Floats the Dark Shadow (40 page)

The choirboys brought wine and wafers to the altar. The crowd surged forward in a black wave. The air billowed with the smoke of the incense and the manic fumes of color emanating from the participants. Fetid green, grim purple, and sullied red swirled and mingled in a gruesome storm cloud. Theo’s head was splitting as she backed away from the nave—but here was a chance to find Ninette and escape with her. She could not wait for Michel to rescue them. She moved back toward the entrance and the stairwell that Vipèrine had ascended. Now there was a guardian standing beside it, watching Vipèrine until her movement had caught his eye. He was watching her now. Frustrated, Theo turned back toward the altar. Vipèrine was brandishing himself to the onlookers as the choirboys lifted up a plate of the wafers. He took handfuls of the host and wiped them over his flaunted sex, then reaching back and rubbed more between the cheeks of his buttocks. He tossed both handfuls into the crowd who gave a howling cry and descended on them.

The guardian moved forward—then stepped back to stand watch over the stairs. Ninette must be below. Perhaps there was another way into the chamber? Another entrance would make an easier escape. Theo’s head was swimming from the fumes of the hashish and whatever weird herbs Vipèrine had added. Belladonna? Henbane? It was almost impossible to think. Going outside would clear her head. If there were no other entrance, she would come back and force her way down the stairs at gunpoint. The guardian gave her the briefest glance when she went out through the doors.

The rain had started, pattering softly on the leaves. Theo took a deep breath of the moist air, clearing her lungs, her brain. Luscious relief. But there was no time to spare, so she moved quickly down the steps and set off around the side of the chapel.

But as soon as she turned the corner, someone lunged out from the trees behind her. Shock took her breath as a hard arm closed around her ribs and yanked her backwards. A calloused hand closed roughly over her mouth, smothering her cry.

Chapter Thirty-Four

O we so worthy of these torments…

They promised to bury us in shadow

The shadow of the tree of good and evil.

~ Arthur Rimbaud

MICHEL struck a match, shielding the tiny light to glance at his watch. “Midnight.”

He and his men had gathered a street over from the estate. They had come in carriages like the participants of this satanic charade. The Black Marias would have been a warning. They would arrive by the time the raid was finished.

Walking alone, Michel approached the gate cautiously. He had not thought to wear a cloak, but his clothes were anonymous black. “
Luxure.
” He gave the gatekeeper the password Lilias had sent. The man unlocked the gate. Once inside the walls, Michel subdued him without a sound and quickly motioned his men through. One of his officers stripped off the guardian’s robe and took his place. Another Michel stationed behind the wall, the unconscious guardian bound and gagged beside him. Latecomers would be admitted, fleeing suspects captured. Michel signaled the rest of his men to follow the lighted pathway with its candles flickering and sputtering in the rain that filled the night like congealed mist.

Old as the Ancien Régime, the house they passed seemed to sag in slovenly disrepair. Ivy crawled over its crumbling stone. Cardboard patched broken windows. But for centuries this house had been noble. Had its owners worshipped the devil before? Had they been involved with the Black Masses arranged by Madame Du Barry and her coterie? The poisonings? Satanism and murder had gone hand in bloody hand for centuries in France—Gilles de Rais being its most notorious example.

As he walked silently toward his goal, Michel’s mind swarmed with questions, their endless buzzing impossible to ignore. If not for the winged cross behind the bakery, he might think Ninette’s abduction an exercise in perversity unrelated to the murders. The case made less sense to him now than before. Apparently, Vipèrine and Corbeau had conspired in the killings, with or without a Revenant. Was tonight’s Black Mass simply part of some historical reenactment? Were the other murders only a prelude to a grisly public display, or would the participants see only the rape, with murder saved for later? Had Corbeau brought Ninette here? Did he keep another coach concealed in someone else’s stable? Or had Ninette been lured by a familiar face, by Averill Charron or Paul Noret?

Perhaps tonight was only some sort of satanic circus act, and the virgin sacrifice was not Ninette, just a girl from the brothels tricked out with a fake hymen for the show. Perhaps she was some poor child sold by her family for a few francs. Michel shook his head. With luck, the girl would be spared, the killer captured and all his questions resolved.

He wished he believed more in the blessings of luck.

As they slowly circled the chapel, Michel gestured to a few men to stay in position beneath the canopy of the surrounding oaks. Turning the far corner, Michel saw stone steps descending the side of the chapel. Moving closer, he glimpsed a door below. A crypt most likely. An excellent place for murder following rape. He beckoned Rambert and another young officer, Rogier, to investigate—but then he heard a muffled cry. Quietly, he summoned Ganet, his senior officer. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I’ll go down as well. You take the rest of the men to the front. Wait three minutes for my order, then begin the raid. If we don’t reappear soon, we may need rescuing.” Ganet nodded and set off for the front of the chapel. With the two men behind him, Michel silently went down the steps to the bottom. He tested the handle of the door and found it unlocked. It opened with a barely audible click. Michel and the others entered the crypt, the slight sounds of their footsteps muted by the chanting coming from the chapel.

Directly across from him, a man in a hooded cape held a weakly struggling girl in his arms. Ninette—he recognized her from the portrait her parents had shown him of Theo’s painting. She wore only a transparent shift that revealed her budding breasts and the dark curls of her mons. Her hair spilled loose in an inky cascade. She was beautiful. The horde upstairs would descend on her like wolves if the leader of the pack offered her to them. Her wrists were bound in front of her, and she thumped helplessly at her captor’s chest. Her feet were bare, delicate, and somehow more pathetic than all the rest. She gave small cries as she twisted and squirmed. The man put his hand over her mouth and shushed her. At first Michel could not see the man’s face, but then the girl struck at him and the hood fell back.

It was Averill Charron.

Michel felt a surge of pure, cold-blooded satisfaction. Raising his gun, he pointed it at Charron’s head and cocked it.

Hearing the sound, Charron turned and stared at him. Stared at the gun. He swallowed. “You don’t understand.”

Michel smiled a little. “I understand perfectly.”

“No—”

“I am in no mood for games.” Michel nodded to Rogier. “Tell Ganet to begin the raid.” The officer ran out the door. Ganet could handle Vipèrine. Michel had what he wanted, Ninette safe and the killer captured. Michel cocked his weapon. “Lay her down. Carefully.”

Now Charron looked frightened. His grip on Ninette tightened and she whimpered. “I was trying to save her.”

“Of course you were,” Michel said. “That’s why she’s struggling against you.”

“She didn’t recognize me.”

“She recognized you all too well.”

“She’s been drugged.”

“That I believe.” Even in the dim light, the girl’s eyes were glazed, unfocused.

Michel made a sharp gesture with the gun and repeated, “Put her down. Gently.”

“She will be all right when the effects wear off,” Charron said. “Her pulse is good.” He lowered her feet to the floor, but she could not stand on her own and sank to her knees. Kneeling slowly, Charron laid her back against a pillar. He glanced up as the muted noise of pounding feet filtered down, along with cries of fear and outrage.

Holding the weapon on Charron, Michel ordered Rambert to put on the
ligote
. Instantly, he barreled past Michel and thrust Charron away from Ninette. Charron staggered, but Rambert kept moving, shoving Charron against the side wall and yanking his hands behind him to fasten the
ligote
. Charron cried out sharply as Rambert tightened the wire. When their prisoner was secured, Michel put away his gun and went to check on Ninette. She did not seem injured or in danger otherwise. Midway along the wall was a cot where she must have lain, a tattered blanket bunched at its foot. Michel grabbed it and covered her. He’d already asked the prison physician to come with the Black Marias. Looking over his shoulder, Charron met Michel’s gaze. “I was rescuing her,” he insisted. “They were going to rape her.”

Michel stood and faced him. “Only rape? Perhaps some disembowelment for the supreme amusement, then a midnight excursion to the closest cemetery?”

His prisoner looked stunned, then suddenly terrified. But there was no guilt, no slyness in his expression. Was he innocent as he claimed? The hero of the drama and not the villain? Michel was inclined to think Charron was an excellent actor. His killer had had much practice pretending to be human.

“I did not kidnap her, or mean to rape her,” Charron repeated. “I did not intend to kill her.”

“Liar!” Rambert struck him.

“Stop,” Michel ordered instantly.

“I’ve seen his handiwork,” Rambert snarled.

“Then do not imitate his brutality.” Michel loathed crude violence and loathed himself when he felt compelled to use it. “He will stand trial. At the least, abduction and intended rape will get him five years at hard labor. Most do not survive it.”

“Not enough.” Rambert shook his head.

Michel knew he was thinking of the blood-stained cell below the stable and of Alicia propped against the gravestone. The images haunted him as well. Charron was silent, watching them both. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Rambert’s hands curled into fists. Michel said, “If we can prove he murdered Alicia, he will go to the guillotine.”

“Unless your killer goes to an insane asylum,” Charron said.

Michel held very still. Had Charron already plotted his defense? Would it work? His family was wealthy enough that he might be incarcerated someplace tolerable. Michel wanted the blade of the guillotine to finish his murderous career. You could escape from an asylum.

He walked closer, looked directly in Charron’s eyes. “It’s a pity they won’t burn you at the stake—like Gilles de Rais.” Charron looked startled, but only as he had when Michel had quoted Rimbaud in the cemetery. Michel would expect more reaction at having his other persona thrown in his face.

“Gilles de Rais was an aristocrat and was mercifully strangled before he was burned,” Charron retorted with more of his old sarcasm. He gestured toward the staircase that led up to the chapel. “Why prate of medieval villains with Vipèrine parading himself upstairs?”

“Vipèrine?” Michel repeated, hoping Charron would let something slip.

“I was curious to see a Black Mass.” Charron glared at him. “That does not make me a killer. Vipèrine told me there was to be one, then…nothing. But there were rumors and he was evading me. When I heard that Ninette was kidnapped, I suspected he had taken her.”

“And why was that?”

“Because there was talk of a virgin sacrifice. Once he asked me if I knew any virgins.”

“You did not find that….”

“Suspicious? Appalling?” Charron smiled sardonically. “If I had taken it seriously, yes, but I only joked that such a thing was impossible. Now I think he was searching out victims.”

“Wouldn’t someone seeking out a Black Mass expect a virgin sacrifice?” He didn’t glance up, but overhead he could hear the noise of the raid dying down.

“I presumed whoever joined in these things did it because they wanted to.”

“Then why bother to come at all? Surely the Grand Guignol offers as much. Or was it just the excuse for a picturesque orgy?”

Charron looked haughty. “I thought it would inspire a poem. That was reason enough.”

“If you were not involved, how did you know where to come?” Michel asked.

“When Vipèrine first told me about his plans, he mentioned this church.”

“And the password?”

“I used a more clandestine approach,” Charron said. “I climbed the wall using an overhanging branch.”

“Inspired.”

“After that it was easy. There were no guards, except at the gate, and no real expectation of intruders. I thought I would have to knock out the guard that Vipèrine left, but he went to watch Vipèrine perform the mass. Ninette was too confused to escape.”

“Did you plan to carry her back to Montmartre?”

“I had a carriage waiting.”

“Your cohort?”

Charron’s expression was blank. “Cohort? No, just a man I promised to pay well.”

A gunshot cracked in the night. Another.

Michel pulled his weapon, as did Rambert. Were his men firing at a fleeing Vipèrine? No one else was worth the ammunition. Was Vipèrine shooting at his men? Michel had warned them of his penchant for smoke bombs and razors in his shoes. But Michel did not expect a gun. Not daring to leave Ninette alone in the crypt, he lifted her up, light as a thistle in his arms then handed her to Rambert. “Follow me.”

Then he ran up the stairs into the drizzling air of the tree-shrouded garden.