The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  Everything fell silent. Even the river’s currents had gone mute.

  Kindness. He considered it an inconsistency, a deviation from what was just. A deviation from fact, and facts were immutable. They ought to be. Incorrect facts were fallacies and fallacies turned the pillars of right and wrong into quicksand.

  Such quicksand had been his undoing before, when a criminal had diverted the shot that should have killed him. Being destroyed without dying, then choosing death to repair the destruction. That night, his course of action had made perfect sense, but what he had become since forced him to acknowledge that his suicide had failed to accomplish anything resembling amends.

  Yet if a single act of compassion could bring about events of such magnitude, he couldn’t deny that kindness was capable of inciting change. He might abhor the nature of that change, but still it caused a deviation from the set course.

  In light of this evidence, he could not exclude the possibility that the woman’s act might cause a similar deviation. In himself. In others. In the other? Impossible to predict with any kind of certainty.

  More quicksand. A truly disturbing thought.

  ‘Are you done running from yourself?’ the boy said.

  He would have ignored the interruption if not for the unexpected urgency in its undertones. ‘Your impudence is galling. What do you want now?’

  ‘It’s more a matter of what you want, really. Because I think the rampant one’s just got wind of your girlfriend.’

  Chapter XXVI

  A hoarse gasp accompanied her return to her body, followed by a violent tremor in her limbs. Her teeth chattered, rattling loudly in the silence. Cobwebs and cotton filled her head, but she fought her way through them. With immense difficulty, she prised her eyes open, only to be met by a darkness so complete that she believed herself still on the other side of the threshold.

  She swallowed. The movement hurt her dry throat. Her body was stone cold, as if she had been standing out in the rain for hours on end. Perhaps she had, in some deranged way. Staring into nothing, her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the physical darkness of night. A dusty glow lit the narrow window above the bed, but little else. Lamplight. How long had she been away?

  Anne? Her mouth failed to shape the sound of her thoughts.

  Her chest ached as she drew a deep breath and attempted to flex her muscles. The effort nauseated her, but the tremors persisted, as did the numbness. Had Eric been so exhausted after M’sieur had drained him? Good God. Even so, offering her soul’s energy to the starving devourer had been a necessity she didn’t regret. If anything, this episode confirmed what she had been contemplating since their last encounter with l’Autre.

  A possibility to put an end to both devourers.

  “A–Anne?” Barely more than a croak.

  Another deep breath, another attempt to move her hands. Her fingers clenched into feeble fists, but she could feel them now. She could also feel hard shapes pressing into each of her palms. Smooth in places, but with sharp edges. She brought one stiffened fist to her chest and forced her fists to unfurl. A handful of something tumbled onto her belly. Alarmed, she struggled to sit up despite the heaviness in her legs and head.

  “Anne?”

  Her voice, although weak at first, was the only noise to break the silence. Outside the city bustled as always, but in this cellar, buried beneath three stories of musty rooms, the lack of sound was oppressive.

  “Anne, where are you?”

  Nothing stirred in the darkened shop. Why hadn’t Anne lit a candle? And why didn’t she respond?

  Mercedes bit down a wave of nausea as a thick lump gathered in her throat. She dragged her unsteady limbs off the bed, but stubbed her toes on something and lost her balance. Only by sheer luck did she catch herself before she hit the ancient terracotta tiles face-first. Grains of sand dug into her palms and a pungent odour she couldn’t place filled her nose. Carefully she pushed herself up to see what had caused her to trip.

  In the murky light that reached the floor, Mercedes made out a bundle of fabric draped over two wooden poles. Poles with simple shoes at their ends. Much like the sandals Anne liked to wear.

  A strangled noise escaped her throat as it constricted. All strength drained from her body. Her elbows buckled, but panic urged her on. On hands and knees she crawled closer. The shadows swallowed the poles beyond the sandals, so she groped her way along the accented lace and ruffles. Until her fingers happened on what felt like the stiff edge of a corseted bodice.

  A chorus of tiny bangles jingled softly.

  “Anne?” The whisper barely made a sound. “Anne, where are you? This has gone on long enough now.”

  The bangles stilled, one by one.

  “God, please, Anne... Please?”

  A sudden explosion thundered through the dark shop, making her start with a cry.

  “Madame?” a man hollered. “Police, madame. Open up!” Another bang followed. “I need to speak with you, urgently.”

  Mercedes stayed as she was, too stunned to move. Only when the next series of knocks rattled the door did she stagger to her feet and through the cellar, navigating the shelves and displays by memory.

  “Madame, please open. This is Inspecteur Baudoin, of the police.”

  “Monsieur l’inspecteur? Oh, thank God.” She managed to pull back the first bolt. “Is anyone with you?” she inquired while fumbling to undo the second.

  “Madame Fabron? Is–is that you? Wonderful!” He cleared the throat. “Ehm, no, I came alone, but I have important news.”

  Mercedes let out a nervous laugh, but still hid herself from the weak glow of the street lanterns that washed through the door along with the young inspector.

  “A smart diversion, I’ll admit, but also quite impractical,” he said. Forced by the low ceiling to hunch, he muttered a curse when he bumped his head.

  Through her still-coursing panic, Mercedes could only stare. “What is?”

  “Eh, this,” he said as he closed the door, basking the cellar into deep darkness once more. “If I hadn’t trusted you to have been truthful, madame, I would have assumed the house was empty. Very smart indeed.”

  She heard his smile, but felt nothing.

  “It was not intentional. I believe my friend...” Fear clawed its way through her chest, forcing tears to her eyes. “Monsieur, I’m afraid something terrible has happened.” She gesticulated helplessly, unseen. By chance only, his hand caught hers. He squeezed gently.

  “Maybe a candle first? So that we can see what we say, as it were?”

  Her fingers dug into his before she understood his question. “...light... of course.”

  She swayed in the direction of Anne’s round table. On it should be the usual large candles, and a tinderbox kept somewhere underneath. Light the candles, see what had happened...

  After a few steps, her hip hit a hard, rounded edge. She crouched down, groping around for the dented tinderbox. Its metal radiated such cold that she sensed it even before her shaking hands found the tin and put it on the table top. When she opened, it toppled, spilling its contents across the table.

  “I... My hands... Monsieur l’inspecteur, would you be so kind?”

  “Certainly.” A moment of rummaging, then flint struck steel. A spark leapt off, but missed the dry kindling. The second try was more successful, and the inspector used the tiny flame to kindle the three thick candles on the edge of the table. Their combined light spread through most of the shop, giving shape and colour to its enclosed world.

  “There,” he said, pleased with himself. “Now, what were you saying, madame?”

  Without acknowledging him, Mercedes broke the tallest of the candles from its base of coagulated wax. Clutching it tightly, she pushed the curtain to the bedroom aside.

  At first glimpse, the ground dissolved beneath her feet and she sagged. The candle dropped to the worn tiles and rolled a bit further, its flame flickering and casting erratic shards of light on the lifeless body beside the be
d. The crumpled thing lay on its side, with wild, greying curls and shiny bangles that sat eerily still around pale wrists. The gaunt face, its waxen skin hanging loosely from protruding cheek bones, eyes open, the jaw slack and unhinged – this was not Anne. This ghastly death mask had no more semblance to her dear friend than would an empty burlap sack.

  Deep within, a soundless voice screamed so long and so loud that it took her breath away.

  “What happened? Who did this?”

  Mercedes tore her gaze away from the corpse and sought the inspector. When she failed to find focus, he picked up the candle and knelt down to find his own answers.

  “The body is stiff. Not completely cold yet, though. Time of death was, uhm, a few hours ago, no more.”

  “Do not touch her,” Mercedes snapped hoarsely. Anne wasn’t dead. These skin and bones were empty, but Anne herself would still be here!

  Her mind flitted about, searching. Plenty of ghosts roamed a crowded place like the Cité, but she detected no trace of anyone she knew. Not Jean or little Antoine, not the other boy. Was she too weary, too shaken to recognise them? But even then, Anne would be close by, surely?

  “Madame?”

  Startled, she instinctively curled in on herself.

  “Madame, do you know what these are?” He held up what looked like a broken pebble. “The bed is full of them. Some seem to have been painted, too.”

  Mercedes bit her lip. This must be what she had in her hands when she woke. Pieces of once-smooth stones adorned with colourful symbols.

  Runes.

  These must be pebbles like the one Anne had given her to protect her from dark spirits. She must have placed them around the bed and in her hands. For protection. Yet they had shattered. All of them...

  The young inspector dropped the broken pebbles and offered his hand. “Better stand up, madame. It’s very dirty here.”

  More sand scuffed under her boots as she climbed to her feet. The coarse grains had scattered all over the bedroom floor, however small that was. She had upset them with her stumbling earlier, but around the stove, the undisturbed sand lay spread in a curious pattern. Like the lines on a wind-swept dune.

  Wind? When the windows were closed? And those stones? What could have—?

  “L’Autre.”

  She had seen him strike, seen him feed not long after she had crossed the threshold!

  “L’autre, madame? Which other?”

  No. No! Impossible! Anne had set up wards for protection. The sand, the pebbles, and—! She raked her fingers through her hair until it fell down her shoulders.

  “It cannot be him! It cannot!”

  “Please, madame. If you know who killed your friend, then tell me.”

  But her heart and mind had stalled. When Danielle had died, she had cried and wailed for someone to wake her, to tell her it was all a nightmare. Now, muted and blinded by grief, she desperately wished for the same.

  A tender touch brushed her arm. “Madame Fabron? I understand that you’re distraught after all this, but it’s a serious matter. A police matter. You really should tell me what you know.”

  Dazed, Mercedes blinked through the tears. The world flooded back, as did sensibility. Weeping hadn’t brought back her babies any more than it would undo Anne’s demise. Calmer again, she met the inspector’s gaze.

  “Who did this?” he asked, his eyes shining with affection even when he tried hard to be professional.

  “A monster, monsieur. The creature responsible for your unexplained ‘droppers’.” It pained her to speak the words, as if it was their resonance that sealed Anne’s final fate. Foolishness, of course. Besides, the inspector had asked for her honesty, so honest she would be.

  “For lack of a more accurate description, monsieur, your murderer is a ghost that eats souls. The souls of the living, too. That creature has killed my friend, as it already has so many others.”

  No sooner had she confessed this than she could taste his incredulity and ridicule in the air. She didn’t resist. After tonight she was too tired for subterfuge, anyway.

  “Wait. A ghost, you say?” Inspecteur Baudoin frowned and scratched his neck. “Merde. This certainly complicates things,” he muttered.

  “Monsieur?”

  He exhaled through tight lips. “There’s... What I came here for...” He gave up, shaking his head. “I’m afraid your fears were justified, madame. About your husband? He came to the station, convinced that you and I were... That is to say, ehm...” The candle light exaggerated the blush that rose on his cheeks. “Of course, he was disappointed, so then he and the woman he brought with him started making accusations of all kinds. About you. Including, well—”

  “Infanticide.”

  He gulped. “Yes, madame. Multiple counts.”

  “...they would,” she whispered, wishing herself a world away. “Then you came here to arrest me?”

  “I–I don’t believe their claims.” The inspector’s inner conflict carved tormented lines into his face. “I’m on your side in this, I promise. I came to warn you, but this...” He glanced at the body on the floor. “It’s a capital offence. Murder.”

  Mercedes suppressed a shiver. In the inspector’s hand, the candle flame danced on its wick.

  “I can’t ignore this, madame. You must understand that I have to report this. And I can’t–I can’t in good conscience tell my superiors that a–a ghost killed this poor woman?”

  “I realise it sounds absurd, but what would you tell him if not the truth?”

  “Well, seeing as your friend must have died very shortly after you arrived here and the only door to this cellar was bolted from within.”

  All blood drained from Mercedes’ face. “You believe me responsible?”

  He gave her a most apologetic gaze. “When Inspecteur Dupont hears about this, madame, it doesn’t matter anymore what I believe. It’s the look of the thing that counts.”

  “Anne saved my life many times over! I would never wish her harm.”

  “I’m not suggesting—”

  “But you do!” The scream tore from her throat. Her fist struck out, hitting the young inspector’s chest. “The creature killed Anne, I tell you! Her and the student in our stairwell, and so many others. I saw him do it! I saw him!”

  Strong arms caught her as she lashed out at everything within reach. At first she fought him, but soon the futility overwhelmed her and she buried her face in the folds of his coat. He held her close and hushed into her dishevelled hair, pleading her to calm her ragged gasps. Eventually her breathing evened. With her head resting against his shoulder, she stared down at the corpse. Anne’s corpse.

  She had failed Anne. She had failed, and unless she acted now, she would fail again.

  “...I have to stop him.”

  Inspecteur Baudoin gently cupped her arms. “You mean this ghost?”

  “He will not stop his rampage unless someone makes him.”

  He dared to pull her a fraction closer to his chest. “Chasing a criminal is a job for the police, not for you,” he whispered. “Let me keep you safe? Please? In our custody, where no ghost or violent husband can reach—”

  “Where he is, the police cannot go,” she said, pushing herself away. The wool of his coat was wet at the touch. As were the sleeves of her dress.

  “Monsieur, did you walk through the rain on your way here?”

  ***

  The taste of her energy lingered in his mouth, a fine film that coated the acid sores and allowed them to heal. An unlikely reprieve, with unprecedented consequences. He, who was accustomed to infinite shades of black, now longed to reach the threshold. Yearned, even, to stand at the woman’s side and feed on her colours again. Incomprehensible!

  Indeed, incomprehensible. But also an irrefutable fact. As was the inevitable attraction she exercised on the other.

  The creature stalked closer, equally aware of his presence as he was of it, and just as blind. They moved in wide circles, always opposite one another so as to
avoid another confrontation. Yet the centre of their attention drew them both in, making their every circumference smaller than the previous.

  A part of his concentration was trained on the parasites that scuffled about in the night. Their occasional bouts of frantic scrambling invariably betrayed the shark’s presence among the fish. His best early warning system now that the woman had all but lost her colour – and worse.

  He had been so alert to the creature’s barely distinguishable moves that he almost neglected the unfamiliar drain that tugged at his shield: the woman’s energy inverted. The dark streaks in her aura grew bold, her colours nigh on invisible. What little light she still emitted came from a second aura, much weaker than her own. Like a parasite, she drank it in. Consumed it as he had consumed hers.

  What lunacy was this?

  Repulsed, he increased his distance. An unwise decision, should the other seize this opportunity to attack her. Yet from what he managed to discern, the creature was in no hurry to exploit this opening. It hung back as he did, its conflicted interests outlining in dark grey on black.

  It, too, sought the salvation they knew she was capable of providing, but like himself, it recoiled from consuming energy as tainted as their own.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He smirked as his revelation unfolded. ‘That is the pattern.’

  ***

  Inspecteur Baudoin studied her quizzically, oblivious to the air in the cellar growing colder by the moment. A prickling sensation spread across her skin, while the curtain to the shop billowed lazily in a cool breeze with no apparent source. Mercedes tensed.

  “You have been very kind to me, monsieur. More so than most.”

  He smirked nervously. “Well, I—”

  “Your faith in me gives me strength,” she asserted, feeling sordid when his expression floundered. “You did say you were on my side?”

  “I am, madame. That’s why you should come with me to the station. To prove your innocence.”

  “When the time is right, I will comply with your demands, monsieur l’inspecteur. But for now I’m afraid I must appeal to your kindness once again.”