Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  O we so worthy of these torments…

  They promised to bury us in shadow

  The shadow of the tree of good and evil.

  ~ Arthur Rimbaud

  MICHEL struck a match, shielding the tiny light to glance at his watch. “Midnight.”

  He and his men had gathered a street over from the estate. They had come in carriages like the participants of this satanic charade. The Black Marias would have been a warning. They would arrive by the time the raid was finished.

  Walking alone, Michel approached the gate cautiously. He had not thought to wear a cloak, but his clothes were anonymous black. “Luxure.” He gave the gatekeeper the password Lilias had sent. The man unlocked the gate. Once inside the walls, Michel subdued him without a sound and quickly motioned his men through. One of his officers stripped off the guardian’s robe and took his place. Another Michel stationed behind the wall, the unconscious guardian bound and gagged beside him. Latecomers would be admitted, fleeing suspects captured. Michel signaled the rest of his men to follow the lighted pathway with its candles flickering and sputtering in the rain that filled the night like congealed mist.

  Old as the Ancien Régime, the house they passed seemed to sag in slovenly disrepair. Ivy crawled over its crumbling stone. Cardboard patched broken windows. But for centuries this house had been noble. Had its owners worshipped the devil before? Had they been involved with the Black Masses arranged by Madame Du Barry and her coterie? The poisonings? Satanism and murder had gone hand in bloody hand for centuries in France—Gilles de Rais being its most notorious example.

  As he walked silently toward his goal, Michel’s mind swarmed with questions, their endless buzzing impossible to ignore. If not for the winged cross behind the bakery, he might think Ninette’s abduction an exercise in perversity unrelated to the murders. The case made less sense to him now than before. Apparently, Vipèrine and Corbeau had conspired in the killings, with or without a Revenant. Was tonight’s Black Mass simply part of some historical reenactment? Were the other murders only a prelude to a grisly public display, or would the participants see only the rape, with murder saved for later? Had Corbeau brought Ninette here? Did he keep another coach concealed in someone else’s stable? Or had Ninette been lured by a familiar face, by Averill Charron or Paul Noret?

  Perhaps tonight was only some sort of satanic circus act, and the virgin sacrifice was not Ninette, just a girl from the brothels tricked out with a fake hymen for the show. Perhaps she was some poor child sold by her family for a few francs. Michel shook his head. With luck, the girl would be spared, the killer captured and all his questions resolved.

  He wished he believed more in the blessings of luck.

  As they slowly circled the chapel, Michel gestured to a few men to stay in position beneath the canopy of the surrounding oaks. Turning the far corner, Michel saw stone steps descending the side of the chapel. Moving closer, he glimpsed a door below. A crypt most likely. An excellent place for murder following rape. He beckoned Rambert and another young officer, Rogier, to investigate—but then he heard a muffled cry. Quietly, he summoned Ganet, his senior officer. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I’ll go down as well. You take the rest of the men to the front. Wait three minutes for my order, then begin the raid. If we don’t reappear soon, we may need rescuing.” Ganet nodded and set off for the front of the chapel. With the two men behind him, Michel silently went down the steps to the bottom. He tested the handle of the door and found it unlocked. It opened with a barely audible click. Michel and the others entered the crypt, the slight sounds of their footsteps muted by the chanting coming from the chapel.

  Directly across from him, a man in a hooded cape held a weakly struggling girl in his arms. Ninette—he recognized her from the portrait her parents had shown him of Theo’s painting. She wore only a transparent shift that revealed her budding breasts and the dark curls of her mons. Her hair spilled loose in an inky cascade. She was beautiful. The horde upstairs would descend on her like wolves if the leader of the pack offered her to them. Her wrists were bound in front of her, and she thumped helplessly at her captor’s chest. Her feet were bare, delicate, and somehow more pathetic than all the rest. She gave small cries as she twisted and squirmed. The man put his hand over her mouth and shushed her. At first Michel could not see the man’s face, but then the girl struck at him and the hood fell back.

  It was Averill Charron.

  Michel felt a surge of pure, cold-blooded satisfaction. Raising his gun, he pointed it at Charron’s head and cocked it.

  Hearing the sound, Charron turned and stared at him. Stared at the gun. He swallowed. “You don’t understand.”

  Michel smiled a little. “I understand perfectly.”

  “No—”

  “I am in no mood for games.” Michel nodded to Rogier. “Tell Ganet to begin the raid.” The officer ran out the door. Ganet could handle Vipèrine. Michel had what he wanted, Ninette safe and the killer captured. Michel cocked his weapon. “Lay her down. Carefully.”

  Now Charron looked frightened. His grip on Ninette tightened and she whimpered. “I was trying to save her.”

  “Of course you were,” Michel said. “That’s why she’s struggling against you.”

  “She didn’t recognize me.”

  “She recognized you all too well.”

  “She’s been drugged.”

  “That I believe.” Even in the dim light, the girl’s eyes were glazed, unfocused.

  Michel made a sharp gesture with the gun and repeated, “Put her down. Gently.”

  “She will be all right when the effects wear off,” Charron said. “Her pulse is good.” He lowered her feet to the floor, but she could not stand on her own and sank to her knees. Kneeling slowly, Charron laid her back against a pillar. He glanced up as the muted noise of pounding feet filtered down, along with cries of fear and outrage.

  Holding the weapon on Charron, Michel ordered Rambert to put on the ligote. Instantly, he barreled past Michel and thrust Charron away from Ninette. Charron staggered, but Rambert kept moving, shoving Charron against the side wall and yanking his hands behind him to fasten the ligote. Charron cried out sharply as Rambert tightened the wire. When their prisoner was secured, Michel put away his gun and went to check on Ninette. She did not seem injured or in danger otherwise. Midway along the wall was a cot where she must have lain, a tattered blanket bunched at its foot. Michel grabbed it and covered her. He’d already asked the prison physician to come with the Black Marias. Looking over his shoulder, Charron met Michel’s gaze. “I was rescuing her,” he insisted. “They were going to rape her.”

  Michel stood and faced him. “Only rape? Perhaps some disembowelment for the supreme amusement, then a midnight excursion to the closest cemetery?”

  His prisoner looked stunned, then suddenly terrified. But there was no guilt, no slyness in his expression. Was he innocent as he claimed? The hero of the drama and not the villain? Michel was inclined to think Charron was an excellent actor. His killer had had much practice pretending to be human.

  “I did not kidnap her, or mean to rape her,” Charron repeated. “I did not intend to kill her.”

  “Liar!” Rambert struck him.

  “Stop,” Michel ordered instantly.

  “I’ve seen his handiwork,” Rambert snarled.

  “Then do not imitate his brutality.” Michel loathed crude violence and loathed himself when he felt compelled to use it. “He will stand trial. At the least, abduction and intended rape will get him five years at hard labor. Most do not survive it.”

  “Not enough.” Rambert shook his head.

  Michel knew he was thinking of the blood-stained cell below the stable and of Alicia propped against the gravestone. The images haunted him as well. Charron was silent, watching them both. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Rambert’s hands curled into fists. Michel said, “If we can prove he murdered Alicia, he will go to the guillotine.”


  “Unless your killer goes to an insane asylum,” Charron said.

  Michel held very still. Had Charron already plotted his defense? Would it work? His family was wealthy enough that he might be incarcerated someplace tolerable. Michel wanted the blade of the guillotine to finish his murderous career. You could escape from an asylum.

  He walked closer, looked directly in Charron’s eyes. “It’s a pity they won’t burn you at the stake—like Gilles de Rais.” Charron looked startled, but only as he had when Michel had quoted Rimbaud in the cemetery. Michel would expect more reaction at having his other persona thrown in his face.

  “Gilles de Rais was an aristocrat and was mercifully strangled before he was burned,” Charron retorted with more of his old sarcasm. He gestured toward the staircase that led up to the chapel. “Why prate of medieval villains with Vipèrine parading himself upstairs?”

  “Vipèrine?” Michel repeated, hoping Charron would let something slip.

  “I was curious to see a Black Mass.” Charron glared at him. “That does not make me a killer. Vipèrine told me there was to be one, then…nothing. But there were rumors and he was evading me. When I heard that Ninette was kidnapped, I suspected he had taken her.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Because there was talk of a virgin sacrifice. Once he asked me if I knew any virgins.”

  “You did not find that….”

  “Suspicious? Appalling?” Charron smiled sardonically. “If I had taken it seriously, yes, but I only joked that such a thing was impossible. Now I think he was searching out victims.”

  “Wouldn’t someone seeking out a Black Mass expect a virgin sacrifice?” He didn’t glance up, but overhead he could hear the noise of the raid dying down.

  “I presumed whoever joined in these things did it because they wanted to.”

  “Then why bother to come at all? Surely the Grand Guignol offers as much. Or was it just the excuse for a picturesque orgy?”

  Charron looked haughty. “I thought it would inspire a poem. That was reason enough.”

  “If you were not involved, how did you know where to come?” Michel asked.

  “When Vipèrine first told me about his plans, he mentioned this church.”

  “And the password?”

  “I used a more clandestine approach,” Charron said. “I climbed the wall using an overhanging branch.”

  “Inspired.”

  “After that it was easy. There were no guards, except at the gate, and no real expectation of intruders. I thought I would have to knock out the guard that Vipèrine left, but he went to watch Vipèrine perform the mass. Ninette was too confused to escape.”

  “Did you plan to carry her back to Montmartre?”

  “I had a carriage waiting.”

  “Your cohort?”

  Charron’s expression was blank. “Cohort? No, just a man I promised to pay well.”

  A gunshot cracked in the night. Another.

  Michel pulled his weapon, as did Rambert. Were his men firing at a fleeing Vipèrine? No one else was worth the ammunition. Was Vipèrine shooting at his men? Michel had warned them of his penchant for smoke bombs and razors in his shoes. But Michel did not expect a gun. Not daring to leave Ninette alone in the crypt, he lifted her up, light as a thistle in his arms then handed her to Rambert. “Follow me.”

  Then he ran up the stairs into the drizzling air of the tree-shrouded garden.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  And when Night across the air

  Shall her solemn shadow fling,

  Touching voice of our despair,

  Long the nightingale shall sing.

  ~ Paul Verlaine

  KICKING, biting, Theo struggled fiercely against the man dragging her away from the chapel. He gave a cry as she got her teeth into his hand, but didn’t let go. Gripping her with bruising strength, he pulled her into the dense darkness of the oaks.

  “The whelp bites,” he said as another figure emerged from the thick shadows. The second man grabbed her arm, slid a thick wire over her wrist and jerked it tight. She gasped at the searing pain.

  “You are under arrest.” His voice was low and thick with disgust. “Do not raise the alarm and you will not be harmed.”

  The police. Sagging with relief, she nodded agreement. The first man opened his smothering grip. Drawing a quick breath, she whispered hurriedly, “You’re wrong about me. I’m Theodora Faraday. I sent Inspecteur Devaux the warning that this Black Mass was happening.”

  “Merde! A woman!” the man who’d grabbed her hissed.

  “You sent a warning?” the second man asked. “Then why are you here?”

  “In case you didn’t get it.”

  She could almost hear him thinking in the silence. “When did you send it?”

  “An hour ago, I think.” Her sense of time was warped. “You got here very quickly.”

  “We were already here an hour ago. We were only waiting for it to be midnight.”

  “Oh.” Theo felt foolish. Michel had his own sources, as he had often pointed out. “I thought Vipèrine kidnapped Ninette. I wanted to save her. I could not leave it to chance.”

  “But you’re a woman,” the first man said, flummoxed. “What could you do?”

  Theo seethed with exasperation. “I thought France celebrated the brave heroines of the revolution. Surely you know we aren’t all helpless?”

  He tilted his head back to look down his nose at her. “You are a silly, reckless creature.”

  She glared at him. He had not discovered her Colt and she wasn’t about to reveal his mistake. To the other officer, she said, “I didn’t see Ninette inside the chapel. She may be down the stairs that are near the doors when you enter.”

  “Inspecteur Devaux has found her already.”

  “Oh!” Theo lit with joy. “Is she safe?”

  “Alive and not obviously injured.” He held up a hand, stopping her questions, but he did release her wrist from the ligote. “I am Inspecteur Ganet. I remember you did the painting of the girl in the bakery. But now we are going to raid the church. Stand over there and stay out of trouble, please.”

  “Yes, I will,” she promised, rubbing her stinging wrist.

  “Wait, mademoiselle. Can you tell me how many people are inside?”

  “Thirty or less.”

  He nodded as if that was what he expected. “And their leader?”

  “When I left, Vipèrine was standing by the altar.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded curtly, then moved forward and gestured to his men to move out from their hiding places. At his command, they swarmed into the chapel. Keeping her promise, Theo stayed under the oak as the clamor broke loose inside. Her whole body tingled with relief, with elation, blood fizzing through her veins like fine champagne. The strange effects of the drugged smoke were waning, but her senses remained heightened. The night smelled of wet grass and damp earth. Rain pattered lightly on the leaves, an elusive music. She heard the sound of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves clattering on cobblestones. Looking back toward the house, she glimpsed a Black Maria pulling up in the courtyard. Moving forward a little, she looked around for Ninette but didn’t see anyone keeping watch over her. Theo needed to make sure Ninette was all right before she left. She needed to see Vipèrine in custody.

  Soon enough the police emerged from the chapel, dragging the participants down the path toward the waiting Black Marias. Some were cursing or screeching, some weeping. Others were mute, their faces desolate. Turning back toward the chapel, Theo saw someone under a tree, watching the ongoing drama. It was too dark to make out his face, but from his height, his build, she thought it might be Paul Noret. She could not have missed him inside. Had he come late and was now hiding, watching, afraid to be noticed? He must have sensed her gaze, for he turned and looked directly at her. Pale hair gleamed in the night and she knew it was Paul. He glowered as if she were scum. Confused, a little frightened, Theo wrestled with her questions.

  “Va
te faire foutre! Fils de pute. Bouffe ta merde, flic!” Fuck you. Son of a whore. Eat shit. The raw curses erupted from Vipèrine as Inspecteur Ganet dragged him from the chapel, his wrists locked in menottes. He raised his arms and rattled the handcuffs. “Brûle en enfer, salaud!”

  You’re the one who’ll burn in hell, Theo thought as he came past her. A streak of movement caught her eye, and she saw Paul walk forward from his hiding place. Why was he coming forward now? And then she saw the gun in his hand. She saw the hatred in his eyes as he raised it to point at his target.

  “Vipèrine!” he cried. Startled, Ganet and the Satanist turned toward him.

  “Paul, stop!” She had her own gun in her hand then, without thought, pointing it at him. He spared her a glance of loathing but did not stop. His weapon was aimed at Vipèrine’s heart. Shooting an unarmed man would be murder. In the sudden quiet following her shout, she heard the hammer click on his weapon.

  She shot him in the leg.

  Paul screamed. His gun fired harmlessly into the air and he dropped to the ground. Theo ran toward him, crying out as he lifted the gun to fire again. The police pulled Vipèrine out of sight behind a Black Maria. She dropped to her knees beside him, yanking the gun from his hand and tossing it aside.

  “Are you one of them?” Paul yelled at her, flinging his arm toward the prisoners being shoved into the police carriages. “One of those creatures?”

  “No, no, I came to try and rescue Ninette.”

  “My daughter!” He began to sob. “My daughter.”

  Theo was stunned. She didn’t resist when the police seized her, dragging her away from Paul. They picked up the gun she had tossed aside and took her Colt away, too. Paul was not courting the delicate Ninette, he was her father. He needed to know she was safe, so she cried out, “Paul, they found her! They found Ninette!”

  He turned to her, hope lighting his face. “Unharmed?”

  “I think she is safe. Inspecteur Devaux knows.” Theo looked up to see if Ninette had been brought up from below. “Ninette is his daughter,” she repeated to the flic holding her, in case he had not heard. “Please let him see her.”