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got the family disease. Christ!' He turned to Jocundra. 'The new strain. They dug it out of her damn graveyard. Right?' he asked of Ezawa.

'Half right.' Ezawa peered at Donnell, then settled back, building a church and steeple with his knitted fingers, tapping his thumbs together. The harsh lamplight paled his yellow complexion, making his moles seem as oddly shaped and black as flies, and despite his meticulous appearance, he looked soft, inflated with bad fluids.

'Actually,' he said, 'the entire project is a creation of the Foundation, of Valcours Rigaud specifically. He spent most of his later life trying to create zombies, and amazingly enough achieved a few short-lived reanimations. His method was clumsy, but there was a constant in his formulae - a spoonful of graveyard dirt placed in the corpse's mouth - and so I was led to my own researches.' He sighed. 'You, Mr Harrison, were injected with bacteria bred in Valcours' grave, as were Magnusson and Richmond. But...'

'That's impossible,' blurted Jocundra. 'Valcours is buried in the crypt. There's no dirt. The bacteria couldn't have bred.'

'His head,' said Otille; she was tying and untying the sash of her robe. 'They buried it down by the pool.'

'As I was saying,' said Ezawa, frowning at Jocundra, then turning his attention back to Donnell. 'You and Magnusson received a hybrid strain. One of the thrusts of the project, you see, has been to isolate a cure for Otille's hereditary disorder, and with that in mind, we interbred Valcours' bacteria with a strain taken from another grave located here on the grounds. The grave of Valcours' magus, his victim. Lucanor Aime.'

'And Aime,' said Donnell coldly, more calmly than Jocundra might have expected. 'His patron deity, that would be Ogoun.'

'Ogoun Badagris,' murmured Otille.

'Astounding, isn't it?' said Ezawa. 'The good magician and the evil apprentice still warring after over a century. Warring inside your head, Mr Harrison. When Otille suggested the hybrid, I ridiculed the idea, but the results have been remarkable. It's enough to make me re-embrace the mysticism of my ancestors.' He gave a snort of self-deprecating laughter. 'The entire experience has been quasi-mystical, even the early days when the lab was full of caged rats and dogs and rabbits and monkeys, all with glowing, green eyes. Pagan science!'

'You're going to die, Ezawa,' said Donnell angrily. 'Just like in the movies, and pretty damn soon. One morning after this breaks, after the papers start howling for your blood, and they will, you can count on it, that old time religion of yours will stir you to wrap a white rag around your head and sit you down facing the sunrise with a fancy knife and a brain full of noble impulse. And the ironic part is that you're going to be swept away by the nobility of it all right up to the time you get a whiff of your bowels and see the tubes squirming out of your stomach.'

He broke off and looked toward the door. Only Simpkins was there, but Jocundra heard dragging footsteps in the hall. 'Who is it?' asked Donnell, whirling on Otille.

'He says he can feel you, too, but from much farther away,' Otille's voice devoid of emotion.

'Our latest success with the new strain,' said Ezawa. 'He's much stronger than you, Mr Harrison. Or he will be. I think we can credit that to his having been a full-fledged psychic, not merely a latent one.'

Donnell leaped toward Otille, furious, but Simpkins intercepted him and threw him onto the floor. Otille never blinked, never flinched.

'Fisticuffs,' said a man at the door. 'Marvelous! Wonderful!'

He wore a black silk bathrobe matching Otille's, carried a cane, and the right side of his puffy face was swathed in bandages; but both his eyes were visible. The irises flickered green.

'Papa!' Jocundra gasped.

He regarded her distantly, puzzled, then inclined his head to Donnell in a sardonic bow. 'Valcours Rigaud at your service, sir,' he said. 'I do hope you're not injured.'

Jocundra took a step toward Ezawa. 'You killed him!' she said. 'You must have!'

'It's questionable he would have lived,' said Ezawa placidly.

'Did you kill me, Otille?' Valcours affected a look of hurt disillusionment. 'You only told me I had died.'

It was impossible to think of him as Papa anymore. He was truly Valcours, thought Jocundra, if only a model conjured up by Otille. Death had remolded his face into a sagging, pasty dumpling, reduced all his redneck vitality into the dainty manners of a moldering, middle-aged monster.

'I had to,' said Otille; she walked