Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  Averill nodded, his face blank.

  Theo had known betrayal but nothing like Casimir’s betrayal of him. Years of precious memories transformed into a quagmire of horror.

  Michel went to the door, then turned back to Averill. “The baron has a small townhouse off the Champs Élysées and shares an apartment with you in Montmartre. Is there anywhere else he might hide a child?”

  Averill looked dazed, as if he did not understand the question. Theo answered instead. “He could have gone to his country estate.”

  “The chateau in La Veillée sur Oise? I thought it was destroyed.”

  “There is a gardener’s cottage of sorts. And a room or two of the chateau stills stands.” A tremor coursed through her. “He took us there to show us the picturesque ruins. I sketched it.”

  “It was right after the dog washer’s child disappeared. A beautiful autumn day—leaves like a sea of blood—” Averill’s voice cracked. He pressed his forehead to his clasped hands, his knuckles white. Theo felt as if she were back in the catacombs, drowning in darkness. She reached out and covered his hands with her own. Michel made no move to stop her. Averill lifted his head and gave her a twisted smile. “Well, I keep my head, at least. My mind is another matter.”

  “We may save Matthieu,” she said.

  “Yes.” Averill nodded, but his eyes were desolate.

  Michel turned to the detective guarding the door. “Inspecteur Rambert, have someone else return Monsieur Charron to the infirmary.” Rambert opened the door and summoned the officer who had chastised Theo. “Monsieur Charron, you will follow this officer.”

  Averill rose and leaned across the table. His eyes met hers, still full of pain but also gratitude. He kissed her lightly on each cheek, as much a salute as an endearment. “Au revoir.”

  Then he was gone out the door. Theo turned to Michel. “Now we search?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “Corbeau would have wanted to hide outside of Paris, so the chateau is the most likely place. We already have men watching Corbeau’s stables. Matthieu is not there. I will send men to search the baron’s Paris house and the apartment in Montmartre, but Rambert and I will go to the baron’s estate.”

  “Do we notify the local police?” Rambert asked.

  “It is only a hunch,” Michel answered cautiously, then added bluntly, “We cannot trust either their competence or their honesty.”

  Rambert grinned at him and went to get his jacket. Theo guessed they wanted to keep possession of their case. Michel called after him, “The chief has a phone in his office. I will call for the train schedule.”

  “La Veillée sur Oise is a remnant of a village,” Theo told him. “There is no direct train. The closest station is a half an hour beyond it. It will be faster to ride.”

  “How long?”

  “Riding hard? Less than two hours, changing horses once.”

  He considered that. “We have horses stabled here. We could switch mounts at Argenteuil.”

  “Then we ride,” Theo said, including herself.

  “No,” Michel replied, as if his refusal would stop her. Sensing her determination, he glanced toward the cells. Would he dare lock her up? Of course he would dare. He could arrest her for wearing trousers or something else absurd.

  “I know where the chateau is,” Theo said. “I know Matthieu. And I know Casimir—if not Gilles. Perhaps he will surrender Matthieu to me. I doubt he would give him to you.”

  He met her gaze. “You cannot know that. You may only increase the risk.”

  “Perhaps—but is the best chance we have.”

  He stood for a moment, weighing his choices. “We ride.”

  Chapter Forty

  And yet, as much as my victim, I suffered!

  Forgive me, child.Once we are freed from

  this transient life, I want us to be entwined

  forevermore, becoming but one being,

  my mouth fused to your mouth.

  ~ Comte de Lautréamont

  MATTHIEU was perfection. Looking at him, Gilles swelled with longing—the curling light brown hair, the hazel eyes. Rough ropes bound him, contrasting exquisitely with the silken skin, their abrasions a provocative scarlet against its fairness. His nude body swayed, the ropes linked to the hook overhead.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Gilles whispered. He so loved the look of hope that shone in Matthieu’s imploring gaze. The bright gleam of it was trapped inside the tears that spilled along the downy cheek. He caught one on his fingertip and sipped the salty liquid morsel, savoring its flavor like the finest wine. The hope was sweet, elusive, passing swiftly like flowers crushed in a storm. Terror gave it a bitter depth that lingered on the palate. A taste of eternity.

  Gilles knew ruined hope as well. He had hoped Averill would become his Poitou, his servant through the centuries. He’d hoped that they would seek out the sacrifices together. His lover’s fascination with pain had seemed a lure, but Averill had no desire to inflict it, only to be transformed by it. He played seductive games with darkness, with death, but it was flirtation only, not a true amour. No fool, Gilles had abandoned his hope without ever voicing it.

  Although he held less power, this epoch had its recompenses. At first, Gilles’ new courtiers had been so oblivious he’d hoped his rituals might go on indefinitely. Even in this later century, the children of peasants had their equivalent. Few had noticed when he took his chosen ones. Few—but enough. Now Gilles no longer expected to escape. After all, he had not escaped before. Death had claimed him, but not Heaven or Hell. For centuries he had been imprisoned in the oblivion of Limbo. He had not learned enough from his crimes, else he would not have been returned.

  Once again, Gilles had lost himself in the ecstasy of sin. The greater ecstasy of redemption waited. This time he would not fail.

  There was a rustle of sound. Gilles turned toward Matthieu. The boy watched him attentively but could not keep his eyes from darting to the corner where Corbeau sat.

  “Do not pay him any heed, he can’t hurt you,” Gilles assured him. The boy’s eyes widened as Gilles approached. “The Raven swooped down and carried you off to my castle, but he has no power now.”

  Corbeau slumped in the corner, staring blindly, watching but not seeing. Gilles had no intention of sharing Matthieu with him. He had slit his throat, then gutted him. It had always been a possibility that he would kill Corbeau. Certainly, Gilles knew that Corbeau might attempt to kill him. Their collaboration had worked so well at first, but Corbeau had grown both cruder and more reckless with time, wanting more and more kills. Then he had dared to display Alicia and leave Gilles’ own mark on the grave.

  “He won’t hurt you.” Gilles smiled at Matthieu.

  The boy watched him warily. He was not a dreamer like sweet Denis had been. For all his pretty looks, he was a sharp child, like Dondre. Inspiration flamed, golden bright. Gilles wondered if he could begin again, make this boy his Poitou, teach him the art….

  But, after all, the art was but a means to attain glory.

  The flame guttered, leaving a lingering melancholy. Gilles held fast to one last hope. He prayed that they would not be discovered before the dark of the moon. That fool Vipèrine was no sorcerer if he had not awaited the perfect moment for his sacrifice. Nor had Corbeau understood the subtleties when he tried to seize Darline.

  No matter. Matthieu was the best of all Gilles’ sacraments. He would offer the boy at midnight when the utter blackness of night would match the utter blackness of deed. His last, his most perfect offering.

  The thought had him pulsing with the promise of ultimate ecstasy. He released his member, pulling Matthieu to him and rubbing on the delicate skin of his belly. Shock and horror filled the boy’s eyes. So exquisite. Gilles gripped him harder, thrust harder, lunging toward a rapture that evaded him. They should be closer, more intimate still in this ancient dance of death. He had the knife. It was a monumental effort not to kill him, not to cut his throat so that the blood poured over them both as
he climaxed. For a moment, he thought that the image alone would not suffice, that only the deed would release him. But now, the boy gave a sob, a small sound that exploded inside of Gilles. His seed poured out, anointing the sacrifice.

  The ritual usually ended so, with the dreadful glory of death completing the bliss. But no—not now. Gilles was determined to wait. He allowed himself only one long, tender kiss. A benediction. Yet the need pulsed, darker and heavier with each beat of his heart. The boy knew, the answering darkness filled his eyes. Terror. Wrath. Despair.

  He must not stay, or he would succumb. Leaving the boy suspended, Gilles climbed the steps out of the wine cellar to the remains of the kitchen. It was better preserved than the rest of the rooms. The roof had not totally collapsed here. He sauntered to what had been the grand foyer. The worst of the debris had been cleared two decades ago. He went to the sacred spot. She had died here, his Jeanne. She had carried the old devil this far and tripped and broken her ankle. His grandfather had crawled over her, crawled out the door and lived. She tried to follow after, despite her pain, but the flaming beams had fallen and trapped her. Burned her alive. Her screams of agony still shredded his soul.

  Once again, Jeanne had left him alone. Once again, he had failed to save her.

  Gilles went outside to the edge of the hill. From here he could see the forest on one side, rolling hills with Paris waiting to the south. The rest was cultivated, vineyards and the golden sway of wheat fields. Below lay the glimmering ribbon of the river and beyond a glimpse of the town nestled on its banks. Remnants of his vast domains, the heritage his grandfather had squandered.

  He was not so lost in daydream as to miss the riders turning at the last curve in the road. In a few minutes they would be here. His wish had not been granted. His final ritual would not be in the dark of the moon.

  The last time, he had died at dawn.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It is the tomb, I am off to the worms, oh horror of

  horrors! Satan, you buffoon, you want me to waste away

  with your spells. I implore! I implore!

  A stab of the fork, a splash of fire.

  ~ Arthur Rimbaud

  RESCUE Matthieu. Rescue Matthieu. Rescue Matthieu.

  The words drummed in Theo’s head, echoing the galloping beat of the horses’ hooves. At last they turned off the highway onto the country road approaching Casimir’s domain. They were lucky, first with the strong police mounts, then with the choice animals they’d rented at their one stop. Long shadows stretched across the dirt as the sun slowly lowered. Their pace was good, but it seemed forever before Theo recognized the crumbled remnants of the monks’ dwellings on the outskirts of La Veillée sur Oise. Just past them, Theo pointed to the neglected road that led to the chateau. They’d barely turned onto it when Rambert’s mount stumbled in an obscured pothole and wrenched off a shoe. Michel and Rambert dismounted to look at the horse’s hoof. Theo stayed on her mare. She had no trouble guessing the outcome of this twist of events. She’d be expected to give up her mount and walk Rambert’s into town while the men went on ahead.

  “My horse can’t go on,” Rambert said. “He could bruise the foot irreparably.”

  Michel frowned at the upturned hoof, then turned to look at Theo. She instantly wheeled around and sent her mare running toward the chateau.

  “Theo!” She heard Michel call after her. Had he ever called her Theo before? She kept riding, listening to hear if he was pursuing her. The docile mare had some speed, but not as much as Michel’s solid gelding. After a moment, she heard his horse closing in on her. She spared one glance over her shoulder and Michel yelled again, “Theo, stop!”

  Instead she urged her new horse to higher speed, searching the uneven road for rocks and hidden holes. A quarter mile and she crossed a bridge over the River Oise and began to travel up the hill. The mare was flagging, so halfway up Theo slowed, letting Michel catch up to her at last. His glare spoke volumes, but he said nothing. Together they continued to climb the winding, rutted road. At the pinnacle, the road curved round a stand of trees. Between the tall trunks and rich spring growth, they glimpsed the derelict estate. Then they were riding on the overgrown gravel drive that led to the burned-out hulk of Casimir’s chateau. Fresh wheel tracks cut a pathway through the spring growth of grass and weeds. Vines crawled over the shabby caretaker’s cottage. Half-hidden behind it stood a black fiacre. Freed from its traces, the horse that had drawn it wandered under the apple trees of the small orchard. They rode over to the nearest tree, dismounted, and tied their mounts.

  “Stand back.” Michel drew his gun. Motioning her back, he kicked open the door of the cottage. There was no one within. If there had been a caretaker, Casimir had dismissed him when he started bringing his victims here.

  Together they walked to the burned ruins of the chateau. Theo led him through the ravaged foyer with its skeletal staircase leading nowhere. Beyond it were the remnants of a grand hallway flanked by elegant rooms opening to the sky. The back was in slightly better condition. Here they found the kitchen, with an old stone fireplace standing, three walls, a bit of roof. And a door of charred oak. Theo expected to find the door locked, that Michel would have to force it, but it opened smoothly. Below, faint light glimmered. The smell of corruption wafted upward, sweetly rotten.

  A chill iced Theo’s spine. She wondered if Casimir had killed Matthieu and buried him. Burned him? She tried to thrust her fear to the back of her mind. It would only cripple her.

  Stepping forward, Michel descended first. The stone steps were worn in the center from centuries of use. They reached a small passage where an iron gateway stood open. Looking inside, Theo fought back a cry. Votive candles formed a circle in the center of the room. Above them, a man hung from a hook in the rafters. His throat gaped and dried blood covered his clothing. His belly was gutted, the exposed entrails looping down from the wound. The reek of blood and excrement saturated the room.

  “Corbeau. He was killed before he was hung there.” Michel glanced towards the far corner, bloodier than the floor beneath the body.

  Theo saw the flagstones beneath the corpse were darkened with old bloodstains. The flash of pity she’d felt for what had once been a living man was squelched by the knowledge of his crimes. This was the man who had helped murder Alicia and the others. Denis and Dondre might have hung from this same hook. Had Matthieu?

  “He is staging this for us like some obscene spectacle,” Michel said in a low voice.

  “Then Matthieu must be alive, or he would be hanging there.”

  “Perhaps,” Michel said.

  That horror might still await them. Theo went forward and picked up one of the glass votives. Michel did as well. Looking around the brick-walled room, she saw some dilapidated wine shelves and a few broken bottles. There was a faint sound behind them. Michel heard it too, and they both turned at the same time. Was it nothing more than a rat lurking in this cellar, or was it a summons? They walked toward the back of the room. Obscured in shadows a scrolled metal gate stood open. An invitation. Theo followed Michel through into a long corridor. At its end was another door, ominous, strapped with leather and studded. Theo’s heart thudded, heavy and dull as an iron clapper pounding the wall of her chest. With every step the stench of death thickened, falling over them like murky veils. Death. Death and some other strident, sickening odor.

  “Petrol,” Michel said. “Put the candles out.”

  They extinguished the votives and went forward along the darkened corridor, led by the rim of light beneath the door. When they reached the end, Michel turned to her. Theo met his gaze and nodded, her mouth too dry for speech. Then he pushed open the door.

  Swaying slightly, a hanging lantern with yellow glass panels illuminated the center of the room. Beneath its sulphurous light was a row of four tall wooden stakes. A cry choked Theo’s throat. On each stake was a head…the small head of a child. They faced her, their eyes glazed, their rotting lips exposing little white t
eeth in false leers. Revulsion clutched her with icy claws that twisted into her belly. Theo shut her eyes, fighting the quaking that swept her. She should have known that an imitator of Gilles de Rais would display this grotesque beauty pageant. Michel gathered her to him, blocking the sight. Theo felt the burn of rising tears. She fought back a sob, swallowing a breath of the putrid air. There was no escape from this horror. She pulled away from Michel and forced herself to turn. Her tears blurred the grisly display, but she could see now there was another lantern on the side of the table beyond. She went forward, forcing herself to look at the ghastly decomposed faces. She must know if Matthieu was displayed there. But no—these poor children had been dead for weeks—or months. Light gleamed at the corner of her vision and she turned to see Casimir step forward from the darkest corner, pushing Matthieu in front of him.

  “You’ve come at last—my witnesses.” Casimir smiled, the golden, boyish smile Theo had always found so lovely. Even in the flickering candlelight, he looked radiant. A terrible sadness mingled with her abhorrence. Did a sliver of that Casimir exist? Did it matter, after what he’d done?

  She looked to Matthieu and saw a noose looped around his throat. It trailed down and tied to Casimir’s waist. Wet streaks glistened on their clothing and the reek of gasoline floated around them. Casimir carried another lantern, its thin glass walls all that kept the flame from igniting the fumes. Tears stained Matthieu’s face, but he was not crying now. His eyes were wide with fear, but Theo saw courage and hope in them too. He searched their faces, watching for some clue to his salvation.

  “Drop the gun, Inspecteur,” Casimir said as he walked Matthieu to a table behind the staked heads. “If you shoot me, the lamp shatters and we both die.”

  “Let the boy go,” Michel said. “You cannot believe you will escape.”

  “I did not escape before. This time I must achieve my goal. Drop the gun and kick it here.” He lifted the lantern he held aloft.