Instead, what I said was, “You’ve made a mistake, my friend, because you are alone with me.”
But then, my ears caught the sound of a door creaking open, and Inés Dujardin crept out from another room, her face pale and streaked with tears. She stood next to the man.
I cursed to myself. I could not reveal my powers, and I also could not risk her getting hurt, and so now my hands were as tied as if I were any mortal woman.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” she said helplessly. “I have to go with him now. I have no choice.”
And in fact the brute caught her around the waist and pulled her close, so hard that he drew her off balance, and she was forced to clutch at him—but I could see there was no affection in it.
A jaunty tune began far behind me and celebratory shouts arose from the drawing room.
“I must have Inés,” said the man with the snake tattoo, his voice rough, “I need her now. You have to understand.”
“No,” I answered. “You will not leave here with her. And you will not murder her as you did Isabelle.”
He shook his head, and suddenly misery ruined his handsome features. He looked almost as if he would cry. “You can’t call that murder. That’s not fair. And anyway, it was Inés who gave her the poisoned cup.”
Inés’s face crumpled and she moaned, “I’m so sorry, Madame.”
“What?” I demanded.
Visions of Inés tipping a vial of cyanide into Isabelle’s champagne swam through my mind—but they defied reason. Inés could not be capable of such a thing, not this poor delicate creature. If she had killed someone, then everything I knew of human nature was wrong—utterly wrong.
I stalked angrily toward them, but then, all at once, the man set his jaw and then pulled a pistol from his jacket and fired it at me.
The bullet struck me in the abdomen, shoving me backward, and forcing out a gasp of surprise. Reflexively, I clasped my hand over the wound, and my face pulled into a grimace.
Inés shrieked, “Madame! Mon dieu!”
But bullets wouldn’t stop me.
I kept to my feet and advanced on him again.
The man’s face flashed surprise and alarm.
I wanted to charge him and drag him down as a lion drags down a gazelle in the wilds of Africa. But I heard concerned shouts and the sound of running feet behind me. I didn’t have time to subdue him before others arrived—others I held as precious as Inés—and he had more bullets in that gun.
Oh, the threats I wanted to give voice. But instead, as Monsieur Georges rounded the corner behind me, followed by the others, I spoke only to Inés. “My sweet girl, I will find you. Have no fear.”
The man turned and ran, with Inés in tow. He fired one shot blindly back toward us as he went. The bullet embedded itself harmlessly in a wall panel.
“It wasn’t murder,” the man shouted back roughly. “The doctor will understand.”
Then the large stained-glass window at the end of the hall shattered, and he and Inés were both gone.
The doctor will understand? I found myself at a loss.
Monsieur Georges touched my shoulder. “Do I go after them?” he asked urgently.
“No, Monsieur Georges. I do not ask you to risk your life. Call for the inspector and his sketch artist.” Already, I had committed the man’s face to my memory—and also his scent, for later hunting.
Monsieur Georges’s eyes widened, and I followed his gaze down to where I still pressed one hand against my abdomen. The front of my sky-blue dress was saturated in crimson. “Madame, you’re hurt,” he exclaimed. Others gathered around, exclaiming in terror.
I heal rapidly and did not care to be examined—but obviously it was too late to conceal the injury. Furthermore, the wound was in a place that could easily end a normal person’s life, and it would cause everyone around me too much alarm if I did nothing.
I held back a groan of frustration and instead allowed myself to collapse weakly onto a settee, surrounded by those who loved me.
Monsieur Georges helped me lie down. “I will go at once for the surgeon, Monsieur Caron.”
I couldn’t argue, though I cursed under my breath. “The injury looks far worse than it is,” I assured everyone, planning to pave the way for the fact that the surgeon would find me… not particularly harmed.
“Still, you are not to move until the surgeon comes,” Monsieur Georges insisted. He took a tea towel from a nearby serving tray and pressed it firmly against the wound. “We must keep pressure on it so that you don’t lose much blood.”
“I understand,” I said grimly.
But every moment we delayed was a moment too many.
8
Imagine my frustration, dear Reader. A brute had Inés in his possession, and I had all the power necessary to go after him and free my girl, and yet I had to lie as if helpless and await a surgeon, who was only going to find my case a puzzlement when he determined that the bullet had somehow pushed its way back out and that the wound was already knitting.
I think I could be forgiven for being cross.
I folded my hands across my stomach and waited impatiently. My ladies and servants hovered nervously nearby until I sent them away, allowing only Mademoiselle Marchand, the night maid, to remain. We waited in silence, while I couldn’t help but note the small annoyances that add insult to injury in such moments: I had spilled blood on my favorite rug, supernatural hunger was gnawing at me from my body’s efforts to heal itself, and my being shot had cast a pall over my party.
What the devil had Inés meant in saying “I’m sorry”? Was it truly a confession to murdering Isabelle? I couldn’t believe it of her. And why did this Raoul, whom I could not recall ever meeting, want to kill me and shut down my business—was it truly in retribution for Inés’s refusals? It seemed clear to me now that he’d come at it from multiple angles: frame us for murder, steal our license, and then shoot me outright. And all while taking Inés for his own? It made no sense at all.
The surgeon, Monsieur Caron, arrived in short order, his lips still greasy from his dinner and a napkin still tucked into his shirt over his stout belly. He had tufts of graying black hair clawing their way out from behind his ears.
He praised Monsieur Georges for his first aid skills, gave me a dose of morphine—which made little difference to me, as pain is more annoyance than anything else for someone of my particular constitution—and cut back my dress to expose the wound.
Mademoiselle Marchand brought a basin of water and washcloths, and the surgeon cleaned my stomach and took a closer look. As I had expected, he made puzzled hm sounds.
“Oddly enough, Madame, your wound is much slighter than I would have expected, and I do not believe surgery will be necessary. You are pale and cold, no doubt due to the blood loss…” He studied the blood on the floor and my dress and tsked thoughtfully.
I knew the small quantity of blood didn’t explain why I was pale and cold. In fact, it is a trait of creatures like me, that although our hearts do beat and give us the verisimilitude of life, our blood runs feverishly hot when we’ve newly partaken, and colder as we begin to hunger. I was very hungry now.
“Well, at any rate, I would have thought this wound to be much older and more healed than your man said,” the surgeon concluded, still perplexed.
“Oddly enough,” I agreed with all the patience I could muster. I hoped this story wouldn’t make its way around the Île. I was known for enough peculiarities as it was. “Then may I be on my way? I have important business to attend to.”
“Not at all. You must stay in bed and rest for at least a week, Madame.” He taped down a dressing. “I have seen wounds to the abdomen turn ugly faster than you could imagine, and—"
I closed my eyes in frustration, unable to conceive of lying here uselessly for days on end. “Of course, of course.” How was I going to find a way to escape my own home? I would have concerned staff checking on me every moment.
I heard Monsieur Georges in the hallway
, on the other side of the closed door, saying, “Inspector Baudet, she is injured and cannot—”
“Send him in, Monsieur Georges!” I called out. “And get me a fresh dress.”
“At once,” he answered, still unseen.
The Inspector entered as I was shooing out the surgeon.
“Bonsoir, Madame. Are you well enough to speak?” Inspector Baudet inquired with a slight bow. I thought I saw genuine concern on his face, and I humored myself in considering that perhaps he was developing some affection for me. A woman can dream, I hope.
“Certainly,” I said, pulling myself upright on the divan. “The surgeon has found me little injured, I assure you.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” he said with a slight smile.
A young man with short blonde hair and an attractive mustache, carrying a sketch pad and pencil case, followed the inspector.
“I believe I can guess at your profession, Monsieur,” I said to him with all the smile I could muster.
“Indeed, Madame,” he said and gave me a bow before he pulled up a chair and a small table upon which he unpacked his pencils, erasers, sharpeners, and so forth.
The inspector gestured toward him. “Monsieur Ravel, our sketch artist, as you surmised, Madame. Please tell us everything that happened, and then give us both all the particulars of the criminal’s appearance.”
I related everything quickly, then held the man’s face in my mind and described the swarthy skin, the greased-back black hair, the dark eyes, the raised chin. His forehead was wide and short and his eyes far apart, accentuating his snake-like appearance.
The artist was skilled, with thin, pale fingers that quivered with sensitivity, and the portrait rapidly took shape. When that drawing was complete, he did the same for Inés, for the missing persons report.
All the while, I anticipated that I would hunt the murderer myself—as soon as I could extricate myself from my butler—but I needed all the help I could get, so I had no objection to involving the police.
“Well done, Madame,” the inspector said. “Your memory for details is uncanny. I will take these portraits to the commissariat and notify all the agents to be on the lookout. I hope to be able to send your girl back to you in a short time.” He patted me briefly on the shoulder and gave me a slight smile, but I saw the concern behind his eyes. He knew how rarely the missing were returned to their families.
At the door, he glanced back at me. “Oh, and I do hope Le Chat Rose will reopen for business in short order. Is there anything we can do to assist on that front?”
I thought of Monsieur Garcia and scowled. “I’m afraid not, for now, but I will set it straight.”
“Then, bonsoir.” He bowed and went out.
Of course, nothing was a higher priority than saving Inés.
As soon as everyone else was gone, other than the groundskeepers whom Monsieur Georges had recruited to temporarily cover the broken stained-glass window at the end of the hallway, I beckoned the butler to come close. He pulled up a small chair and sat near at hand.
I adopted a low, conspiratorial tone. “Monsieur Georges, I need you to do something for me, something very important. Do you remember the man who threw such a fit when we had to shut everyone inside last night, when Isabelle’s body was first discovered?”
Upon seeing his nod, I continued, “I believe he may be the one who has taken my license and paperwork from my office – or, rather, has induced someone else to do it.”
“Could that someone else be Madame Gagnon?” he asked.
“Ah, you are perceptive, Monsieur Georges,” I said. “Speaking of whom, were you able to reach her by phone tonight?”
“No, Madame, however, I was just about to tell you that she has reported in for duty as if nothing were amiss. Except that she has a distinctly guilty air, I would say.”
“I see. Well, I will certainly need to speak with her tonight. Meanwhile, however, I need you to find out the name of that man I referred to a moment ago, and whether he has the power to have done such a thing, as he claimed he did. This task may take you out of Le Chat Rose this evening.”
“Madam, I am certain that I needed here,” he protested.
“Monsieur Georges, you are always needed here.” I put my hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “On the other hand, there is no one else here I trust as much as I trust you, and this task is critically important.”
In truth, this task was only of moderate importance. What was really important was to go after Inés. But I would be able to make no progress on that mission with Monsieur Georges hovering over me conscientiously.
Monsieur Georges looked pained. “And how do you propose that I am to learn this information?”
“Monsieur Georges, you and I both know perfectly well who on the Île always knows everything about everyone.”
He and I said at one time, “Hélène Bachelet.”
He gave me a short, snappy bow, and then he departed the room with new life in his eyes—a man on a mission.
For my part, I waited a few minutes to be sure the coast was clear, then I got up from my settee and crept into one of the back rooms. There, I opened a window, transformed into my bat shape, and flitted out into the night.
9
I followed the cologne of the tattooed man and the delicate parfum of Inés through the busy streets of the Île Saint-Louis between the banks of the Seine in the heart of Paris. Revelers and partygoers filled the sidewalks and spilled into the streets, where streetcars honked at them and the men hanging out of their car windows shouted and raised their fists in annoyance.
Women wore scanty dresses covered with enormous furs and topped with elaborate feathered headdresses, and the men wore their finest suits and top hats or bowlers, the top corners of their handkerchiefs perfectly aligned in their pockets. Live music spilled out of the nightclubs—jazz, at its most exuberant. Lovers hung halfway out of doorways and windows, their drinks in hand, flirting and laughing. The scent of Gauloises and cigars mixed with the heady scent of petrol fumes and parfum.
I flitted through it all, on the hunt.
I found them in a bare apartment above a café. Luckily, they were still on the Île, as I could not have followed them across the moving waters of the Seine. I settled onto a windowsill, folding my wings against my sides, and listened.
He was shouting at her, and to my surprise, she was shouting back.
“I didn’t want to be rescued!” she was saying. “I love my life at Le Chat Rose. Madame takes very good care of all her girls. We live in the most beautiful place you could imagine. Nothing like this.” She gestured at the bare and dusty apartment, with a single gas lamp in the ceiling. “And you know I didn’t want to leave, or else you wouldn’t have forced me to come!”
“I will take good care of you,” the man insisted, taking her by the shoulders. “I am all the man you will ever need now. Or…” Suddenly he dropped his hands and stepped away, eyeing her suspiciously. “Is that it? You can’t settle for just one man anymore, after all you’ve done in that place?”
Inés shook her head furiously. “That’s ridiculous. That has nothing to do with anything.”
He took her hands in his. “I need you, don’t you see that? I can’t go on alone. Not after…”
“I know you loved her,” Inés said. “But you don’t get to just pick out a replacement like you’re at a store.”
“Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do,” the man shouted. He raised his hand—and I had seen enough.
I flung myself through the windows, still in my bat form, and I flung myself at his head. I battered his face with my wings. He threw up his hands and tried to slap me away, crying out in surprise and horror. Inés shrieked.
And then I transformed into my human form.
“What the devil?” Raoul gasped.
“Let’s forget what just happened,” I suggested, with my enchantement in full force.
The other two gawked at me, and then stared at each other, th
en back at me.
“How did you get in here?” Raoul demanded.
Excellent. My arts had done what was necessary.
“I’ll be the one asking the questions here,” I said. “Isabel was already dying, wasn’t she? She was dying, and you had Inés give her cyanide to hurry along her death. Isn’t that what happened?”
Inés began to weep. “I didn’t know the cup was poisoned. He was acting suspicious and strange, and I was afraid, and I should have known it was something bad—but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“But there’s nothing to be sorry for,” I said gently, “if she was dying already, Inés. In fact, you could call it an act of compassion.”
My words were calculated to reach the tattooed man, and it worked. He took a step forward eagerly. “Exactly. That’s exactly it. I thought you would understand—that everyone would understand. It was the right thing to do. But then, afterward, I couldn’t go on—" His face crumpled and he put his hand over his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut against the grief.
“You couldn’t go on alone,” I said, my tone as understanding as I could make it. “And that was why you needed Inés. Who you were so taken with when you met her before.”
“That’s exactly it,” he said. “You do understand.” He had a rough sort of look, a hard and reptilian look, and when he was overpowered by his emotions, he became even more ugly.
“Was it consumption?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even and understanding. “Or hepatitis, perhaps?”
“Consumption,” Raoul said. “She had weeks to go, maybe even months, but the doctor said it would be a hard way… a hard way to…” He couldn’t go on.
“And so you gave her cyanide,” I said.
“Inés did,” he insisted harshly.
“You put the cyanide in a cup, which you then gave to Inés without her knowing,” I said, getting testy despite myself.
His face hardened. He straightened his posture and squared off with me. “You’re not getting me to confess anything. And what are you even doing here? Didn’t I shoot you? And don’t think I won’t do it again.”
The End of Isabelle Page 4
