Floats the Dark Shadow (48 page)

“No jest. His name is Zacharie Corbeau.”

“He is involved in these murders?”

“Yes, very. But not alone.”

“I knew him only as a guide. He had an extensive knowledge of the more unusual brothels.” Averill realized the implication of that and scowled at Michel. “None with children—or none that we visited.”

“You should not have lied.”

“I did not lie!” Anger ignited in his eyes. “I was not sure he was the man you meant. I was not certain why you brought up his name. Why should I make myself look guiltier than I did already—or tangle someone else in your web?”

He had not wanted to tangle Casimir, Theo realized.

Averill slammed the desk with his fists. “I believed Vipèrine was the killer,”

“For a time,” Michel said. “Then you only wished to believe it.”

“You don’t know my mind. I feel like a child given a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces hidden.”

“When did you last see Corbeau?”

“He was often our driver a year ago but not so much recently.”

“Your driver—and Casimir’s.”

“Anyone can hire a carriage.”

“All the victims are known to at least one of the Revenants,” Theo reminded him. Averill glared at her like an enemy, then looked away.

“Tell me any link you know to these missing children.” Michel began to go through them in order, their names, their parents’ occupations, where they’d lived.

As the names went by, Averill looked more horrified but still he battled. “Corbeau often drove us around Montmartre and many other places. But he did not clamber down and talk to children. Casimir did not halt the fiacre and point them out.”

“Dondre,” Theo broke in. When Averill turned to her, she said. “Dondre was the boy who guided us through the catacombs.”

Averill closed his eyes. He shuddered. “The catacombs.”

“It must be Casimir,” Theo whispered, not wanting to believe it, except that it meant Averill was innocent.

He shook his head vehemently, refusing to look at her. “No.”

Theo reached out and took his hands, grateful that Michel did not stop her. “Matthieu will be tortured and murdered. Help us.”

He raised his head and met her gaze, hiding nothing. “How can I accuse him?”

“Did Casimir give you
Là Bas
?” Michel asked.

“Yes. But that was years ago. He even researched the archives,” Averill paused, totally puzzled. He turned to Michel again. “Why do you keep battering me with Gilles de Rais?”

“Why do you think?”

Averill looked faintly sick. “He kidnapped and murdered little children—but that was centuries ago.”

“And the winged cross?” Michel asked.

“The one you showed me on the gravestone?” Averill paused. “And there was the other one by the Seine.”

Michel only watched him, looking for some crack in the façade. So Theo told him, “Both Inspecteur Devaux and I discovered that the killer is signing his work with Gilles de Rais’ emblem.”

Averill looked back at Michel. “I thought the name was only a metaphor for evil—but you were trying to provoke me.”

“Yes, I was trying to provoke you. The name has taken on new life.”

Hesitantly, Averill said, “Once or twice, he asked if I’d ever been tempted to kill.”

“And you answered?”

“Only my father.” Averill’s voice was caustic. “It was
café
conversation. Nietzsche’s concept of the superman. Rimbaud’s disordering of the senses to achieve deeper knowledge.”

“Didn’t you ask if he’d been tempted to kill?” Michel asked.

“Yes.” Again Averill paused. “He said he hated his grandfather as much as I do my father.”

“Before his death?” Michel asked.

“Do you think—?” Theo broke off. As terrible as such a murder would have been, the children were worse.

“He was an old man…he fell down the stairs and broke his neck,” Averill said.

“Did Casimir ask why you did not surrender to temptation?” Michel asked.

“I said the sin would bury my soul alive,” Averill replied stiffly.

Theo sensed there was more. “And what did Casimir answer?”

“He said sin was the way to enter the furthest reaches of darkness.” Averill had stopped naming Casimir. “He said that only in utter darkness could you find your way to the pure and burning light, the holy fire that transfigures the soul.”

Michel leaned forward, intent. “There was a fire at Casimir’s estate when he was a child.”

“Yes. He said more than once that he should have died in that fire and instead…” Averill stopped abruptly.

“Someone else died there?” Michel asked at once.

“A servant girl who took care of him. He loved her. She was good to him—took terrible beatings for him.”

Theo’s vision came to life in her mind. She saw the girl in the white nightgown running through the halls. She heard the child weeping. “Jeanne. Her name was Jeanne.”

Averill looked at her, desolation on his face. “Yes,” he whispered. “She burned to death in the fire. Casimir could hear her screams. He had nightmares about her sometimes.”

“Casimir is the killer.” Theo had no doubt now. She remembered him watching the Bazar de la Charité burn, tears streaming down his face.
Fire is a terrible way to die.

Averill leaned toward her. “I remember now—Casimir said Jeanne called him her Dauphin, her little prince. He told her he would rather ride to war by her side, her soldier, defending her as she defended him.”

“Her Gilles de Rais,” Theo whispered, sick with pity and terror.

There was a silence. Then Michel stood. “I believe it, but it is not proven. Monsieur Charron, you will be escorted back to the infirmary while we search for him.”

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.