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'All these gods,' said Anji. 'Saints,' Fitz corrected.

After leaving the Doctor at the Zombie Bar, they had continued up and down the streets of the French Quarter, checking out any place that looked promisingly weird and, in Anji's case, some that were simply stylish. Fitz spent nearly an hour in a store selling rock memorabilia, including the signed instruments of a number of famous guitarists.

They were now in a voodoo shop. Among the pin-stuck dolls and gris-gris makings and beads and candles and booklets, Anji had found a shelf of brightly painted, haloed figures in biblical and monastic garb.

'It's like Hinduism, only with Jesus.'

'It's not,' said Fitz, aware he was on shaky ground. As a child, he'd been taken to a Lutheran church, and he had only the vaguest notions about saints.

'Why not?'

'It just isn't.'

"The Christians have only one god, pretty cousin,' the middle-aged black man behind the counter said to Anji. He had an impressive set of dreadlocks, and his accent was lyrically Caribbean. "The saints are just his servants. But sometimes the saints are also the loa. Or -' he smiled dazzlingly - 'the other way around.'

'The gods of voodoo?' said Anji.

'Not the gods. The loa: The man rested his elbows on the counter. He was smoking a cigarette that smelled of cloves, dropping the ashes into a plaster bowl in the shape of a skull. 'See that man with the keys?' He pointed to one of the figures. 'That's St Peter, who guards the gates of heaven. But he's also Papa Legba, the god of the crossroads, the one who helps you find your way. Unless he tricks you.'

"Why would he do that?'

He laughed. "The loa do what they do. The saints are like nice animals that live on the farm or in the house. But the loa are like the animals that live in the wild.'

'The saints were once human beings, weren't they? I mean, supposedly,'

said Fitz. 'But aren't the loa always spirits?'

The man shrugged fluidly. 'They visit us.'

'You mean, like possession?'

'I mean they visit us.' The phone rang. The man lifted the receiver and began to talk about shipping costs. Anji continued to examine the figurines.

'Become human,' she said. 'Like Vishnu. Hindus say he tricked people too, in his ninth incarnation, when he was the Buddha.'

'I didn't know all that religious stuff stuck with you.'

'It didn't stick; she said irritably. 'But I grew up with it, and I remember.

And it's fascinating to see the same patterns across cultures.'

'The Doctor says he's never met a real god.'

She sniffed. 'It's just possible that, if there are any gods, none of them has particularly wanted to meet him:

It's just possible, thought Fitz, looking at the statue of St Peter, that he's one himself. He didn't really like to think about that, so he stopped. Since the dreadlocked man was off the phone, he asked, 'Have there been any recent ghostly occurrences around here? Every place we've visited, the hauntings are old.'

The man was amused. 'You want fresh hauntings?'

T just wondered if strange things still happened. Spooky things.'

'Mm.' The man gazed thoughtfully at the twist of blue smoke rising from his cigarette. 'All this Internet business, this computer business, the spirits get headaches from it, don't come around much any more. The most recent thing I recall is the drowned plantation. That was in 1980. Not so far back.'

'The drowned plantation? You mean a flood?'

"Wasn't a flood. Just the house collapsed like a tidal wave hit it, or like it got its own private hurricane. The wood was so soaked they had to dry it out before they could burn it.'

Fitz looked at Anji. 'Nice day for a drive,' he said hopefully.

She knew he just wanted an excuse to get out on the road in the 1967

Mustang

fastback he'd persuaded the Doctor to rent at

Crescent City Classic Cars. Well,' she said indulgently, 'I suppose.'

* * *

After negotiating a 'private tour' fee of twenty-five