Floats the Dark Shadow (37 page)

“Who he was. Now he is free to become someone else.” Knowing they would be on the watch for him here, Corbeau could run to another city. But if he was emotionally attached to Paris, perhaps he could not bear to leave. Or if he had a partner who shared his depravity, he might be loath to abandon their shared lust. Much depended on just how insane Corbeau was. Michel doubted he loved anything but mayhem. If he could no longer resist displaying his kills, he would be caught—eventually. But if he could control that urge, he might indulge his blood lusts for years.

“He will never be free,” Rambert said seriously. “He is doomed to repeat these crimes. They are all he is now.”

“But that is what I’m afraid of,” Michel said. “We let him escape to kill again.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

No shining candelabra has prevented us from

looking into the darkness, and when one looks into

the darkness, there is always something there.

~ William Butler Yeats

CARMINE sent a note begging off the trip to the Mathers. Her father needed help to finish a print run. Theo could hear her voice in the brisk encouragement. “They are expecting you, so go by yourself. They will not bite!”

Friday’s weather was beautiful. Theo wheeled her bicycle down to the flat boulevards and rode it across Paris. She passed three other women in bloomers en route. They all smiled and returned her wave. Susan B. Anthony said that the bicycle had done more for the emancipation of women than anything else in the world. Theo loved her outfit—azure Turkish trousers topped by an embroidered knee-length coat in iridescent peacock. Scandalized, Uncle Urbain had threatened to burn it. Such garments, such activities, led to indecent feelings. And feelings to actions, Theo supposed. For the moment at least, she felt indecently free, the sprightly breeze flowing around her all the way to the Mathers’ abode.

When she knocked, it was MacGregor who opened the door. “Ah yes, the young artist who is embroiled in darkness.” He scrutinized Theo intently. She looked down to hide her dismay. It was true enough, but his manner was so theatrical it exasperated her. He gestured her into the foyer where Moina waited, wearing one of the draped gowns that made her look like a Grecian oracle, a necklace of heavy amber glowing golden around her throat. Theo wanted to talk only with Moina, but MacGregor obviously wanted to rule the situation. Gesturing to his wife, he said, “Moina has dreamed of you, not once, but twice since we saw you. She is very sensitive, very intuitive. It is certainly significant.”

Theo looked to Moina, stunned. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Moina affirmed. “It was as if the Tarot cards came alive and I was wandering with you in the landscape of the moon.”

Doubt settled around Theo like a murky grey cloak. For a second, she clung to it eagerly. But why bother coming here if she could not believe? Moina’s dream was not that odd, given Theo’s dramatic reading. Nonetheless, it felt darkly prophetic. Carmine was not a fool and she trusted Moina. MacGregor might be self-aggrandizing, but there was a ferocious intentness about him.

Theo let the doubt fall away. “Did you find some message for me in your dream?”

Moina shook her head, smiling sadly. “No. I felt I must warn you of something, but I never discovered just what it was. It may only be that the layout Carmine did was so troubling, but I have learned to trust such dreams.”

MacGregor moved closer, his intentness demanding attention. “And you, Miss Faraday, have you had any dreams of import?”

“They have been troubled and I was happy to forget them quickly. I wasn’t looking for import—my waking life seems overly full of it.”

“When you dream,” MacGregor said to her, “you should look for Moina.”

Was that possible? What a fascinating idea. The Revenants always talked of the power of dreams. For a time Theo had written hers down, searching for inspiration for her art. But even the most vivid Moulin Rouge extravaganzas of her dreaming life never seemed to translate onto canvas for her. The waking world offered far more inspiration, even if her imagination then turned the image into something resembling a dream.

Theo followed the Mathers into the salon, where a china tea service was set out. The brew was an herbal tisane, for the fresh, pure fragrance of mint perfumed the air. Moina poured cups and handed them round. There were also a few simple sweets on a tray. Theo felt too nervous to eat so much as a biscuit, but she sipped her tea and felt the hot liquid flow through her. Unexpectedly, the brew gave her a new calmness and her mind felt clearer. She smiled at Moina, who gave her a warm smile in return. It seemed a good moment to begin, but just as Theo took out her notebook, a knock sounded at the door.

“I will send whoever it is away.” Moina went into the hall. Theo heard her open the door and then the low sound of voices. After a moment, she returned, but not alone. A tall, slender man came with her. Theo recognized William Butler Yeats, an Irish poet she had first met at Verlaine’s funeral. His poems were often mystical. Since he knew the Mathers, his interest in the occult must run deep. They exchanged greetings, then Moina said, “Mr. Yeats dropped by to bid us adieu, for he is returning to Ireland. His arrival seems fortuitous for, like us, he is a student of the occult. I have asked him to stay.”

“But only if you feel comfortable with my presence. I will understand if you do not.” There was a hint of Irish lilt in his voice and his paced speech differed little from the way he chanted his poetry.

Impulsively, Theo replied, “Yes, please join us.” The poet’s
presence was like an omen that her friends were innocent. Theo knew her response was anything but rational, but she felt happier with him there.

Yeats settled himself in a chair beside her. She guessed him to be about thirty. The oval glasses he wore did not obscure the intense yet dreamy expression of his deep brown eyes. His lips were full and sensitive, but a strong nose gave his face character. He had lovely floppy hair rather like Averill’s. She remembered them sitting side by side, murmuring over a poem, their hair falling over their foreheads.

Although Yeats spent most of his time with his Irish compatriots, he had come to some of the Revenants’
café
gatherings. Averill had coaxed him to submit a poem to the first issue of the magazine, Yeats’ English version printed beside Averill’s translation into French. Theo had suggested some alternate words, even a rhyme or two, for her vocabulary was wider than Averill’s. But she did not have a poet’s unique sense of rhythm, any more than Averill could draw a landscape as easily as he could critique one. She thought the translation a great success and Yeats had seemed pleased.

Moina set down her tea and looked at Theo. “Carmine said that you needed our help. She said that the Tarot reading we did for you had come true.”

Theo nodded. “Yes, I believe it has.”

“Which cards did you draw?” Yeats asked. When she told him, he frowned. “Most difficult.”

“Yes,” Moina said. “The forbidding landscape of The Moon and The Devil hovering over all.”

“And Death at the end.” Theo felt bleak.

Yeats looked directly at her. “Do you know who this Devil might be?”

“I am trying to identify him,” Theo answered, then turned to the Mathers. “That is why I am here. I hope you can help me do that.”

“Of course. But how?” Moina asked.

“First, I must ask you all for a promise. Please don’t discuss what I tell you with anyone, not until the case is solved.” It was a small precaution in respect for Inspecteur Devaux. He would be displeased at her coming here and even more at her showing them evidence.

“I promise,” Moina said solemnly. Seated around the table, the others nodded as well.

Theo could not know that they would keep their promise, but people who practiced magic must be good at keeping secrets. Theo laid down the sketch she had done of the winged cross in her alley. She waited a heartbeat, then realized she’d been hoping for a gasp of recognition. She looked at Moina and Macgregor in turn. “This means nothing to you?”

“No, nothing,” Moina answered.

Yeats asked, “Are they bird’s wings?”

“I thought so,” Theo answered.

“Perhaps an angel?” MacGregor stared at the image intently, but Theo saw no light of recognition in his eyes. He turned the paper this way and that. “It is an emblem of some sort, I believe.”

“Of what sort?” she prompted.

“That I cannot say.” His forehead creased in thought as he groped for the memory. “The concept does seem somewhat familiar, perhaps something which I encountered in passing.”

Theo fought down a surge of frustration. How foolish to hope for an instant solution, some arcane bit of knowledge that would explain everything and point to the killer.

“A cross.” Yeats tilted his head, considering the drawing as MacGregor turned it toward him. “Wings…ascension. Perhaps transformation.”

Moina leaned toward Theo. “Why is it important?”

Meeting that warm, searching gaze, Theo went to the ghastly heart. “Children are being murdered. Only one body has been discovered—a little girl I knew. But there have been many mysterious disappearances and the police think the same man killed the others.”

“And left this mark behind?” As if it were contaminated, MacGregor pushed the sketch back toward Theo.

She did not pick it up. Perhaps it might yet spark a memory. “Yes. The same symbol has appeared several times.”

“This is terrible,” Moina said. “Do you want me to do another Tarot layout for you? Even if it does not reveal your Devil, perhaps it will point in some new direction.”

Theo shook her head. She needed substance, not mystical vision, however compelling that vision might be. “You believe magic should be used for good….”

“White magic, not black,” Moina said softly.

“But you may know others who want to control those darker forces.” Theo hesitated.

“And that we might know such a despicable person?”

MacGregor sounded as offended as Theo had feared. Yet the children’s lives were more important. If he didn’t see that, the others must. Theo appealed to them. “Haven’t you at least heard of someone like that—a black magician who would attempt some sort of ritual sacrifice?”

“Symbolic sacrifice is an old and powerful form of magic,” Yeats said.

Theo flared. “The murder of these children is not symbolic. It is horrible.”

“However horrifying, it may still be a symbol,” Yeats said quietly. “I am only saying that sacrifice is a powerful element, one that can be used for good or for ill.”

MacGregor was seething. “Fools and charlatans abound in the occult—as they do in the mundane world. But a villain such as this, who would pervert the ancient wisdom, we would shun absolutely. Such black energy can infect the minds of others.”

Theo decided to ask directly about Vipèrine, but before she could, Yeats intervened. “Macgregor, do you remember when I brought my friend to visit you in England?”

“The skeptic who yearned to believe?”

“The very one.”

“Would you perform a similar ritual for Miss Faraday? This symbol may be significant.”

Macgregor frowned. “I do not know that it is appropriate.”

“My friend was no more an initiate than she,” Yeats countered.

“Miss Faraday’s path has crossed ours for a reason,” Moina said. “Forces gather around her to which we should pay heed. We should help her in any way that we can.”

Suddenly full of purpose, Macgregor stood. “I will prepare.”

Theo swallowed her urge to protest. She had come for information, not rituals and incantations. Yet her trepidations about the Tarot were because the reading had been all too true, if all too ambiguous.

Macgregor withdrew to a far corner of the room, while Moina directed Theo and Yeats to move some of the lighter pieces of furniture aside, making the central space much longer. Macgregor opened a chest and withdrew a few objects and folded pieces of cloth. One of these, richly embroidered in jeweled hues, he lay over the chest to form a kind of dais. Atop it, he placed a small mace of golden polished wood, then propped up a tablet filled with squares of many colors. Each had a number on it. Macgregor unfolded an deep indigo robe that he donned. He picked up the mace and studied the tablet, moving a few of the squares to new positions. Then he turned to face them.

It seemed both strange and strangely simple to Theo, looking at the box with its numbered squares. The robe was painted with runes of some kind, but it was not particularly theatrical. The robe of a workaday wizard, she thought, biting back the smile that surfaced unbidden. She did sense a new concentration in MacGregor. His expression was intense but inward, absorbed in private thought or visions. Moina gestured for Theo and Yeats to stand together, facing her husband, then placed herself halfway between them, her gaze on him as well. She kept the drawing, studying it for a moment, then holding it so that Macgregor could look at it. He began to speak, a low chanting, which Moina echoed. Their resonant voices had a quiet power, but Theo did not recognize the language. It was not Latin. Was it an invocation in Greek—or perhaps in something more ancient still?