a little.

Frances, equally grave, ignored him. I saw Mr. Lyle smile out of the corner of my eye. “If you think the text of all these messages from beyond is that you should help me,” Frances said to China Black, “then you could hide Mick and Sparrow, and tell me about anyone highly placed and crazy enough to be Tom Worecski on his horse.”

Beside me, Mr. Lyle made a dreadful sound. It was laughter, I realized, genuine merriment distorted by that broken voice. “You’re trying to force the world into a shape. You were a soldier. Do you know the saying ‘No battle plan survives contact with the enemy’?”

Frances turned to him, her face very still. “More so with some enemies than with others,” she said at last. “Yes. Point taken. In the meantime, shall I plan on help from you, or hindrance?”

“We cannot help you,” said China Black. She stood very straight by the fireplace, once again the stern, judging image. “We were warned, I think, of your coming. The loa never said we were to serve your cause.”

It was the word “serve” that did it. China Black had received no instructions. But Sherrea—or a voice in her mouth—had given some to me. They couldn’t be connected to this. If they meant anything at all.

The front doors rattled under three solid blows. Frances was on her feet, the butter knife held low in one hand. I’d risen, too, I realized, but my hands were empty, and I was wondering about other exits.

The door banged open, and a voice yelled, “China? Where are you?”

“ Ti-so !” China said, her grim look melting. “Come quick!” The intruder appeared in the door, disheveled and wide-eyed. It was Sherrea. She wore a black tank top and purple harem pants that looked like a pair of collapsed dirigibles, and a gold-shot sash around her hips that flailed the air behind her. Her neck and arms were hung with amber.

“You see, I have found them for you!” cried China Black, looking nearly as smug as her dog had.

“Sparrow!” Sher crossed the room in a leap, stopped before me, and put a light hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, because something stiff in my throat kept me from speaking. Her hand slid off my arm.

“ Gracias, mi hermana ,” Sher said to China Black, beaming. “Was it a bitch to do?”

“Oh, no, they were wandering around the Night Fair like old women on market day.”

“Were you?” Sherrea asked me intently.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. The old crow just wants to save it up ‘til she can make me feel guilty about all the work she did.”

“Pah! I would never be so stupid. I know you have no conscience at all, so!”

They were friends. They were good friends. I felt as I had at the Underbridge, when I heard her call Robby by his nickname, when I discovered she knew Theo.

“…Theo!” I gasped. “Sher, where’s Theo? Is he okay?”

She blinked and turned to China Black. “You didn’t explain?”

“There were more important things to discuss.”

“Sure. I bet you forgot,” Sher grumbled, scowling. She sent that glare at Mr. Lyle next. “ You could have said something.”

Mr. Lyle grinned. “I had no chance, little sister. When she gets like Iansa with her horsetail, what can poor mortals do?”

“I apologize,” Sherrea sighed. “These two would tell a gopher how to dig, but a little thing like saying whether your friend’s alive or dead—”

“Is he?” I blurted.

“Dead? Nah. Theo’s upstairs—or he’s supposed to be. Resting up. If he comes downstairs before tomorrow, I’m gonna kick his butt.”

“Get your pointy shoes, then,” said Theo from the doorway. He was smiling and rumpled and pale, and his right arm hung in a black cloth sling. “I was cool with it, ‘til somebody broke down the door. Then I got curious. Hey,” he said to me, and the smile was wider.

“Hey,” I answered. He looked embarrassed. I felt embarrassed.

I wondered if he had any idea why; I sure didn’t. “Oh, Cha—here, have a seat.” I moved quickly away from my chair.

China Black frowned. “We need another cup. I’ll get one.”

As she disappeared into the hall, Frances studied Sherrea. “I think I misjudged something a few hours ago,” Frances said. “I’m sorry if I seemed patronizing, back on the riverbank.”

Sher shrugged. I watched them size each other up, and realized, with a jolt, what Frances was reacting to. Sher and China Black weren’t just friends. They were peers. China Black, with her limo, elegant clothes, haughty manner, and easy power, behaved as Sherrea’s equal. The Sherrea I thought I knew, the adivina with the cheap cards and the melodramatic apartment, barely older than I actually was. What had I missed?

I was irritated. It was another change, another upset to my delicately balanced routine. I found myself suddenly too grouchy to converse. I would have dropped into my chair, but Theo was in it.

“Here,” Sher said. She’d dragged two low-backed chairs to the other end of the tea table. That was irritating, too: the second-guessing, the attention, the proximity.

“Thank you,” I said, and sat down. She gave me a sideways glance, filled the last clean cup for Theo, and sat, too. Then China Black returned with a cup for her.

“I bet everybody’s told everybody everything,” Sherrea said. “But would you mind telling it all to me, anyway?”

“Starting from the Underbridge,” Theo added across his tea. I didn’t feel like talking, but they were looking at me. Well, I was the one they knew, not Frances or Mick. Chango—or whoever—it seemed strange that they didn’t all know each other. I knew them, and until a few days ago, I would have described myself as knowing no one and happy about it.

I started from the Underbridge and didn’t get far. As I came up on the image of Mick in the archives, I realized I was in trouble; I should have started earlier and explained Mick. But I couldn’t explain Mick, because that would mean telling about his dead body, and revealing that he was a Horseman, which wasn’t mine to tell. And then there were the archives. I dragged to a hand-waving stop.