Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “Why?”

  He halted for a moment, raised an eyebrow, as if having someone questioning him was so rare that he was unsure how to respond. “Because, I have said so,” he replied simply. “I have allowed the Vampires free reign over Paris, mostly because it suited me, but also because you chose your targets wisely and avoided crossing my path.” He twisted the handle of his cane and slowly drew out a razor-thin sword. The blade glinted like silver in the moonlight. “You have a choice to make, my little Vampire.”

  There was a smile on his lips, but when Irma Vep locked gazes with Fantômas, she saw that it did not reach his eyes. There was a longing there, a foul hope that she would be foolhardy enough to challenge him, and a promise. A promise of death. Ugly, painful death.

  Irma Vep drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She brought up her hands. Her already long fingernails were augmented by a set of metal claws built into the fingertips of her gloves. “I suppose it would have come to this eventually,” she said, taking up a defensive stance.

  Fantômas nodded to himself, mildly impressed. “Clever girl,” he murmured, dropping nimbly down from the third floor to the second. He casually reached inside his coat, as if to draw out a cigarette case, but pulled out an ornate dagger with a heavy blade. He raised both weapons in a mock salute. “Let the dance begin then,” he said, lunging forward.

  Irma Vep tensed, waiting for Fantômas to make the first move. Yet, when it came, it caught her off guard. His movement had been almost accidental, the light cane twirl of a Parisian dandy. Next thing she knew, there was a gash across her ribs. The flimsy sword cane, while looking like a mere toy, was sharp enough to part the fabric of her body suit and the flesh beneath. It just broke the skin, causing a light trickle of blood. Irma clasped a gloved hand to the wound, sucking in her breath. Distracted as she was, she barely registered that the dagger was on a downwards arc, rushing for her heart. She twirled, like a ballerina, feeling the wind of the weapon’s passage as it missed her by less than an inch.

  Claws barred, Irma Vep slashed at Fantômas. He brought up his weapons. Blades and claws clashed, raising sparks. Both combatants struggled to push the other back. Fantômas had the advantage of strength, as well as the high ground, but the pads in the soles of Irma’s feet were made specifically for keeping secure footing on uneven rooftops. She also had a strong dose of fear to bolster her determination to succeed. Death at Fantômas’ hand would not be quick, or painless. Satanas would look upon her surviving this encounter, while failing at her original mission, with strong disapproval. Neither option appealed much to Irma Vep. But, to survive an encounter with Fantômas, and to return to the Great Vampire with riches from Beltham House, would place her at the pinnacle of the Paris underworld.

  “Stop daydreaming, little Vampire,” Fantômas growled, flinging his arms upwards. He then brought both blades swinging viciously downwards. Irma spun to the left, pirouetting past Fantômas until she was behind him. He spun quickly, to slice her down. Irma fell to the roof in a split, then leapt to her feet, the claws of her right hand raking up Fantômas’ sleeve as she went. Her claws weren’t sharp enough to do more than tear the cloth, but instinctively, the master villain flinched back. Irma then brought her left fist down hard on the hand holding the dagger. It fell from Fantômas’ grip and skidded down the sloped roof.

  Fantômas swung his sword and Irma clamped her claws around it, blocking the attack. The two combatants froze for a moment, locked together, their heavy breathing causing faint clouds of mist in the cold night air. Their gazes met and Irma Vep could not stop from gasping. The cruelty she had seen in Fantômas’ eyes earlier had now spread, turning his handsome features into a brutal mask. His teeth ground together and a low animal snarl escaped his mouth. The disguise of the suave gentleman was gone. Irma was glimpsing his true face.

  Shocked, she stumbled backwards, barely able to fend off her opponent’s frenzied attacks. Irma came to a halt, as her back struck the edge of the tiered roof. She could feel the sharp edge of the slate shingles biting into her back. Fantômas made a savage slash that passed within an inch of her wide, frightened eyes.

  His top hat tumbled off his head and the arch-villain casually rested the point of his sword against Irma’s breast as he bent down to retrieve it. Irma Vep felt as trapped and helpless as a butterfly pinned to a collector’s exhibiting board.

  His sword arm steady as an iron rod, Fantômas smoothed down his hair and then replaced his chapeau. “So, my little Vampire,” he growled. “Regretting your choice?”

  Irma was, in fact, regretting it. She was by no means squeamish about pain and death, so long as it happened to other people. Two things kept her defiantly silent. The first was that she was damned if she would admit defeat to any man, whether the police, the Great Vampire or even Fantômas himself. The second was the fact that it was only by biting her lip that she kept from crying out in pain as the sword pierced her body suit and then slowly bit into her skin just below her collar bone.

  Irma Vep held Fantômas’ gaze for several seconds, while her mind frantically rushed through her scant options for escape or survival. Unfortunately, most of them required a miracle.

  Apparently, though, fortune does indeed favor the wicked, as just at that moment, Fantômas’ right heel slipped on the shingles .It took him only seconds to recover his balance, but that was all the time Irma needed. She twisted away from the sword, and trapped it between her arm and her body. A second twist and she was able to wrench it out of her enemy’s grasp.

  Fully recovered, Fantômas straightened his hat and peered darkly at Irma Vep. “Most impressive, little Vampire,” he murmured, his usual predator’s growl tinged with a slight tone of surprise. “Given time, you could truly become a challenge...”

  Irma gave a slight, mock curtsey and then tossed away the sword. It clattered down the slates to the pavement below.

  Fantômas flexed his arms, so that twin blades dropped from concealed holsters in his sleeves into his gloved hands. “So, we’ll just have to ensure that you aren’t given that time,” he snarled. The knives sang as they flew through the air. One grazed Irma’s hip. The other buried itself in her shoulder. Irma clasped her hands to her injuries. She stumbled backwards, lost her footing and fell. Pain raced up her side, as she dug in her heels to keep from sliding closer to Fantômas. The master villain strolled over to where his dagger lay.

  Irma clutched at her aching hip and struggled to sit up. It proved to be more than she could manage. She then reached for the knife embedded in her shoulder. The slightest pressure on it sent a white-hot pain through her body and she bit her lip till blood flowed to hold back a shriek of pain. Her vision blurred and she let go of the knife. Desperate as she was for a weapon, removing that knife would only leave her too weak and helpless to use it once Fantômas returned.

  Irma dug her claws into the tiles, hoping to pull herself along. She had seconds left before Fantômas would retrieve his weapon and she had no doubt he would kill her, quickly and brutally. Then her fingers brushed against metal. Fantômas’ other knife! Breathing a silent prayer, she grabbed the knife while struggling to turn as she heard footsteps clicking along the shingles.

  “Little Vampire,” Fantômas said, drawing closer. “It is time to end our dance.” He raised the dagger high, preparing to strike. Irma flung up one of her arms to distract him, then hurled her body up into a sitting position and drove the small silver knife into her enemy’s thigh, burying it up to the hilt.

  Fantômas’ roar of anger and pain echoed across the neighborhood, as he staggered backwards, clutching at his leg. He lost his footing on the shingles, and soon lay sprawled on the rooftop, glaring across the distance at Irma Vep.

  Eyes locked with his female foe, Fantômas clenched his jaw and ripped the dagger free from his leg. Irma slumped, her muscles trembling with the effort. She forced her much abused body up into a sitting position. Every inch of her ached and part of her wanted to just give up. If
Fantômas didn’t kill her tonight, she knew he would hunt her down. He was not one to forget a grudge. She would spend the rest of her life looking fearfully over her shoulder.

  Somehow that fear opened a floodgate inside her. Letting loose all the fear, anger, pain and frustration that came with growing up in poverty, being looked down upon by her so-called betters, clawing her way through life and finally into the membership of the Vampires, where her being a “mere” woman meant having to prove herself twice as much, work twice as hard, and be twice as cruel and cunning as any of the male members. She let all these emotions well up and surge through her until, wincing with pain, she stood up. If Fantômas was going to kill her this night, Irma would not face him on her knees. Her legs trembled with the effort, but held.

  Fantômas watched her while wiping his blood off the knife with a silk handkerchief. If the pain of his wound or the trickling of blood down his leg bothered him, he showed no sign of it.

  “Come, Fantômas,” Irma snarled, yanking the knife free from her shoulder. “Let’s finish this!”

  The arch-villain limped forward, then paused, as if studying his opponent. His face, a mask of cruel fury, shifted as the corner of his mouth was drawn up in a smile. Then, he lunged, quickly slapping the knife out of Irma’s hand and caught both of her delicate wrists in the iron grip of his left hand.

  With a gloved finger under Irma Vep’s chin, Fantômas raised her eyes to his. “No, my little Vampire,” he murmured. “Our dance is far from over. You have a spark. It would be a shame to stamp it out so quickly. Let see if instead we can fan it into a flame.”

  Irma faltered. Fantômas’ finger moved to her lips.

  “No idle threats or clever words,” he said. “It would ruin the moment and then I would change my mind. Tend to your wounds, little Vampire, and stay out of my way. I will see that I stay out of yours until the time is right.” Fantômas ran his finger down Irma Vep’s cheek as he stepped back and released her hands. An almost tender look played across his wolfish features.

  As Irma nodded in agreement to his terms, Fantômas slashed out viciously at her with his knife. It cut through the fabric of her body suit and left a raw gash upon the top of her right breast, in the shape of a jagged “F.”

  Irma glared up at him, clutching at her new wound, her eyes wide and full of hate for the well-dressed villain, as he strolled away across the roof.

  “Don’t go mistaking a moment of compassion for soft sentiment.” He bowed and then disappeared down a trap door set into the roof.

  Irma glared at the spot where Fantômas had been. Blood seeped from between her fingers and she trembled with both fierce emotion and the growing chill of the night.

  Irma Vep lay back on the settee, dressed in a silk robe, bandages wrapped around her wounds. She took a sip of brandy and closed her eyes.

  “You are looking better than I expected,” said Satanas.

  “That’s because you expected to see me stretched out on a morgue slab,” Irma murmured drowsily in reply. She opened her eyes and gave the Great Vampire a weak, loveless smile.

  He patted Irma’s non-bandaged shoulder lightly and sat down across from her. “If any of us could survive the wrath of Fantômas, I knew it would be you.”

  Irma took another sip of her drink, finding little comfort in his words. The flame of hate that Fantômas had lit inside her still burned bright and the sight of that smug man only added fuel to it.

  “With Fantômas busy at Beltham House, our men should have met no difficulties breaking into the Crédit Foncier,” the Great Vampire added. There was the sound of a doorbell. “In fact, it sounds like they’re back already.”

  A thickset man in workman’s clothes entered the room, supported by a butler, and clutching at a bandage around his head.

  “The police... They were waiting for us...” the Vampire muttered, groggily, as he was lowered to a chair. “The others... captured... or dead.”

  “But how?” Satanas snapped.

  “Fantômas,” replied Irma Vep, smiling as she swirled the brandy around in the snifter.

  Like Win Scott Eckert, our regular contributor Rick Lai has been slowly assembling his own storyline through his contributions to Tales of the Shadowmen. In Rick’s case, the saga focuses on two dynamic female protagonists: one, Josephine Balsamo, Arsène Lupin’s arch-enemy, and the other, her rival, Irène Chupin (or Tupin), whom Rick “rescued” from the Spanish cult horror film La Residencia (a.k.a. The House That Screamed). While the following tale can be read independently, readers wishing to refamiliarize themselves with Irene and her ghastly trials at Madame Fourneau’s College for Young Women may find it useful to reread “Dr. Cerral’s Patient” in our second volume before reacquainting themselves with…

  Rick Lai: The Lady in the Black Gloves

  Provence, 1885

  In November 1885, a lecture on French literature was being delivered by Madame Fourneau, the headmistress of the College for Young Women, an exclusive boarding school in Provence. She was a middle-aged widow with brown hair, dressed in a stern black skirt and a white blouse, with a dark brown tie. She always repeated her comments twice while her students, approximately 30 girls, recorded her words in their notebooks.

  “Alexandre Dumas was... Alexandre Dumas was... an extremely meticulous writer... an extremely meticulous writer... His historically accurate novel... His historically accurate novel... Joseph Balsamo... Joseph Balsamo... revealed the true role of the title character... revealed the true role of the title character... in fomenting our great revolution of 1789... in fomenting our great revolution of 1789.”

  A 15-year-old girl raised her hand. She was slender, with dark hair, and wore a dark orange dress. The headmistress acknowledged her.

  “You have something that you wish to say, Mademoiselle Tupin?”

  “I disagree, Madame. Monsieur Dumas severely distorted Joseph Balsamo’s activities. He was merely a charlatan known as Count Cagliostro. Dumas later compounded his fabrications by exaggerating Balsamo’s role in the Affair of the Queen’s Necklace. Dumas’ assertions about Balsamo’s secret passages in the Rue St. Claude are wild speculations, typical of an author who claimed that Louis XIV was replaced with his twin brother.”

  “So you disagree with my assessment of Dumas, Mademoiselle Tupin?”

  “I do, Madame.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No, Madame, I am not.”

  “Then, why are you arguing with me?”

  “At my previous school, we were allowed to question our teachers.”

  “We follow other methods here. But I feel there is an ulterior motive behind your statements.”

  “I do not understand what you mean, Madame.”

  “By denying Cagliostro’s achievements, you are, in effect, criticizing a fellow student, one whom I have entrusted with a large amount of responsibility.”

  “No, Madame, I am not saying that at all.”

  “Yes, you are, Mademoiselle Tupin. I must insist that you apologize for your behavior.”

  “I will not. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Then, you must be punished.”

  Madame Fourneau approached the desk occupied by a 17-year-old student. She had blonde hair, a delicate chin, deep-set eyes and high cheek-bones. She wore a black skirt and a brown blouse, with a black tie.

  “Mademoiselle Balsamo, take Mademoiselle Tupin to the isolation room.”

  The blonde girl rose. The headmistress gave her a key. Pulling Tupin by the arm, Balsamo dragged her out of the classroom. The brunette was taken up a flight of stairs to a Spartan room with a bed and two chairs.

  As the blonde was leaving the room, she addressed the younger girl:

  “My dear Irene, you brought this upon yourself.”

  “What do you mean, Josephine?”

  “You should have agreed to my offer. As I told you before, I really run this school. ”

  Two hours later, Josephine returned with Madame Fourneau and
two other girls. The headmistress harangued the detainee.

  “Mademoiselle Tupin, are you now willing to apologize for the slanderous remarks that you made earlier?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “If you do not recant, you will have to be punished appropriately.”

  “If that is your wish, so be it, Madame.”

  “It is not my wish, it is your wish, Mademoiselle.” Madame Fourneau handed a whip to Josephine. “Mademoiselle Balsamo will administer the punishment.”

  A week later, Irene stood before Josephine and two other girls who helped her in her prefect duties at the school. The trio was sipping tea.

  “Irene,” intoned Josephine, “the last time you were here, I asked you to join our sisterhood. You foolishly refused. I extend that offer again. Do you accept?”

  “Yes, Josephine.”

  “Very wise. But we need to clarify certain matters. You did not wish to discuss them before. Are you willing to do so now?”

  “Yes, Josephine.”

  “Your mother’s maiden name is Victoire Chupin, but there is no mention of your father’s name. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your parents were unmarried. Doesn’t that make your mother little more than a common harlot?”

  Irene nodded.

  “You really have to speak up, Irene. What did you just acknowledge that your mother is?”

  “A harlot.”

  “And you are little more than a common thief. Are you not?”

  “That is a lie. I have never stolen anything.”

  “The interview that Madame had with the lady who brought you here would suggest otherwise. That lady has a son, four years younger than you. Your mother was his nurse, wasn’t she?