Floats the Dark Shadow (10 page)

“Does he succeed?”

“Unfortunately, that was never clear. Perhaps the husband intervened.” Cochefert patted his heavy belly, as if he’d dined well on absurdity.

Michel allowed a small smile. “The crocodile is…impressive.”

Cochefert smiled more broadly. “It’s difficult to completely despise Taxil, not when he can so amuse.”

Michel found it easy to completely despise him. The absurdity had an acrid tinge. Michel’s father—the man he had learned to call father—had been a brigadier of the Sûreté and a Mason. Michel had little patience with the Church’s view that Masons were devil’s spawn. He had less still with men like Leo Taxil who exploited such views to gain money and notoriety.

“Why not crocodile demons?” Cochefert supposed, savoring his own amusement. “Electrical current…ectoplasm…. If one exists, why not the other? Miracles happen daily.”

“Men are demonic enough,” Michel said.

Chapter Nine

Keep the gem delirious. Laughing ruby.

The flower’s most secret heart.

~ Paul Verlaine

WITH practiced quietness, Michel entered the gate and crossed the dimly lit courtyard. Two glossy-leafed camellia trees obscured the recessed doorway. He tapped the brass knocker and waited for Lilias to open the door to the exquisite jewel box of a house she kept for her private encounters. The maid would be there but summoned only if needed. A courtesan’s maid needed as much discretion as the courtesan herself. Taking a detective for a lover required even more caution than capturing a politician’s favor. Lilias was as daring as she was discreet.

She opened the door and he stepped inside. He was struck again by her delicacy. Lilias was small, with the fragile, brittle beauty of fine porcelain. She had the bearing and self-possession of an aristocrat. He could picture her at the court of the
Ancien Régime
, softly powdered, bewigged, clothed in continents of silk and glittering with jewels. But something raw and ferocious lay hidden below the surface. He could just as easily imagine her carrying the flag through the streets in the Revolution, her feet bathed in blood. Either way, she would be plotting intrigues.

It was said that the most successful Parisian courtesans came from the provinces—it took longer to tarnish their innocence. The ones born in the city had an ironic edge that cut into a man’s lust. Perversely, Lilias had triumphed and endured because of that sharpness. Her precision was strangely erotic. Her bitter intelligence and cynicism contrasted with her abandon in the heat of passion. Michel supposed some of her patrons wanted to subjugate that. None had. Though perhaps Lilias offered them the illusion. He would not know. She stirred his desire just as she was.

Her dark brown eyes regarded him levelly. She did not kiss him but offered her hand to be kissed. Black lace gloves made an intricate pattern against her pale skin. He felt the texture against his lips, delicate yet abrasive. The last time he had visited her, she had stroked his naked body wearing the same gloves. The memory sent a jolt through him, hardening his cock. Heat radiated outward. Even his skin came alive, tingling underneath his clothes.

Lilias smiled at him with certain knowledge of her effect. She arched a delicate eyebrow. “Talk first?”

He had meant to—but now he shook his head. She kept hold of his hand, turning and leading him along the narrow foyer. In the dim light, the gesture felt sweetly conspiratorial. They had been lovers for months now, but she made each time feel like their first assignation. Her house was subtly rich, the furnishings refined
Directoire
. Smiling, Lilias led him up the curving stairs to her bedroom. Hothouse roses spilled from a vase, glowing crimson in the lamplight. They were the same roses she chose for her perfume, a fragrance heady with spices and amber—a wanton note of musk subverting the refined elegance.

“I like for you to undress me. Your hands are deft and gentle.” Her eyes glittered. “I want them gentle—for now.”

First, Michel took off the gloves. Lilias always wore something erotically provocative, as she would for a protector who expected such skillful provocation. He slowly undid the buttons of the gown next, a creation of twilight blue silk overlaid with copper lace that echoed the auburn of her hair. Michel laid the expensive dress on a chair and unlaced her corset, fingertips caressing as he did. He removed the slithering soft undergarments of peach silk and cream lace to reveal still creamier skin dusted with freckles. He reached around to cup her small, perfect breasts. The large nipples hardened, thrusting into his palms. He turned her round to face him. Courtesans were given nicknames, in mockery or in praise. She was sometimes called
La Renarde
. Revealed, her mons gleamed red as a fox’s fur.

“Leave your clothes on…for now,” she murmured, unbuttoning his fly and taking the hard heat of him into her hand. “Just give me this.” She lay back on the bed and guided him into her. The jolt of desire coursed through him, still startling in its intensity. His mind appreciated her. His body craved her. He grew harder even as he began to melt in her fire.

“Not gentle,” she whispered. “Not now.”

~

After, she had the maid bring tiny cups of hot chocolate, madeleines, and cognac finer than Blaise Dancier’s. Their aromas blended with the spiced rose perfume of her skin, the musk of their sex, the smoke of apple wood burning in the fireplace.

“Talk now?” she asked.

He told her first of his invitation to Dancier’s house and his impression of it, and she rewarded him with a wicked little laugh. Then he gave her the details of Dancier’s request and his own fruitless investigation of his missing boys and the others Cochefert had since added to his list. “I’ve interviewed families, friends and neighbors, shopkeepers, gendarmes, carriage drivers and beggars.” He shook his head. “The children all vanished without a trace. No one saw anything suspicious.”

“Or will say so if they did.” Her voice was musical, precise and slightly husky. “You do not think the children ran away? You think the same person took them?”

Michel frowned. “In one case I am having the parents investigated—they’ve killed the child by accident or design. One of Dancier’s orphans was working for a ragman, but I think he ran off with a passing circus troop. And one of the older girls had a crush on a sailor from Marseilles.”

“With luck they are married, if not….”

“She’s on the streets.” He kissed her shoulder softly. Lilias did not like reminders of her early days.

She stroked a fingertip down his nose. “Those cases aside?”

“Instinct says some other disappearances are linked, but instinct is not proof.” Michel lay back, staring at the ceiling, his sense of futility growing. “Often I don’t even know where they were seized. One boy went on an errand to collect some laundry work, and his mother knew his favorite route to Montmartre.”

“You followed it,” Lilias said, detached but intent. Her presence was excellent for focusing his mind, as if she was always asking him to look deeper.

“His favorite side street.” He summoned the memory—just the usual filthy alley, the usual refuse. Torn posters. Broken glass. Obscenities splashed in paint on the walls, crude images that had embarrassed Mlle. Faraday. He remembered a huge red phallus, giant breasts, and copulating dogs mingled with the usual religious images. A smudged cross scribbled in charcoal. All meaningless. “His mother was making some cake he loved. He never came home.”

“How many children?”

“I’ve set aside a dozen files.” Michel took another sip of brandy, letting the liquid fire warm the chill this case gave him. “Recently another boy disappeared. He worked with his father in the catacombs, and the father suspected he sneaked back on his own, hoping to make extra money leading a sightseer through the ancient mazes.”

“Many have gotten lost and died in the tunnels.”

“Of course, but that is good cover for murder.”

“Who else?”

“A
bouquiniste’s
boy on the Left Bank seems the earliest. A chimney sweeper in the Marais, a seamstress’ daughter in Montparnasse.”

“You think he takes both boys and girls?”

“I could be wrong about the girls.”

“What other boys?”

“A bootblack’s son near the Sorbonne, and Dancier’s boy in training as pickpocket around the Opéra and the boulevards. Such various locations….” His hand tightened into a fist. How could he grasp this illusive killer?

“Where then does he take them, and how?” Lilias prompted.

“If he is a laborer, or disguised as one, he could knock them unconscious and carry them off in a cart or even a sack. If they are drugged, he might carry them in his arms, as if they were his own. He would be less visible in a carriage, but would risk being remembered.”

“Some men can be hired for any errand.” She nibbled a madeleine.

“Yes, or he might have an accomplice who helps him for love of blood or money.”

“Then your kidnapper opens himself to blackmail or the chance of being turned in for a reward.” Lilias paused. “And the other opens himself to a blade in the night.”

“Then the other loves blood more than money—the blood of children.” Michel frowned. “If there even is an accomplice.”

“Where does he take them?”

Michel caught her gaze and smiled briefly. He wanted her to know he appreciated this indulgence. The case was becoming an obsession. “If he has money, he can rent a room in the neighborhood he plans to hunt, but again he risks exposure or blackmail. I think he has someplace more secure. Perhaps a barge on the Seine, so he can take them away easily.”

“We have been talking as if he is a stranger to these children. Someone they know could lure them more easily.”

“It’s possible, but not with all of them. Dancier’s pickpocket would be sharper than that.”

“Unless the lure was money. They were all poor.”

“He may use a different approach depending on the child, or he may follow some ritual. It’s all conjecture.”

When he said nothing more, Lilias lifted her delicate eyebrows. “So, you wondered if I had heard gossip about anyone with a predilection for children. Someone with a taste for violence?”

“Yes.”

“No, I have not. But I will ask, discreetly.” She sipped her brandy.

Michel knew that a wise courtesan kept aware of the professional houses. A possible protector could be recommended there, or she might be warned off someone cruel or stingy. Occasionally a protector asked his mistress to accompany him to the houses. It was well to know what each of them provided. What was allowed and what not. Which might be worth investment, if one were smart with money. Lilias was no fool.

More reluctantly, he added, “I’ve also considered some sort of satanic cult.”

“Ah, there I have intelligence.” That surprised him enough that she laughed aloud. She shook her head. “No, I have not been playing in such evil corners, but I have heard rumors that a Black Mass is to be held.”

“A Black Mass?” Cochefert would turn cartwheels. “Where? When?”

“Where is a deserted chapel, but I don’t know when. I do know the slithering snake who will perform the rites.”

He guessed her reference. “Vipèrine?”

“Just so.” She laid a finger softly to his lips. “That is all I know now. But I will take pleasure in playing the spy.”

When she released the gentle pressure, he said only, “Thank you.”

She rose and brought the brandy decanter, refilling their glasses. Michel sipped the rich liquid, grateful for everything she gave him. Lilias was an invaluable ally. She had first provided information on a young man who’d murdered a rich uncle for his inheritance. He’d also been known for the violent streak he indulged with prostitutes. Michel had asked her why she chose to help and accepted the small smile that was her only answer. Lilias was not implicated in any way, so he presumed the nephew had injured her, or someone she cared for. It might be no more complicated than that. Perhaps.

Michel arrested the nephew, and that success was their beginning. A night of champagne and celebration became an affair of six months. Desire had not diminished. Lilias must entertain others, but he did not ask. He could not afford jealousy. Currently, she had no established patron, but she might at any time decide to secure one. Such a man would want sole rights to her bed and pay a small fortune for the privilege. She was already wealthy, but a woman on her own might never feel wealthy enough, secure enough.

If she did decide she wanted a new patron, their trysts would end, but not, he hoped, their alliance. He told himself to enjoy the pleasure, to expect nothing beyond the night. But pleasure could be as addictive as absinthe.

Michel knew she desired him. He could give her few gifts other than pleasure and lack of pretense. He took care never to leave her unsatisfied. It would not have satisfied him. As a gesture, he sometimes brought her small presents. Last time, a bouquet of early violets, dewy and sweet. A bag of roasted chestnuts in winter. Once, truly extravagant, he went to Debauve and Gallias, chocolatier to Louis XVI and Napol
é
on, and bought four chocolates in a miniscule box. The price was absurd. The tiny size made the confection seem all the more precious. Lilias had laughed with delight, but no more than she had for the violets.

Perhaps next time he would bring his guitar and play for her.