by C H Chelser
The
Devourer
C. H. Chelser
Azera Publishing
Eindhoven, The Netherlands
www.chchelser.com
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Mercedes’ Card Reading
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Chapter I
Confusion killed. This observation shouldn’t matter to him in his present state, but universal facts remained blissfully unaltered by such trivialities.
He lay suspended in the chilling darkness. Its silent embrace was a haven and a scourge in equal measures. Countless needles etched his mind and carved into his soul. Annoying, but acceptable. The needles made him forget the pain that was seated in deeper recesses he didn’t care to visit. Entertaining such thoughts caused only confusion, and the mere contemplation of it was a futile exercise.
His attention, he found, was better spent on more important tasks.
***
Mercedes Fabron believed that good service started with paying attention. As hostess of one of Paris’ renowned fashion boutiques, her professionalism demanded that she listened carefully to what her clients desired, what they needed, and what they didn’t yet know they would need. At the moment, though, listening attentively while the lady in question wept into her handkerchief between uncontrollable sobs proved to be something of a challenge.
It took a good ear to make out what the lady was babbling about in the first place. Her halting sentences contained but few understandable words, most of which were mangled by her obvious foreign accent. At times her pronunciation was so far off the mark that Mercedes couldn’t be sure whether she had been speaking French at all.
To make matters worse, the man who accompanied the lady tried to explain the situation too. Mercedes ignored him. The bloodstains on his jacket and the hole in the side of his head were clear indications that he shouldn’t be partaking in the conversation in the first place.
“Madame, my sincerest condolences,” Mercedes said when the lady’s incoherent plight at last ran out of steam. “I understand your grief, as well as your wish to express it. Forgive me, but I believe I detected you are from the British Isles?”
The lady sighed into her hands. “More than five years I have lived in Paris, but I still cannot hide my roots.”
“None of us can help how we are made, madame. There is no shame in wanting to mourn your—” Mercedes’s voice caught when the bloodied man forced the answer on her unspoken question. “—to mourn your brother in the manner in which you were raised. The French mourning customs are not as extensive as those of the British, but neither are we barbarians. Nicole!”
Her senior shop assistant hurried across the shop floor.
“Nicole, fetch me a roll of black silk and one of black... bombazine! Yes, bombazine. And I believe we still have some lengths of black crepe stored in the back? See if you can find that, too.”
New tears shone in the lady’s eyes, but not for sorrow. “Oh, Madame Fabron! My friend was right when she said you would help me.”
“At your service, madame,” Mercedes said, and produced a few sketches of dress designs for her client to choose from.
Parisian boutiques rarely got requests for mourning dresses in the style of British fashion, and most workshops thought it too costly to anticipate such orders. A poor business decision, in Mercedes’ opinion. While rare, these requests were always well-paid rush jobs for three dresses or more. Not an order to be sneezed at, and so she didn’t. If that meant keeping a small stock of otherwise unsaleable fabrics, the cost was well worth the profit it made.
The only significant downside of rush jobs was the pressure on her seamstresses. For that reason, Mercedes made sure to limit her client’s choice to a handful of designs, all of them straightforward and therefore quick to make.
“Madame, whenever you are ready to decide, Nicole will take your measurements and my girls will start on your dresses this afternoon. The first dress will be ready for fitting by end of business tomorrow.”
The lady stood agape. “Really? So soon?”
“We understand time is of the essence in these matters, madame” She gauged the lady’s figure and current dress. Ten years of experience told her what she needed to know. She entered the order in the order book, made a quick calculation in her head and added the outcome to the bottom of the page before showing it to her customer. “For three dresses, all services included.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The lady attempted to dry her eyes as she pulled a small purse from the hem of her bodice. “How much is the advance?”
Mercedes stayed the lady’s hand. “We only ask for advances for the more, shall we say, impulsive orders.” Mourning dresses were guaranteed to be collected, so her generosity bore no risk. Her grieving clientele appreciated the gesture, while the shop’s finances were secured. A perfect deal.
Except for the bloodied man who followed in his sister’s wake: his presence had nagged at Mercedes ever since they had come in. Most of the time she could filter out his kind well enough, but if she spared them a fraction of attention, she could sense their intentions. Sometimes without wanting to.
This one must have been very close with his sister –
Twins!weweretwins!
– because his contrition –
I’msorryI’msorry·Ididn’tmeanto·Ihadn’tseenthem·Ididn’tknow· until·Iheardacrackanditwasmyskull·andImeanttocomeback·sorry· Arlene· sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry
– threatened to overwhelm her. The sister’s grief was equally tangible, but easier to ignore than the incessant voice in her head. Mercedes pretended not to hear him. Much as she wanted to comfort the distraught twins, her task didn’t go beyond the supply of the woman’s mourning dresses. When the soldier realised this, Mercedes felt him pull away and return to his sister’s side.
Soon Nicole returned with the promised fabrics and a measuring tape. The lady approved the fabrics at a glance and at Mercedes’ direction, stepped behind the curtain in the corner.
“Nicole will take good care of you, madame. Please excuse me for a moment while I make the rest of the arrangements.”
Mercedes cast polite nods at the regular customers browsing her wares before pacing through the narrow doorway to the workshop at the back of the building. An overnight order didn’t get filled on promises alone.
By the light of big windows and plenty of oil lamps, two dozen seamstresses worked on various items of clothing in various stages of completion. Younger girls toiled away at the repetitive work of men’s shirts and straight capes, while the more experienced women sewed intricate dresses and exotic waistcoats. Mercedes headed for the workstations of the three senior seamstresses, which were positioned between the back entrance to her boutique and that to the boutique for menswear next door. It irked her when she saw that their best seamstress, Yvette, was already engaged by the only man who dared to venture into the workshop.
“I don’t care what Nico
le said! Nicole is an assistant, I am your boss. Therefore I am the one who tells you what to do. Let there be no doubt about that!”
Eric-Marie Fabron was a lithe man with short, red hair and a boyish face that deceived anyone who tried to guess his age. He wasn’t blessed with a strong voice, but he had learned young that hands demanded the respect his lack of stature failed to inspire. With his personnel, he spared the rod only because flogged horses might become dead horses, but threats were easy to make. Too easy, sometimes.
“No one doubts who is in charge, mon cher,” Mercedes cut into the conversation. “Is there a problem?”
“I daresay there is,” Eric hissed at her. “Did you take on a rush job?”
“Yes, I did. Three dresses at twice the normal price, payment guaranteed. Nicole is taking the lady’s measurements as we speak.”
Eric’s mouth twisted as it did whenever the world didn’t meet his expectations. “I just had Monsieur Leclerc in my shop for a final fitting. You know, big customer? Bit of a dandy? Lots of money to spend? He said to make haste with his order, and I promised we would.” He glared at Yvette. “That you would!”
“Mon cher, that man always tells you to ‘make haste’, but he never gives a deadline.”
“Because if one boutique isn’t fast enough, he will go to another!”
“My rush job was forwarded to us by another customer. If I do not meet her requirements, we might lose more than just this one order.”
His pale face ran red with indignation. Yvette hunched her shoulders, and all around heads bowed deeper over the workbenches, feverishly ignoring the argument. Mercedes, on the other hand, only lowered her voice.
“Honestly, Eric, I do not see why you make such a fuss. Plenty of our girls are willing to work a night or two extra. There is no reason why we cannot have both orders done by tomorrow without delaying the regulars.”
“And who pays for that effort? Yes, I!”
Untrue. The customers paid the extra cost, plus a margin. Eric had introduced that policy himself. However, the angry blotches on his cheeks spread, so she bit her tongue. A considerable part of keeping a marriage stable, she had learned, was knowing when to stop.
Eric held her gaze, nostrils flaring as he waited for someone to talk back at him. When Mercedes looked at her feet and Yvette retreated all together, he seemed appeased.
“Right, then. Yvette, select the girls who will be working late today and tomorrow to get this done. But no more than three.”
“Yes, Monsieur Fabron.”
“Good.” He eyed Mercedes as if he expected her to argue. She didn’t. “Yes, good.” He turned on his heels and returned to the men’s boutique.
Mercedes waited until the door had closed behind him.
“Yvette, make sure the girls you select take two candles each from the candle cabinet. I will not have them working by poor light.”
“Yes, madame.”
Eric wouldn’t be pleased when he found out, but candles were less expensive than replacing experienced employees who had ruined their eyesight for him. He knew that, too. A gruff glare and a snarl at her address, but after that no further word on the subject. Business as usual.
Mercedes gave the seamstress a last nod and went back to the women’s boutique to confirm to her grieving customer that the dresses would be ready as promised.
***
Through the darkness rippling about him, another approached. One of his kind. He focused on it, curious to find it so close. Yet when the other sensed his interest, it veered away.
Not uncommon. Most parasites sought only the company of hosts, opting to shy away from all others, even their own. Merely the natural order of things. Nothing to waste a thought on. He only acted when he had just cause, or when hunger compelled him. At the moment, neither factor was a convincing reason to leave his haven.
So he let this one go. For now. When the darkness extended tonight, he would go out to feed. That, too, was natural.
Chapter II
At closing time, the last customers of the day concluded their business and trickled out into the street one by one. The door was bolted, the shop floors swept and the registers counted. Mercedes carried the bag with the day’s proceeds and her order book to the small office at the back of the workshop, where Eric had just finished counting the contents of his own register.
“Not a bad day,” she said. “How about yours?”
“Fine, fine.” He wrote his own total in the ledger in front of him before acknowledging the bag and book she had placed on his desk.
Mercedes tilted her head. “I meant your day, mon cher, not merely the financials.”
Eric scoffed irritably, but took off his reading glasses and rubbed one hand over his face. A stricken puppy more than a hardened businessman.
“Monsieur Leclerc is an impossible man. He came in for a final fitting, but then he made all kinds of gibes about his suit, would you believe it? Every detail was on point, every seam as he ordered it! Yet he complained about the angle of the design on the waistcoat, about too many pockets in the jacket, too few pockets in the trousers. It took me an hour to convince him to accept that the suit meets his specifications, but he insisted it has to be ready by tomorrow.”
Mercedes gently laid her hands on his shoulders. “Now I understand your agitation. Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“In front of the seamstresses? No. No, a boss must carry such burdens alone.”
Her slender fingers rubbed his shoulders through his coat. “Not all alone, mon cher. Not all alone.”
Eric sat back, and for a long moment he allowed himself to enjoy the massage before straightening again.
“Why don’t you go upstairs for dinner, ma mie? I have to complete the ledger first.”
Mercedes’ hands fell to her sides. “I will see you later?”
“Later, yes. May be a while, though.”
The apology in his tone was left unspoken. She no longer expected him to voice it. Once upon a time she would have tried to convince him to leave the ledgers for tomorrow and come upstairs with her. She had since stopped trying, although she couldn’t remember when or why. Perhaps for no other reason than water passing under the bridge. To please him she retreated in silence which, as he often remarked, was becoming for a woman of her standing.
The workshop would be deserted by now. The girls who were working on the mourning dresses and M. Leclerc’s suit had taken their work home, to be continued after their families were fed and the children in bed. Abandoned for the night, all that fell across the workstations were the dark shadows cast by the streetlights shimmering through the large, barred windows that looked out on rue de la Fontaine Molière. As she strolled to the narrow flight of stairs in the corner, Mercedes caught a wisp of children’s laughter. She glanced at the far end of the workshop, in time to spot a boy and a girl running through the benches and disappearing through the wall. A faint smile tugged at her lips before she headed up the stairs, to the spacious flats on the next floor.
At the top of these stairs, a door separated them from the first-floor landing of the central stairwell. Upon her emergence, three young men streamed past her as they thundered down from the upper floors.
“Oh, hello, Madame Fabron.” “Good evening, madame.” “Au revoir, Madame Fabron!”
She returned a generic greeting. She couldn’t remember their names, nor did she have reason to. The income of renting out the rooms on the top floors more than covered the employ of a porter to keep an eye on the students residing there.
The first floor, however, was one large flat that she and Eric had to themselves, complete with two servants and a housekeeper to maintain it. And to prepare meals.
Mercedes bustled through the flat to the kitchen, following her nose. “Oh, that smells lovely, Gagnon,” she declared to announce herself.
The housekeeper bobbed in greeting without stopping the movement of the wooden spoon through the pan on the stove.
“Good evening,
madame. Dinner is almost ready. The table is set, so if it would please monsieur and madame to take a seat.”
“Monsieur Fabron will be late again.”
“Oh? Yes, of course. Will madame be waiting for him?” Gagnon’s wrinkled eyes squinted a fraction. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.
“He may be a few hours yet. I will dine by myself tonight.”
“As you wish, madame.”
Mercedes went through to the dining room and pulled out the high-backed chair at her end of the table. She stretched her back, but the bones of her corset dug into her skin. Too impatient to call her handmaid for assistance, she wormed her hands under her bodice and loosened the corset’s laces a fraction before she sat down just in time for the housekeeper to serve her a plate of baked fish, boiled carrots and some fresh bread.
“I’ve left monsieur’s meal in the pan with the lid on, so it’ll keep until he arrives.”
“Thank you, Gagnon.”
A considerate gesture, surely, but as always, an empty one. Not even the cast-iron pan would stay hot for as long as Eric would be when he worked late. Fastidious about details and proper procedure as he was, he cared little for food. Anything that was edible, he would eat, and only then if he remembered to. With Mercedes’ permission, many a forgotten evening meal had become a luxurious breakfast for the servants.
By the time Mercedes had finished her meal, her corset was poking her in the ribs and the steel cage under her skirts had left impressions in her thighs. These new crinolines might be the height of fashion, but the framework was even more cumbersome than layer on layer of petticoats. Good business demanded she wore the contraption to demonstrate its effect to the customers, but that was as far as she would concede. In her own house, she deserved a measure of comfort.
“Amélie?” she called out as she ambled to the master bedroom. “Amélie, give me a hand here.”
Her handmaid, a young girl with the slender but crooked build of an olive branch, hurried out of the study carrying a bucket and a cleaning rag.
“Yes, madame.” She tried to curtsey, but gave up when the bucket threatened to tip over. “I was just... I mean, shall I make a fire in the parlour for you?”