“What’s a dombra?”
Bibigul gestured to his electric guitar, whistling. “It is like that,” explained Lenore, “but with a fat body like half a pear.”
Roger went to a pile of instrument cases. “Like this?” He pulled out a small Neapolitan mandolin, which Alec had bought, then realized was too small for him. Of course truth was almost everything was too small for Alec; he just wanted Roger to accompany him on medieval music.
Bibigul received the mandolin with curiosity and wonder, plucking a few notes and listening to the sound, then finally nodded and began to play a tune. It was a simple folk song, something a musician would choose to test an unfamiliar instrument, but pretty, and the notes she sang with her nightingale’s voice were beyond lovely, punctuated by Lenore singing the words in Kazakh, and then again in English.
“There’s an owl feather on Kamazhai’s head.
I left Kamazhai so they laughed at me.
After leaving Kamazhai, wishing we were wed,
There’s no way in the world I can be happy.…”
The song was simple, sad, and beautiful, a song of hiraeth, as the Welsh would put it, a deep longing for home.
“Kamazhai, my sunlight, you stayed behind.…”
Bibigul’s fingers strummed the mandolin and touched the frets, surer now of their way, concentrating on the melody, returning to the next stanza.
“There’s a golden ring on Kamazhai’s finger.
She’s watching the horizon from her mountain slope.
She couldn’t live without me, wished that I could linger.
Oh, my Kamazhai, did you truly lose hope?”
Bibigul broke down in tears. Lenore stopped singing, croaking in alarm. Roger pulled his chair around, hugging Bibigul, supporting her so she could cry on his shoulder.
It was a long cry, but she had a lot to let out. Roger understood. Sezim and Nurassyl were children, and one had to keep up a facade of false cheer for their sake. With them no longer in the room, and with Lenore to give a human voice to her sorrow, Bibigul could finally grieve.
“Those were my last human words,” Lenore said as Bibigul chirped, querulous. “The wild card changed my voice before I could finish my song.” She reached up to Roger’s head, touching his horns. “How did—”
“Winter concert.” Roger told the old lie. “I was singing the Devil’s song. It stuck.”
“We are a pair”—she warbled laughter—“marked for our love of music.” Bibigul ran her fingers through his hair. “I have never seen such a color except in pictures. Like a lion.”
“That’s natural.” Roger grinned, glad to be telling the truth for once. “Didn’t get that from the wild card or out of a bottle. Always been blond.”
He slipped his right glove off and reached out and touched her hair then. It was black, thick, and silky. Then, hesitantly but with her permission, he reached his fingers down, slipping them beneath the silk cravat, letting him feel the patch of feathers across her throat—soft and warm, like Lenore’s down when she’d been a raven chick.
Bibigul put her hand up and snagged him behind one horn, pulling his head forward to her. Roger didn’t tell her how many women had done that before, let her believe it was original and unexpected. But what was unexpected was Bibigul’s kiss. Shy, hesitant. She was the first girl since Stephanie, his nat girlfriend in high school, who’d kissed him like that, wanting to kiss Roger Washburn, not the rock star Ravenstone, fake as his ace and faded as his star might be.
Steph had dumped him when he got his horns but had shown back up when he got famous. Telling her he was no longer interested had felt sweet at the time, but in retrospect, that was the last time Roger had been around a woman who’d ever wanted him for him.
Bibigul’s left hand slipped down from his left horn, and, after reflexively stopping her, Roger let her flip up his eye patch. He let her gaze on his black contact until he flipped the patch back down and they went back to kissing, Bibigul twining her fingers behind both horns.
Some women had a fetish for them. Others covered their revulsion, in varying degrees of transparency, with their lust for money and fame.
This was different in all the right ways. Roger twined his fingers in her hair, kissing—
A knock sounded at the door again.
Roger paused, then the knock repeated. Then a voice: “Mr. Ravenstone?”
There were very few who called him that, and he recognized the voice: Shirley.
“A moment,” Roger promised Bibigul. He stood and went to the door, donning his right glove before opening it. “Hello, Shirley.”
She sat in her scooter and beamed. She wore a blue satin gown today, with a plunging neckline. Across her lap was his frock coat. “You forgot this last night at your show.” She offered it to him and smiled plaintively. “Is Lenore okay?”
“She’s fine. Thank you,” Roger said, both for her concern and the coat.
“I know how much she means to you,” Shirley said. “That’s why you’ve always been my favorite.”
“What?”
“My favorite Jokertown Boy,” Shirley explained. “Alec’s the romantic, Sam’s the artist, Paul’s the sad funny one, Dirk’s easygoing, Jim’s odd, and you’re supposed to be the mysterious devil, but you’re not. You’re the boy who rescues baby birds. You took care of the rest of the boys until they could fly on their own.” She smiled a sad smile. “You’re still looking after Jim.”
Roger didn’t know quite what to say so just conjured a pass for a later show. “You know I’m supposed to have secrets, right?”
“Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris,” Shirley quoted in excellent Catholic high school Latin as she tucked the pass into her bodice.
It was Mephistopheles’s line from Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, the explanation for why the Devil wanted souls for Hell. “‘It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.’”
Shirley nodded. “You’ve had my soul since high school, Devil. See you at the show.” Shirley waved and rolled off in her scooter, calling over her shoulder, “And at karaoke tonight.”
Bibigul looked at Roger questioningly as he shut the door and leaned against it. “My life,” Roger explained. “Just my life.” He got his top hat and put it back on over his horns. “Care to go out and help me live it?”
Bibigul smiled, and Roger grinned back.
Karaoke went well and likewise the next night’s concert, though this time Roger decided to swap out “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and slip in one of Alec’s old numbers, not one of their greatest hits, but a solid B side in public domain: “Greensleeves.”
Bibigul joined them. In the Natchez’s wardrobe room she’d found a green dress that fit, more of a fanciful bridesmaid gown in chartreuse taffeta than a proper medieval garment, but combined with a henin and cointoise and Alec’s wife’s forgotten wimple to cover her throat, it gave the right impression. And what Bibi lacked in mime skills, she made up for with musical ability, nailing “Greensleeves” despite only practicing a day, making Caitlyn Beaumont, standing at the bar sipping her customary daiquiri, smile and nod with approval. By some greater miracle, Ms. Potts had provided Bibi with her employee badge without comment or even requesting a meeting.
The negotiating skills of a former beauty queen and debutante were mighty indeed.
The best part, however, was having Lenore sing the name “Greensleeves” at all the right places. Bibigul wore a bird whistle set into a harmonica mount, and at appropriate times, she put her lips to it, singing the nightingale’s note to signal Lenore to sing the corresponding English. It was a gimmick Roger had been trying to get Lenore to do for years, but outside of a studio, wasn’t anything reliable. But with Bibigul’s ability and a bit of misdirection, it worked.
The crowd loved it, and Roger did even more.
For magic shows, the Beautiful Bibi’s main job was to stand there and look pretty. There were more elaborate tricks, of course—disappearing cabinets and the like—
but Roger hadn’t brought any aboard, and part of keeping the charade going was making do with what he had. But Caitlyn was amenable to fewer hours of close-up magic on deck so long as that corresponded with more hours onstage, and since their shows were better attended now that the Jokertown Boys had added a girl to the act, it was all to the good. Drink sales were up, pleasing Ms. Potts.
She sat on the boiler deck’s promenade, sipping a mint julep, dressed in her Sunday best and crowned with an impossible bit of millinery involving bows, white peacock feathers, and scads of rhinestones, sparkling like Das Rheingold in the morning sun as the Natchez pulled into Memphis. Jim was up at the calliope, as per contract, playing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” and passengers were lined up down the stairs to the main deck to disembark, concluding their voyage or ready to spend a pleasant Sunday. Caitlyn Beaumont stood by the still cordoned-off gap in the railing, ready to thank them for their visit and remind them when to be back if continuing on, and Mickey Lee Payne bustled about, finalizing receipts and credit card statements and being dogsbody for Ms. Potts, who took Sundays off to attend church.
Roger stood with Bibigul on his arm, again in her lolligoth Harpo Marx costume, Lenore jumping between their shoulders as it amused her. “Pretty Polly,” Lenore cried, followed by “Find the parrot!” Bibigul smiled. Memphis was a large enough city to browse pet shops, and there they might find the parrot or mynah bird or maybe a cockatoo who would become Serik II.
The boat docked, the cordon set was pulled aside, and the gangplank went down, but before anyone could disembark, someone came up. She was a middle-aged black woman like Ms. Potts, but where Ms. Potts was small and round, this woman was tall and statuesque, if not precisely svelte either. Her hair was straightened as well, worn in a stylish updo with ringlets, and she wore an immaculate women’s suit in houndstooth. She also held up a badge.
Roger got out his opera glasses. The badge read IMMIGRATION INSPECTOR, arranged around a US Department of Justice seal. The woman’s lips read, “Evangelique Jones, ICE. My agents are going to check the credentials of your passengers as they disembark, and then we’re going to do an inspection of this vessel.”
Mickey Lee inspected the badge and the warrant while Caitlyn Beaumont apologetically scurried up the stairs to fetch Ms. Potts, who stormed down, her julep still in hand. “What is the meaning of this?” Roger couldn’t hear a word she said over the calliope, Jim having segued to “Here Comes the Showboat,” but could easily read her lips as angry as she was. “Don’t you people take a day of rest like the Good Lord commanded?”
Evangelique Jones smiled sweetly, but Roger knew a fake smile when he saw one, having done enough himself. “The Good Lord may rest on Sundays, but the Devil does not. We’ve received intelligence that this boat may be carrying illegal aliens.”
“What intelligence?” demanded Ms. Potts.
ICE Agent Jones took out her cell phone, tapped for a moment, then handed it to Ms. Potts. The screen was filled with The Dead Report logo, then lurid lettering spelling Natchez Investigation: The Devil’s Door. The Seven Locks of Madame Lorelei.
LaLaurie, Roger corrected mentally, then saw the image of Ryan Forge gesturing dramatically with an EVP meter toward the locked door opposite the boiler room.
Roger put down his opera glasses. Those idiots couldn’t tell Kazakh from the whisperings of the damned, but ICE certainly could.
Bibigul looked at Roger in alarm. He didn’t know what to tell her. If he were a real ace, he could get the disappearing cabinet trick to work, teleporting the refugees to safety, or mesmerize the ICE agent with his pocket watch, or use smoke and mirrors to make the door disappear. But he wasn’t. He was a fake.
But he was a fake with a cell phone and magician’s hands. Wild Fox, he texted. Disguise yourself, go down by the boiler room, and follow my cues. Joker emergency!!!
There was no response, but there usually wasn’t. Andrew’s favorite pastime was to disguise himself with his illusions, for which purpose he left his phone on silent in his pocket. Roger scanned the crowd. He didn’t see Andrew, but Andrew could be anyone.
Roger took Bibigul by the hand and led her round the back way to the crewmen’s stairs, down to the main deck and the boiler room access passage. The door was still locked, but it wasn’t long before Ms. Potts came down the hall along with Evangelique Jones, trailed by a concerned and flustered Caitlyn Beaumont.
Ms. Potts’s lower lip stuck out even farther than usual. A religious woman, she had a particular dislike for the Devil, and by proxy that meant him. “Mr. Washburn,” she said firmly, “I do not know what you want or what you’re doing here, but it is my day off, I’m not supposed to be working right now, and I do not have time for any foolishness.”
“Nor do I,” Roger agreed. “Contracts are serious business, and if you will examine ours, you will see there’s a clause where the Jokertown Boys not only take a portion of the concert proceeds but are owed a percentage of the bar sales if it is above a certain base level.”
“I’m certain this conversation can wait till tomorrow, Mr. Washburn,” Ms. Potts snapped.
“It most certainly can,” agreed Evangelique Jones. “I am an agent of the federal government on an official investigation, and I have here a warrant to search these premises.”
She brandished it dramatically. Roger stared, raising his right eyebrow and looking askance until she at last looked herself, realizing she was holding a copy of the Natchez ghost tour brochure. The warrant was safely in Roger’s pocket.
Evangelique Jones turned to Ms. Potts. “Well, you saw it earlier. Now I will ask you to open that door,” she said, pointing, “and if you don’t, you’ll be obstructing a federal investigation.”
“I don’t have the keys,” protested Ms. Potts. “Mr. Cottle locked it after a steam leak injured some of the crew. It’s a matter of safety.”
“It’s true,” Caitlyn agreed. “We don’t talk about it in front of the guests, but some of the men were terribly scalded!”
This was the first Roger had heard of this, but the safest place to hide someone was where no one else wanted to go, and such a history had obviously served to keep the crew out.
Evangelique Jones smiled and stepped over to the door, placing her palm against it flat. “Seems cool enough now. Or at least no hotter than anything else here.” She opened her purse then, and with a reveal Roger both envied and hated, produced a pair of folding bolt cutters. “Now, let’s see what’s behind this door.”
Bibigul clutched his arm, and Roger felt a stabbing pain in his left eye. He’d been wearing his contact too long, and what he needed was Wild Fox there to project an illusion. “The room is empty,” Roger stated as forcefully as he could, hoping Andrew had slipped in the back. “No one’s inside. There’s nothing but steam and an OSHA suit waiting to happen.”
“We’ll see,” said Evangelique Jones, snapping the first lock. It fell to the deck with a dramatic clank, and the pounding in Roger’s head increased. Two. Three. Four. Five. It felt like an ice pick in his eye driving deeper and deeper. Six. The pounding increased, moving to his horns. For the seventh and final lock, she just beat the lock with the bolt cutters till the brass rang like an anvil in his skull, and then the door flew open.
Roger’s sight was clouded by a red mist but then it cleared and he saw the room was as he described it. Empty. A tiny tendril of steam floated from the faulty radiator, but beyond that it was barren and boring.
Roger didn’t know whether Andrew had cast his illusion to make it appear as he’d described, or he’d finally turned his card, gaining illusion or teleportation or some other ace to save the day. But he was afraid it was the second and he’d drawn a black queen along with it because a nightingale’s cry of alarm sprang from Bibigul’s throat, and Lenore cried, “Roger, you’re bleeding!”
“Stage blood,” Evangelique Jones snarled dismissively. “I recognize you now—you’re Ravenstone, the parlor trick devil. I should arrest you now for that stunt w
ith the warrant. But whatever. Found one Kazakh at least, and a joker, too!”
With that, she reached out and grabbed Bibigul’s cravat, pulling it down and exposing her feathered throat.
“Unhand her!” Roger roared in his most dramatic and Mephistophelean voice. “She’s my wife! We were married in New Orleans, and by law that means you cannot touch her! Here, see our marriage contract!” With that, Roger produced it, unfurling the document with a flourish.
Usually it would have dancing devils and demonic sigils, but now the only thing it held in common with the former hellish contract were a few heart-shaped Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs.
The ICE agent took the contract and examined it, finally remarking, “Damn, Naw’lins is making fancy marriage licenses these days.…” She handed it back. “I expect you’ve got her green card?”
“No,” said Roger acidly, his temples still pounding, “but she does.” He pointed to Bibigul’s penguin coin purse.
Bibigul opened it and in wonder removed a green card.
Evangelique Jones took it and examined it, finally handing it back. “Well,” she said at last, “I suppose everything is in order. Thank you for your cooperation.”
She marched stiffly and proudly down the hall until rounding the corner left, like a classic villainess making her exit.
Roger’s head was still pounding, and he was afraid he was hallucinating, but then he saw a fox tail emerge from the skirt of Caitlyn Beaumont’s latest party dress. Then she shook her head and fox ears emerged from her perfectly highlighted hair. Then the illusion completely dissolved and Andrew Yamauchi stood there, grinning.
Then Andrew’s face fell, and Roger dropped to his knees, his head swimming. He reached up, feeling blood seeping from the base of his horns, then he saw a ghost.
No, not a ghost—a translucent little boy. Nurassyl reached his chubby arms up, and the tentacles where his hands would have been touched Roger’s forehead. The pain went away, fleeing before his touch, replaced with a feeling of well-being, like a mother’s cool hand on a fevered brow.