The Flight of the Zeppelin

by Melanie Thompson

  The room was lit by six huge black candles, their base as thick as his wrist. They sat on an altar in front of Christ hanging upside down on a cross. When he reached out to turn the crucifix right-side up, the candles flared and the whole thing disappeared. He backed up rapidly as he cursed under his breath. He might be a lapsed Catholic, but the religion ran deeply in his blood. The sight of the crucifix like that was awful and now it had just disappeared, the candles with it, casting the room into stygian blackness.

  Quinn took several steps in the dark to the window and threw open curtains. Pale moonlight streamed in revealing a monastic’s room with one small bed, a leather-bound trunk at the foot and a personal altar with a perfectly normal crucifix, candles, an open Bible and a kneeling bench in front of it. A rosary made of gleaming red beads lay on the altar beside a shimmering black stone. When Quinn picked the rosary up a small silver cross dangled from the chain. Could this be the rosary that killed all those women? He put it into his pouch and touched the stone carefully. He’d had enough experiences with Priest now to be watchful of everything. When the stone didn’t move, change shapes or try to bite him, he picked it up and turned it over to examine it. He didn’t recognize the material. It was black and oily with a rainbow of shimmering colors in the high-polished black surface. He dropped it into the pouch beside the rosary and left the room. There was nothing else for him to find in there. The disappearing candles told the story. Anything else in this room would be hidden by methods Quinn could not fight. He would take this rosary and the stone to Tomlinson and allow him to run his tests to see if there was blood on the beads or the silver links and to discover what kind of stone it was.

  Chapter 11

  Priest saw the man searching the church residence. He recognized him as Bryn’s consort, the policeman from London. It seemed better to leave his room to take care of itself. He had plans for the evening anyway. When his watchdogs failed in their mission, he decided accosting the intruder and possibly having to fight him would cause too much notice. Even the tired priests might awaken and see things better left unseen.

  He materialized in the alley and walked to Jackson Square. It was too late to hail a hack so he decided to steal the gentleman’s horse. It was tied in the square. The horse shied when he untied its reins, but Priest soon settled it. He knew horses mistrusted him. He smelled of snake.

  Mounted, he urged the gelding into a trot and set off for the waterfront. His needs were growing more and more urgent. His desire for Bryn had him on edge. No matter how many women he violated and killed, he was still unsatisfied. He wouldn’t find peace until he had humiliated her beneath him. The thought of her writhing in agony while he thrust himself into her body filled him with uncontrollable lust. He would sate it now.

  Once on the waterfront, he found a whore selling herself in front of a bar. The bar was one frequented by sailors and other rough sorts. The woman would not expect a gentleman. He dismounted and tied his horse to a hitching rack in front of the bar. The woman spotted him and lifted her skirts. He had a good look in the light from the bar window of white thighs and dark pubic hair.

  He approached her and offered her a silver dollar. She shook her head. “Non, monsieur, cinq dollars.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Cinq? Por voux?”

  She dropped her skirt. “Si, vraiment.”

  He pulled four more dollars out of his pocket and dropped them into her open palm one at a time. When she had stowed them in a string bag dangling from her belt, he grabbed her arm and dragged her into the dark alley. She cursed him long and with remarkable fluidity in French, but went with him. When he had her in the dark, he turned her roughly around and hoisted her skirts. Her pale buttocks beckoned. He opened his cassock, took out his flaccid organ and cursed it. Only moments before when he had been thinking about Bryn it had been more than ready.

  He spun the whore around and pushed her to her knees. She saw the problem immediately and took him into her mouth. He told her to pull her breasts out of her blouse which she did. The white globes gleamed in the dark alley. He closed his eyes and thought of Bryn as he stroked her breasts, but nothing worked. His organ remained flaccid and unresponsive though the whore sucked, licked and applied every artifice at her disposal.

  When it became apparent that his inflamed mind had no effect on his cock, he wrapped a silver rosary around her neck and began choking her. She fought like a wildcat, her breasts bare, her black hair flying. He pushed her in front of him with his knee and snatched the rosary tighter. There was no cross on this one. The beads cut into her flesh and she collapsed at his feet. He knelt beside her, crammed his organ back under his robes and gave her extreme unction. As he used holy water to draw a cross on her forehead, she kicked once, and died. He placed a communion wafer in her gaping mouth and stood up seething with frustration, hacked off her breasts and threw them into the alley. He pushed up her skirts and stared at her sex. When his flesh hardened, he cursed again. He would not fuck a dead woman. Even he had some scruples. He covered her face with her skirt and stalked out of the alley to find the horse missing. Someone had stolen it.

  Priest growled, raised his arms and turned into a black dragon. After flexing his huge segmented wings, he took off for St. Louis Cathedral with his black thoughts swirling. He would have Bryn Sahir. Until he did, he was cursed with impotence and a burning desire he could not gratify.

  * * * *

  Quinn had to find a late night hack to take him home. His horse was missing. He smiled at the thought of someone stealing Blackjack. The minute the horse got free, he would return to the Garden District and his warm stall. Blackjack was like a homing pigeon. No matter where he went, he always knew how to find his stall and the hay that waited there.

  The hack driver was leery of Quinn, but finally accepted double the fare to take him home. He was not surprised to find his horse walking up the drive with the reins dangling. “Came home, did you?” Quinn picked up the dragging reins and led the horse to the mews. “Knew right where you lived.”

  The horse nickered and accepted a handful of grain as Quinn unsaddled him and put him up for the night. Tomlinson was waiting for him in the basement laboratory. “Did you find anything?” he asked eagerly.

  Quinn began stripping off his leather vest, gauntlet and neck piece. “Here,” he tossed the pouch to his assistant. “I found a queer stone and a rosary. Can you tell if there is blood on the rosary?”

  “Of course. I have a special mixture I use made of hydrogen peroxide and a powder I invented. When the two are mixed, the blood glows with yellow luminescence.”

  Quinn sighed with fatigue. “Well, do whatever you feel is necessary. I’m off to my bed and some well-deserved rest.”

  Tomlinson picked up the stone. “This is rainbow obsidian. I believe it to be quite harmless. The stone is used to heighten awareness specifically during meditation and it’s supposed to protect the bearer against negativity. You should probably carry it. Negativity seems to love you.”

  Quinn accepted the stone from Tomlinson and dropped it into his pocket. “If you say so.”

  * * * *

  “Miss Fenix, I have a message for you,” Fingle said. He held a sealed letter out to her. She rose from the settee where she had been mending a flounce on one of her dresses and took the letter. It was sealed with black wax. She stared at it for several moments before breaking the seal and opening it. The letter was from Emile. He had managed to steal the stone. Fenix was overjoyed. He wished to see her, give her the stone and collect his reward. She knew the message was really from Emile when he mentioned his desire to finish what they had started. She smiled. He would collect that and more.

  For two days Bryn had been haunting the residence of Marie LeVeque to no avail. Bryn thought the woman may have checked out of the hotel. This message gave Fenix a new perspective. Perhaps she was dead. Maybe Emile had taken care of her or maybe when Emile stole the stone the witch left town. Fenix didn’t know or care which supposition was tr
ue. She only knew Emile had done what Bryn could not do. He’d stolen the stone!

  Fenix hummed a Zydeco tune as she changed into a walking dress with an amber velvet jacket and a skirt of white muslin with gold flowers and a lace flounce. She slipped into gold sandals and examined her hair in the mirror. She pulled it into a knot on the top of her head, fluffed curls around her face and then tied a straw bonnet with a high poke and gold ribbons over her curls. After finishing her toilet, she grabbed a parasol to shield her fair skin from the summer sun and left the house. Fingle bowed her out the front door with a frown on his long face. “Miss is going out?”

  “Yes, Fingle, I have an errand to perform.”

  “And where would you be going? Miss Bryn will wish to know, I am sure.”

  Fenix tilted her head. “I don’t believe I must answer to Bryn, but you may tell her my project has prospered and I go to collect my bounty.”

  Fingle’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed, and Miss Bryn will know what this means?”

  Fenix stepped onto the sidewalk. “Yes, I believe she will.”

  Fenix hailed a hack at the corner and told the driver to take her to the waterfront. She had a moment of remorse as she gave him the address of Emile’s lodging. She’d promised Bryn she would not go anywhere alone. She’d promised to include her sister in her plans. But Bryn was resting from two nights of fruitless efforts. It would be unkind to rouse her. And besides, Emile was waiting. He had a reward to collect and Fenix was very hot to deliver it.

  She sat back on the bench and waited for the driver to whip up his cob, but instead he pulled the horse up. “Sorry, Miss, I don’t go down there ever and neither should a pretty young lady like yourself.”

  Fenix closed her eyes. Everyone wanted to tell her what to do. It was extremely vexing. She spoke in a soft hypnotic voice. “You do want to take me there, Chartres Street and Piety, the corner.”

  The driver’s eyelids drooped. “Chartres and Piety, yes Miss.” He clucked to the thin brown gelding pulling the hack and they took off at a trot. Fenix leaned back and let her anticipation build. She would ride Emile like the great horse that he was.

  When they reached the corner, Fenix climbed down, paid the driver and walked briskly toward the rundown building where she’d met and danced with Emile. It was dark and the faded brown door was locked. She opened her parasol to protect her skin from the blazing sun and looked up and down the street with a puzzled expression on her face. This was where Emile had said to meet him. She turned and tried the door to the club again. It was still locked. No lights and no music issued from within.

  She was just about to leave and try to find another hack when she spotted a carriage coming down the street drawn by a team of four fine gray horses. The driver was dressed in a black suit, wore a top hat and carried his whip at a jaunty angle. Fenix’s spirits lifted when the carriage pulled to a stop beside her. The driver tied his reins around the brake, jumped down and doffed his hat. “Miss Fenix Sahir?”

  Fenix smiled delighted at his manners. “Yes, that is me.”

  He opened the carriage door and pulled down a set of steps. “Please get in. Mr. Emile sent me to fetch you.”

  Fenix giggled. “Mr. Emile? Why, I’m charmed.”

  She lifted her skirts to climb into the carriage, felt a sudden blow to the back of her head and darkness claimed her.

  Chapter 12

  Bryn sat up with a start. She’d just lain down to rest after a second night of staying out late in a futile attempt to find Marie LeVeque. The woman had disappeared like a puff of smoke. When she asked at the desk, they had no record or memory of her ever having stayed at the Maison de Ville.

  Her head ached. She touched the back and felt a goose egg forming. Had she fallen? That wasn’t it. Fenix! Something bad had just happened to her sister. She leaped out of the bed and rushed downstairs. “Fingle! Fingle! Where is Miss Fenix?”

  Fingle emerged from the stairs leading to the laboratory in the basement carrying a full waste basket. “She left earlier on an errand. She told me you would know where she was going. Her exact words were; her project had prospered and she went to collect her bounty. She said you would understand what this meant.”

  “Drat that girl. No, I am not aware of where she was going and I don’t know what she could possibly mean by collecting her bounty. Can you tell me what precipitated her venturing out? She’d told me she was tired and would sew all afternoon.”

  “A message was delivered to her. She read it, went upstairs, changed and went out.”

  Bryn moaned. “She must think that black man she met stole the Coeur de Flamme for her. I imagine she went down to the waterfront to meet him. Oh, where is Quinn when I need him?”

  Fingle cleared his throat. “If you wish, I could go after her.”

  Bryn lifted one eyebrow. Fingle had been Samantha’s familiar in Salem. He had a host of interesting skills chief of which was an ability to hunt using his nose. He didn’t turn into a hound dog precisely. He looked like one already, but when he chose, his nose grew very large, his ears as well and he could track missing people.

  “Very well, Fingle, since Quinn is absent and I can’t wait for him, you can go with me.”

  A hint of a smile flickered across Fingle’s austere features. “Yes, madam.”

  Samantha shoved the door to the basement open with a crash and came up the stairs from the lab lugging a massive motor wrapped inside a sheet. “Fingle, bring up the rest and help me load it onto the cart. I have to deliver this zeppelin engine today.”

  “After he helps you with that, Sam, may I use him?”

  Samantha placed her burden on the hall carpet. She had a smudge of oil on her nose. Bryn used her handkerchief to wipe it off and kissed her.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Sam placed her hands on both sides of Bryn’s face, looked into her eyes and sighed. “Fenix! Where is she?”

  “I don’t know which is why I need dear Fingle to help. His nose is the best.”

  “Yes, and he knows her scent which saves so much time.”

  Bryn hugged Sam. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “Well, take him. I’ll haul this motor out to the airfield myself. I have to stay to help install it anyway and then I must explain how it works and what fuel to use to the mechanics.”

  They were just about ready to step out of the house when Quinn arrived. Bryn ran to him and told him Fenix was missing. “Of course she is,” he said. “She’s about to die, there’s a serial murderer on the loose along with a crazy voodoo witch. What better moment to vanish, I ask you? Does the brat have no feelings for you at all?”

  Tears filled Bryn’s eyes. “She wants to be a part of finding the stone and I understand her wish, but she’s not up to snuff. She’s just a baby.”

  “She’s a grown woman, Bryn, who should know better than to torture you with worry.” He stopped suddenly on the stairs and stared at Fingle. “What the Deuce?”

  Bryn started and looked around to see what he could mean. She smiled when she realized he meant Fingle. The staid butler’s already remarkable nose had lengthened and grown to Herculean proportions. His ears were noticeably longer and his droopy eyes were lost in nests of wrinkles. “Fingle is going with us.”

  “Don’t tell me. He turns into a hound dog.”

  Bryn took his arm and led him onto the street where her carriage waited. “Not exactly. You see, he used to be a dog, but he became Samantha’s familiar and as a reward for many centuries of service, she granted him humanity. It’s very convenient when a tracking animal is needed, he is always there.”

  * * * *

  When Fenix awoke she found herself tied up and lying on the floor of a carriage traveling at a crazy speed down a rough and rutted road. It bounced and shook like it was about to fall apart. She realized she’d probably been on the seat at one time, but had fallen to the floor.

  Unable to move her arms, she rolled onto her back with a grunt and immediately saw she wasn’t alone. A woman rode
with her, moving easily with the crazy jolting of the carriage. Fenix saw black satin ruffled skirts, slender ankles encased in silk stockings and satin slippers. When she turned her head to view her better, she knew instantly she was riding with Marie LeVeque, the voodoo witch. The Coeur de Flamme hung from a gold chain around her neck. The huge green stone’s red center glowed from deep within it like a beating heart. It was the rarest of the rare, a ruby encased in an emerald. The stone was set in a massive amount of gold. Between the stone and the setting it must have weighed over a hundred carats.

  The witch became aware of her scrutiny and looked down. She had brilliant silver eyes, soaring arched brows, wild black hair and café au lait skin. Her bountiful bosom swelled from a green satin bodice and old-fashioned black lace stomacher fitted tightly over her tiny waist. She pulled a black velvet cape lined in more green satin around her shoulders and smiled down at Fenix. Her smile was cold and did not reach her silver eyes. “You awaken. This is good. Emile told me of you. He said you can heal damaged flesh with your tears.” She bent down and touched Fenix’s hair and then her cheek. “Such skin and hair. I can see why he turned from me. But he will be punished and you with him.”

  “Why?”

  The witch laughed. “Because I wish it. And I have need of a strong slave. You I may bewitch and turn into a prostitute. Yes, it would entertain me to see Emile’s love lying beneath many men, being defiled by their man juice, spreading your legs willingly and reveling in your own degradation, because I would make you enjoy it.”

  “You don’t have enough power.”

  The witch held the stone. “Not alone, but with this stone, I can do anything. Tonight, I will create zombies, true walking dead. Emile will be the first.”

  The carriage slowed and rolled to a stop. The door was flung open by a wizened and ancient black man wearing black and silver livery. He pulled down the stairs and held out his hand. “Madam.”