The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  Mercedes waited until she and Eric were alone again before nudging her husband to raise his head. He did, gazing at her with red, puffy eyes still wet with tears. Smiling faintly for his comfort, she dabbed his cheeks with the lace of her cuff to dry them.

  “We cannot always help despairing at life,” she whispered, “but we can call forth the fortitude not to wallow in that despair.”

  It took a few moments for her words to sink in, but he finally drew a deep breath, wiped his nose and face roughly with his handkerchief and rose to his feet. “Allow me,” he said as he extended his hand to help Mercedes off the sofa, too.

  She accepted, but stood slowly. “Before we eat, a word of warning, mon cher,” she said in a low voice. “I caught Gagnon making mistakes again. She burned the omelettes and would have served them had I not instructed her to prepare fresh ones. I believe she has, but even so you were right. We must let her go.”

  “It was you who insisted that I should postpone doing so.”

  “That was before she saw me witnessing her foul up. She threatened to tell you lies about me unless I persuaded you not to fire her.”

  “Lies? What sort of lies?”

  “Accusations.” She licked her lips. “Of crimes.”

  Mercedes averted her gaze and held her breath. Without evidence, Eric might conclude that this was the real lie; that she was covering for herself. If he did, he had her cornered, because a wife was wholly dependent on her husband in every way. All her hopes were pinned on the gamble that in the wake of his breakdown, his need of her was stronger than his suspicion.

  “What? How dare that woman?” Genuine anger and indignation on her behalf burst from him in hot, invisible waves. Mercedes fought not to smile.

  “I imagine she thought you would believe her rather than me, given my... condition.”

  “This has gone far enough! She has no right to behave this way towards you, let alone abuse your condition so.” He drew himself up, once more his proud self. “I will send her away at once. Then tonight – No, tomorrow. Tomorrow is soon enough. That will give you enough time to replace her.”

  Mercedes nodded demurely, although she felt like a traitor for abusing his weakness. As expected, his possessive nature took the upper hand once more, ready to turn on anyone who threatened his domination over her. A good thing, for now. She couldn’t afford him to side against her. Gagnon should not, under any circumstance, be allowed to win.

  As Eric declared that he would subject the meal to close examination or he might not wait until tomorrow, Mercedes continued her calculations of Gagnon’s next move. Eric had vented his intentions at full voice. Gagnon’s hearing had never been good, but François always heard more than he let on. He might warn the old woman.

  Still, supposing he did, what more could Gagnon do than make good on her initial threats? The tea was hidden, and even if by some happenstance Gagnon managed to produce it, Eric had no knowledge of plants. If worse came to worst, Mercedes could claim that the contents of the tin was the headache medicine that Georges had mentioned.

  She followed Eric into the dining room. Once seated and served, the dish of a large ham omelette with boiled vegetables and bread was more complete by appearance than Mercedes had anticipated. Sight, however, did not account for taste. The eggs were overdone and the carrots were mushy. To Mercedes, this was mitigated by the fact that it was still edible, but judging by Eric’s continuous glare this would not stall his decision. On the contrary.

  Chewing on a slice of fresh bread, she felt lighter than she had in days. Whichever way the situation unfolded now, after tomorrow Gagnon would cease to be a problem.

  They ate their meal without conversation or particular enjoyment. No sooner had Eric cleared his plate of what food he had deigned suitable for consumption than he excused himself and returned to the shops, leaving Mercedes alone at the table. From the thin aura about him, she couldn’t tell whether or not he had found renewed courage to face the mounting problems downstairs. She sighed, wondering how long it would take for his energy to be replenished, and if that would suffice to return his spirit to him, too.

  Not that she could hold ‘monsieur’ accountable for any lasting damage, at least not without risking her own soul.

  Would she if that were otherwise? Demon or not, he had saved her from the other devourer when it came for her. What she owed him was a life debt, just as she owed Jean for keeping Danielle safe. Where had ‘monsieur’ gone, anyway? And she still needed a proper name for him, too.

  “Madame?”

  “Hmm? Yes, François?”

  “One of the tenants is at the door, madame. He says he carries a missive that he will only hand to you in person.”

  “Now what is that about?” she muttered, and rose to see to the caller.

  In the hallway of the central staircase stood one of the student tenants, a serious fellow with hazel curls and spectacles. His guarded stance relaxed a fraction when he saw her appear in the doorway.

  “Madame Fabron, I was instructed to give this to you and only to you,” he said, handing her a sealed letter. It bore the crest of the Parisian police.

  “How very kind. Thank you, monsieur,” she said, embarrassed that she had no idea of this young man’s name, either.

  Yet when she began to close the door, his hand shot out to stop it.

  “Beg your pardon, madame, but the man this is from identified himself as a police inspector. So I have to ask, on behalf of all of us: has there been any news on what killed our friend Pothier?”

  Mercedes stilled. She had purposefully dissociated herself from the soulless body in the stairwell. She hadn’t known the man and never would. Except now the body had a name, an identity. The young man had been someone’s friend, and someone’s son. Like Antoine had been.

  She summoned her resolve to push those thoughts away and offer the student a commiserate smile.

  “It was an accident, the police informed us. An unfortunate fall. No foul play or disease, but alcohol-induced bad luck.”

  “Oh? Oh.” The student sighed, crestfallen. “Pothier liked his liquors. We used to tease him that if he continued to drink so much, it’d be the death of him. We never thought he would actually…”

  “My condolences,” said Mercedes sincerely. “And thank you for bringing me the letter, monsieur. A policeman asked you to deliver it, you say?”

  “An officer, madame. He saw me enter and gave it to me with instructions. He was in too much of a hurry to do it himself, he said.” His brow knitted as some realisation dawned. “I apologise if in accepting this, I gave you cause for embarrassment.”

  “Not at all, monsieur. Indeed I believe I know who the officer in question is. I was expecting a message from him.” Hearing how her own words confirmed the embarrassment the student had eluded to, she added: “It is a report on an unsuccessful burglary attempt in the workshop a few days ago. A minor thing.”

  “Really? Some people! Well, I hope this letter contains good tidings on the matter. Au revoir, madame.”

  With a final nod, she went back inside. In turning, her arm brushed her dark brown manteau, hanging from the coat rack. She paused to run two fingers along its hem. The gentle weight of the sewn-in coins reinforced her confidence, and she went to her crafts room.

  The urge to hasten her steps was strong, but she casually broke the seal and unfolded the letter as she went, pretending it was a letter from a distant friend rather than a reply from Inspecteur Baudoin. At first glance, his answer to her question didn’t bode well.

  Alone and locked in her crafts room, she read the letter more carefully. The young inspector had done his best to make it a formal missive. He informed her that regarding her inquiry the other day, if indeed there was a noticeable concentration of the fatal victims known as ‘droppers’ in a specific location, the police were not aware of this. He could, however, not exclude the possibility that many victims were never identified as such, rendering the police information incomplete at be
st. That most incidents seemed to have taken place in and directly around the Cité was not surprising, since this was the most densely populated part of Paris, he continued.

  To Mercedes, that observation was a point of interest in itself. The inspector had put the concentration of victims down to sheer numbers, but perhaps sheer numbers was what drew the devourer to hunt there. Mice left droppings where they came most often, and where would they come more frequently than where food was plentiful?

  Reading on, she noted that the next sentence had a more friendly tone. The inspector expressed his hope that by answering her question outright, he hadn’t failed to recognise a less obvious plea concerning ‘loose floorboards’. Concluding with an offer of well wishes and assistance in any way she might require, he signed off with badly disguised affection.

  “Inadvisable, monsieur l’inspecteur. Very dear, but inadvisable all the same.”

  Mercedes lit the lamp on her desk and held the letter in its flame. A row of tiny red tongues gripped the thick paper and nibbled at it. Ashes fell flake by flake, until at last the small flames combined into a single one that devoured body and soul of the letter. Only the corner where she had held it remained. When the fire had gone out, she brushed the ashes into her palm, opened the window, and let the wind take them. Eric had put his faith in her today, but she was not going to put that tenuous trust to the test over what should have been no more than professional correspondence.

  Chapter XX

  At long last he rose from the unfathomable depths. His shield was a thick, dense cloak, all but indistinguishable from the graphite shadows where the deep darkness transitioned into the fogged city. Arms folded but head held high, he stood at the centre of the private storm that whipped about him.

  Nothing could justify the course of action now occupying his mind. Nothing! Ice cold blades raked his very core to so much as consider it.

  Yet he was considering it now.

  He had policed the perimeter of the outer edge, waiting for the other to reveal itself. Indeterminable time had passed, but his prey had not reappeared. Or rather, he had not found it. The other had escaped his detection soon after diving, and he had found only sporadic traces of its energy since. Infuriating.

  More infuriating still that the woman’s cat-and-mouse metaphor had proved to be so damnably accurate: he could not catch what he did not see.

  His shield condensed further. The taste of acid burned his mouth.

  He examined every plausible option and method in minute detail once more, including the option of inertia, of inaction, but all crumbled under his critical deliberation. All but one, which he had dismissed as unacceptable. No decision that undermined the very laws of existence could ever be deemed a solution.

  And yet, he was still considering it.

  Composure unchanged, he shifted up. Shadows became a shroud of fog, which thinned as he approached the woman’s dwelling. At her plain, daylight prevailed. Numerous bright spirits hovered nearby, but fled as soon as they sensed his presence. Others would notice, too. Caution was essential. He stepped back, into the denser fog, to debate the sanity of the decision he was about to make.

  ‘To stop one that defiles the creed of existence, that is noble. To taint those same laws to that end – Unconscionable! Two wrongs do not make a right.’

  But if there was indeed an alternative, a way for him to bring down his prey without trampling everything he had fought to uphold, he did not see it. The shield that formed his coat tightened still further, constricting him. He welcomed the pain it caused. Better to be confined than to be torn apart. It was easier to abide.

  Another’s call reached him. It resonated with his marker, addressing him directly. The woman? No, the signature was not hers, although disquietingly familiar. His marker signalled the call’s receipt – an inevitable response – but he growled a warning even as it did.

  The guide heeded the caution and kept its distance. Its energy was stronger than it had been during their previous encounters, now almost shapeless with the light that surrounded it. The effect of daylight, he surmised. He prepared a second shield to ward off the guide should it attempt to approach, but it did not. It only continued to send calls. He rejected each one before receiving it, but still they persisted.

  What did this guide want from him? He did not have time for—

  Brightness exploded inside his head. Terrific and terrifying, the blast rent all thought from him, tearing his mind to shreds. He faltered, stumbled until he reached the cool embrace of the darker shadows, of his haven. Like a wounded animal crawling to safety.

  Here the blinding light dimmed quickly. On regaining his senses, pain gave way to astonishment; astonishment that the guide had attacked – that it had succeeded! Then the light receded further, restoring his faculties in full, and with his vision came the realisation that what he had taken for an assault from without was far more subversive in nature. Its source was the radiant, alien bullet lodged inside him, whispering its incomprehensible truth about permissible crimes.

  ‘Exceptions to the rule.’

  The irony was so thick that it might be mistaken for a joke. He wished to ignore this random synchronicity, but he no longer had the luxury of choice. He had a hunt to conclude, and much as he wanted to, he could not do it by himself.

  When he returned to the fog and progressed to its lighter end, the guide was nowhere to be found. So much the better. He did not fancy unnecessary witnesses to his imminent indiscretion.

  He reached to straighten his hat out of distant habit, only to snarl when he missed. As usual. He made a point instead of reconstructing the rest of his preferred appearance with immaculate exactitude. The woman was waiting, barely a step beyond the grey veil and already focused on his signature. Almost as if she were expecting him. So he ascended the last stretch and stepped into the woman’s immediate surroundings.

  Which consisted of a table of sorts. The furniture was of no more consequence to him than any other physical fixture, but he did notice what appeared to be playing cards spread out in front of her. She seemed to have connected one of these with his signature. The rationality thereof eluded him, but lacing his energy into that connection saved him the effort of alerting her to his presence.

  “Oh! Monsieur, you gave me a fright!” Her thoughts tangled, surprise mixed with a relief he could not place. Neither did he try.

  “I had no idea you were so close already. Jean only just warned me that you were coming, and—”

  ‘You were prepared to cross, you said,’ he interrupted. ‘You can shift. Well then. Come.’

  It took a moment for her mind to change direction, but when it did, her energy bloomed with excitement. Brilliant hues engulfed him. An appealing display, but dangerously so. His hunger stirred, so he began to shift away for her sake as well as his own.

  “Monsieur, wait.”

  ‘I will, but not here. Be quick.’

  “No, please do not leave.” She flared dark red. Embarrassment. “I—I need your help to cross.”

  He didn’t hide his less than favourable opinion of this revelation. She caught on, her dark hues deepening another shade.

  “It is inconvenient, I agree, but I promise you that I can shift once I have crossed the threshold.”

  ‘So you have proved.’

  More relief. “It is only the crossing itself that I have yet to learn.”

  ‘Then it would seem impermissible after all.’ He gave her a curt nod, remnant of a vague social convention. ‘Continue your vigilance, such as it is. I shall return later.’

  He set about to depart, and would have, if not for strands of colour winding around him like ropes.

  “Good God, will you at least give me a chance to assist you properly? I may not have understood all that transpired while the other demon was here, but I was not ignorant of its unhealthy interest in me.” The strands mellowed to pastels and retreated. “You thwarted its attack. For that I am indebted to you.”

  ‘Make n
o mistake. Intact, you are more valuable to my purpose. That is all.’

  She shook her head while conflicting emotions drew a confusing pattern around her. “Even so I am grateful that you saved me.”

  ‘I did not. The creature is still at large.’

  Her aura dimmed like an extinguished candle. “Ah. I see. Well, I suppose I should have expected that.” Her hands fretted; what colours remained became tainted with distress. Her disappointment with him for his failure to perform as promised was evident. It was just, considering that she had explicitly warned him of that impending failure well in advance.

  He considered these developments. So far he had acted on the premise that accepting her unholy offer of venturing where no living soul should go – a strictly passive act on his part – might be viewed as a necessary evil. Permissible by exception, only because the alternative was worse by far. Never had he had the slightest intent to actively partake in that transgression. Should he desecrate the very convictions that had been his salvation in this wretched existence? Preposterous!

  The very thought made his teeth itch, but no more than the thought of abandoning his plan. The situation that had created this necessity of his active participation had been brought about through no fault on her part. On the contrary, it was he who was responsible. So he would bear the consequences.

  That, too, was only just.

  The woman’s posture had changed. Her body had sagged, no more animate than the furniture that held it upright. A shell. In the same space but at a marginally different level, a doorway appeared. He shifted a fraction to meet the door’s precise presence. The physical room was reduced to a faint stain of which only this door frame remained. He saw the woman’s soul standing on the other side of it, but an invisible barrier prevented her from stepping through. A barrier of her own device.

  A shock ripped through him. This was why she could not cross! Not as a result of ineptitude, but as a subconscious need for explicit permission to step into a world that was not hers to reside in. She did not claim this right. Rather, she requested it! A demonstration of humility, of humbleness before the rules that governed the machinations of the universe.