It seemed to me that if this Ducharm wanted Hunters to leave him alone, he shouldn’t live someplace so scenic and easy to visit.
The house appeared to be one of those low-slung Mediterranean cottages, with two or three windows and a narrow wooden door fronting right onto the street. It might have been built any time from a hundred years ago on back. From the boat man’s description, it wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I’d been picturing a mansion with a perimeter fence and armed guards with Dobermans.
The knocker on the door was a Fatima hand. I pounded it and was in the midst of raising it to pound again when the door opened, pulling the knocker from my grasp. To be fair, I might have pounded a little energetically.
The man who opened the door was shorter than I, with dark hair, a receding airline and an aquiline nose on either side of which shone very bright hazel eyes. He was wearing a brocade robe and grinned at me, displaying an overbite, and rather large, very white teeth. “Ah, Mrs. Shackleford. I’ve been waiting you. Please, get in out of the rain.”
Also not what I expected. And here I was thinking I might have to kneecap him and then beat him until he talked. “Ducharm?”
“Indeed. Come in, come in.”
The room behind him was suited for a home-and-garden magazine. It was one of those great room arrangements, very large, with a peaked ceiling. There were railings indicating a stairway going down, which meant the house was built into the mountainside. I could see a kitchen with an eat-at counter all gleaming granite and warm polished wood at one end. The floor was also pale and clean. It looked like original pine, but someone had done a wonderful job on it, kind of like what I was trying to do in my home: refinish the floor so it looked good, but also so that it had the modern finishes, which would allow children to play on it without hurting it.
Children…
Back to work. “How did you know I was coming?”
“I did not for certain, but I am a well-informed man. When I heard about your situation, I thought a visit might be possible. I’m a noted expert, and you are in need of expertise. Please, come inside and make yourself comfortable,” he insisted. “I am happy to assist you.”
As I crossed the threshold, for just a moment there was a feeling like there had been when I had gotten close to the Grimm Berlin safe house. This one was more heat than electrical shock, and for a sharp, short moment, all the marks imposed on me by the Guardian’s curse burned. It was overwhelming but thankfully brief, and then gone. I showed no more outward indication than taking a deep breath, which could either be justified by admiration at the décor, or the feeling that I had been in the cold then had come into the warmth, and the contrast had caused me to draw in air.
Ducharm’s eyes were on me, attentive, a little worried, but he smiled again. “You’ve come a long way. May I offer you refreshment?”
“No, thank you. I just want to talk.”
“Of course.” The smile flashed again and, inexplicably, I saw him as a very large rodent with greedy eyes, though he tried to make himself look sober and severe. “There are rumors flying about your predicament, and that a creature took your infant son.”
“Was it the creature in question who told you that?”
“No, of course not.” He gave an offended sniff. “I may believe in the equal treatment of supernatural citizens, but I do not associate with such violence.”
One reason I wound up as the company’s negotiator was that I could tailor my behavior to deal with different kinds of people, regardless of how I actually felt about them. Sometimes I played the sweetheart, sometimes the hard case, but since Ducharm was a monster rights activist, he was probably a smug and egotistical asshole who liked to feel important, so I’d give him the opportunity to help me. I didn’t trust Ducharm in the slightest, but if there was a chance he could point me in the right direction, I’d take it. Or at least that was my opening strategy.
“Of course. Forgive my tone, I’m really tired.”
“No need to apologize. On the contrary, as the leading expert on supernatural societies, I’ve developed a close working relationship with various government figures. The authorities are very worried about you.”
“They’re worried about me causing trouble, but I’m more concerned with the welfare of my son. I need your help to find him.”
“Do you know what this creature is planning to do exactly?” He guided me toward one of the overstuffed leather sofas, and I sat down.
“He said something about selling him for a price I couldn’t pay.”
Those hazel eyes looked speculatively at me. “I see. It is very bad,” he said this in the way certain European language speakers have of saying that sort of thing, implying it is a terrible event, but not one they can plausibly do anything about. He sat heavily on the armchair facing my sofa. It seemed to me that as he sat down the chair creaked and groaned as though he were much heavier than he looked which, I thought, just went to tell you exactly how flimsy this antique furniture was. My admittedly rather large husband had complained during his visits to Europe that the entire place was filled with dollhouse furniture which would break if he so much as looked at it.
“I don’t suppose that I could convince you to give up the search and leave this to the professionals.”
“I am a professional.”
“Not on this continent you’re not. We have specific ways of doing things here. You see, the network you’re dealing with— I suppose you’ve learned something of it?”
“I don’t really care how powerful or nasty they are. This is my son. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. His smile flashed again, now with overtones of disdain or perhaps dismay, as though I’d picked my nose at him. “Ah, yes, the famous American can-do. But you see, you are a very young country, a very young—if you pardon me the term—race. You haven’t learned yet that sometimes there are things you can’t do, things that all your bluster, all your guns, all your…attitude can’t manage. There are things beyond your power.”
“Are you telling me to turn back and forget Ray?” I heard a faint threatening edge to my voice. That was a good indicator of how weary and stressed I was. I’m usually better at keeping a smile on my face as morons lectured me.
“Yes, that is what I was telling you, but I see it is useless, is it not?” There was a crack of thunder outside. The heavy rain made a distinctive sound as it banged on the roof. “Very well. How can I help you?”
“What do you know about Brother Death? Where can I find him? And where would he auction off a baby to a bunch of evil magical creatures?”
Ducharm waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, the answers are straightforward. Almost nothing, I don’t know, and I don’t know. Now, will you listen to me?”
“Not yet.” Appealing to his sense of importance wasn’t working. Maybe it was time to get a bit more direct. “Tell me about Marchand then. Or are you going to pretend you don’t know anything about him either?”
“Not at all. Due to my work I have had some contact with Marchand.” He got up, walked to the corner, and opened what looked like a standing globe, revealing a set of glasses and row upon row of cut glass decanters. He picked up one filled with a ruby liquid and poured some into a tiny glass, sniffed it with obvious satisfaction, and said, “Are you sure there is nothing I can offer you? Some brandy? Madeira? Sirop de cassis?”
“No, thank you.” I had never acquired a taste for wine, though I would drink it at a party or if somebody was giving a toast. But even if I’d been desperate for a drink, I wasn’t about to take one from this guy, who more and more had started to impress me as a smooth and smug prick.
“Your loss. It is excellent.”
“Monsieur Ducharm, tell me what you know about Marchand.” I didn’t add or I’m going to switch gears and waterboard you with your fancy wine collection but I suppose my tone implied it.
He brought his drink back to his chair and sat down, again causing a bunch of groans and cr
eaks from the furniture. “Where to begin… You see, Europe is very old.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’ve been told because it’s sometimes not readily apparent to you people. You come over and see the old buildings and the ruins, and you go how romantic, très chic, très…how you say, sophisticated. And you go back and talk to all your friends about the European palazzos and cathedrals, and you sigh over them, but you don’t see the other things that go with living in a place that has been thickly settled ever since there have been humans. You don’t see it because most of it isn’t visible. It is said our monsters are more complicated than in America. Sure, sure, you get monsters from all over, but the monsters you get there, like the humans you get there, have to an extent fled their roots and left their origins behind. They have gone to America to be something else, something different.”
“Something amazing.”
His lips twisted in what was either amusement or disgust. “We know what happens to gnomes and elves in America: they adopt new identities. That doesn’t happen here. As the humans who stay behind are still bound by their history, so are our supernatural citizens. They are held within the bounds of their culture which limits the amount of harm they actually do. Because we have dealt with fey, demons, ghosts, and much weirder things from the time the first men climbed out of their caves. They will never change. So, we live with them. We coexist.”
My lip was curling upward. There was nothing I could do about it. In America we also have monsters we coexist with. Like, say, Earl or the orcs or even—shudder—trailer park elves. We don’t even set out to eradicate every gnome, even though, honestly, some urban neighborhoods would be a lot safer without them. In the backpack resting under my arm, I could feel the lump of Mr. Trash Bags through the fabric. But I’m no hypocrite. The issue was that monster is a really broad category.
We can give a pass to monsters who agree to be good. That’s the whole concept of PUFF exemptions: behave and you’re fine, step out of line and we shoot you full of holes. Though I suppose Monsieur Ducharm, who advocated a friendly detente with monsters, would be overjoyed that I carried a miniature shoggoth around. I didn’t test that theory, although the temptation was huge to dump him on the floor and yell eat toes
I got what Ducharm was saying, loud and clear. In Europe the governments put up with even harmful monsters, as long as they kept within certain bounds. But all the same, I wasn’t from around these parts, and I didn’t have to tolerate anything.
“So you’re telling me,” I said, my voice very frosty, “that you’ll tolerate traffic in babies as long as it keeps the peace?”
He gave me what could only be called a Gallic shrug, all exaggerated shoulder motion and politeness. “Tolerate? Not precisely. But we’ve come to accept there are certain things we can do nothing about.”
“You mean people like you say there’s nothing you can do. I bet if the EU let people like Lindemann or Darne do their jobs, they’d take care of the problems real quick.”
“Doubtful.” He opened his arms, as though to signify impotence. “Look at me. For three decades I have sought peaceful resolutions between the mortal and the supernatural worlds…and that I have achieved. There are now fewer than five children stolen for human sacrifices a year.” He puffed out his chest. “Yes, I see you look surprised, but yes, it is true. Only five in all of Europe. It is a great improvement from the hundreds that used to go missing just half a century ago, never to be found again.”
I didn’t say anything. Five was better than five hundred, but that didn’t make it acceptable.
“The thing you must understand, Mrs. Shackleford, is this: you talk about it as if this cannot be tolerated at all, but remember, many of the beings who have been doing this have been around for a long time…hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. It is impossible for us mere humans to know how many of them there are, much less to find them all. Once a child disappears into that network, it is more or less impossible to find even a trace of them. You have unusual abilities, but have you found a single trace of your son yet?”
Monster rights advocates were always the same. They were quitters and appeasers who hid their cowardice under a cloak of smug. I’d tried to be reasonable, but negotiations required time, and that was the one thing I didn’t have to spare. Getting really tired of his games, I stood up. The rain was coming down hard enough that the neighbors probably wouldn’t hear him screaming.
“Tell me about Marchand or I’m going to lose my temper.”
“You know, it’s very fine to say you want to find your son and bring him home, but the chances of that are very small, as are the chances of your doing anything but dying in the process. Think about it. It used to be, in the old days, before giving birth was made safer, that often the doctors had to give people a choice between the mother and the baby because only one can live. This is what I’m doing to you now. Yourself—or the baby? Who do you think your husband would most willingly sacrifice?”
“Neither, you son of a bitch,” which was, of course, the only answer.
Ducharm frowned. “Marchand is a procurer, a dealer, a businessman. He would never be so rude. You should leave now. Return to your home.”
“And get on with my life? Have other children? Yeah, I’ve heard that. Your opinion has been noted.” I lifted my novelty shirt and put my hand on the stolen Walther. “Marchand. Now.”
“I am an important man with important friends. You cannot come into my house and threaten me.”
I pulled the gun out and let it dangle at my side. “Wanna bet?”
He rose. There was an effect of shaking himself and straightening his clothes, though he didn’t do more than a vague dusting at his pants, as though his liquor might have dropped crumbs. “If you can’t be persuaded to see sense, so be it.”
“Mr. Trash Bags. Eat his toes.”
There was no response from the backpack, which was surprising, because he seemed to really like tormenting people’s appendages.
He noted my surprise. “Your little companion is temporarily stunned. There are spells upon this dwelling beyond your comprehension. Surely you felt them when you entered? You are, after all, the Guardian.”
There was a tingling in my neck. It felt like my vision was closing in on me. The edges of the room were getting dark. The lights flickered, and it wasn’t because of the storm.
Damn it.
I’d been given bad intel. Grimm Berlin had thought Ducharm was just another misguided human being, but he was obviously something else.
“So what are you really? Wizard or monster?”
“I prefer supernatural citizen.”
I raised the gun. “Just tell me what I want to know and I won’t have to shoot you.”
“You come into my home and threaten me? You’re a barbarian, Mrs. Shackleford. It’s throwbacks like you that keep us from coexisting peacefully.”
“To hell with your peace. I just want my boy.” Whatever Ducharm was, I still needed him alive. So I aimed at his foot and pulled the trigger.
But he was no longer there.
The 9mm round put a hole in the nice hardwood floor. I backed up, scanning all around me for threats. Ducharm was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t that he’d moved that fast, it was more like he’d simply vanished.
The house creaked. Someone was moving down the stairs.
Gun raised, I swept in that direction. “Come out, Ducharm. Or should I call you Marchand?”
I heard his obnoxious laugh somewhere below me.
It was dark down there. And he wanted me to chase him. Screw that. “How do you play it?” I shouted as I reholstered the 9mm, and went back to my backpack and took my .45 out, because I had a flashlight clipped to its frame rail. Much better. “By day you lobby for your kind, and at night you hook up contract killers with cultists to steal babies?”
“I’m merely a facilitator,” he shouted back. “But more importantly, I am an organizer. I unite buyer with seller. There is no
haphazard killing. I manage the herd, so only the minimum lives necessary are taken. After six hundred years I’ve gotten it down to a science. You should be thanking me.”
“You’re an asshole, but give me Brother Death and I’ll let you live.”
“He is a valued client. How dare you assume I could be intimidated into breaking such a trust?”
All the power in the house went off. The timing was too convenient for it to have been the storm. More likely the breaker box was in the basement and Ducharm had just flipped the switch. I started down anyway.
I turned my SureFire flashlight on. A thousand lumens is crazy super bright. Suck it, forces of evil.
Gun up, I made my way down. I’d partly been expecting some sort of wet, stone, torture dungeon, but the next floor was finished as nicely as the first. There was a lounge with big couches, shelves stuffed with books, and a truly gigantic fireplace.
“Come out,” I ordered, but Ducharm was hiding now.
Past the lounge was a hall with several doors. I went to the first door. Inside was a princess room. No, I mean a princess room, with frills and a canopied bed and all. It was perfect, provided the princess was about six and obsessed with lace and pink which, frankly, I’d never been, even at six.
The room was small and smelled like someone had crushed candy all over it. My light illuminated a pile of mismatched dolls. The door locked from the hallway side.
You can’t call it a guest room if it was intended for prisoners.
As Ducharm, he was paid money for his services. Is this how the monsters paid Marchand? What kind of creepy shit was he into?
The problem with searching a darkened house is that there are a lot of places something can hide. Lurking behind furniture, around a corner, in the closet, under the bed…and for all I knew, Marchand might be some kind of shapeshifter. He might be the bed.
“Cuddle Bunny?” The tentative little voice came out of my backpack. The spell that had frozen him must have been wearing off. “Bad place. Bad. Bad thing. Bad.”
Monster Hunter Guardian Page 16