Floats the Dark Shadow (39 page)

“Thank you.” His answer filled Theo with both new hope and new trepidation.

~

Theo rode her bicycle to the foot of the Butte Montmartre and dismounted near the Moulin Rouge. Dusk was falling as she wheeled it up the steep incline of the rue Lepic, still mulling over what she had learned. She understood even more clearly the fascination Carmine felt with the occult world, but she knew her own path was different. Despite being brushed by the power of that world, Theo was an artist, not a seer. Whatever talent she possessed for understanding people came from reading their faces, observing their body movements, and listening to the shifts in their tone of voice, not because she could read minds or see into souls.

Theo stopped abruptly when she reached the first plateau. There were several gendarmes and groups of people talking. Farther up the street, even more people were gathered. She went to the nearest gendarme and asked what had happened. “A young girl has been kidnapped,” he said, “the daughter of the bakers on rue….”

“Ninette?”

The gendarme nodded solemnly.

Lovely, innocent Ninette with her rosy cheeks and the scent of bread and sugar perfuming her skin.

Theo ran up the street but was stopped outside the shop by another officer. Instinctively, Theo looked through the window for Inspecteur Devaux. Just as she chastised herself for presuming him to be everywhere, she saw him. Beyond him, Madame Pommier wept on her husband’s shoulder. Theo felt an awful twisting in her stomach, as if her innards were knotting themselves. Suddenly, vividly, Theo remembered Casimir and Averill joking about Paul’s attraction to Ninette.

Paul. Not Averill. Paul.
Theo felt a rush of relief, followed by a rush of shame. All the doubts she had shoved away had not vanished, but lurked, waiting to sink their claws in her. If Paul had seemed overly attentive to Ninette, that didn’t mean he had kidnapped her. But it was yet another child that the Revenants knew. Like Denis, and Dondre, and Alicia….

Unbidden, Theo remembered Alicia sitting on her little chair in the morgue as all of Paris filed by to gawk at her. Again her stomach twisted and acid bile rose in her throat. She leaned against the nearest wall, fighting her nausea. A narrow street ran behind the bakery. Memory was a physical thrust, pushing her into the gloom to hunt frantically for the winged cross. It was nowhere to be seen. Where had Ninette been going? How many streets must be searched? Theo looked up and saw Inspecteur Devaux approaching. Silently, he shook his head, his expression grim. He had already hunted here just as she was hunting now. “There is no mark here,” he told her. “She didn’t return after school. We are exploring that area as well. It is more likely to be there.”

“It may not be Alicia’s killer.”

“True. There are other unpleasant things that can have happened,” he answered.

Theo knew that pretty young girls like Ninette were sometimes drugged and seduced, or forced into brothels. “If some seducer has taken her, there is a chance of rescue.”

“Do not hope too much, mademoiselle,” Inspecteur Devaux said. “There are too many coincidences.”

He thought it was one of the Revenants. She still hoped to prove him wrong. “I know the meaning of the winged cross now.”

He looked only mildly curious. “You have visited your occult scholars?”

She gave a brief nod, stunned that he didn’t show more curiosity. She could not tell him of the vision she had shared, but she had already told him that the Mathers were knowledgeable about the occult. Defiantly, Theo said, “The wings are not an angel but a swan. They said it was the coat of arms of Gilles de Rais.”

His gaze was level. Not a flicker of surprise. “My source said the same.”

“And you don’t find it the least bit strange?”

“Extremely strange,” he acknowledged.

Theo wondered how long he had known. Would he even have told her? She battled down a surge of anger. “Surely it makes Vipèrine a stronger suspect?”

“Fractionally.”

Sometimes Theo wanted to grab hold of him, to shake him free of that cold calm. “I won’t bother to ask what fraction you calculated.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he gestured back toward the bakery. “What can you tell me about this missing girl?”

“She was—she is—very beautiful. Sweet and shy. Naïve.” When she paused, he just looked at her. Theo knew what he was really asking. She told him the truth as she knew it. “Paul seemed especially fond of her, but most of the Revenants knew her.”

“The Hyphens?” he asked, adopting their term.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them in the bakery, but we’ve said that Monsieur Pommier makes the best croissants….” Her voice quavered and she pressed her hand to her lips. Why was she talking about croissants? “They prefer the Left Bank.”

The streetlights came on, shining into the alley. Then a dark shadow as someone stepped into the entrance. Inspector Devaux turned instantly, then said, “Inspector Rambert, this is Mlle. Faraday, whose help has been so valuable already.”

“Mademoiselle,” the younger man acknowledged. Then to Inspector Devaux he said, “Sir, we have searched along the route that Mademoiselle Ninette takes home from school.”

There was a long pause, then Inspector Devaux asked, “What have you discovered?”

Theo was grateful that he was allowing her to remain. She knew that the news was not good.

Rambert stood rigidly, his hands curled into fists. “We have found a winged cross.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lord, may your divine glory illuminate

this fiendish hothouse….

~ Maurice Maeterlinck

THEO finished cleaning her Colt. She loaded it, set it snug in its holster, wrapped the gun belt around them, and put both on the table. Beside the gun, weighted with her copy of
Là Bas
, was the note from the Mathers. As promised, they had sent news of Vipèrine. Rumor said he was conducting a Black Mass tonight at Midnight. Some said there was to be a virgin sacrifice. She should inform the police. And so she would—after she was en route herself. Theo was certain Ninette was the intended victim. It was too much of a coincidence for the mass to be held the day after she was taken.

Her gaze was drawn back to the gleaming gun, beautiful in the way deadly things could be. Or ugly. Tonight it looked like a coiled rattlesnake. Theo was a good shot, though she hadn’t practiced since she left California. She’d gotten the Colt when she lived alone above the stables, out back of the Louvre bar in Jagtown. The owner of the bar had daughters her age and let it be known Theo was under his protection, too. The regulars had come to regard her as one of their own, but once or twice a drunk had decided to try his luck. The door was locked, but sometimes they wouldn’t stop pounding. Twice she’d fired out the window, scaring them off. One was crazy enough to smash through the door. She shot him in the thigh. Word got around, and she’d had no more unwanted visitors.

Midnight was not long off. She must hurry—but she must not forget to warn Michel. She picked up pen and paper. Writing quickly, she copied what was needed from the Mathers’ note, giving him the location of the townhouse and chapel on the Left Bank, and the password.

“
Luxure
,” she muttered under her breath. Lust. Rather blatant, but Theo doubted she’d observe any subtlety in tonight’s evil drama. Would she make herself too conspicuous by refusing to blaspheme and dance naked? There must always be curiosity seekers skulking in corners at such events, voyeurs who only wanted to glimpse the darkness. That was what Averill wanted, wasn’t it—to look into the abyss but not leap?

Theo sealed the note in an envelope, wrote Inspecteur Devaux’s name on it and printed
Urgent
boldly across the top. It was very late. He must be home asleep, but someone would be on duty. She wrote ‘Send for him at once’ across the bottom. That looked serious enough to have him awakened.

Tonight she wore the scruffy clothes she used for sketching around the stables and other rough areas, breeches and boots, a man’s shirt. They would let her run. Let her kick. Let her fight. After strapping on the Colt, Theo covered it with a long, loose jacket. She was tall and lanky with not much bust. Dressed like this, she should be able to pass for a youth if no one looked too closely or groped in the wrong places. She braided her hair and shoved it under a cap, then glared at her image in the mirror, unconvinced. Grabbing some charcoal, she smudged her face to suggest a beard and mustache. Finally, she crossed to a trunk and removed a black, hooded cape. It was velvet and too feminine, but she suspected that many of the attendees would be wearing such things. The hood would shadow her face and add to the illusion.

And Ninette might need something to cover her.

Theo felt feverish, her stomach roiling with apprehension, her senses painfully sharp. It was foolish to go alone, but there was no one she could ask. She thought of Ninette’s father, but he was too distressed to behave rationally. Carmine might think it a wonderfully bizarre adventure, but Theo would not put her friend in danger. Rape was the centerpiece of tonight’s entertainment—perhaps even murder? If Vipèrine believed himself the reincarnation of Gilles de Rais, he was insane but not so insane as to kill before a crowd. So far he had killed in secret. Theo prayed that his audience could not be so depraved.

She prayed, too, that none of her poets was conspiring with the Satanist. Paul seemed to despise Vipèrine. Could that be a blind to arrange the kidnapping of the exquisite Ninette? Jules had gazed on Vipèrine worshipfully, but did he have the courage to commit a crime? Casimir had seemed utterly scornful of Vipèrine’s theatrics and was supposed to be on his way to meet Oscar Wilde in Dieppe. Was that only a ruse so he could indulge this secret lust? Theo screamed silently. She didn’t want to believe any of them capable of rape, of murder—but she could not risk Ninette’s life on her badly shaken faith. A Revenant was the obvious choice to help her, but innocent or guilty, they would all try to stop her going.

And Theo must go, even if it meant going alone. Averill might be there—not as Ninette’s kidnapper, but because he had told Vipèrine he wanted to witness a Black Mass. She did not want him to be arrested for playing out some decadent fantasy. But if he was there and saw poor Ninette about to be ravaged, surely he would stop it?

So much the better—they would rescue her together. They might have to, if Inspecteur Devaux did not arrive in time—if he even came at all.

It was time to go. First, she hurried to the battered old coffee tin where she kept her savings. She would have to hire a fiacre. After calculating the cost as well as she was able, the ride across the Seine and back again, plus waiting time, she took it all. She had not bought paint and canvas yet this month—nor would she now. But the carriage was a necessity if Ninette must be spirited away.

Donning the cloak, Theo set out into the night.

~

A carriage was easy to find at the foot of the butte, but the ride seemed endless. Theo twitched with impatience while her driver delivered the note to the police station, fearful they would hold him there. But he returned quickly enough, and they crossed the island to the Left Bank, riding through the still noisy streets of the Latin Quarter and on into sleepy residential areas. At last, they arrived in a secluded area of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, filled with ancient walled homes of the aristocratic rich. Passing by the decaying mansion that was her destination, Theo glimpsed the gatekeeper move furtively behind the wall. She had her driver park not far away and walked back along the deserted…or almost deserted avenue. Other carriages waited on side streets. Approaching, Theo saw another group of cloaked figures admitted through the gates. She pulled the hood forward to increase her anonymity.

“Luxure.”
Her voice sounded hoarse when she whispered the password. The gatekeeper pointed across the courtyard to a side path thickly framed with trees. She saw votive candles set to light the way. Reaching the path, Theo moved swiftly along, passing the ivy-shrouded house to reach the little chapel beyond. It was built in the Gothic style, tall and narrow, the stone ornately carved, though she could not make out the design in the gloom. The long stained glass windows gleamed darkly in the night, their intricate leading like thick black spider webs. Overhead, the waning moon looked oddly menacing amid gathering rain clouds. Its thin sickle of light curved around the bottom edge like an evil grin.
Cheshire cat
, Theo thought—but she was following not a white rabbit, but a black-souled viper.

Entering the chapel, Theo saw the building was dilapidated, the columns splotched with mildew and peeling paint. Near the door was a basin of what should have been holy water, but it reeked like urine. Under its sharpness, the anteroom smelled of dust and mold. Inside the nave, hundreds more votives burned, adding their waxy odor to the air. Their smell, the glimmering flames, took Theo back to the night of the catacombs concert. Even from the back of the chapel, she felt the frantic excitement that simmered in the two dozen people gathered within. But under the daring, the defiance, she sensed a festering shame.

Theo entered the nave, keeping to the shadows as much as she could. But it was impossible to dodge the four men who walked continuously up and down the aisles. They were dressed in mockery of choirboys. Their rouged lips smiled lasciviously, and their robes of transparent organdy displayed their arousal. As they paced, they swung heavy censers that gave off thick clouds of incense and musky herbs. Her nostrils quivered, trying to place a vaguely familiar smell. Hashish. She’d found Averill smoking it once, but he would not let her have any. “You may know everything,” he’d said, “but I will not help you do everything!”

But he had not told her everything. He had not told her about Casimir.

The memory of the kiss she’d witnessed filled her mind. Her heart twisted and jerked, as if trying to escape her body.

Thrusting away the excruciating image, Theo forced her attention back to her surroundings. She could not afford to be careless. The smirking choirboys passed her again, swaying their fuming censers. Smoke rose and twisted into predatory shapes like winged snakes. Her head was starting to spin, but she kept circling round the church in search of Averill and the other Revenants. Many were masked, but she would recognize their stance. She did not see anyone with Paul’s tall insectile figure, or Casimir’s insouciant elegance. Jules moved tentatively—he could disguise himself in the crowd more easily than the others. She had not seen Vipèrine either. Even masked, he would draw his worshippers like a magnet.

Theo reached the front of the chapel, where a large altar was draped with a pure white sheet. The better to show off a virgin’s blood… The image made her queasy, and the clinging smoke of the narcotic incense didn’t help. Her head was throbbing now. She wanted desperately to go outside, just for a moment, and breathe fresh air, but she must search the other side of the room. Everywhere she looked the candle flames throbbed, tiny daggers of light. Color became exaggerated. The people she passed shimmered darkly, each surrounded by a strange warped halo—murky scarlet, indigo, dusky purple, sickly yellow. Their whispering voices seemed to echo inside the chapel, or inside her mind, hissing obscenities.

She heard a moan behind her. Turning, Theo saw a ménage à trois in a back corner, two men and a woman who had not waited for the ceremony to begin their orgy. They were embracing, their arms slithering over each other. The woman was naked under her robe and gripped the erect penises of the men on either side of her. They poured wine over her breasts and lapped it off. It trickled down over her belly. One of the men knelt before her. Theo stared shocked as he buried his head between her thighs. She thought of Averill touching her so, and a pulse of heat flashed through her. Flustered, embarrassed, a little frightened, Theo hurried on, searching the faces she passed.

At last she reached the doors through which she’d entered. Her quest had yielded no one she knew, and Theo was sure she had looked at everyone. Averill was not here. Relief rushed through her, more intoxicating than hashish. Then she heard a sound and turned. Obscured in shadow, a stone staircase descended…somewhere. A crypt? Was Ninette imprisoned there?

Just then the sound repeated—footsteps as someone climbed up from below. Shielding her face with her hood, Theo retreated to an obscure corner as a man in a helmet appeared. The gilded paper mache sported obscene crimson horns protruding out each side. The man’s face was hidden, but the garish blue beard proved it was Vipèrine. He paused at the top of the aisle. His gaze swept her, and Theo’s hand slid to the Colt, but he was not truly looking. He was summoning.

When all his followers had turned to him, he began to chant. “
In nomine Magni Dei Nostri Satanus introibo ad altare Domini Inferi
.”

Theo had almost no Latin, but she could understand that Vipèrine was evoking Satan.

“In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Luciferi Excelsi,"
he intoned.

Now he beckoned to the choirboys. They swerved into line in front of him, their faces avid, smoke flowing from the swaying censers.

"Ave Satanas."

They moved forward and Vipèrine followed in procession down the center aisle. The Satanist wore a satin chasuble, the purple so dark it was almost black. The gleaming color blurred with the quivering darkness that surrounded him like tainted smoke. As he walked past, she saw the back was painted with a rampant goat. When Vipèrine turned to face the congregation, he raised his arms and opened them wide. The robe had been split up the center to the waist. His gesture spread it apart, exposing his erection. He had painted or powdered his body to make it paler and stained his member to match the crimson horns thrusting from his helmet.

"Rege Satanas!"

The choirboys resumed their circling, dispensing plumes of smoke among the crowd.

Speaking now in French, Vipèrine began chanting curses that were praises of Satan, calling him Master of Slanders, Treasurer of Hatred, Dispenser of Sins. Theo felt like she’d fallen into the pages of
Là Bas
. Was this the usual sacrilege, or had Vipèrine just memorized the scene from the novel? The ugly words fell from his mouth, clanking like iron chains. As he spoke, the avid audience moved ever closer, willing slaves wrapping those chains around themselves. He must be the evil Devil of her Tarot.