Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [34]
We ascended to the second floor by way of a stairwell, then turned left, as directed. We entered a narrow hallway where the walls were painted a soft apricot color. One wall was decorated with vibrant textile artwork, each piece depicting figures and symbols in bright patterns.
“These are very pretty,” I said, looking at one that portrayed a big red heart which contained smaller hearts created out of silver and gold sequins. It was set against a field of tropical foliage, also studded with sequins, and surrounded by multicolored abstract symbols.
The cloth hanging next to it, created out of shiny fabrics quilted together, was divided into four panels, each containing a large geometric symbol depicted in contrasting colors. One of the symbols appeared to be a cross decorated with flourishes and abstract motifs; next to it were the letters LEG B A. Another of the symbols was a triangle with curly lines sprouting out of it. The letters next to this one were O G O U N.
Max was studying these hangings with intent interest, a dawning expression of . . . something on his face. I wasn’t sure what.
“Max?” I prodded.
“They’re drapeaux,” he murmured, his tone implying that this was significant.
“What are drapeaux?”
“Flags,” he said, still staring at the artwork. “Ceremonial flags. They’re carried at the beginning of a ritual to salute the spirits and start the ceremony.”
I frowned. “What sort of spirits? What kind of ceremony?”
“Vodou,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Vodou?” I shrugged, still frowning. “What is Vod—Oh! You mean voodoo?”
He nodded. “These look like traditional Haitian Vodou drapeaux.”
I thought they looked like art projects made by talented young people taking classes at the foundation, but I took Max’s word for it. I moved on to the next one. “Yikes!” I definitely hoped this one was not the work of a kid: It depicted a heart with a dagger thrust through it.
“Ah! Erzulie Dantor,” Max said, as if encountering an old acquaintance.
“Who?”
“Erzulie is the goddess of love, beauty, and sensuality.”
I looked again at the stabbed heart. “No way.”
“Erzulie Dantor, however, is the Petro aspect of Erzulie. Her dark side, you might say. Vodou has a complex and practical view of the world and of human nature.” He gestured to the dark goddess’ symbol. “She represents the feelings of jealousy, heartbreak, and vengeance that can be wrought by love.”
“Wow, and I thought Yahweh was a vengeful god,” I said, looking again at the cruel image.
I wasn’t surprised that Max knew something about voodoo. After three hundred fifty years of travel and study, he knew about a lot of things—particularly mystical, magical, and spiritual things.
I turned away from the exotic voodoo art to look at the opposite wall, which was lined with photographs. There were pictures of Martin Livingston, several of which were already familiar to me, since they had been reproduced on the foundation’s Web site. There were also pictures of the foundation’s board of directors, its most important donors, and it employees. I noticed that there was a photo of Jeff in which he still had hair.
And there was a photo of Darius Phelps.
“Max,” I said, trying to drag his attention away from the drapeaux. “Max.”
“Hmm?”
I pointed to Darius’ picture.
“We’re in the right place.” I felt a chill creep over my damp skin as I stared at the familiar face in the photograph. “No doubt about it. This is the man I saw last night.”
7
I flinched