by C H Chelser
This took one worry off her mind, but the remaining problems were more persistent. Since last night, the melancholy she suffered at times had crept up on her again. Now it insisted on brooding the time away and tempted her to stare at the opposite wall in self-pity. She did so for a while, until common sense prevailed and suggested a better use of her temporary solitude.
Wresting herself loose from the melancholic inertia, Mercedes pulled the storage room key from its chain and locked the door. Eric and Yvette carried a key as well, so she left hers in the lock to block it. Satisfied that she would not be interrupted, she settled herself against the shelves behind her and closed her eyes.
Without the effects of the laudanum hampering her mental faculties, it was much easier to test the validity of her dream of Jean. She conjured the memory in her mind and manipulated it, picturing their conversation taking place in a meadow instead of under the arches of Notre Dame. This inserted image didn’t fit. More than that, the instant she stopped concentrating on the meadow, the original image of stone walls and pillars bounced back like a recoiling spring. A second test, in which she imagined Jean as being dark-haired, fared no better. No matter how she tried, all she could see was the bright white locks framing his face like a halo.
Her eyes snapped open. Not a hallucination, then, or a dream. What she had seen was real. Real as the crate she sat on and the shelves pressing into her back. Which meant that the things Jean had told her held true as well.
Mercedes bit on the knuckle of a finger. Unbidden, her thoughts went out to Danielle, but there came no reply. Of course not. She was in Jean’s sanctuary and he would not let her risk herself. He had promised to keep her hidden, safe from the world. All at a price Mercedes could barely fathom.
“What did I get myself into?”
Doubt and fear writhed inside her like a snake. Where to start? And how? Jean had said to fight fire with fire, to fight one soul-eating monster with the help of another. By God! She was no archangel, no Saint Michael who existed to slay such demons. What if she did find the one Jean said should help her? What if she found it, only for it to turn on her instead?
“Madness. Pure madness!”
She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes and breathed deeply until her anxiety settled a little. Around her, the noises from the workshop filtered through the thin walls, interrupting the serenity of the storage room. No one out there would hear her if she cried. They couldn’t come in and she wasn’t expected to show herself for a while yet. She was alone. Daunting as that was, it was also a perfect chance to summon a spirit without anyone noticing.
Or so it would be if she dared.
The memory of Jean’s voice filled her mind. ‘Think of your daughter. If not you, then who will?’
Mercedes took another deep breath. Her concentration darted this way and that, like a rabbit trying to escape the snake coiled inside her. Focusing was near impossible, because what she needed to focus on was the same thing she wanted to run from.
Her mind instantly revived the recollection of dark, oppressive shadows, the groping claws and the icy wetness seeping into her clothes. One thought enveloped these images and swirled around, gathering momentum. All she needed to do now was broadcast it, throw it out into world and call the monster to her. It would take no more than that. Then he would come and—
A muzzle with razor-sharp teeth lanced her thoughts. She flinched on instinct and curled up where she sat. Her own teeth ground together while she waited, petrified, counting the seconds for the unnatural cold to fill the room.
One.
Two.
There had been two ghosts that day in Anne’s cellar. Jean had said so. Two of them, but she hadn’t noticed.
Three.
She hadn’t been able to tell them apart. Those teeth, to whom had they belonged?
Four.
If one had claws, then why not teeth? If one had teeth, why not the other? They should have teeth. They were devourers. They ate souls, for God’s sake!
Five...
The air was still cool, but not cold. Her dress was dry and the fabrics weren’t flapping in an unnatural breeze. Slowly she unfolded herself from her foetal position.
“Madness,” she whispered again, this time as a chiding at her own address. False alarm. Apparently, calling the dark spirit Jean wanted her to call on wasn’t as easy as the guide had made it sound. Something to be grateful for, if she were honest, because every encounter so far had scared her witless. Her standing up to it – to them – had been an act of despair, not a show of willpower. If she summoned the dark figure and it answered, she had no defence at all should it prove not to be as congenial as Jean thought.
‘The water is not the herald of your enemy,’ the guide had promised.
Perhaps not, but the grey area between animosity and friendliness was enormous. The best she could hope for was indifference, the kind a spoiled cat had for a fish head. Should she be that lucky, she would still have to pray he wasn’t hungry enough to bother with eating her after all. What kind of chance was that?
“Jean?” she said, a fraction louder than a whisper. “Jean, I need your help.”
Her plea drew attention. Jean was not among them, but she sensed several others who had picked up on her call. Apprehension caught her quickly and she shielded herself, yet she found no malice, only curiosity.
“Jean, please. You told me to find this other spirit and I promise I will try. But what do I do when he answers?”
No reply.
“Jean!”
The ghosts nearby buzzed. She felt the delicate vibrations of their excitement, much like how she experienced Danielle speaking to her. Humans would murmur, but ghosts didn’t need sound to convey thoughts. Even so, the intention was similar.
“If you know why he ignores me, then speak up.”
Heislistening·listeningbutnot·answering.
Despite her irritation, Mercedes smiled. “Slowly, remember?” she said.
The English soldier literally drew himself together before her mind’s eye. He is listening, he repeated.
“Then why will he not speak to me?”
The soldier faded briefly, then refocused. He says you already have all the answers he can give you.
“Such poor excuse for help,” she retorted, but regretted it at once. “That is unfair of me. Jean has been most helpful. The problem lies with me, not him.”
The soldier studied her. You are afraid. Picking up on the thoughts milling about her, he added: You should be!
“I’m sure you are right.” Mercedes massaged her forehead. “Still, whether justified or not, being afraid does me no service. I have to somehow summon this creature, this spirit, and face it.”
You are bright light. Friendly face. Don’t.
“Do you believe I have a choice in this?” she snarled, suddenly livid.
There is always choice. Don’t!
“It is for my daughter. I must!”
The ferocity of her reply startled them both. Her heart pounded and her fists shook with anger. She willed her hands to unclench. When they did, she saw the red marks where her nails had dug into her flesh.
“It is for my daughter,” Mercedes repeated gravely. “She is all I have left. I will lay down my own soul before I accept losing her a second time.”
The soldier seemed confused, but a second, lighter spirit eased the tension in the air. It felt almost like Jean, but only ‘almost’.
Never mind, my dear. It is a motherly thing. Mothers can be true terrors when protecting their young.
The light gradually took on the shape of a middle-aged woman in a dress that had been the height of fashion some thirty years ago.
The soldier started again. You? At once, his presence began to glow with joy. You!
Have you thanked the good lady? You should, my dear boy.
Mercedes sensed that ‘the good lady’ referred to her and wondered why she had overheard thoughts not directed at her. The woman
was clearly speaking to the soldier, yet she included Mercedes in their conversation.
Of course I do. He owes you a great deal. He is doing considerably better now his sister is more comfortable in her mourning of his absence. That in turn means he can come to terms with his death.
Am I? It does? the soldier asked, bewildered.
Out of interest, Mercedes increased her focus on him so her second sight registered everything her eyes would see of a living person. Last time, he had looked ragged and dirty, as if he was still in the faraway wilderness where he had died. Not anymore. Now his uniform was clean, his hair combed and, most notably, the gaping wound in the side of his head had disappeared.
“Much better indeed. Had you not noticed?” she asked him.
His answer was a wordless ‘no’. At this, the woman’s energy petted him without her appearance moving accordingly.
Humans are shaped by their bodies, she said, but we are shaped by our state of mind and our habits.
“Habits?”
Oh, yes. The habit of a lifetime. Had you not noticed? She smiled teasingly. Pay close attention. You will find that those of us who remember their physical existence often prefer to match their appearance to that of the body they left behind.
“Not all ghosts,” Mercedes countered. “Danielle, my daughter... She looks like a little girl, but she was only an infant when she died.”
I said “often”. Not “always”. The image you see now is not how I looked when I died. I was a crone then. As that is not how I want to think of myself, why should I do so now that I can chose?
“Oh. I had not thought of that.”
In all honesty she had never thought about why ghosts would appear human when they were not, no more than she stopped to wonder why a living man in the street looked like a man. It simply had never occurred to her.
“A young child is easier to connect with than a baby that isn’t a baby,” she mused, thinking of Danielle.
The woman gave the impression of nodding. A familiar appearance also aids recognition by others. Spirits have no names as humans do, but a visual prompt helps to recognise one who was remembered differently in life. She caressed the soldier, who returned the attention with great affection. Another habit that does not die when the body does. Isn’t that right, my dear?
Mygrandmother·sheismy·grandmother·Shecametomebefore·butIdidn’t·recogniseher·andfledbutnow·sheishereand·I’msohappy!
Mercedes didn’t bother reminding him he was speaking too fast. Slurred as his train of thoughts was, she understood that he knew the woman well and was excited to be reunited with her. Asking to know more felt like eavesdropping, so she turned her focus away. A pity, because this appearance of him was much kinder on her senses than that of his animated corpse.
Her mind jolted as that thought led to another. What would the devourer look like if she finally managed to confront it. In the alley she had seen it feed off the energy of others. Only a very disturbed soul would do so, yet it – he? – had seemed humanoid at the time. Was he, if she saw him better? If so, would he, too, have gaping wounds or monstrous deformations?
Your troubles betray your intentions, the woman’s thoughts interrupted her own. Appearance will be the least of your concerns in that encounter. A warmth emanated from her. I commend you for your courage.
“I have not done anything yet.”
The woman gave her the wordless feeling that this was only a matter of time. That sense of inevitability scared Mercedes, but was also strangely comforting.
And extremely sobering.
Who was she fooling, trying to avoid the dark ghost? Even before Jean’s offer, she had been in over her head. That devourer had found her several times already. She had said herself that a new confrontation was inevitable.
Friendly face, said the soldier.
“Being a friendly face will not help me, I’m afraid,” she said. Angry with herself, she locked her mind. Remember motherhood, was the last she heard the woman say. Then their presences faded and Mercedes knew she was alone again.
During her ethereal conversation external noises hadn’t bothered her. Now they pounded in her ears. Their loudness irritated her, although the sounds themselves were normal. Normal voices, normal activity. No one had missed her yet. A small grace. Readjusting to the physicality of things always took longer than she wanted it to.
She tilted her head back and rested it against a big roll of dark green cotton. In her mind, the woman’s parting words lingered like the sweet taste of confiture on her tongue.
Motherhood. Society refused to accept a mother who had no children at her skirts. For years, Mercedes had forced herself to believe this was true, even though her heart, body and mind disagreed. She was a mother. A mother of dead children, but a mother nonetheless. Her sons were lost to her, but her daughter had stayed. In spite of everything, Danielle was still her child, and she the girl’s mother.
‘For her, anything!’ Her own words. Words she had meant from the bottom of her heart. When she had first let her daughter down, she had had no way of preventing it. This time, the outcome was in her hands. She would not fail Danielle. Not again.
In the back of her mind, the picture of the Mother Bear leapt forward. ‘Few forces can match that of a furious mother bear protecting her cub.’ Jean’s words. She knew nothing about bears, but she had seen cats protect their young with the same ferocity that filled her when she thought of Danielle. He must have seen that. Like the angel he claimed he wasn’t, Jean had seen right through her.
Perhaps, if only for lack of choice, she should have more faith in his judgement of her.
The crate scraped across the storage room floor as she rose. Firm strokes down her skirts settled her crinoline and smoothened the folds. Time to leave. Regardless of the hour, she was going to see Anne as soon as she could prise that cab ride from Eric’s stingy fingers. No one she knew had more experience with the occult than her dear friend. Maybe aside from medicine and particular implements, Madame Esmeralda would also have a few tips for her on how to summon dark spirits without getting killed in the process.
When Mercedes emerged from the storage room, her return didn’t go unnoticed. Yvette, the senior seamstress, came over for advice on the amount and spacing of the trimmings on the English-style mourning dresses she was working on. Thinking of the soldier and his grandmother, Mercedes took ample time to address the questions and devise the best possible solution. If the grieving sister’s comfort was so beneficial to her brother, she owed them both that much.
This and several minor duties done, she at last found Eric in his shop. He was stooped over his counter, pretending to be busy with nothing. The sales floor was void of customers and his assistants occupied themselves with the same unnecessary chores that she imagined Nicole had her girls perform next door. Eric acknowledged her, but then continued jotting down notes on his list.
“I should like to run that errand now,” she said.
“Ah yes. I suppose you want me to arrange for a cab?”
At the sarcasm in his voice, she frowned. “You did promise.”
“And so I shall,” he said with a fake smile. “Within reason, obviously. Where do I tell the driver to take you?”
“The Cité.”
He started as if bitten. “No. Make your purchase elsewhere.”
The snake inside uncoiled and sudden panic paralysed her for a heartbeat. “But mon cher, I know only of this one place. Please! If there is anywhere else to obtain such a thing, I would not know where.”
“Then you shall not go.” Remembering where they were, he quickly lowered his voice. “I will not have you go to the Cité again, do you understand?”
She attempted to hide her anxiety behind a shrug. “Why? Because Le Moniteur likes to print unconfirmed ghost stories?”
“No, because that is where you go for your—!” He visibly clamped down on his lower lip to keep from saying too much. “You know of what I speak. I will not put cream in front of
a cat.”
Mercedes’ breath hitched. “I intended this errand to solve that issue, mon cher.” She forced a kind smile. “For you, remember?”
He fell silent. Below the counter, out of sight of the assistants, he took her hand and squeezed it. He wasn’t careful, but it was too brief to hurt. Too brief to be meant as punishment. Looking at him, she could tell he was as scared and desperate as she was.
“Where on the Cité?” he asked at length.
“Rue de Constantine. In one of the alleys there.” Not a lie. Rue Gervais Laurent was unsavoury and the alleys branching off it were worse, but they did lead straight to Anne’s cellar.
Finally, Eric nodded. “The fiacre will wait for your return.”
“D’accord.”
“And Amélie will accompany you.”
At this, all blood drained from her face. “No, please, this—this is embarrassing enough,” she whispered. “Far too intimate for witnesses.”
“Amélie is your maid. She dresses you. Besides, she is only a servant, and she already knows about...” He shot a nasty glare at an assistant taking too much interest in them and not enough in his work. “Anyway, the doctor said you should not go out unaccompanied, in case your concussion causes hallucinations again.”
Mercedes fought a losing battle to keep her expression neutral. “If you insist, mon cher.”
“I do.”
“Then will she be keeping the money, too, or will you trust me that far?”
He sneered. “Neither. I will pay the driver upon return, as usual.”
“I meant the money for my purchase. Such specialist items do not come cheap.”
“Of course they wouldn’t,” he muttered. “How much?”
Realism had nothing to do with her calculations. Anne would give her what she needed for free if she asked, but she would not steal from a friend, even with permission. “I have no idea, but I expect five Louis d’or will more than suffice.”