He beckoned his young headbreakers forward, silently directing three of them to cut around the block and get ahead of the two old men. Then, after giving them several moments to get into position, he gave the signal to the other three and they quickly began to close the distance. The two old men heard the sound of boot heels behind them and fearfully glanced over their shoulders, quickening their pace, but Michel and his young friends were already only yards behind them and closing fast. Then, suddenly, three more street punks stepped out of an alleyway ahead of them and the two old men found themselves boxed in. Like a well-trained assault unit, Michel and his gang, four boys and two tough-as-nails teenaged girls, hit the old men from both sides, forcing them into the alleyway where they could throw them to the ground and kick them into submission and that's where things started going wrong.
Suddenly, inexplicably, there was no sign of the two old men. One moment, they were shoving them into the alleyway, the next, they were simply gone. And they were no longer in the alley.
Stunned, Michel and his friends looked around them at the torches blazing on the rock walls, at the smoking braziers and the bones piled up in niches all around them.
"What the hell?" Michel said, gazing all around him wildly, looking for someone to pulverize.
"What happened?" one of the girls cried in a frightened voice. "Where are we?"
Involuntarily, they started to huddle together in a tight little group around Michel.
"Get away from me!" he said, shoving them away.
"Adepts!" one of the other boys said. "Those two old geezers must've been adepts! We tried to mug a pair of sorcerers! Oh, Christ, we've had it now!"
"Shut up!" Michel said.
"Michel, I'm frightened!" the second girl wailed.
Michel gave her a stinging slap across the face. "Shut up, I said! I'll give you something to be frightened of!"
"What is this place?" one of the other boys said.
"The Catacombs," another boy replied, his voice trembling slightly. "They must've sent us to the Catacombs. You could get lost in here forever! We'll never find our way out! We're dead!"
Michel grabbed him by the throat. "Shut up! We'll find our way out. Somebody found their way in, didn't they? Someone had to light these torches. We'll find 'em and make 'em show us the way out!"
"Michel! Look!" one of the girls said, pointing.
Two hooded, black-robed figures stood at the far end of the chamber, watching them.
"Get 'em!" snarled Michel, running at the figures.
Purely out of instinct, three of the boys went with him, but the others hesitated. One of the hooded figures casually raised an arm and Michel and the three boys suddenly found themselves being hurled back fifteen feet across the chamber. One of the girls screamed, the other threw her hands up to her mouth, speechless with fear. The boys who had hesitated began to back away slowly, their eyes wide. Two of the boys who had charged the robed figures lay stunned on the floor of the chamber. The third pulled himself up to his hands and knees, but prudently chose to remain right where he was. Things had escalated far beyond the point where any of them were willing to go on with this. Any of them except Michel, who immediately jumped to his feet and, with a scream of rage, launched himself at the necromancers, knife in hand.
The necromancer calmly raised his arm once more, palm out facing Michel, and it was as if Michel had run into a stone wall. He bounced hard off something that wasn't even there, ran at it again, only to encounter the same invisible obstruction. Snarling, he rained blows and kicks upon the unseen wall.
"Magnificent, isn't he, Azreal?" one of the necromancers said, his resonant, deep voice filling the chamber.
"A wild little beast," the other said. "Such rage and such intensity! Such deliciously delightful evil!"
"Yes, I think he will do very nicely."
Furious, Michel spun around to face his friends. "Come on!" he screamed at them. "Don't just fucking stand there! We can all smash through together!"
But his friends weren't having any of it. In his rage, Michel wasn't thinking beyond the fact that there was an obstacle of some sort between him and his quarry. All he wanted was to break through, but his companions all realized by now that they were facing sorcerers and they wanted no part of it. They turned and fled toward the tunnel they had seen behind them, but suddenly, it simply wasn't there. There was no exit from the chamber. The were completely enclosed by solid walls of rock.
They panicked. They ran to where the tunnel had been scant moments earlier, pressing their hands against the wall, refusing to believe it wasn't there. One of the girls backed away from the wall, whimpering, and tripped, falling into a heap of bones. She screamed hysterically as rats scampered away from the pile.
Michel spun around again and started stabbing repeatedly at the invisible obstruction. It gave way before his blade and sprang right back. He screamed with frustration and threw himself against it and suddenly he plunged through. He fell hard to the stone floor of the chamber. He could no longer hear the screams of his friends. He turned and looked back through the invisible wall, watching them scramble madly around the chamber, seeking an avenue of escape which wasn't there. It was like watching some sort of surrealistic silent movie. He saw their mouths opening and closing, but he couldn't hear a sound. He turned and looked up at the two necromancers, who stood motionless before him, and his face twisted into a grimace of bestial rage. He bent and picked up his knife.
"Listen to me, Michel Fremont," said one of them, pulling back his hood. Michel found himself staring not at an old man, but at a strikingly handsome young face framed by flaming red hair that cascaded down onto his shoulders." You have a great deal of potential. We can help you to realize it."
"Realize this!" Michel said, and hurled the knife unerringly toward the necromancer.
The necromancer didn't move, but the knife came to a dead stop, hanging in midair only inches from his chest. He stared at it and it dropped to the floor.
"He truly is an animal," the other necromancer said.
"Then let him become one," his companion replied. He gestured at Michel.
Michel screamed in pain and doubled over as a searing heat suddenly washed over him. He sank to the floor, wreathed in a pulsating blue aura. He thrashed and clawed at himself, tearing off his clothes. It felt as if thousands upon thousands of microscopic insects were crawling all over him, biting and stinging furiously. Blood gushed from his gums as his teeth sprouted into fangs. His hands became twisted and gnarled, throbbing with agony as they metamorphosed into paws. His back felt as if it were breaking as it arched high, his spine writhing like a snake beneath his skin. His eyes changed color, becoming a bright, glowing, golden yellow. His jaw began to stretch as his lower face extended into a snarling, drooling snout. Black fur sprouted from his face and body and his screams became a bestial howling.
Behind the invisible wall, his friends stood huddled together, frozen with terror as they watched Michel being transformed into a huge and powerful wolf, only much larger than any normal wolf could ever be. It snapped its jaws and pawed at the ground, shaking its huge head back and forth, filling the underground chamber with the echo of its gruesome howls. And then, as the creature that had been Michel came toward them, they realized that the invisible wall was gone and the monster was moving with a slow, deliberate, stalking gait, its yellow eyes fixed upon them hungrily. They broke and ran, screaming, but there was nowhere for them to run.
The beast leaped and brought down one of the girls. She screamed hysterically as its right forepaw swept across her chest, tearing away her blouse, and then twin yellow beams stabbed down from the creature's eyes, burning strange and grotesque symbols into her young breasts. Her piercing screams filled the chamber as smoke curled up from her charred skin and then the creature brought its massive head down, snapping its powerful jaws at her throat, and blood gushed up in a fountain as her screams ended in a horrendous gurgle.
The two necromancers stood
utterly motionless, their eyes closed as if in ecstasy, their chests swelling slightly as they absorbed the power of her life force. And then the creature snarled and leaped again.
They had no difficulty getting into the apartment. Wyrdrune had been about to cast a spell to release the lock, but Kira told him not to bother. She merely reached inside her jacket pocket and removed a slim little case of stainless steel tools, which she used to pick the lock open. It took her no more than a few seconds.
"Well, now what's the fun of that?" said Wyrdrune.
"It isn't about fun, it's about being quietly efficient," Kira said. "Anyway, knowing you, you'd have overdone it and blown open the entire door and half the wall, besides."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence," said Wyrdrune sourly.
They went in and shut the door behind them. There were only the four of them. Jacqueline had stayed behind at the hotel to make her calls to Max Siegal's lawyer and to her own attorney. They walked slowly around the apartment; two bedrooms, a small sitting room, a bathroom and a kitchenette.
The furniture was old and conformed to no particular style. There was a cheap, imitation Persian rug on the floor, stained and bunched up in several places. An old sofa with a garish floral print stood against the wall. It was spattered with blood, as was the wall behind it. Opposite it, a small television set had stood on a badly scratched coffee table, but the table had been knocked over and the television set lay broken on the floor. A battered end table beside the sofa had been knocked over, as well. The ashtray on it had been overflowing with cigarette butts, which were strewn across the floor, the filter tips stained with bright red lipstick. The surface of the end table was covered with cigarette burns. There were a dozen or more potted plants badly in need of watering placed around the sitting room in little groups, many of them knocked over, and a fake fireplace with a nonfunctional grate in which a stuffed dog with one eye missing had been placed on a ratty old cushion, a cherished toy from childhood, amusingly displayed.
Two posters hung on the wall above the sofa, one a framed advertisement for the Cafe Noir, done in a poor imitation of Lautrec's style, the other a photographic print of the skyline of Manhattan, with "New York" boldly lettered in white across it. The New York poster was hanging crookedly and there was a large smudge on the wall beside it, with a chip in the plaster. Beneath it, a broken clay pot lay on the carpet, the plant and soil spilling out of it. It seemed as if the victim had hurled die pot at the killer in a vain attempt at self-defense. A battered, cloth upholstered reading chair stood in one corner, the standing lamp beside it leaning at a crazy angle against the wall. The mantelpiece was cluttered with all sorts of bric-a-brac; framed photographs, a few miniature figurines of unicorns and dragons, some of which had been knocked over and broken, a hair brush, an open pack of cigarettes, a brandy snifter containing matchbooks from various restaurants and night spots.
The kitchen was a mess. There was hardly anything in the refrigerator. One moldy container of strawberry yogurt. One withered head of lettuce. An open bottle of white wine. Several left-over cartons of Chinese take-out. And not much else. Unwashed cups and dishes were stacked in the sink. The countertop was sprinkled with spilled coffee grounds. There were shattered fragments of cups and dishes on the floor, as well as a few pots and pans. The kitchen chairs had been knocked over and the table had been shoved aside. Part of the struggle had taken place in here. The garbage stank.
In the bathroom, there was a veritable explosion of cosmetics, underthings and toiletries. Lipsticks, eye shadows, blushers, eyeliners, makeup base, panties hanging on the shower rod and spigots, cold cream, moisturizers, acne medications, lacy bras in black and various pastel shades, perfumes, curling sets, blow dryers, shampoos, crème rinses and conditioners, silky slips, oil treatments, depilatory foams, sanitary napkins, nail polish in almost every imaginable shade, dirty towels, mascara, bunched-up stockings ... it looked as if someone had thrown a hand grenade in there and closed the door to contain the holocaust. However, this was apparently the result of the normal housekeeping or rather the lack of it, not the struggle with the killer. The bedrooms were not much neater. Clothes left wherever they were dropped. High-heeled shoes spilling out of the closets. Modred stopped in the doorway of the second bedroom, where two of the girls had slept.
"They were here," he said, looking all around the room.
Kira glanced at Wyrdrune. The emerald runestone was nearly hidden by his hair, but she could see a faint, telltale green glow. She glanced down at her palm to see that her sapphire runestone was also glowing dimly.
"They stood right here, in this bedroom," Modred said, entering the room briefly, then going back out into the sitting room. There was a large, dark stain in the center of the carpet. He glanced back toward the bedroom. "They stood right there and watched through the open doorway while he killed her, then they absorbed her life energy."
"You said they," said Merlin.
Modred looked at him and frowned. "Yes, I did, didn't I?"
"Don't any of you move," said a voice from behind them. "Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them."
They did as the voice instructed. Standing behind them, in the open doorway of the apartment, was a slim, dark-haired young man holding a small semiautomatic pistol. He looked nervous and his hand was shaking slightly.
"You heard them say that in the movies, didn't you?" said Modred, smiling in a friendly manner.
"Just stay right where you are," the young man said. He moistened his lips. "Who are you people? What are you doing in here?"
"Stefan Rienzi?" Modred said.
"How do you know my name? Are you with the police? I'd like to see some identification."
"We're not with the police, Mr. Rienzi," Modred said, "but we are investigating the murder."
"Are you with the I.T.C.?"
"No," said Modred. "It's a rather complicated situation, Mr. Rienzi, and I'm afraid I haven't the time to explain it to you."
"I think I'd better call the police," Rienzi said.
The gun suddenly flew out of Rienzi's grasp and sailed across the room, landing in Billy's outstretched hand. "Never did like these damned things," said Merlin, handing the pistol to Modred. Rienzi bolted, but Wyrdrune gestured at the apartment door and it slammed shut. Rienzi grasped the doorknob and twisted it frantically, but the door refused to open. He turned around, his back against the door, staring at them fearfully.
"Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"
"Calm yourself, Mr. Rienzi," Wyrdrune said. "We mean you no harm."
Modred glanced at the small-caliber pistol. It was of fairly recent manufacture, very small and made from inexpensive polymers and alloy. It had no knock-down power and was not a terribly threatening weapon unless one hit a vital spot. In the hands of someone who could hit that vital spot consistently, it would certainly do the job, although Rienzi was probably not that sort of man. Modred, on the other hand, was.
"In the future, before you point a weapon at someone, you might want to take the safety off," he said. He released the magazine, thumbed the bullets out onto the floor, checked to see that there was no round left in the chamber, reinserted the magazine and tossed the pistol back to Rienzi.
"I demand to know who you are and what you're doing here," Rienzi said, summoning up his courage and looking straight at him.
Modred held his gaze. "But we were never here," he said.
Rienzi blinked several times, but did not look away. He couldn't.
"You . . . you were never here," he said, his gaze becoming unfocused.
"You have never seen us," Modred said, staring at him intensely.
"I have never seen you," said Rienzi, his tone mechanical.
"If anyone asks, you couldn't possibly describe us, because you never saw us. There was no one here."
"Stefan!" A young woman's voice came from out in the corridor. She sounded alarmed. The doorknob rattled. "Stefan, are you all right? Is anybody the
re? What's happening?"
"There is no one here," he said mechanically.
"Stefan, I've called the police, they're on their way!"
"That must be Suzanne," said Kira. "You think she saw us?"
"I doubt it," Modred said. "Otherwise, she would not have asked if anyone was here. They must have heard us out in the corridor or moving around in here. In any case, if the police are on their way, I don't think we should remain. I think we've discovered all there is to learn here."
"Stefan! Stefan, I hear voices!"
"There is no one here," said Rienzi.
"Stefan, let me in!"
Modred glanced at Billy. "Ambrosius, will you do the honors?"
"My pleasure," Merlin said. He mumbled a quick spell under his breath and quickly brought his arms up over his head. They all disappeared, leaving Rienzi standing alone in the apartment.
"Stefan! Stefan, why won't you answer? What's wrong? Stefan?"
Rienzi blinked several times, then turned the doorknob. It opened easily and Suzanne came rushing in. She had a large carving knife in her hand. She looked around, clearly frightened, but there wasn't anybody there.
"Stefan! I was frightened half out of my mind! I thought perhaps he had come back! Why didn't you answer me?"
"I told you there was no one here," he said calmly.
"But I heard voices."
"It must have been only your imagination."
"But I heard them, I tell you! Why was the door locked?"
"It wasn't. It was open."
"But I tried it!" she protested. "It was locked from the inside!"
"Nonsense. You're merely overwrought. As you can clearly see, there's no one here. Come, you shouldn't be in here. It's too much of a strain for you. We will be moving you soon. I will collect everything you need. Coming back in here will only upset you."
"I've called the police."
[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Page 7