Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [26]
“Max,” I interrupted. “So you’re saying that you think Darius Phelps was dead? But, er, making his way back? Traveling in reverse, so to speak?”
“Based on what you’ve told me—a disoriented man matching the name and description of a recently deceased person who experienced dismemberment without bleeding—yes, I think that may be the case.”
“Recently deceased,” I repeated faintly, remembering something else now “He, uh . . . he smelled weird.”
Max looked at me intently. “Can you be more specific?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It was an unfamiliar smell. I suppose it was a bit like . . .” I felt queasy as I realized what Darius’ odor brought to mind. “Like when you pull food out of the fridge and realize you should throw it away. It doesn’t smell rank yet, but it just doesn’t smell quite right anymore.” I decided not to eat another bagel.
“Hmm.”
“But I don’t really know what a dead person smells like. Or someone not quite dead. Let alone some who used to be dead and isn’t dead anymore.” Now I wished I hadn’t eaten even that one bagel. “Oy.”
“I’m puzzled by the involvement of the gargoyles,” Max mused. “Did the individual whom you encountered seem harmful or malevolent?
“No.” I shook my head. “Darius seemed endangered, not dangerous.”
“Despite their grotesque appearance, the traditional function of gargoyles is to protect us from evil spirits or harmful forces—such as demons.”
“Well, keep in mind that I’m not expert on supernat—uh, mystical creatures, Max. Those hideous beasts reminded me of gargoyles, but that doesn’t mean they were gargoyles.”
“Ah. Yes. That’s an excellent point. Nonetheless, it’s well worth asking: Did Mr. Phelps seem demonically possessed, by any chance?”
“My knowledge of demonic possession is limited to what I’ve seen in movies,” I said. “But at a guess, I’d say no. The man I saw seemed dazed, confused, and helpless. If he were possessed by a demon, wouldn’t he—I don’t know—pulverize the little creatures that I managed to fight off and chant the Latin Mass backward, or something?”
“Well, yes. Although generalizations are misleading, it’s nonetheless true that impressive strength is a common attribute of demons. Then again, perhaps Mr. Phelps—or some entity possessing him—had already been weakened by an encounter with the sword-wielding young huntsman whom you encountered elsewhere in the vicinity.”
“I didn’t see any sword wounds,” I said. “But it was dark, of course.”
“And we can postulate, based on your observations of his severed hand, that there would have been no blood to alert you to a sword wound.”
“Yes, thanks to the bloodless dismemberment that I was lucky enough to witness, we can indeed postulate that.” I groaned with regret as I saw Lopez’s comforting theory about a prank beating a fast retreat. “I really did see what I thought I saw, didn’t I?”
“I believe we must investigate the possibility,” Max said, patting my hand. “Mr. Phelps may be in need of aid. Conversely, the gargoyles or the armed huntsman may be in need of aid. Or all three parties may be forerunners of some sort of apocalypse that needs averting.”
“Wait a minute! How did this go from being a prank to an apocalypse?” I said crankily. “I haven’t even finished my coffee yet.”
“Bring your cup, if you wish,” Max said briskly, rising to his feet. “We must leave immediately.”
“We must? Why? Where are we going?”
“The library.”
“The what?” I said blankly.
“The public library. In fact, I think our time will best be served by going to the outpost located in Harlem, so that we can also investigate the scene of your encounter. I may be able to identify clues to the incident that the police overlooked.”
“But Max,” I protested, “I want to go home. Change my clothes. Shower. Call Dirty Thirty’s production office. Start canceling and replacing the things that were in my stolen purse—ID, credit cards, cell phone . . . And I need you to let me into my apartment.” Max’s talents included the ability to unlock doors without a key.
“Of course, Esther,” Max said absently, as he disappeared around the corner of