Jane Fairfax 3 - Jane Vows Vengeance

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “I’ll have you know that several of the demons he killed were my friends,” Jane said, baring her teeth.

  “Yes,” said Miriam. “I gathered by your reaction to seeing the photograph.”

  “Runciman knew what he was,” Jane said. “Why didn’t he just kill Ratcliffe?”

  Miriam laughed. “That’s the best part,” she said. “He didn’t kill him because he couldn’t be killed.” She paused for dramatic effect, but Jane guessed what she was going to say and beat her to it.

  “Because Ratcliffe was a vampire,” she said. “Of course. Now it makes sense. And this needle Runciman wrote about—I assume he means Crispin’s Needle.”

  “Crispin’s Needle is a myth,” said Miriam. “Ratcliffe invented it to trick vampires into killing themselves. He told them it would free their souls or some such nonsense, but all it did was send them back to hell.”

  “He could hardly send them back when they didn’t come from there in the first place,” Jane said. “All he did was murder them.”

  “They murdered themselves,” Miriam argued. “He just convinced them to do it.”

  “That’s despicable,” said Jane.

  “It’s ingenious,” Miriam countered. Then she added, “If it was real, would you use it?”

  Jane was surprised by the question. Of course, she had been asking herself the same thing ever since Gosebourne had first told her about the Needle, but she never expected to be having this conversation with Walter’s mother. And she wasn’t sure how to respond. She really didn’t want Miriam to know what her thoughts were on the matter. She did, however, want to know what Miriam was thinking.

  “Would it make a difference to you if I did?” she said.

  Miriam looked at her, saying nothing, and Jane understood that she was having the same reservations about revealing her hand. Now Jane really did wonder whether it would make any difference to Miriam if she could become mortal again. Would her having been a vampire still be a reason for Miriam to hate her? Or would that all be left in the past if Jane could once more be human? She waited for Miriam to say something.

  “It’s a foolish question,” Miriam said when she finally answered. “Crispin’s Needle was an invention of Ratcliffe’s mind.”

  Jane thought about arguing. If Ratcliffe had invented the story about Crispin’s Needle, how did that explain the windows in the Church of St. Apollonia? Or had Ratcliffe somehow known about the windows and used them as inspiration for his story? It seemed Miriam didn’t know about the windows, so probably she didn’t know any more about the story than Jane did. Besides, there was no use in arguing with Miriam. Jane understood that in their own way they were declaring a truce, at least as far as discussing their feelings about Jane’s soul, or lack thereof.

  “What happened to him?” Jane asked, changing course.

  Miriam’s mouth tightened. “He was killed,” she said. “Betrayed. By a woman.”

  “I like where this is going,” said Jane. “Tell me more.”

  “He was weak,” Miriam said. “He fell in love with a fallen woman. He turned her.”

  Jane gasped, feigning horror. “That’s against the rules!” she said.

  Miriam frowned. “Don’t be disrespectful,” she snapped. “The woman seduced him. And when she had what she wanted, she staked him.”

  “I like this woman,” Jane said. “And what became of her?”

  “The hunters found her and took care of her,” Miriam said. “It took a couple of decades, but eventually Eloise Babineaux was sent back to—was sent to hell.”

  “Eloise Babineaux?” Jane said, trying not to let her excitement betray her. “What an unusual name.”

  “It’s a whore’s name,” said Miriam. “For a filthy whore.”

  “Now, now,” Jane said. “Let’s not go calling people names.” She hesitated a moment. “And what became of this needle that Ratcliffe used to kill his victims?”

  “I told you, they killed themselves,” said Miriam. “Anyway, I don’t know what became of it. It was just a piece of iron. I imagine it didn’t look much different from any other spike you would use to stake a vampire. Honestly, even a tent peg would do in a pinch.”

  “Oh, I bet you know all about that,” Jane said. “Horrible old woman.”

  “I’m younger than you, missy,” said Miriam.

  “Yes, but you look much older,” Jane said, looking at her reflection in the mirror and smiling sweetly.

  Having gotten the information she wanted, she turned and started to leave the restroom. She was stopped by Miriam’s voice.

  “Those vampires Peter Ratcliffe sent to their deaths were vermin,” she said.

  “Beatrice Crump was a lovely girl,” Jane said, her back to Miriam. “She was kind to everyone. She used to feed the stray cats behind the theater. What Peter Ratcliffe did to her was inexcusable.”

  “What Peter Ratcliffe did was good,” said Miriam. “What we as hunters do is good.”

  Jane whirled around and advanced on her. “The only good you’ve ever done is give birth to Walter,” she said. “And believe me, the only reason I haven’t drained you dry already is because he loves you.”

  Miriam flinched, but quickly regained her composure. “The same goes for you,” she said tersely. “The difference is that he’ll always love his mother.”

  Jane was about to tell Miriam that she shouldn’t be so sure about that. But she knew it was true. Walter would always love his mother. That’s the kind of man he was. But will he always love me? When he finds out what I am?

  She turned and left the washroom before Miriam could see the tears forming in her eyes. And they weren’t there just because of Walter. They were there because of Beatrice, and Argyll, and Maisie. They were there because of Peter Ratcliffe and all of the vampires he had lied to and murdered.

  And he had murdered them. Jane didn’t care what Miriam called it. They hadn’t wanted to die; they’d wanted to live. She imagined Beatrice driving the spike into her own heart, and she felt she might collapse. She could see in her mind the look on the girl’s face as she realized that her soul wasn’t returning to her body, that in fact she was dying without salvation. Had Peter Ratcliffe watched, enjoying this moment of betrayal? Jane’s heart raged with anger. Her fangs clicked into place, and the muscles of her neck tightened. She wanted revenge.

  She forced herself to calm down. There was nothing she could do about Ratcliffe now. But she could keep looking for Crispin’s Needle. Miriam had said it was a myth, but Jane didn’t believe it. Or maybe you just want to believe in it so much that you’re refusing to see the truth, she told herself. Maybe it was just a trick of the hunters.

  “Are you okay?”

  Jane turned around and saw Walter standing beside her, looking confused.

  “I’m fine,” Jane said, forcing a smile. “I just felt a little dizzy. I think the smell of the haggis got to me.”

  “I thought maybe you and my mother got into a rumble in the loo,” said Walter.

  Jane was amused by his use of the British word for the bathroom. He had been picking up little pieces of her culture here and there throughout the trip, like one of those crabs that decorated its shell with snips of seaweed and tiny rocks. It was endearing, although the accent that crept into his voice from time to time was going to have to be dealt with. It was bad enough when Madonna did it; Jane couldn’t have her husband doing it as well.

  Except that he’s not your husband, she reminded herself.

  The bathroom door opened and Miriam came out. Seeing Walter and Jane in the hallway, she smiled awkwardly and passed by without comment.

  “What did you do to her?” Walter asked Jane.

  “I asked her if she was looking forward to being a grandma,” Jane answered.

  They returned to the table, where Ben was looking at the half-eaten haggis with a look of grim determination.

  “You don’t have to eat the whole thing,” Lucy told him.

  “It’s taunting me,” sa
id Ben.

  “Don’t listen to it, man,” said Brodie, who had wandered over from where he’d been drinking at the bar. “A haggis is like a mermaid. If you follow its song, you’re doomed.”

  Ben lifted his fork. Before he could take another bite, Brodie grabbed the plate of haggis and ran off shouting, “You’ll thank me later!”

  Ben stared at where the haggis had been a moment before. “I just wanted a little more,” he said sadly.

  “Finish your whiskey,” Lucy ordered. “You’ll feel better.”

  Jane, sitting beside her, whispered in her ear, “I think Eloise Babineaux may have taken the Needle.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  Jane cut her eyes at Miriam. “The fearless hunter told me,” she said. “But she thinks the whole thing is made up anyway. Still, I don’t want her to know that we’re going to Babineaux’s house.”

  “How will we get away from the group?” Lucy asked.

  “We’ll think of something,” said Jane. “In the meantime, we’d better get our boys out of here before Ben decides to wrestle Brodie for the rest of that haggis.”

  Back at the hotel, Jane packed for the morning’s flight to Paris. Walter, remembering the ordeal of the flight to Edinburgh, was watching the weather report on BBC Scotland.

  He lay back on the bed and sighed. “This trip has been crazy,” he said. “And I thought it was going to be relaxing.”

  Jane folded a sweater and tucked it into the suitcase. “Oh, it hasn’t been that crazy,” she said. “Unless you count my ex-husband interrupting our wedding, Ryan falling off the keep, and the fact that pretty much everyone on the trip is completely mad. Other than that it’s been a perfectly delightful six days.”

  “Is that all it’s been?” Walter said. “Six days?”

  Jane nodded. “Does it seem longer?”

  “Much,” said Walter.

  Jane closed the suitcase and sat beside him. “You’re not having a good time?”

  Walter took her hand. “I’m having a good time being with you,” he said. “I’d be having a better time if we were married, but I can’t have everything.”

  “You’re taking the whole business with Joshua rather well,” said Jane. “I don’t know that I would be as calm about the whole thing if the shoe were on the other foot.”

  “I’m probably not as calm about it as I look,” Walter admitted. “But I figure I’ve waited this long to be married to you, so I can wait a little while longer.”

  Jane stretched out beside him on her side. Walter turned and put his arm around her.

  “I haven’t made it very easy for you,” Jane said.

  “No,” Walter agreed. “You haven’t.”

  Jane took his hand and held it to her chest. “Why do you put up with me?” she asked. “There are dozens of women who would want to be with you and wouldn’t be nearly as much trouble.”

  “Only dozens?” Walter said.

  “At least two,” Jane joked.

  Walter kissed the back of her head. “Maybe,” he said. “But none of them is you.”

  “I just hope I don’t disappoint you,” said Jane.

  “I don’t see how you could,” Walter told her. “I already know everything about you and I’m still madly in love with you.”

  “You didn’t know about Joshua,” Jane reminded him.

  “True,” Walter said. “But I do now, and I’m still not disappointed. There aren’t any other husbands floating around, though, are there? One I can handle. Maybe even two. But any more than that and all bets are off.”

  “There’s just the one,” Jane said. “And I told you, he doesn’t really count. Only you do.”

  “Then I think we’re okay,” said Walter.

  I hope you’re right, Jane thought.

  She’d begun to wonder if she might be able to get away with never telling Walter that she was a vampire. If Crispin’s Needle was real, and if she could find it, perhaps she could make herself mortal again and he would never have to know what she’d been. Of course, Miriam could always tell him, but her story would sound incredible. Jane didn’t think Miriam would risk it.

  Tomorrow they would be in Paris. With some luck she and Lucy would get to Eloise Babineaux’s house and see if the Needle was there. Again Jane remembered the voice in the elevator. Someone was on her side, even if she didn’t know who it was. And she had the key—whatever the key was for. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

  Almost too easily, she thought. But she pushed the thought away. Everything was happening for a reason. That was all there was to it. She was meant to find Crispin’s Needle. It was her destiny. Everything in her life had brought her to this point, and she was poised on the brink of a life-changing moment.

  Or you’re just making an ass of yourself, a voice in her head said. That’s a distinct possibility.

  “Oh, shut up,” Jane said.

  “What?” Walter mumbled. He had drifted off to sleep. Now he rolled onto his back and started to snore.

  Jane turned off the light. Outside the window the moon was visible, a half circle that glowed with silver light. Jane realized that the clouds that had covered the sky for the past few days were gone.

  The storm is over, she thought. Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day.

  Sunday: Paris

  IT’S SAID THAT THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH Paris at first sight are those who have no souls. Jane, who very much did love Paris, wondered if the opposite was true. Although the city was not yet bursting with the warmth and colors of springtime, it was on its way. March had brought with it sunshine and hope, and this was reflected in the buds on the trees and in the faces of the people on the streets, who walked here and there with a renewed sense of purpose after the long, cold days of winter.

  The flight from Edinburgh had been, thankfully, completely uneventful. Having left very early, they’d arrived in Paris in time for lunch and were now about to visit the first of their two destinations in the city. Chumsley, whose selection it was, had kept them completely in the dark as to the location, herding them all onto a bus and saying nothing as they wound their way through the narrow streets of the city.

  Eventually they had passed into the Fourth Arrondissement, which everyone on the bus discovered when Genevieve Prideaux told them as much. She was very excited about being back in her own city and was pointing out all of the things she thought they should notice as the bus passed by them.

  “There is the Hôtel de Ville,” she said loudly. “And of course you don’t want to miss Notre-Dame de Paris.” She made similar remarks regarding the Place des Vosges, the Pompidou Centre, and both Île de la Cité and Île Saint-Louis. When no one responded to her attempts, she settled into a gloomy sulk, occasionally muttering to herself in French.

  “And here we are!” Chumsley announced as the bus came to a stop. “Follow me, ducklings.”

  They tumbled out into a narrow street lined on both sides by shops with a decidedly unmodern appearance. Jane felt as if she’d stepped back in time at least a century. It was a pleasant feeling.

  “We are now standing in the middle of what is known locally as the Pletzl, or the Jewish Quarter,” Chumsley told them. “The beginnings of this community date back more than six hundred years, and it’s one of the most interesting parts of the city.”

  “Oui, oui, oui,” Genevieve said. “The Jewish Quarter is très intéressant. But there is nothing of architectural importance ici.”

  “Why is she going in and out of French?” Walter whispered to Jane. “It’s like switching back and forth between two radio stations.”

  Jane covered her mouth to hide a giggle, but a bit of it escaped nonetheless. Genevieve turned and glared at Jane.

  “I am delighted to tell you that you are mistaken,” Chumsley said to Genevieve. “There is a great deal here to see—if only you know where to look. Now if you’ll just follow me.”

  He led them down the street and turned right
, into an even narrower lane with even less impressive buildings than those they’d just passed by. Jane, looking around, found herself wondering if perhaps Genevieve wasn’t right in her assessment of the neighborhood. It certainly seems very ordinary, she thought.

  Chumsley came to a stop in front of a boucherie. The window was filled with various meats, and there was a postcard-worthy quaintness to it, but there was nothing to set it apart from the hundreds of other boucheries in the city. Even the black-and-white cat sitting on the step and licking its paw seemed familiar, as if it were a prop placed there by a set decorator instructed to create a “typical Paris street” for a film shoot.

  The door to the shop opened and an elderly man emerged. Short and stout, he wore a white apron over a long-sleeved blue shirt and tan pants. His white hair was full and thick, and his dark eyes were bright. He smiled broadly and hugged Chumsley tightly, kissing him on both cheeks.

  “My old friend,” he said in heavily accented English. “It is good to see you again.”

  Chumsley turned to the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to my friend Daniel Halphen.”

  Daniel nodded. “Welcome to my little shop,” he said.

  “Daniel is being uncharacteristically modest,” said Chumsley, earning himself a chuckle from the old man. “His shop is actually one of the most fascinating places in all of Paris.”

  “What about it is so fascinating?” Bergen asked, saying what was on all of their minds. “It looks to be a perfectly ordinary butcher’s shop.”

  “And that is what it’s supposed to look like,” Daniel said. “Come. I will show you.”

  He went inside and beckoned for them to follow. As they filed into the small store, Chumsley said to Ben, “I think you will find this of particular interest, rabbi.”

  The inside of the boucherie did little to change the impression of it being nothing more than a place to purchase a brisket or a piece of tongue. But Daniel led them past the cases of meat and into a small room, made of stones joined neatly together in the old fashioned manner, in which rows of salamis hung from wood beams. The room could barely contain the baker’s dozen people now inside it.