A Small Zombie Problem Read online

  “A kind of sorcerer,” explained Madame Marvell. “Necromancy is magic to do with the dead. Most of the time we live in our world, and the dead, they live in their own, and that’s that. But necromancers, they use a Go-Between to access the other world, the world of the dead, and maybe even talk to the spirit folks that live there.”

  “Go-Between?”

  “It’s…” Madame Marvell looked upward, thinking. “It’s an enchanted sort of thing that works like a window, I guess, or a bridge, between the two places. It doesn’t look like a window or a bridge, of course.”

  She moved to the cluttered table and lifted the rag doll seated there. The thing was coarsely stitched together from old sackcloth, flat-faced and bald, with buttons for eyes and stitches for a mouth. Its only garment was a frayed scrap of patterned silk, worn like a scarf and pinned at the chest with a flower-shaped brooch of lilac stones.

  “Delfine here, for example,” said Madame Marvell, shaking the doll so its limbs waggled, “is a Go-Between. She helps me talk to my mawmaw.”

  “Your…dead grandmother?”

  “Why, sure. This is mawmaw’s best pin: real amethyst. It acts like a kind of magnet, draws her spirit toward it. I light some candles too: purple, her favorite color. It all helps mawmaw find Delfine, and then me, so I can ask her questions when I need help. Or sometimes we just visit, you know?”

  “And you actually hear her voice?”

  “Mmm. Not exactly. Not like I hear your voice right now. It kind of comes from somewhere else…somewhere maybe, inside me.”

  A shiver ran up the back of August’s neck. He thought of the voice he’d sort of, somehow heard in the cemetery. Claudette’s voice.

  “But Delfine’s just a homemade,” continued Madame Marvell, propping the limp doll against the pitcher filled with wild iris. “She’s stuffed with herbs and spells, and she works fine, I reckon. But some Go-Betweens were created with ancient magic by powerful mages over the sea, and they’re far more powerful. Like the Zombie Stone.”

  “What is the Zombie Stone?”

  “It’s what made your ancestor so famous,” said Madame Marvell, stretching upward and tapping the hunk of rock on Orfeo’s staff.

  “You mean the DuPont treasure? The Cadaverite?”

  “I never heard of any DuPont treasure,” confessed Madame Marvell. “Or cadav…cadav what? But everyone knows about Orfeo’s Zombie Stone. See, it says it right here on the poster: ‘The world’s premier necromancer employs the Zombie Stone to reanimate the deceased.’ ”

  She leaned in conspiratorially. August and Claudette did so too.

  “They say,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder, as if some dark force might be listening, “its magic was so strong that Orfeo used it to draw spirits from the other world right back into this one. They’d arrive all lost and confused, so they’d slip right back into the unfortunate, moldy bodies they had left behind, and become, well…” She nodded pointedly at Claudette.

  “Orfeo made his zombies dance about like fools, poor creatures, just to show off. Or perhaps for money. Or both.”

  All three gazed up at the poster in somber reflection.

  “So…” The wheels of August’s mind were turning. “If the Zombie Stone could suck a ghost, or spirit, into this world and force it back into its corpse”—his eyes glided sideways toward Claudette—“could it work in reverse? Could it drive the spirit back to the beyond, and unmake a zombie?”

  Madame Marvell considered the undead girl drooling in her houseboat. She looked at August and shrugged.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But I don’t see why not.”

  August poured tea into a cup and uncapped the bottle of bourbon.

  “But I told you, sugar,” protested Hydrangea, “I’m in no particular need of fortified tea.”

  “Um…I think,” responded August, wincing, “you’ll be wanting a cup of it very shortly. We have a small problem.”

  He glanced nervously over his shoulder, down the hallway.

  “A small zombie problem.”

  “Zombie?” repeated his aunt, mystified.

  “Now, Aunt Hydrangea, please try to remain calm. I promise that she’s perfectly harmless.”

  “She? Harmless? August, what in heaven are you talking about?”

  August turned and gestured toward someone beyond Hydrangea’s line of sight. The lady’s eyes bulged at the sound of heavy, uneven, dragging footsteps. As they progressed along the hallway toward the parlor, Hydrangea stood up swiftly and turned to August in alarm.

  August had done his best to clean Claudette up a bit, wiping off her face and combing most of the debris from her hair. But her appearance was still, at best, disconcerting, and upon seeing her, Hydrangea reacted as you might expect: she clutched the back of the fainting couch, stifled a scream in her handkerchief, and looked set to swoon.

  Until something surprising happened.

  August watched as his aunt’s expression of horror morphed into something else, something utterly unexpected: recognition.

  “Why, color me amazed,” said Hydrangea, peering at Claudette with disbelief. “It can’t be.” The gripped handkerchief fell to her side, and she took a step forward.

  “Claudette DuPont?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hydrangea fetched one of the family photographs that lingered on the mantel, propped behind the headless goatherd clock. She smiled nervously as Claudette sat heavily beside her on the fainting couch. August approached from behind, peering over his aunt’s shoulder.

  “There she is,” said Hydrangea, pointing.

  The mildewed, antique image was of the sort that was photographed in black-and-white, then colored by hand. Beneath it, in ambitious lettering, was displayed the name of the studio where it had been created: “Photography by Fontaine. New Madrid.”

  The portrait depicted two children. The girl, who stood holding a kitten, was clearly Claudette. The photograph could not have been taken very long before she died, for her height appeared much the same. It was strange to see her looking rosy-cheeked, neatly dressed, and generally rather pretty.

  The other child was a boy, around August’s age, seated. His piercing pale gold eyes were unusually large and round, rendered larger by large, round glasses. In his lap he held a specimen jar, inside of which rested a skull-shaped fossil.

  “Is that…” August was incredulous. “Is that Orfeo DuPont as a boy?”

  Hydrangea nodded.

  “You favor him, August!”

  It was true. The resemblance between August and the grown-up Orfeo was certainly of note. But August was, after all, just a boy, many years from twirled mustaches and an adult frame. The similarity between the DuPont boys at the same age was remarkable.

  “She thinks I’m him,” said August in quiet revelation. “That’s why she’s following me around. She thinks I’m her brother!”

  As if to confirm this theory, Claudette beamed up at him with a grin of devotion.

  “Great-Aunt Claudette,” said Hydrangea with some pride, “is a family legend.” She patted the zombie’s arm. “Only nine years of age, when she just up and drowned in the canal. They say she jumped from the gazebo roof. Or fell. Although why she might have been up there in the first place, no one has ever known. Such a tragedy.” She offered Claudette a sympathetic smile.

  “What about my tragedy?” cried August, striding around the couch to face his aunt. “I just started to make friends. To have a life of my own. But now this”—he flapped his hand at Claudette—“is ruining everything!”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and got a little pouty.

  “Beauregard already thinks I’m peculiar. Now I’ve got some zombie following me around because she thinks I’m her dead brother! And now you tell me that she’s a DuPont? That in fac
t we are related? That this raggedy, rotting thing is my great-great-aunt, or whatever?”

  Claudette grunted and gazed dolefully down at her tattered dress.

  “Sorry, Claudette,” muttered August, with some level of apology, “but you’ve been dead for a long time. It’s not pretty.”

  August swiftly dropped to one knee and grabbed his aunt’s wrist.

  “Aunt Hydrangea,” he said urgently. “Were you aware that the DuPont treasure is also known as the Zombie Stone?”

  “Why, everyone knows that, sugar,” responded Hydrangea, as if August were the only person in the world who didn’t. “It’s how Orfeo acquired his zombies for that wretched act of his. What was it again? The Dancers of Death, or some such dreadful thing?”

  “You didn’t think to mention it?” cried August.

  “How was I to know,” Hydrangea bristled defensively, “that you had a small zombie problem?”

  August bit his lip and lowered his eyes. He listened to his breath for a moment and quieted his frustration.

  “Aunt,” he said again, with kind, controlled calmness, “I need to return Claudette’s spirit to the world it belongs in. The other world, where the dead reside. Preferably by tomorrow,” he added, mindful of the crawfish boil at Château Malveau.

  He stood.

  “In order to do so, I have to find the Zombie Stone. Do you have any idea where it might be, or what happened to it?”

  Hydrangea opened her mouth and shrugged helplessly.

  “It’s for me, ma’am”—August fixed her gaze intently—“not your sister.”

  “I mean…” The lady shook her head, racking her brains. “Uncle Orfeo was a bit of a spendthrift, sugar. I’m afraid we’ve had a few of those in the family.”

  “Aunt Orchid told me,” said August. “She said that our circumstances…”

  “Orfeo,” Hydrangea interrupted with a glower, “sold off many DuPont heirlooms to pay his debts, including most of the antique family jewels and gems. I’d be very surprised if the Cadaverite was not among them. It would have fetched a handsome sum, I’m certain of it.”

  “Do you know who might have bought them?”

  Hydrangea shook her head.

  “It all happened, oh my, long before I was born.” She paused, had a thought. “But I could swear there’s a stack of old bills and receipts hanging around the house somewhere. Perhaps there would be some record of the sale in those. They were in a cupboard, I believe…or no, perhaps a bureau. Now, where is that old desk?”

  She thoughtfully tapped the glass protecting the photograph.

  “It had one short leg, as I recall, and had to be propped up with books.”

  “It’s the correct address.” August looked up at the shop front, then down at the receipt in his hands. “But Black River Tattoo,” he observed to Claudette, “doesn’t sound much like a jewelry store.”

  The boutique’s interior was compact, a feature enhanced by the entire place being painted dark purple and by the presence of an enormous, bushy-bearded man who consumed much of the available space.

  He was perched upon a reclining seat, not unlike a dentist’s chair, and brow furrowed, he was applying a buzzing pen-like device to his own (already heavily tattooed) forearm. His head was slightly narrower than his giant neck, and his flat nose had the air of one that had been broken more than once.

  A limp, poorly postured young woman stood nearby. She had pink dreadlocks that hung in all directions from the top of her head, even over her face, and her scrawny knees poked through ripped stockings. She was perusing the many framed pictures that smothered the walls, which, on closer inspection, were revealed to represent a vast catalog of tattoo designs.

  “What do you reckon, Buford?” the young woman was saying as August and Claudette entered the store. “A crow? No, a scorpion!” She tilted her head, examining her options. “I know! How about a giant white alligator, like the one everyone’s been talking—”

  She abruptly stopped midsentence upon spotting the newcomers. Beneath the ring dangling from her nose, an awestruck smile spread across her black-painted lips.

  “Well, check out the little Goth,” she said with unchecked admiration. “That is an awesome look, girl! How’d you come by that sickly pallor? You look deader than a pork chop! I just love the dark eye circles. And are those”—she moved in to examine Claudette’s arm more closely—“oh, so cool: stitches?!”

  Claudette lifted her hand to cover a sort of gurgling, simpering giggle.

  “Good afternoon,” said August, nudging the zombie into silence and removing his helmet. “We’re looking for Juneau’s Jewel Box.”

  “Gone, bro!” said the huge, bearded man without looking up. “Years ago.” He spoke in a kind of high-pitched, husky wheeze, almost as if he’d run out of voice. “It was my pawpaw’s place. We Juneaus have been jewelers for generations. The old coot gave me the business after he came down with that Peruvian flu; knew he was done for, I reckon.”

  His eyes swiveled upward to engage August, although his head remained unmoved.

  “And I tried to keep the place going. Really, I did. Honest!”

  August wasn’t sure why he should warrant such an apologetic explanation.

  “Even got myself a degree in gemology, I did.” Buford sat up now and, turning off the tattoo machine, placed it on an adjacent steel cabinet. “But I’m an artist, bro. Got to create. The ink, it’s in my blood; you know?”

  August didn’t know in the least, but he nodded sympathetically.

  “We still got some nice swag, though,” wheezed Buford Juneau, standing up so that his flat wool cap was merely inches from the ceiling.

  He beckoned, and obediently August followed him to the back of the store, where beneath a row of horned cattle skulls, the cash register sat on a display case. Under the glass, resting on black velvet, was an exhibit of very particular jewelry: rings, pendants, and bracelets of silver, ornately cast in the shape of serpents, bats, and other grotesque designs. Some were set with colored gems that formed the eyes of dragons or were gripped in the talons of some disembodied monster.

  “How about a little something in green,” suggested Buford brightly, “to complement the young lady’s complexion?”

  August spread out the receipt that he’d found, as Hydrangea had suggested he might, stuffed in a drawer of his desk. It was obviously very old, one corner torn away altogether. At the top was a business letterhead, that of Juneau’s Jewel Box. Below, the paper was printed with faint green horizontal lines. Vertical lines of faded red and blue formed columns at left and right. The itemized entries were handwritten. The ink was faded but mostly legible.

  “Actually,” said August, pointing at the document, “this family heirloom was sold to Juneau’s many years ago.” He gazed up at the tattooed gemologist. “I was wondering if you still have records of what happened to it…of who bought it from you.”

  Buford unearthed a pair of glasses from his pocket. They had unexpected, bright blue frames.

  “ ‘Raw Cadaverite. C and P,’ ” he read, peering down at August’s fingertip. “ ‘One hundred thirty-five dollars.’ ”

  He straightened, rubbed his palms on his thighs, and glanced toward a narrow door in the corner. August could see, for the door was ajar, some boxes and toilet paper in the storage space beyond.

  “Why, sure,” mused Buford, “we got records that go way back. But we don’t need those.” He returned to the receipt. “We didn’t buy this item from your family. See, this is the credit column. The one hundred thirty-five dollars isn’t a payment from us to the customer, but from the customer to us.”

  August was puzzled.

  “Why would someone pay you for their own property?”

  “It’s not a sale, bro. This is a charge for services rendered. C and P; that’s shorthand for cut an
d polish—”

  “Buford!” interrupted the dreadlocked young woman excitedly. “I know what I want!” She jiggled up and down, clapping her hands like a small child. “I want this girl, right here.” She jerked her thumb at Claudette, who grinned sheepishly. “On my left shoulder. Can you do her?”

  Buford glanced at August and rolled his eyes.

  “Sure, Destiny. If that’s all right with the little girl.” Claudette nodded with great enthusiasm. “Take a picture with your phone, okay?”

  “What’s the meaning of ‘cut and polish’?” asked August, tilting his head to pointedly reclaim Buford’s attention.

  “Well,” replied Buford, scratching the scalp beneath his cap. “Says here it’s raw Cadaverite, right? Means it’s still in its natural state. Most gemstones are pretty rough and ugly when they first get dug out of the ground. See these raw garnets?”

  Buford withdrew a small cardboard box from a drawer beneath the register and removed the lid. Inside rattled a group of brownish, pea-sized stones, scuffed and dull, not unlike common gravel.

  “Pretty drab, yes? Now, cut and polished.” He reached into the display case and placed a ring on the counter for August’s inspection. The bauble was formed in the shape of a pair of skeleton hands. They gripped a glowing, translucent gemstone of dark and lustrous red. “Unrecognizable, right? You’d never know it was the same stone.”

  August stared at the ring, thinking.

  “So, what,” he said quietly, “would cut-and-polished Cadaverite look like?”

  “Oh. Now, that’s a rare one,” mused Buford. “Don’t see those often; most of them are locked up in museums, I reckon. But Cadaverite shines up to a swank sort of amber color. Real vivid. Lots of light refraction.” He took the garnet ring and returned it to the case.

  “The best, and rarest, Cadaverites have this layer of compressed carbon at the center. Shows up like a swirl of black. Those specimens are usually cut into a perfect sphere. Like a marble, I guess.”