The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

  Straining through the smoke, she was stunned to see the priest, outlined by flames, still deep in the chapel. “Father Trevelyan,” she screamed. She coughed heavily, gasped for a breath. “Father Trevelyan!”

  Aimee took in a breath of clean air, held it and ran back into the nave. She reached Trevelyan, confused, rubbing the smoke in his eyes with the smudged back of his good hand. She grabbed the priest and, crouching, led him back toward the open door – just visible beneath the smoke. Both were coughing horribly.

  Aimee stumbled from the front door of the chapel holding Father Trevelyan and helping him to hold his injured arm and sling tight to his body. A cloud of smoke rolled from the doors behind them as they fell together to the cobblestones.

  Brandy's mind wasn't working. She saw the billowing smoke and knew something was on fire but couldn't put two and two together.

  It couldn't have been the castle. With the exception of a few supporting timbers, a couple of doors, scattered debris and rotted flooring in the dungeon, the castle ruin was entirely made of stone. Their candle was innocent, she knew. And, though the lady gendarme's immolation caused a surprising explosion, the fire had been contained within the well.

  The few outbuildings had stood for hundreds of years unmolested but only God knew what happened in the time they'd been gone. At that, her heart leapt in her chest, for Brandy finally accepted the reality that it was the chapel burning.

  The mummy of Jacques de Molay, with Ray thrown over his shoulder, moved steadily across the field in the direction of the smoke. Brandy, at their side, tried to hurry but the knight stayed her with his free hand. Ray couldn't talk and the Templar didn't but Brandy got the message. There was danger ahead. Molay wasn't going to allow her to run into it.

  She tried to steel herself as they topped the rise but, to her surprise, that was as far as they got. When they reached the chapel cemetery Molay simply stopped.

  Just after sundown the previous night, one of the Templars had initiated the gendarme massacre by throwing two daggers. One struck Maurice Delvit in the chest, the other in the back. Either would have been fatal had the knights not gotten to him first. But they did and they drank his precious life blood. After rising from the dead, Delvit removed the blade from his chest and joined the others assaulting the chapel. Now the vampire that once was Colonel Blanc's driver no longer needed to get in. The humans had opened the door.

  Delvit hid from the dawn, as best he was able, in the back of the gendarme van. From this shadowy recess, beneath an unrolled tarp, he watched as black smoke poured out… followed by the lady reporter and the old man of God. They stumbled, choking, from the burning building and fell gasping on the ground.

  He knew the sun would destroy him if he remained there. And he knew the castle had a deep, dark cellar. More than that, the vampire knew he was starving. He slid the van's side door open and, blocking the sun with the tarp, emerged. He raced, shrieking against the pain, across the courtyard, toward the reporter and the priest. His eyes were on the girl; his thoughts were on her blood.

  Aimee's face was smudged with ash. Her eyes teared from the smoke. She was coughing and trying to catch her breath. But there was nothing wrong with her ears. She heard the creature and, at the same time, she saw a bottle of Trevelyan's holy water lying, unbroken, on the courtyard stones.

  The vampire let the tarp fly into the breeze and reached for her. Aimee jumped for the bottle. She grabbed it as he grabbed her. Screaming, smoke curling off his blistering face, Delvit pulled Aimee up toward his gaping mouth.

  “Of this…,” she screamed, “I am so sick!”

  Aimee smashed the bottle across the vampire's face. Blood and teeth flew. Delvit screamed as his torn features began to melt and his chest to burn.

  As Trevelyan hurried to Aimee, the creature spun round gurgling. It was then the priest saw the dagger protruding from his back. Repelled and energized, he gritted his teeth, reached with his working hand, and yanked the knife free. He leveled the blade at the nape of the shrieking monster's neck and swung.

  The screaming stopped. Delvit's head, all but decapitated, flopped forward onto his flaming chest. Then the burning mess dropped in a smoking pile.

  With a shriek of unused metal, Luis pulled open the doors to the dungeon. A ray of sunlight sliced into the dark like a dagger and dust, recently disturbed, danced. His burns were soothed by the cool of the cellar as Luis followed the light in. He panned the depths with squinting eyes and hollered, “Loup? Loup Wimund?”

  Somewhere in the darkness, to his left, he heard an angry hiss.

  Then the vampire hit him like a great predatory cat, the second time within an hour he'd been bowled into by one of these things, and drove him back over a pile of debris and into the dark.

  Charred, bleeding, and desperately hungry, the Loup-vampire snapped at Luis' throat. Little was left of Loup's scorched hair but Luis clutched what he could to keep the monster at bay. Then he bent his knees, worked his feet between himself and it and, with all he had in him, kicked Loup off.

  The sunlight shone brightly now, on the courtyard, into the castle ruins, and down the dungeon staircase. What had, a moment before, been a sliver in the doorway was now a swath of holy light pushing into the dungeon. Driven by Luis' kick, Loup stumbled backwards across the room, through the patch of light, and fell whimpering into the shadows on the other side.

  Luis pulled himself up, strode into the light and, in French, told the thing crying in the dark, “I don't know if you are Loup or not. I don't know what you are. I think of the times I wanted to hurt him, Loup… Yes, even kill him.”

  The whimpering ceased and there came a rolling growl from the dark. Yellow eyes followed Luis as he paced the light.

  “But I am not here for Loup Wimund… I am here for the evil that now lives within him. The evil that has taken everything I hold dear; killed everything I loved.” A tear rolled down Luis' cheek. “My mother, my sister, my father… and Aimee. It means nothing to you. But I loved my family. And I loved Aimee Laurent.”

  Luis stopped his pacing and stared at the eyes in the dark.

  “Even they were not enough. Felix, Eve, the priest, the Americans. All dead.” Luis shouted, “All dead!” He paused as the echo died. “Hide in the dark as long as you like,” he told the creature. “The daylight will only grow brighter… and hotter… and I will not leave until you are back in hell.”

  Loup growled and leapt from the dark. He landed on Luis - grasping and snapping. Luis used the vampire's weight against him, taking him over his head and onto the sunlit floor. He came down atop the Loup-thing and held held him there, snapping, kicking, scratching, howling until the vampire burst into flames. Despite the searing pain, Luis continued to hold him, pinned in the light, struggling, teeth grinding, muscles aching, as he burned.

  How should she feel? Dear God, how should she feel?

  Brandy stood beside the chapel cemetery, alive, when all night she felt on the verge of death. Ray, like a child in the Templar's arms, was badly injured and fighting to stay alive. The sun was up on a glorious new day but black smoke and flames poured from the chapel, meaning all of the friends they'd left behind were dead and gone.

  What was it she'd told Ray? She used to feel too much. Now she felt nothing at all. It was better to be alive. It was better Ray was alive. It was terrible - about the others. She knew this; knew she should feel devastated, or happy or sad or… She felt nothing. It was as if she were hollow.

  The smoke poured from the chapel. Heavy clouds of black smoke billowing up in the morning breeze and blotting out the sun in the western sky. Ash and sparks danced past and rained down.

  Brandy watched as the Grand Master laid Ray in the tall grass at the edge of the cemetery. The bearded knight studied him for a moment then rose and stared at her. The green flecks shown in his soft brown eyes. Brandy began to cry. She reached for him but Molay avoided the touch and stepped back. He pointed to Ray as if relinquishing his care and turned away.r />
  Brandy knelt and cradled Ray. His breathing was labored. Sweat covered his brow. His blood still flowed from the wound in his back and through his chest; bright red to cover the dried stains of maroon already marring his layers of clothing. Brandy kissed Ray's forehead.

  Molay stepped to the brink of the cemetery. He cocked his head listening (feeling?), and perhaps, Brandy thought, getting the same sense she had, that the last of the evil had taken flight. He looked longingly into the graveyard.

  In life he was a dedicated knight in the Crusades; in the service of the Lord, the Pope and the King. An innocent man, wrongly accused of foul crimes, put to death by greedy, power-hungry men. Molay now declared his innocence by the only avenue open to him. He stepped forward into the cemetery and onto hallowed ground.

  Brandy and Ray watched through tear-filled eyes, fearful but unable to look away, as the Grand Master strode forward.

  The knight passed the weathered, moss-covered grave markers. He came to a stop within arm's reach of the same whispering, winged angel and cross that so startled Luis in the thunderstorm that first fateful night. Molay drew his sword of the Savior and, to the wail of approaching sirens, lifted it to the blackened sky. Here and there the clouds of whirling smoke thinned and javelins of brilliant sunshine pierced the veil. The light flashed across the outstretched blade throwing glints of silver like fireworks.

  The Templar convulsed. The sword fell from his hand and impaled itself in the ground forming, by hilt and handle, what an imaginative mind could well have seen as a shining cross. Then Molay fell to a knee, gasped quietly and toppled. A moment more and all that remained was a smoldering suit of armor and a handful of dust.

  Twenty Seven

  Brandy neared the courtyard with Ray heavily on her arm and came to a halt – aghast at the chaos. It looked as if the Crusades had just been refought.

  The chapel was in flames and, between rolling clouds of black smoke, the damage from the siege was glaringly obvious. The doors had been hacked and rammed, the walls were pitted and scarred, arrows and crossbow bolts littered the courtyard. Though she couldn't see it from there, Brandy knew several windows were broken on the other side and could only guess how the balcony and kitchen looked. Everywhere ancient weapons, a crossbow, daggers, maces and flails, a halberd and swords, lay scattered as if a museum had exploded.

  Not to mention, or even think about, the bodies.

  The last thing Brandy expected to see in the midst of the death and destruction was a limousine but, as she looked up, a deep blue BMW pulled in behind the row of police cars. Marcel Fournier climbed wearily out and surveyed the tumult with disbelieving eyes. He'd bought the castle for a song, ran his Templar tour for a tidy profit, and now owned nothing but devastation.

  A fire engine, its lights flashing as its siren went mercifully silent, wound around and wheedled past the gendarme vehicles giving the firefighters aboard an eyeful. The doors on Colonel Blanc's car stood open, the windows shattered. The body of a soldier, face down in blood and broken glass, lay sprawled across its hood.

  The engine came to a stop between the castle ruin, smoke curling up from below, and the burning chapel, totally engulfed, with the remains of the stable blasted to hell beyond the courtyard. Two firefighters emerged from the rear of the cab pulling on their gear and air packs. They looked about, then gaped at one another, wondering where to begin while in the distance other sirens wailed.

  The fire chief climbed from the passenger's seat – king of all he surveyed. His was not an elected position, but a selected one; appointed by the local magistrate. It should come as no surprise that, when called upon to fill that important office, Judge Pierre Dupont chose himself. Who else in Paradis, he'd been forced to admit, had the courage, knowledge and authority necessary for the job?

  Dupont wore a huge white hat, like an overturned basket, which, coupled with his amazing mustache, left little to see of his puffed red face. But there was plenty to hear. He shouted orders and watched his men scurry. One grabbed an axe, the other flaked hose onto the ground from the engine's bed, while the driver threw the engine into 'pump' and made his way to the side-mounted controls.

  The other sirens died away as a tanker truck and a white (and blue and orange striped) ambulance arrived and pulled around the growing lot of cars. The tanker continued on to the first engine while the van stopped short, anticipating a quick exit.

  Soliveres climbed out and strode for the rear doors, and their medical equipment, without bothering to look around. On the other side, Aldric (and his pimples), jumped from the ambulance pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves. Mouth open and eyes agog the young attendant surveyed the courtyard. He barely saw the raging fires and scrambling firefighters; they were background. Aldric was taking in the bloodied bodies, the dismembered bodies, the scattered burnt clothes lying with the aspect they once held bodies, looking for someone alive to treat.

  Soliveres joined him, bitching that he'd had to get the equipment himself. He hurled the heavy medical bag at Aldric, barely gave him a chance to catch it, then followed with the oxygen kit. “Who do you think you are?” Soliveres demanded.

  In less time than it takes to tell, three men erected a portable reservoir. They dumped a thousand gallons of water into this pool then ran a supply line from it to Dupont's engine. The men joined the engine crew, fighting the fires, while the now-empty tanker lumbered away to refill.

  Firefighters with a charged hose advanced on the chapel. The fire had spread and orange and red flames now danced in the smoke at the open door.

  On their right, south of the chapel, Aldric saw a small woman supporting a large, wounded man; the Americans from that bloodbath at the village hotel. Everything these people touched, apparently, caught fire. Both were oddly dressed, filthy, and looked to have been beaten. Aldric hurried to them.

  His partner didn't notice him go. He couldn't. The older ambulance attendant had finally looked at the courtyard. His color vanished, his breathing became rapid and shallow, and Soliveres passed out.

  Despite the language barrier, Aldric got his message through, and Brandy lowered Ray to the grass. The patient fought an oxygen mask at first, but soon gave in, as the young medic hurried to stabilize him. Aldric dug into his bag, absently suggesting Soliveres cut the patient's clothes (and failed to notice there was no reply). When Brandy asked if his partner was okay, Aldric followed her gaze to see Soliveres unconscious on the ground. “Eh, bien.” Waving good riddance, Aldric returned his attention to Ray.

  On the north side of the chapel, Aimee had cried herself dry on Trevelyan's chest. The heartbreak and guilt at being one of only two survivors was more than she could endure. But not even Aimee could cry forever. She was used up. Silently she and the priest watched the firefighters trying to save the chapel.

  Dupont rounded the building and was flabbergasted to see the young reporter and an injured priest sitting on the cobblestones. When his questions received no answers, he chased them away. Then, for the first time, Dupont saw that side of the building. A huge crucifix lay shattered on the courtyard. Beyond it, the windows were broken, the balcony collapsed in a burning heap, and black smoke rolled from what was once the gallery door halfway up the chapel.

  As Aimee and Trevelyan followed the chief's order, retreating to the fire engine, the reporter spotted something on the cobblestones and picked it up. It was Luis' little worn black book. She held it to her breast and began to cry again.

  A revived Soliveres joined Aldric while Brandy stood vigil at their elbows with alarm in her eyes and growing fear in her heart.

  “My God,” the humbled medic whispered. He kneeled in the grass taking scissors to Ray's cassock. “What's happened here? What could possibly…? Who would do this to a priest?” He cut the vestment to reveal a jacket and beneath two more shirts. Soliveres and Aldric traded silent questions.

  Beneath the bloodied layers they found their target; a gaping stab wound to the right upper quadrant of his back, through t
o the chest, bubbling blood. Aldric slapped a jellied gauze on Ray's back and the chest wound began a rhythmic sucking. He applied a second patch on his chest and the noise stopped. The pair worked on; tearing sterile packages, readying plastic tubing, flashing needles.

  Brandy kissed Ray's hand and whispered through her tears, “I'm sorry.”

  Ray pulled the oxygen mask down, despite the medics' protestations, and opened his eyes to exhausted slits. “You're… sorry… about what?”

  “About… the whole tattoo-thing,” she said sheepishly.

  “You're sorry… about the tattoo?”

  “No!” The sheep (a wolf in fleece) vanished. “You lied to me. I'm not sorry about the tattoo.” The sheep wandered back. “I'm sorry about the tattoo-thing. About bringing it up… I mean… when I brought it up. It probably wasn't the best time.”

  Ray winced as Aldric slid an IV needle and catheter into his arm. “Forget it,” he told Brandy. “Your timing is so much better now.”

  Both laughed; Ray in pain, Brandy in tears.

  Aldric signaled they needed to go.

  Clutching Luis' book to her chest, Aimee looked up through tears to see medics rolling a cot from south of the chapel to an ambulance. Despite the blanket, IV and oxygen mask, the big patient was easily recognizable as Ray Kramer. Brandy was walking at his side.

  “They're alive,” Aimee whispered. Then it dawned and she turned to the priest on the tailboard and shouted, “They're alive! Father! Brandy and Ray… they're alive!”

  Soliveres eased Brandy away from the cot. Then he and Aldric collapsed the mechanism and rolled Ray into the van.

  As Soliveres followed the cot in Brandy was grabbed from behind. She spun, ready to fight, and peered into Aimee's shrieking, elated face. Both screamed. Father Trevelyan walked up a moment later and Brandy fiercely hugged him. Only when he grimaced did Brandy realize how broken, burned and exhausted the priest was. She apologized, wiped her tears and asked, “Felix and Eve?” The Father shook his head. She turned to Aimee and saw the worn black book in her hands. “Luis?”