First Blood

by S. Cedric

  “Pierre Loisel had access to his son’s coffin.”

  “Is he buried in Toulouse?”

  Vauvert nodded. Then he paused for a moment.

  “Okay. I hate doing this, but the judge owes me a real favor.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means the Loisel tomb will be opened tonight,” Vauvert said.

  He looked at the morgue.

  “How many members do you think this little sect had? How many other kids did these sickos sacrifice?”

  A shiver ran up Eva’s spine, despite the heat in the car.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure, though, that someone is hunting them down, one by one. He’s making them pay for something.”

  Vauvert nodded.

  “But why? What did they set off?”

  Eva felt another uncomfortable shiver run up her spine.

  The blade is shining, like a flash of daylight held prisoner in Ismael’s black hand.

  They are gathered in a circle around the altar in the back of the abandoned chapel. In the pale spring shadows, their eyes hold fantasies and promises. Crazy dreams at their fingertips.

  “Should we give our group a name?” Pierre asks.

  “From the dawn of time, shamans have used dancing and chanting to call on the gods,” Ismael says. “Sorcerers bend the universe to their wishes. We will be like them soon. Black sorcerers. Equal to the gods!”

  He opens his shirt and brings the knife to his bare chest.

  “This is our blood, the blood of the black sorcerers.”

  Without hesitating, he draws the knife in a long, straight line across his left pectoral, where he has a star tattoo.

  His blood flows over his skin. Ismael smiles, ecstatic.

  “Gods of the shadows who praise sacrifice, we are doing this for you.”

  Madeleine crouches before him, collecting the precious liquid in an iron chalice.

  “Accept this sacrifice and this communion,” she recites. “The power of the flaming five-pointed star.”

  They repeat this together, louder and louder. The power of words.

  The knife goes from hand to hand, accompanied by chanting. One after another, each member of the group cuts the skin, freeing a red trickle of life into the iron chalice.

  The tension rises. There is a tremor in the air. It ripples, as though moved by invisible waves.

  Slowly, the power intensifies.

  Madeleine is last, as she is every time. Ismael holds the chalice, kneeling in front of her.

  “Accept this sacrifice and this communion,” she recites. “The power of the flaming five-pointed star.”

  Madeleine hesitates a second before thrusting the knife into her flesh. She examines the blood-spattered blade in the shadows of the chapel, in this place where they meet to experiment and defy the forces of nature, to bend them to their will.

  She looks deep into the steel-blue eyes of the man in front of her.

  “You’re the only one left,” he says. “Go on.”

  “Yes,” she responds with a sigh.

  Then, without thinking, she brings the blade to her chest and, in a single stroke, slashes the star tattoo. It is the same tattoo as Ismael’s. She feels a strange sensation, not really pain, but detachment and a deep sense of calm.

  She realizes that she is now bound to the others—physically bound to them. She feels their presence around her without even looking. They are blood siblings communing before the dark gods of madness and power.

  “The blood of the black sorcerers has now been blended,” Ismael says. His voice vibrates. He raises the chalice over the altar.

  “The blood of the black sorcerers!” Guillaume cries out, his eyes haunted by the LSD he took before the ceremony.

  They all repeat it in the same, ecstatic voice.

  “The blood of the black sorcerers. United now forever. We are the five points of the flaming star. Five swords slicing the light. Amen.”

  66

  Toulouse

  “That’s the one,” Vauvert said.

  Eva parked on the street, in front of a big house and cut the lights. The soft light from the street lamps had trouble piercing the dark night. A frosty wind blew.

  Loana Wilson’s house had a large yard, like the other houses in the neighborhood, and a pool, which was covered with a tarp that had several inches of powdery snow on it.

  A beautiful fifty-year-old woman opened the door for the inspectors. The Mirail University faculty member had short hair and a large jaw and was wearing an impeccable, gray suit.

  “Please come in. It’s freezing out there.”

  “Thank you for seeing us so late, ma’am,” Eva said as she walked in. “We won’t take much of your time.”

  The ground floor was a large open-space room with leather furniture, huge windows, and a loft. Colorful rugs lay on the wood floor. A handsome black-lacquer piano was in the corner. A flat-screen television took up most of one wall. In the back, they could make out the expansive kitchen. The whole space was so clean, it looked like something out of a magazine.“Do you live alone?” Vauvert asked.

  “Technically, I’m still married,” Mrs. Wilson answered, turning off the player that was running Six Feet Under. “My husband had the wonderful idea of leaving me for one of his students twenty-five years ago. He teaches law.”

  She turned and looked at them, suddenly suspicious.

  “You’re not here because of him, are you?”

  “No, don’t worry,” Eva said. “We want to ask you some questions about one of your former colleagues, Mr. Parme.”

  “Marc-Henri? Why him?”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Like everybody did, I guess. People called him the man in the red jacket because he always wore a red jacket, regardless of the season. It was his eccentric streak, the only one he had, actually. Marc-Henri was rather straight-laced about everything else.”

  She looked nostalgic and patted her hair.

  “He was an excellent professor,” she continued. “I always admired him. I was a student of his, and before I got tenure, I was fortunate enough to work under him for four years. I was very sad when he died.”

  Eva nodded.

  “Do you remember when you were a student? I know that dates back thirty years, but maybe you remember some of your classmates. Does the name Constantin mean anything to you? Or Loisel?”

  “Do you mean Ismael Constantin? He’s impossible to forget,” Loana Wilson said, rolling her eyes. “That was a long time ago. But I can tell you, his body was something else. He was both very attractive and, well, frightening.”

  The two inspectors nodded, listening intently. Vauvert spoke next.

  “Why do you say that? How was he frightening?”

  “Some of it was stupid kid stuff,” she said. “But there seemed to be a meanness about him, too. And I got the impression that he was superstitious. Sometimes it’s best to leave the past alone, so you don’t wake up the ghosts.”

  “Are you superstitious, Mrs. Wilson?” Vauvert asked.

  “Aren’t you?” She forced a smile. “Don’t get me wrong. The superstitions I’m referring to involved Ismael’s gang. They were odd. At first, they were just interested in mythology and the history of religion. But little by little, they turned to mysticism and got some strange ideas in their heads. You know, there are always students like that. You wonder why they even go to college.”

  “What kind of strange ideas?” Vauvert asked.

  “Well, creepy things about evil and sorcery. I never tried to find out what they were doing, but to tell the truth, they were scary. They spent all their time together. I think those ridiculous superstitions made them crazy. I understand that one of them even killed his own child. He threw her off a balcony. Can you imagine that?”

  Vauvert nodded.

  “Guillaume Alban,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s him. It was on the news. You’re going to think I’m heartless, but I wasn’t at all surprised. Tha
t boy was unstable and depraved. They all were.”

  She stared at the giant, and then at the female inspector with the black glasses. Suddenly, she paled at the recollection and rubbed her arms.

  “Can we sit down?” she asked. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  They declined politely but settled into one of the large sofas. Loana Wilson took the armchair in front of them.

  “It’s strange talking about that time.”

  “Can you tell us anything more about these students?” Eva asked. “Do you think they were part of some sect?”

  Loana Wilson looked troubled.

  “A sect? Oh, yes, I’m sure. I think you can call it a sect. But I don’t think they joined one; I think they founded one. It all started with Ismael and his girlfriend, Madeleine. You see, I remember their names perfectly. There are people who stay with you, either because of the way they look or because of their personalities. Ismael Constantin had both. He was very handsome, very charismatic, and also completely—how would you say it?—borderline. He was the kind of person you are either scared of or you fall in love with. I fell into the first category, but I understand why Madeleine was so taken with him. I saw how she changed every year. She got tougher, but at the beginning, she was this innocent girl.”

  “And then? What else do you remember?” Eva asked.

  “There is not much to say, really. It was mostly Ismael who stood out. He enjoyed interrupting the class. I remember him and Mr. Parme having these epic arguments. Ismael was very aggressive when it came to the esoteric. For him, myths were more than simple metaphors. They were part of some historic truth. That is, I must admit, a very interesting hypothesis, but he took it too far.”

  “How so?” Eva asked.

  “How can I put it? He took mythology—all the stories about martyrs and the damned—literally. You could tell that studying was not what interested him, but trying to understand mythology was. He imagined that we could analyze myths as real events, if you will. One day, Marc-Henri had enough. He kicked Ismael and Madeleine out of his class.”

  Loana Wilson thought back for a while before continuing. “It was during their second year that they started collecting followers, students who were as harebrained as they were.”

  Eva tilted her head.

  “I’d like you to look at some photos to see if you recognize any of these people. She opened her bag and pulled out a folder. She held out four pictures: Ismael Constantin, at a cafe table, a challenging smile on his face; Madeleine Reich, beautiful, talking to some friends; Guillaume Alban in a workshop at the Épinal Prison; and finally Pierre Loisel, in a leather chair at his desk.

  “They’ve aged, but they haven’t really changed. These were all members of the little gang, she said, handing back the pictures. “You don’t have a picture of the other one?”

  Both inspectors stiffened.

  “The other one?” Vauvert asked.

  “One is missing,” Mrs. Wilson said. “You’re investigating them, and you don’t know about him? There were five of them, and you only have four here.”

  She thought for a minute and then added, “Louis. I told you I could remember their names. The five of them were inseparable. Wait, I have something that could interest you.”

  She stood up and walked toward the stairs. Vauvert and Svärta looked at each other, both trying to hide their feelings.

  One is missing.

  Louis.

  They were nearing the goal.

  The five of them were inseparable.

  If that man, that Louis, was part of the original group, then he had to be on the killer’s list. They would have to find him before the avenger did, before the flames.

  If it was not too late.

  “What do you think?” Vauvert asked. “We got lucky, didn’t we?”

  Eva did not answer.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She nodded and looked very distant, lost in her thoughts.

  After several minutes, Loana Wilson came back down the stairs. She was carrying an old cream-colored photo album.

  “It’s a good thing I kept those boxes. I always liked to take pictures. They end up being my visual memory. This album is from our fourth year. You’ll see.”

  She turned the plastic-covered pages, stopped, pulled out a picture, and handed it to Eva.

  “It’s the only one that has them all together. It’s not perfect, but all five of them are there.”

  Eva took the picture and examined it.

  The five students were sitting around a table, giving the photographer disapproving looks. The colors had faded, but their faces were still very visible.

  They were recognizable.

  Eva didn’t move. Her face had closed up.

  “Eva? What is it?” Vauvert asked.

  “No,” she whispered. It was more of a sob than a word.

  Vauvert felt himself panic.

  “Show me.”

  She opened her mouth to say something. Her hands were shaking.

  “No,” she repeated.

  She dropped the picture and shot to her feet, like she had received an electric shock.

  Vauvert and Loana Wilson looked at her, shocked at her response. Eva rushed to the door and left.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Vauvert retrieved the picture from the rug.

  As soon as he looked at it, he understood.

  Madeleine decided to tell them at their first meeting in the spring. She had made her decision, and nothing would change her mind.

  “It’s the last time I’m coming here.”

  The boys look at her in disbelief. .

  “You’re joking, right?” Pierre says. “We could never find a better place.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to meet somewhere else,” Madeleine says. “What I mean is that this is going too far. I’m quitting. I tried to tell you several times, but you wouldn’t listen.

  They look at her, and she knows that nothing has changed. They still are not listening, just as they have not listened any of the other times. They hear the words, but they refuse to understand. She feels like she is talking to fish. Actually, she has had better luck with the fish lately than these boys.

  “I heard you,” Louis says. “But we are bound.”

  He is leaning against the archway. His arms are crossed, and he has that same depraved smile that he always has. His voice is smooth, falsely mellow. He is the most calculating of them all.

  “The blood of the black sorcerers has been united. It’s been done and can’t be undone. We decided on it together, Madeleine. We made a pledge.”

  “I didn’t make that pledge,” she says, determined not to let them override her again. “I have a thesis to do next year, and then I have to find a job and all that. This will be just some memory by then.”

  “Once you’ve made the final sacrifice, you’ll have the job of your dreams,” Louis says. “You’ll be able to change the course of stars in the sky, because you will be on the same footing as the gods.”

  Madeleine takes a deep breath and then says, “We don’t know that. Those are just suppositions.”

  She looks at these boys, who are so full of themselves and their dreams of power. She hates what she sees, because she recognizes herself in their blindness.

  “My dear Madeleine, we have opened the door,” Louis says. “Do you think you can live as a slave now that you’ve seen what you’ve seen, after you’ve done what you’ve done?”

  “What have we accomplished, other than killing some animals? What does that make us?”

  “It makes us equals to the Gods,” Louis repeats. “You know it, too. Why are you trying to manipulate us?”

  There is a gleam in his eyes that was not there before.

  “You’re the manipulating one,” Madeleine says. “You’re always in the background, but you have been influencing everything we’ve done since the beginning.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  He tu
rns to face the others.

  “Ismael, do you think I’m trying to manipulate you all?”

  Ismael shakes his head and says, “You disappoint me, Madeleine. I didn’t think that you would stoop so low.”

  “No, Ismael, listen to me. What can we do that any mortal can’t do?”

  “I walked on water,” the boy says, his eyes empty. “You saw me do it.”

  “Once, yes. But can you do it again?” Madeleine asks. “Can you do any of your magic tricks more than once?”

  “There you go again, trying to divide us,” Ismael says.

  Madeleine bites her lip. She is starting to panic.

  “Wait,” Louis says in his deceitful honey-like voice. He moves toward them.

  “The gods are demanding, that’s all. We’ve nothing to worry about. We just have to give them what they want.”

  “More blood,” Guillaume said. “Yes.”

  Louis raises a finger.

  “The first blood, Guillaume! That is what they want.”

  Guillaume nods in agreement.

  “The first blood of the firstborn. We know that holds all the power.”

  Louis walks toward the altar. He puts his hands on the stone and looks at them with his blood-red eyes.

  “Yes, the power. Limitless power. And since Madeleine doubts, I’m going to show you. I’ll do it first.”

  “What?” Madeleine lets out. She is flabbergasted by what that would mean.

  “Yes, that is what I’m going to do,” Louis says. “You need a leader. Once I’ve done it, you will follow me. That is the rule.”

  The discomfort increases.

  “You can’t be serious,” Madeleine whispers.

  “So, you’ve got a kid?” Guillaume asks.

  A calculating smile appears on the albino’s lips.

  “My friends, I have two. Twins. Their mother ran away. But I will find her. I will show you what real power is. And then you will follow me. You will not have a choice. Our blood is bound forever.”

  She had seen him so many times in her dreams and her nightmares.

  The ogre killing her sister.

  The blood—burning blood from her twin sister—splashing on her.