Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  Theo held Alicia tight, struggling not to fall with rescue within sight. They had almost reached the back wall. A man in a bloodstained apron climbed through, helping the women and children up to the window level where the wall had been cracked open. Other rescuers reached down to take hold of the beseeching hands. A woman and her boy went through. One of the crowd moved to help the man in the apron lift a heavy woman up to the window. It was Paul Noret. Theo almost burst into tears. Her friend had not beaten his way to the front with the cowards. Four more women were lifted up to the window. Shrieks rose behind Theo as a vast section of the ceiling fell behind them. Chunks of blazing wood flew through the air and struck the waiting crowd. She handed Alicia to Paul to lift through, and let others go next. There was still time. There must be.

  “Theo!” It was a hoarse scream. She turned and saw Mélanie struggling through the crowd, through the smoke and flames, carrying another child—its hair was on fire! No, the hair was red, with a pink bow. Another little girl. The crowd parted on either side of her. Then she saw that the flames at Mélanie’s feet were not burning debris. The hem of her skirt was a deep ruffle of fire. Mélanie reached the child out toward her. Stumbled. Fell.

  The man in the apron seized Theo and lifted her up to the breach. Paul gave her feet a shove. “No!” Theo cried, struggling to get back to Mélanie, to the child. Hands grasped her from above. She was pulled through the opening, hauled back through the arms of a line of men in a flame-infested space between the buildings then pulled through a shattered window. The man holding her released her. Then she was inside a huge kitchen. It must be the Hôtel du Palais. Someone stood by with a bucket to douse any flames. She was not on fire. Another quickly checked to see if she was burned. He wiped her face with a wet napkin. She saw soot and blood.

  “Cane.” Her voice grated, hoarse from the smoke. She felt an echo of the cowardly blow as he cleaned the wound.

  “Oh mademoiselle,” he said, shaking his head sadly. But when he knew she was hurt no more than that, he turned to help the next arrival.

  Theo looked for Alicia but didn’t see her. Many victims were being shepherded outside. She swallowed a sob of relief when the flame-haired child Mélanie had held was carried past her. Then a man clambered through, his whole face raw with burns. After him came a woman who had ripped off her burning skirts and petticoats. But it was not Mélanie.

  Theo did not know she had run back. She was yanked to a stop close by the breach. A man gripped her arm. She tried to pull away, but his fingers were a vise. Spinning round, she saw a grim, soot-streaked face. She jerked savagely against his grip. He tightened more and pulled her hard against him, holding both her arms. She stared past him to the fire. “Mélanie!”

  “No.” It was all he said.

  A wild anger ran through Theo. She struggled violently, but he held her fast. “Let me go!”

  “No.” His voice was low but its very quiet commanded. Her gaze met his, and something in his intent eyes brought her to her senses. “You cannot go back.”

  The breach in the wall drew her again. A wall of fire blazed beyond it now. The next woman they lifted through had flaming canvas clinging to her back. The man with the bucket threw water on her. She screamed in pain, laughed in hysterical relief. For a few moments Theo had only heard this man’s voice. The screaming had been part of the conflagration. Suddenly it became separate. Everyone who came through the wall now was on fire.

  “I cannot go back.” If she did, she would die.

  “Good,” he said, seeing her aware. “Tell me your name.”

  Her throat was raw, but she got the words out. “Theo. My name is Theodora Faraday.”

  “Michel Devaux.”

  “Inspecteur Devaux.” She remembered him now. She swallowed, moistening her throat as best she could. “You can let me go now, monsieur.”

  He released her, waited an instant to make sure that her control held, then turned back to the line. The fire raged, and every second could be a life. She did not get in his way again, but she pleaded, “I must help. Let me join the line. I’m strong.”

  He glanced back, impatient, but understanding. “They have found their rhythm. They are a team. Go outside. Help the injured.”

  Paul came through the window. His sleeve was on fire, but the rescuers quickly beat it out. Seeing the question in her eyes, he shook his head.

  Together they went outside.

  ~

  Almost at once, Theo saw Alicia in a group of waiting children. She looked completely unharmed, her striped pinafore barely rumpled. Theo went over and hugged her, and was given a wonderful hug in return, tight and damp with tears. She told the woman attending this sad little band what little she knew of Alicia. The woman nodded as if she knew it all already, so Theo kissed Alicia’s cheek and turned back to where Paul stood waiting silently.

  “I want to find Jules. We were separated.” Paul did not say how, but Theo had a vision of slashing canes. Hesitantly, he added, “Jules thought he saw Averill and went to say hello. It was right before the explosion.”

  The words plunged her into a freezing well. Cold shudders racked her, but she managed to gasp, “Let’s look near the entrance.”

  Neither of them wanted to show their panic. They walked hurriedly around the corner to the rue Jean Goujon. The sound and smell of the fire that had followed them outside now grew stronger with every step. Theo shivered again, the ripples of cold running along her spine all the more bizarre in the radiating heat. A cloud of smoke billowed overhead, black against the innocent blue sky. Crimson geysers shot above the rooftops. The fire roared louder and louder. Screams and howls were all but drowned in its fury, but still the watching crowd winced with the cries. The bazaar was a piece of hell on earth. The entire building was burning ferociously, but panicked victims still clambered over the crush of bodies and ran screaming into the street, flames streaming from them like scarlet wings. Coats were thrown around some to smother the fire. Others were doused in a nearby watering trough.

  Searching through the crowd, they found Averill’s mother. Aunt Marguerite stared at Theo without recognition, her beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes hazy and unfocused. Shock had unnerved her, Theo thought, perhaps drugs as well. Her aunt fervently sought their false joys and false comfort. Her daughter Francine stood beside her, arm cradled in an improvised sling, smooth cheeks grimy and tear-streaked. “Theo!” She made it sound like an accusation. “Have you seen Averill?”

  Paul moved closer, gripping her arm.

  “We had only just entered when the explosion came. Even so I was trampled—they broke my arm!” With her free hand, Francine pushed angrily at people pressing toward the fire, fearful of being jostled.

  Her aunt looked at Theo, finally seeing her. “Averill went back!” She began weeping.

  Like the screaming all around her in the fire, Theo let her aunt weep for her, fear for her. “I will find him.”

  She turned and her Uncle Urbain was there, solid as a wall, blocking her way. He glared at her, his cold eyes glittering. “You’re injured, Theodora,” he said, in the soft, insinuating voice she hated. “You’re bleeding.”

  Her hand flew to her cheek. “Someone hit me with a cane.”

  He licked his lips, and Theo felt naked under his scrutiny. She wanted to strike him. His eyes met hers and he smiled. He pulled out his pocket handkerchief and handed it to her. “That is too insignificant an injury for me to tend.”

  “How fortunate.” Theo dodged him and maneuvered through the crowd.

  She saw Averill approaching. She ran to him and embraced him more fiercely than she had ever dared. He was alive, strong and slender in her arms. She felt his heart pounding. Or was it her own? Averill held her tightly, but only for a moment. He whispered her name, kissed her just above her cut cheek, then stepped away. Paul was still with her aunt and cousin when they returned, but her uncle was no longer to be seen. Averill’s mother clutched his lapels and wept soundlessly. He murmured comfort then
looked over her shoulder to Theo. “Please, can you accompany them home?”

  “Father can take us, Averill,” Francine said.

  “Yes. Find your father, Averill,” her Aunt Marguerite pleaded. “We must all leave here!”

  “He must help with the injured. So must I.” He looked at Paul. “I don’t have treatment for that burn yet, but I will soon.”

  “It can wait. I need to find Jules.”

  “And Casimir, if you can. He wasn’t waiting for us inside—I don’t think he’d arrived yet,” Averill added, though he was pale and tense with worry.

  Paul gave him a brief salute then moved into the crowd.

  Her uncle returned, his eyes gleaming with an elation that made Theo nauseous. “Take the family home, Averill,” he ordered. “I will gather supplies from my laboratory and return. You should come back as well.”

  “Yes, Father,” Averill replied, his voice subdued.

  Her uncle was much thicker set than her elegant father, with a longer face and heavier features. His eyes were as blue as Averill’s, but small and chill, always measuring the extent of his control over those in his domain. “Theodora, you will go with them.”

  “No. I will await the end.”

  “Nonsense,” her uncle said. “Why would you stay?”

  But Averill understood at once. “Who is inside?”

  “Mélanie, my friend from the academy. She handed me a little blind girl then tried to save another child.”

  “She was very brave,” he acknowledged. “Maybe….”

  Theo shook her head. When she closed her eyes, she saw the Tarot spread. The Tower falling, the wall of flames with its imprisoning staves. Death.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  When she opened her eyes, her uncle’s irate face loomed behind Averill’s shoulder. “I am not leaving,” she snarled, all her patience burned away.

  “Suit yourself,” he snapped back. No doubt he would complain to her father about her lack of discipline and uncouth manners. “I will be back swiftly, Averill. Be ready.”

  “Yes, father,” Averill repeated. Theo hated how dead his voice sounded.

  Staying beside Averill, Theo looked through the crowd and caught a glimpse of Paul talking to Jules. In the chaos, desperation and grief clashed these few bright moments. She saw a husband and wife reunited, weeping with joy. It made Theo want to weep too, but the tears were a hard knot in her throat. A woman sobbed because her husband had gone back for their child and not returned. Theo thought again of Alicia. At least she and Mélanie had saved one life. Suddenly, she realized that she would have to tell Mélanie’s mother what had happened. She might already have heard there was a fire. The news must be speeding through Paris. Guilt and misery wrapped her like a cloud of grey smoke.

  Averill said something, but she was so upset she didn’t understand him. “What?”

  “There is Casimir.” Averill walked swiftly, and Theo hurried after him despite Francine’s protest. Casimir stood alone, gazing transfixed at the inferno. Theo was shocked to see tears running slowly down his face.

  Averill laid a tentative hand on his arm and he turned to them, staring blankly. His eyes caught the reflections of the blaze. “Is someone you know trapped inside?” Theo asked quietly.

  When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper. “It is a terrible way to die. In the flames.”

  “Yes,” Averill echoed. “Our country home burned a year ago. One of the servants was trapped. The screams were the same.”

  “I remember.” Casimir nodded. “I know what it’s like to lose a home.”

  “Your family’s chateau,” Theo said. The Revenants had been there once on a picnic. Theo had sketched the fire-scarred ruins. At the time it felt a bit too grim to be picturesque. In comparison to this, that day now seemed idyllic. And Paul’s village had been burned in the war. Fire haunted them all.

  “You are hurt.” Casimir said, looking at the cut on her face. “But not burned?”

  “No, not burned.” She told him her story, and Paul’s.

  Looking at the blaze, Theo had little hope of more rescues. The screaming inside had abated. The crowd stood quietly, the roar of the fire louder, a wind-beaten sound like vast wings. Timbers crashed inward as the building collapsed. There was a strange sound—like a rifle shot.

  “What?” Someone cried out.

  “Skull exploding,” a low voice said. Bile rushed into Theo’s throat, and she fought not to be sick. Turning, she saw Michel Devaux. His soot-streaked face was bleak with exhaustion. How had he known what the horrible noise meant?

  All who could be saved had been, but still the crowd was growing. Ghoulish sightseers came to view the disaster. Her heart a tight knot in her chest, Theo waited until the fire burned out. Less than an hour had passed since the explosion, and there was nothing standing but a few charred posts, black sentinels marking the smoking graveyard of the Bazar de la Charité.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blood flowed at Bluebeard's—in the shambles

  —at the mummers, where

  the windows blanched under God's seal.

  Blood and milk poured forth.

  ~ Arthur Rimbaud

  GILLES hesitated. That was unusual. But sometimes the shell that encased his spirit did not yield to his desires—as if this creature whose flesh he wore did not know the lust to murder. Hypocrite.

  “Go on,” the Raven urged. “You asked for her. You actually asked for a girl.”

  “Yes.” Gilles had to have this girl. But now he faltered. Perhaps it was the suddenness of her acquisition? Gilles always planned, to ensure his safety. He anticipated to increase his pleasure. And he waited—to let the darkness grow and overtake him, so he would not hesitate.

  “Well?”

  He wished the Raven would cease his cawing, just for the moment.

  “Alicia.” Gilles tasted the delicate licks of the syllables on his tongue.

  “Please.” Her soft-voiced plea tinted the darkness with a feeble glow. Usually their fear, their despair, their pain was part of the emotional feast he craved. Yet now he felt a rare sympathy, an ache deep in his belly.

  The Raven bumped him, pushing him forward. Gilles almost turned and struck him. Exercising restraint, he drew a deep breath then moved forward.

  “About time.” Another raucous caw.

  Gilles walked around Alicia, studying her fragile form as she cowered on the tiles, trying to cover herself with fluttering hands—soft and white as baby doves. Her blind face followed the sound of his movements. The Raven had already taken all her clothes. It was cold here, colder than Gilles’ own dungeon, and her pale skin was pocked with gooseflesh. She whimpered, the tiny sound raising prickles of anticipation all over his body, as if her cold and fear imprinted its pattern there. He paused, savoring the subtle thrill.

  The Raven misunderstood. “We are safe here. The walls are thick. There wasn’t time to take her to the country.”

  Gilles supposed he should be glad the Raven had waited for him—sometimes he was too greedy. The Raven had introduced him to many wicked delights and imagined himself master. In his first life, Gilles had sent his aides out to gather the sacrifices. Sillé, de Bricqueville, Henriet, his beloved Poitou, they all understood his sovereignty. They brought the children to his castles at Tiffauges, at Machecoul… Gilles stopped and looked about, silently lamenting his lost kingdoms. At least the ruins he did possess were evocative.

  The Raven jabbered on. “I waited until another child was being reunited with its mother. The supposed guardian barely glanced at me when I called the girl’s name. As soon as I lifted her up, my face was hidden.”

  “Risky.”

  “Where’s your gratitude for my risk? Look how pretty she is.”

  “Lovely. Luminous.” Gilles watched Alicia weeping silently. She flinched when he touched her face. He lifted a tear on a fingertip, sipped it. One of his favorite rituals. Her tears were sweeter than he expected. She looked up with her b
lind eyes. Her lips trembled, dripping soft little pleas like rosary beads, small and round and almost silent. Gilles felt another pang, like an egg cracking open inside him. Sorrow fluttered about inside him like a dove. He watched Alicia’s hand, the fingers quivering, helpless. It was as if she reached inside him. Gilles shivered.

  “She hugged me,” the Raven gloated. “Then she was uncertain. She didn’t know my voice. Too late!”

  “Too late,” Gilles echoed. The darkness beckoned—but still he wanted to retreat.

  “I liked watching her as we came here. Staring. Seeing nothing. Twitching at every sound.” He laughed.

  Gilles laughed in answer. Why did it sound like a sob? “Still hoping for escape.”

  “I like them to watch, but having her just feel…” The Raven’s voice thickened with lust.

  Gilles felt the dove beat frantically. Death throes?

  Going to the table, the Raven lit another candle. Lifting it high, he smiled. “She thought she escaped.”

  “Inspired,” Gilles whispered, almost choking on the word. Images pierced him with horror, cold then burning. Excitement stirred like a snake. It rose up, devouring the bird.

  “A…li…ci…a,” the Raven singsonged the syllables. She lifted her head, turning toward the sound of her name. “Remember this, Alicia?”

  Holding his breath, Gilles watched the Raven glide the candle flame beside her face. She gave a sob of terror and tried to crawl away. The other man strolled beside her, dripping hot wax along her spine. Her sobs tangled in Gilles’ breath, his heartbeat. What a fool he had been to hesitate! His dread, his sorrow, his sympathy were offerings to the waiting dark. They were the human skin he would strip off to let his naked soul revel in Evil.