Floats the Dark Shadow (24 page)

A hollow ache filled her stomach. Theo had to admit that she did understand Averill. She understood what it was to be haunted, to be possessed. Mélanie was her revenant, begging to exist if only as a painted image.

“I will go with you too,” Theo said quietly, though she hated the thought of the morgue. She had discovered it by mistake after exploring Notre Dame. It stood at the eastern tip of the Île de la Cité, where bodies found in the Seine could easily be brought by boat. Theo had approached cheerfully, mistaking the colorful crowd for something festive. Rich and poor, young and old were gathered outside. There was even a puppet show. All sorts of pastries and drinks were being hawked. Then she heard one of the many vendors promoting his curative ointment, his “
pâté de morgue
.” Realizing where she was, Theo watched, stunned, as parents hustled their children inside, a family outing to view the corpses on display. Ever since, Theo had avoided the somber building. Until today.

“I too would like to see this little Venus of yours,” Paul said. “The Revenants
should all go, especially those who avoided the catacombs or did not witness the fire.”

Theo wanted to clobber Paul. “Must everything be an aesthetic show? Misery, grief, horror?”

Paul sat back and surveyed her. “Anger is much improved with aesthetics.”

Before she could respond to that back-handed compliment, Casimir whispered in her ear. “Paul is clever,
chère Amazone
. Our Averill must go. Will not a little human padding protect him?”

“Perhaps,” Theo said reluctantly.

“An artist must have courage,” Paul asserted. “No one escapes their fears, but the artist must face them, conquer them.”

“The artist must gaze deep into the abyss,” Jules agreed fervently. “You must search out your demons—even stir them.”

“Maybe demons should be treated with more respect,” Theo ventured, feeling a coward as she did. She had completely believed what they said—until she had a Devil to beware.

“Demons make better muses than angels,” Paul replied. “They spend more time communing with mortals. They infest reality.”

“I’ve had more than enough reality,” Theo said.
More than enough hellfire
.

“You are more real than the rest of us,” Averill murmured to his absinthe. “You are sunlight. We are shadow.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Theo heard nothing but her own clamoring heartbeat. Averill had never given her such an extravagant compliment. But it wasn’t just his words, it was the catch in his voice as he said them. It was almost as if he’d said he loved her. Almost.

“You underestimate us, Averill,” Casimir said. “We are more substantial than shadow. We are dense as night.”

“Shadow. Night. Wolves baying at a blood red moon,” Jules intoned.

Theo felt like she was staring into the depths of the Tarot card, seeing the Moon’s reflected light quivering in the oily waters of the fetid pool. She felt a sudden chill.

“To the theatre of the people.” Paul gave a feral grin. “To the morgue!”

~

 
“The theatre of the people?” Theo looked at the long line gathered to enter the morgue. Despite her doubting tone, she knew Paul was right. Parisians considered the whole of their city a stage to enact the drama of their daily lives. Yet why would anyone choose to play out a scene here, unless they had to? At least the catacombs possessed a morbid glamour.

“The show is free and changes frequently,” Paul said, glancing down the line waiting outside the sober building. “Of course, you must provide your own dialogue.”

“The only problem is when the actors are absent.” Casimir gestured to the crowd. “When there are no corpses to provide entertainment, the people riot.”

Theo looked about, fighting uneasiness. The carnival atmosphere she had witnessed before was gone. Parents kept their children close and shushed them if they became loud. The line was dominated by women with fervid eyes and tear-streaked faces. They sighed vastly to draw attention, then squeezed out another tear so they could dab at their eyes and display the expensive lace on their handkerchiefs. Some obviously imagined themselves the next Sarah Bernhardt, but a few wrenched Theo’s heart. They looked so haunted, so fearful of discovering the child within was their own.

Paul pointed to one. “
Le Fausset
comes often.”

The faucet. Theo winced. “All that grief is just for show?”

“If it’s not for amusement, then she’s crazed.” As usual, Paul adopted a scornful pose. A little ahead of her, Averill looked agitated and Casimir concerned. Jules appeared oddly peaceful. His lips moved as if whispering a prayer. The Hyphens clearly wished they were elsewhere but had not dared refuse Paul’s challenge.

Theo struggled to maintain her poise as they approached the door. The feverish atmosphere infected her. She felt like ants were crawling all over her skin. Only a week ago, she had stood in just such a snail-paced line with Mélanie and Carmine to see the cinema. Closing her eyes against that memory, Theo saw instead the black train rushing off the screen, drowning them in darkness.

“Soon now,” Casimir whispered. Theo opened her eyes. He was speaking softly to Averill, who stared fixedly at the door ahead.

Finally, they entered the public viewing room in the center of the building. It was cold inside. Ahead of them stretched an enormous window with green curtains. Inside
la salle d’exposition
, framed like a department store display, were a dozen black marble slabs in two rows. Today three bodies were laid out in the front, naked except for a cloth draped across their hips. Their clothes were hung nearby to help with identification. They were adults, a man and two women. No children. Then Theo glimpsed a small figure at the far end, almost out of sight, seated on a cloth-draped chair. Did they do that to make the children seem more alive? It seemed even creepier. Some sort of fabric draped the body, but no clothes hung beside her. Averill must have found the little girl naked. The small body posed on the chair was pathetic and disturbing. There was no way the morgue could create any feel of normal life. Theo felt even queasier than before.

The crowd thickened around the last window, blocking the little girl from sight. The bodies before her were given only cursory attention as everyone waited for their vision of pathos.

Suddenly, Jules laughed loud enough to be hushed. He twitched nervously then looked abashed. “Forgive me.”

The line moved until they stood directly in front of the window. A muscular old man lay on the first black marble slab. He had a jutting nose, a strong jaw, and a mane of grey hair almost to his shoulders. He reminded Theo enough of the uncle who raised her to sadden her. Her eyes stung with tears but she blinked them back. The present was sad enough. Pushing old grief aside, she looked at the man again. The clothes hanging beside him looked like a farmhand’s Sunday best. Theo guessed he had come into Paris seeking adventure. Had he been robbed? There was a mark on his head. Was it a killing blow, or had he only fallen? She moved on past two women lying on the next slabs. One looked bloated by the river, her clothes little more than rags. The other had slashed her wrists. Beside her was a garish dress and clashing feather boa.

Averill had already moved on, his gaze fixed on the little girl’s body in the chair. Theo stopped, looking down, letting him have his moment with her. She glanced behind her. Casimir was hanging back as well. All the Revenants were ready to offer succor but only if Averill needed it. Theo heard the crowd muttering, urging them to move forward. A flash of anger warmed the cold gloom that had settled on her. Averill looked wretched yet utterly rapt. Deciding he’d spent long enough alone, Theo came to stand beside him. She tried not to look into the window, studying her feet instead. The old man, the sad women, had been awful enough. Then her own cowardice angered her. An artist must look at grief, at ugliness, as well as joy and beauty.

And so Theo looked, really looked, at the little girl sitting on the chair.

A cold hand squeezed her heart, her throat. For a moment she could not breathe and choked on her own silence. The name came out a whisper. “Alicia.”

Averill turned to her. “Theo?”

“I know her!” Everyone in the morgue turned to look at her. Most looked puzzled. Theo realized that she had spoken in English. Her voice still catching, she whispered in French, “Averill, I know her.”

He stared at her, his eyes wide. “Who is she?”

“She was at the fire,” Theo gasped. “I saved her from the fire.”

“Are you sure?” Casimir asked, moving closer.

“Yes. Yes! I saved her but she’s here. She’s dead.”

Suddenly it was all back. Alicia clung to her as screams and fire rose up around them. Mélanie staggered toward her, dressed in flames. She held out another child as Theo was lifted away to safety. She was saved. Alicia was saved—

Alicia was dead.

Theo sank to her knees. Shaking. Sobbing. Coldness poured over her. She was drenched in grief, drowning in death. Averill knelt beside her, put his arms around her, held her. She loved him then and hated him. He had brought her here, to see death. To see that everything was pointless. She drew back, struck him hard with her fists.

“Alicia! The name of your poem is Alicia,” she cried.

He gripped her wrists, his hands hard. His voice was soft, urgent. “Theo! Theo…don’t.”

“Theodora, control yourself,” Paul said coldly.

Averill did not try to make her behave. He pulled her against him. Held her tighter.

“Let her cry, Noret. Don’t be a beast,” Casimir hissed angrily.

“This is why they have the display,” Paul said. “It is not just a bread-and-circus spectacle. You can identify her, Theo. That is more useful than your tears.”

“Yes, Theo. Paul is right.” Averill kissed her forehead. His lips were soft. Theo shuddered. She pulled back and looked at him. His eyes were filled with concern.

“Theodora,” Paul repeated sharply.

She looked beyond him. Everyone in the morgue was staring at her. Now she was part of their drama. She wanted to scream at them. Hit them. She wanted to vanish. Theo choked back her sobs. “I know her first name, that’s all.”

“The police do not know her first name. They do not know that she was at the fire.” Paul beckoned the guard, who was already watching them closely.

“Please, Theo, stand up.” Averill slid an arm under her elbow, helped her to rise. But the black sea of meaninglessness pulled her down again. Her knees buckled. Casimir moved swiftly to her other side, helping Averill lift her. She stood between them, her legs like jelly. They waited until she steadied. Lips close to her ear, Averill whispered, “Can you walk?”

“Yes.” Theo pulled away from them both. Slowly, she began to walk toward the door the guard indicated. Averill had found Alicia. Tortured. Alicia had trusted her, and Theo had abandoned her to a death more hideous than the fire.

She stumbled and Averill was there, gripping her arm. “Theo, let me help you.”

Theo could not fight him again and leaned closer. She could not ward off the memory of Alicia’s tight, fragile embrace. Unable to stop herself, Theo looked back.

Vipèrine stood in front of the window where Alicia was displayed.

He was smiling.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It begins as it ends, with the laughter of children.

But poison now insinuates into our veins,

even after the trumpets resound,

summoning back the ancient discords.

~ Arthur Rimbaud

MICHEL was instructing two detectives to follow Vipèrine when a guard hurried up to him. A woman had recognized the girl on display. Following him back to the hallway, Michel was stunned to discover Theo Faraday sitting on a bench with four Revenants clustered around her. She lifted a tear-streaked face. Seeing him, she looked startled—then angry. Why angry?

“Mlle. Faraday.” He nodded formally. “Monsieur Charron.”

“Inspecteur Devaux.” Charron’s eyes flared defiance.

Had Michel found his Laurent after all? But if Charron had any culpability, he was now
en garde.
As were they all, he thought, introducing himself to the others. Noret he was informed about, the baron was a known dandy and vicious duelist. The self-effacing one, Jules Loisel, he had seen with Vipèrine. “First I would like to speak to Mlle. Faraday, then each of you separately. Please do not discuss what has happened with each other.”

Charron said, “Mlle. Faraday should have an escort.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“I will be fine,” she replied steadily enough, but she sounded hoarse.

“This is ludicrous,” the baron said. “Mlle. Faraday can tell you the name of the little girl. Other than that, we have no information of value to you.”

“Monsieur Charron has already provided important testimony in this case. You may have information you do not know you possess.” To mollify them, he added, “I realize that this is an unpleasant task.”

The men glowered but did not protest. Michel opened the door to the office and gestured Theo to the chair in front of his desk. He regretted he had not been observing the parade of spectators when she came through. As he watched, her hands clenched and unclenched the black gabardine of her skirts. She continued to wear mourning for her friend. Her jaw was set, and her eyes flashed. Was her anger a defense against the shock?

“Can I bring you water. A sip of brandy?”

She shook her head. “No—thank you.”

“You recognized the victim we have on view in the morgue?”

“Victim!” She lowered her face, so he only glimpsed her fury. She clenched her fists tighter. Finally, she choked out, “It’s Alicia.”

“Alicia?” For a second the name meant nothing. Then he remembered. Something dark and chill settled over him. “The girl you saved from the fire?”

She nodded. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it.

“You are certain?” He did not doubt it. He only wanted her to keep talking.

“Mélanie died!” she burst out furiously. “She died saving the children—and all for nothing. Alicia is dead! Murdered!”

Michel waited, giving her time to regain control.

Theo drew a long harsh breath, glaring at him. “The other little girl—the red-haired little baby girl—is she safe? Are any of them safe?”

“I cannot be certain now,” Michel admitted, “but I presume so.”

“You presume?” Theo was visibly shaking now.

“I was not in charge of the children, Mlle. Faraday. I was not even present in an official capacity,” he reminded her quietly. It was true, but guilt carved into his gut. “Many people were simply trying to help the injured. The woman who organized the children was the wife of one of the hotel workers.”

“Anyone could take them! A killer did!”

“She would have felt only relief to have a child claimed,” he said. “But even with the chaos surrounding the destruction of the bazaar, it was a huge risk to kidnap even one child.”

“Not if the killer said the orphanage sent him. Alicia was blind!”

Blind.
Michel felt his professional composure falter, remembering the terrible suffering the child had endured. He looked away then made himself meet Theo’s accusing glare. “We will talk to the school, and interview the woman again.”

Theo shook her head, choked with anger. For a moment she studied her hands, twisting in her lap. At last she said, “I know it is not your fault, or hers.”

“The only fault is her killer’s, mademoiselle.”

But he felt ashamed of his failure and knew the hotel worker’s wife would as well. Michel had spoken to her only once, to thank her. One or two children remained at that time. Could Alicia have been taken when the woman’s back was turned? Surely the girl would have struggled, cried out. Did she believe her killer was sent to claim her? The chill he felt deepened. The killer could have known her name. He could have overheard it. Or he could have been told it—by Theodora Faraday. She was quick, but he didn’t think it had occurred to her. Yet.

“You have great physical courage, Mlle. Faraday,” he said. “You must find another kind of courage now. You saved Alicia from the fire, but not from her final fate. Now you can help us find her killer.”

She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I will do anything I can.”

He believed her. “Alicia did not tell you her last name?”

“We gave each other our first names.” She flinched. Michel knew she was remembering the moment when he held her—prevented her from rushing back to try and save her friend.

“Was that the last time you saw Alicia?”

“I saw her outside, the one time. I hugged her.” She swallowed hard. “I meant to go back but realized that I had to speak to Madame Bessett.”

“Why did you come today?” he asked. “You did not recognize her photograph in the paper, or seeing her here would not have been such a shock.”

“I couldn’t look at it. I’d seen so much death.” She could barely hold back her tears.

“Please, mademoiselle. Tell me why you came to the morgue.”

“Averill—Monsieur Charron—wanted to see her again.” Suddenly she was stiff. “You know he found her body in the cemetery? He was concerned that she had not been identified.”

“So, you thought you might recognize her?” Perhaps she would tell him more if she kept correcting him.

“No.” She regarded him warily now. “I…we…only wanted to help Averill…Monsieur Charron.”

“All of you came to support him?”

She hesitated. “Some came as a challenge. Facing death.”

“Yes, that is a common reason,” he said. “A common excuse as well.”

“It is a common need.” Anger flared in her eyes.

He thought she was not defending herself but her friend. He prodded her. “Was that Monsieur Charron’s reason?”

Theo squared her shoulders but did not meet his gaze. “Finding Alicia’s body upset him. He began a poem about her. He needed to see her again to finish the poem.”

“To finish his poem,” Michel repeated without inflection.

Now she glowered at him. “Yes. It was a way to confront the terrible things he felt, to face them and move on.”

“Or to embrace them,” Michel said. He probably should not goad her. She was visibly shutting herself off from him. Charron was a friend. A lover? A relative? Except for hair color they looked oddly alike.

“I have been drawing the fire,” she challenged. “Not to embrace it, but because it burns in my brain. Is that so hard to understand?”

“No. I understand.” But Michel did not think Theodora had the same perverse sensibility as her poet friends. She wanted to be wild, perhaps even wicked in a small way. She did not know that small ways were like small tears in the soul that let evil drip in. That could be ripped wider to let it pour in. “How did you become acquainted with the Revenants?”

“My…guardian…is Monsieur Charron’s uncle. I was invited to stay with his family when I arrived in Paris. Averill liked my drawings and introduced me to his friends. It was an incredible opportunity.” Suddenly she stood, vibrating with anger. “I have told you everything I know.”

“Very well.” He knew where she lived, after all, if he needed to speak with her again.

At the door she turned back to him, still furious. “That horrible man was here today—Vipèrine. He likes to imagine himself as Gilles de Rais, who murdered more children than they know how to count. Why don’t you question him?”

“I have, mademoiselle.” It was a half-truth, or half-lie, and he felt cheapened by it. So he added, “And I will again.”

Vipèrine had appeared at the morgue early this morning then returned this afternoon. Each time he brought some fawning acolyte, first a young man—the Revenant Michel had recognized—then a pretty girl. He hoped Vipèrine would not manage to elude his detectives. He wanted to know where the man had his current lair. If he needed any more proof that Vipèrine had broken into his apartment, it was the surprise on the serpent’s face. He had expected Michel to be dead by now.

Michel escorted Theo to the corridor, then summoned Averill Charron. He had dark circles under his eyes but managed to make fatigue look poetic.

“You have not been sleeping well, Monsieur Charron.”

Taking the offered seat, Charron regarded him with cold disdain. “Finding mutilated bodies gives me nightmares.”

“The Revenants is the chosen name of your group, is it not? So the idea of embracing revived corpses is not repugnant?”

Charron glared. “Of course it’s repugnant—except as symbol.”

“Does Alicia haunt you? You’ve been writing a poem about her.”

“You can draw the darkness out of yourself…put it on paper,” Charron replied. “You cannot escape what is terrible, but you can transform its ugliness into beauty.”

“You would not be someone then, who seeks out the darkness, creates the darkness, in order to have a subject for your art?”

“No,” Charron answered sharply. But when faced with Michel’s silence, he added, “Yes, but no more than any other poet. Darkness and light. Beauty and terror. ”

“You told me you were not Laurent. Yet you are here to view the corpse that you found during a morning stroll in the cemetery.”

“You make it sound, make it feel, like something other than it is. I told you—if I am depressed, the trees, the graves, can be soothing. Cemeteries are preternaturally quiet.”

“Does it bother you that Death has the ultimate power? Do you wish to take the power for yourself?” Had Charron wanted to make certain that Theo saw his handiwork? To show her the futility of her rescue?

“Stop making me out to be a murderer.”

“Is that what I am doing?” Michel asked.

“Yes. That is exactly what you are doing.” Charron scowled at him. “I can’t decide which is more offensive, when you pretend to be more stupid than you are, or more clever.”

“Perhaps you created the murder in order to create the poem. The pose you chose for the girl was most picturesque.” Michel opened the folder beside him and dealt out the crime scene photographs.

“Stop it!” Charron stood up. Pale blue irises blazed against the bloodshot whites of his eyes. But he gazed at the photos with horrified fascination. Did he feel horror after the fact? Feign it? Or was he what he said, an artist obsessed with a fearful creation?

“Will you be able to finish your poem now, Monsieur Charron?”

Charron regarded him with loathing. “With your help, it is guaranteed.”