You Slay Me

by Katie MacAlister

  "Free?" I asked, blinking, my voice rough and hoarse from talking so long. I was a bit groggy from lack of sleep and food, but I didn't think 1 was quite to the point where I was hallucinating. Yet. "Free as in I can leave? Walk out of here? You're not charging me with murder?"

  Inspector Proust made a sort of a half-shrug that I'd seen several times during the course of the night. Al­though he'd been awake the night through, as well, he didn't look as if he was the least bit troubled by lack of sleep. "You say you had nothing to do with Mme. Deauxville's death, so I have no grounds to charge you. Unless there is something else you'd like to tell me?"

  I smiled at the question in his soft brown eyes. "I didn't kill her, honest. I don't know who did, unless Drake murdered her, and he says he didn't, but then, he lied to me about being an Interpol agent, and he stole my dragon, so how much of what he said can I really be­lieve? Besides, he's too handsome. I don't trust hand­some men like that. They think they're god's gift to women, and they go around grabbing you and kissing you and smelling really nice, and making your legs turn to mush when you're pulled up tight against them, not to mention filling your head with all sorts of really wicked thoughts about what you'd like to do to them with a small bowl of ice cream and your tongue. Well, not your tongue, my tongue. And speaking of that, just how did he know the aquamanile was gold?"

  Inspector Proust watched me silently for a moment,

  gently tapping a pencil against his chin. "Francois, my driver, will take you back to your hotel. I believe you are in need of sleep, Mile. Grey. If you can think of anything else that would help us, you will please contact me at the number on the card."

  I looked down at the white card that had somehow ma­terialized in my hand. It was at that point that I realized I was not only babbling almost incoherently, but I truly was being released, as well. No ratty damp jail cell for me, woo-hoo!

  "You'll let me know if you capture Drake, won't you? 'Cause my uncle is going to kill me if I don't recover that aquamanile. He's going to say it's my fault that Drake stole it, and that he'll have to reimburse Mme. Deauxville's family if I don't find it, and you know, I just honestly don't think I could ever make that much money, not with Alan—he's my ex-husband and a beach bum— leeching everything off me. So you'll tell me? If yon find Drake? Or my dragon?"

  A grim little smile played around Inspector Proust's lips. "You may rest assured, mademoiselle, if we meet up with a man calling himself Drake Vireo, I will notify you immediately."

  "He didn't believe me," I said softly to myself as I sat in the sunny hotel dining room, the remains of eggs and croissants littering the plate before me. I checked the tiny coffeepot, poured the last bit of it into my cup, and tried to force my brain into some fruitful thinking. Two things were obvious—I had to clear my name with the police before they would let me have my passport, and I needed to find Drake and get my dragon back. Surely the Amer­ican Embassy could help with the former.

  "Step one, buy new clothes. Then go to the American Embassy and throw myself on their mercy." I looked in my neck pouch. The money I had left was meant to last only through that morning, no more. But I had my plane ticket. Since Uncle Damian only used cash to buy such things, it meant I could cash the ticket in. That should keep me from starving. The hotel bill was another matter. I knew that Beth had paid for the first night with the company credit card—maybe I could just tell the hotel to bill the rest. It was worth a try. With the hotel and money for food and a change of clothes taken care of, I could concentrate on the two issues at hand—proving to the police that I wasn't guilty of anything other than hav­ing extremely bad luck, and getting the dragon back. I'd worry about how I would get home later.

  "First things first," I said as I marched over to the lobby phone. I pulled out the grubby card Rene the taxi driver had given me and dialed the cell-phone number on it.

  Ten minutes later, Rene pulled up opposite the hotel, a grin on his face that faded when he took in my rumpled, bloodstained dress. "You look as if you have just visited a foie gras factory. What has happened to you?"

  "It's a long story, way too long to tell you here. Did you mean what you said? You'd be my driver for the morning for fifty euros? No limit on the number of stops and stuff?"

  Rene got out of the car and opened the back door for me, his blue eyes narrowing as I fingered my neck pouch. "You will stay in Paris, yes? No drives to Marseilles or Cannes?"

  I gave him a wry grin. "I don't know anyone in Mar­seilles or Cannes, whereas I know three people in Paris— you, a very bad man named Drake, and Inspector Proust of the criminal investigation department. I just have to hope that Drake hasn't left Paris."

  "Inspector Proust?" Rene sputtered, but he didn't stop me as I climbed into his taxi. "You have had dealings with the police?"

  "I said it was a long story. If we're go on the fifty euros for the morning, then would you please take me first to a nice but cheap shop so I can get out of this grungy dress? My bag was stolen, and I don't have anything else to wear. I promise I'll tell you all about yesterday while we're on the way."

  He shot me a look that contained at least a dozen ques­tions, but then got back into the car, flipping off the taxi meter. "I will take you to La Pomme Purfiee. It is a shop run by the wife of my cousin. Berthilde will give you a special price."

  "Special sounds good as long as it's cheap. Oh, before we go there, I need to swing by and cash in my plane ticket. Is that on the way?"

  His dark gaze met mine in the mirror. 'Won. But I will make it in our path. Now you will commence with your story. I am very much looking forward to hearing it."

  By the time I'd cashed in my plane ticket (feeling a couple of twinges of guilt about that since I didn't pay for it in the first place) and visited the shop Rene recom­mended, I had made it through most of the story. The last bit was told as I stood in a curtained dressing room, try­ing on a couple of summer outfits, answering Rene's questions while I tried to decide between a very chic beige linen sleeveless tunic and matching pants, or a sexy 1930s-looking dress with big red poppies on it.

  "What did Inspector Proust say when you told him about this man who stole your dragon?" Rene asked.

  I parted the curtains and did a little twirl in front of where he sat waiting for me. "What do you think, too girly? I kind of like the poppies, but the other outfit is more sophisticated."

  He did the Gallic shrug I'd seen earlier. "It is very nice/as well. Why do you not take both?"

  I did a little mental arithmetic. The two outfits with ac­companying underwear would eat up almost a quarter of my meager funds. Still, I was in Paris, buying authentic French clothes.... "What the heck, I'll just eat cheap for a few days. The answer to your question is nothing. In­spector Proust didn't seem to care anything about Drake. To be truthful"—I did a spin in front of the mirror, en­joying the way the dress flared out—"I don't think he be­lieved me about Drake."

  Rene didn't say anything. I turned back to him, my hands spread in front of me. "I'm telling the truth, Rene. I know it sounds fantastic, but it's the truth. You believe me, don't you?"

  He stood slowly, waving to his cousin's wife, who was arranging a display in the shop window. "You do not have the air of a murderer. I believe you. But I am not the one you need to convince, eh? You must convince the inspec­tor that you are telling the truth."

  "Easier said man done. I don't know how to go about proving I didn't do something."

  I waited while Rene spoke rapidly to Berthilde, who took the linen pantsuit and my stained dress, putting them both in a tote bag.

  "It is difficult, yes, but there is no need for you to de­range yourself. I will take you wherever you need to go, yes? And with me helping, we will solve this little prob­lem of yours."

  I paid Berthilde, thanked her, and stepped out into the sunny June morning. "I appreciate the help—I truly do—I'm just at a loss as to how to start proving that I'm innocent, and where to look for Drake."

  Rene muse
d as we strolled down the street to where he'd parked his taxi. Paris on a sunny summer morning was a delight—if you discounted the blare of horns, the variety of music spilling from shops with doors flung wide open (no two shops seemed to have their radio tuned to the same station), and the air heavy with the smell of gasoline. Still, it was Paris, and even though I was having the worst time of my life, I was determined to embrace the City of Light.

  "Me, I think in order to find out who killed Mme. Deauxville, you need to know who drew the magic circle on the floor. Once you find that person, you will prove to monsieur I'inspecteur that you did not do the crime."

  I couldn't keep a little giggle from slipping out at the sly look Rene gave me. The lack of sleep was definitely making me silly. "This isn't some sort of mystery story, Rene. I'm not Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I'm not even Miss Marple. I'm just an extremely tired American who is probably this close to being sent to the guillotine for a murder she didn't commit. And even if I did manage to find out who killed Mme. Deauxville, my uncle will kill me for losing the aquamanile."

  "Stop hitting your biscuit—we will figure it all out."

  I blinked at him. (I seemed to be doing that quite a bit lately.) "Huh? Stop hitting my biscuit? What biscuit?"

  His hands danced in the air as he tried to explain. "Yes, yes. Stop hitting your biscuit. Stop being angry at your­self because you cannot proceed."

  "Oh. Stop beating my head against a wall?"

  He made a face, pulling out his keys to unlock the car doors. "My expression is more elegant, but yes, the idea is the same. As for the situation with Mme. Deauxville and the man who stole your dragon, how do you know the two things are not related?"

  I paused as he opened the door, staring at him as my tired brain hashed that idea over. "Drake said he didn't kill Mme. Deauxville. I know he lied about the other things, but he... he just didn't seem like a murderer. And besides, if he was, he could have killed me the sec­ond I walked into the apartment, and he didn't. But he did call the cops. That's definitely a point in his favor."

  Rene patted my hand. "He might not have killed the old woman, but what was he doing there?"

  "I don't know. I asked, but he evaded the question." My eyes opened wide as something occurred to me. Yeah, yeah, you probably thought of this hours ago, but hey! I'd been up all night. Cut me a little slack. "Do you think he drew the circle? He didn't act like he did. In fact, he questioned me about whether or not it was complete, just before he went off about demons being summoned by the circle."

  "Demons? The circle was to attract demons? You mean the little devils?"

  I got into the car. "Well... kind of. Technically demons are the servants of the demon lords, who are the main warriors of Hell, each responsible for varying num­bers of legions. The legions are made up of demons, greater and lesser, all of whom are bound to their lords— servants, if you will, whom the demon lords can call, and who can be summoned by mortals who invoke the mas­ter's name. The demons themselves are an interesting group—according to my research, there are several dif­ferent types of demons, each with specific abilities and levels of competence. One book I read claimed that not all demons were actually evil; some were simply mis­guided or mischievous."

  Rene shot me another look over his shoulder as he slid behind the steering wheel.

  I grinned. "It's my hobby. I study medieval demon texts. They're really interesting, and offer quite an insight into how the medieval mind dealt with the concepts of heaven and hell, but unlike Drake, I don't believe demons actually exist."

  He made a relieved moue. "I am happy to hear so. I think, however, you have the answer to the question you asked earlier—how to find M. Drake the dragon thief: There is a strong occult society here in Paris. No doubt someone in it will have heard of him and will know how you can find him."

  That made sense, but... "I have no idea if he's still in Paris or not. For all I know, he could have taken my dragon and run."

  Rene shrugged again and yelled something that sounded like an obscenity out the window to a man on a bike who dashed in front of him. "It is, perhaps, the only lead you have, yes?"

  "Yes," I agreed, feeling like I was a hundred years old. My whole body felt fragile, as if one touch would shatter me into a gazillion pieces. "It is the only lead I have. I really should go to the American Embassy, but I got the feeling from the police last night that they wouldn't be much help. I suppose I could call them later, after I chase down my nebulous lead. Any ideas on how I get in con­tact with the dark side of Paris?"

  As it turns out, he did. We started out by visiting oc­cult bookstores, but the people there didn't seem to know too much. We stopped for an early lunch (bread, cheese, and sliced ham from a small shop), then headed into the Latin Quarter, where Rene said he knew of a shop that catered to the witch trade.

  A short while later I was negotiating my way down a street made dark by narrow alleys and tall buildings. The air smelled of spices and incense and something earthy that I couldn't pinpoint. Rene had dropped me off a block away, giving me directions to the shop before he dashed off to take care of a prearranged appointment.

  "I will pick you up right here in an hour, yes?"

  "Yes," I said. "And thanks, Rene. I'd be lost without you. Literally!"

  "Just remember what I taught you to say if anyone an­noys you," he said, wagging his finger at me.

  I cleared my throat and tried on a little sneer that Rene said would go far. "Pardonnez-moi, mais avez-vous un pore-epic coince entre lesfesses?"

  He cackled and waved, one hand on the horn as he drove through the crowded streets.

  "Yeah, right, like 'Excuse me, but do you have a por­cupine wedged between your buttocks?' is going to save me from being cursed or whatever it is witches do." I looked at the directions on the slip of paper Rene gave me and started off down a dark little alley named Rue d'Ebullitions sur les Fesses de Diable, which Rene in­formed me with no little mirth was translated as "boils on the buttocks of the devil street."

  Could my life get any stranger?

  "Yes. yes it can," I said a few minutes later as I stepped into a surprisingly well-lit shop. After visiting all the dark, murky occult bookshops, shops that seemed to thrive on dirt and the merest hint of sunlight through grimy, unwashed windows, Le Grimoire Toxique ('The Poisonous Grimoire") was a pleasant change. Flowering plants lined window boxes beneath the shop's two (clean!) windows, and the inside was not only bright and cheery, but also smelled pleasantly of frankincense. The wall opposite the door was filled with the big glass jars I associate with old-time apothecary shops, each labeled with a violet tag. To the right were books and what looked like a large tarot-card section; to the left, a short, salt-and-pepper-haired woman was seated behind a long wooden counter, reading a paper and sipping coffee.

  "Bonjour," I said, mindful of Rene's warning of com­mon courtesies. "Parlez-vous anglais?"

  The woman looked up. Her eyes were a pale, pale blue, the kind of blue you see on Siberian huskies. "Yes, I do, although I do not have much opportunity to speak it. You are American?"

  "Yup."

  "How delightful. I am Amelie Merllain."

  I set my tote bag on the floor, reaching over to shake her hand. "Aisling Grey."

  "I am most pleased to meet you. How can I help you?" A fat black Welsh corgi waddled over and started nosing in my bag. Amelie scolded her. "Cecile! That is very poor manners to show a visitor."

  "Oh, that's OK," I said, pulling my bag out of the dog's reach. I set it on the counter, bending down to pat her, but the little beast snapped at me.

  "Cecile!" Amelie pointed to a small maroon dog bed and ordered the dog to it. "My apologies. She is very eld­erly and feels that gives her the right to be surly."

  "No problem. I was wondering if you would happen to know—"

  "Teh," she interrupted, brushing at the counter where my clothes had spilled out of the tote bag. "Dragon scales. They get everywhere, no?"

  I stared at her
. With my mouth open. "I beg your par­don?"

  "Dragon scales," she said a little louder, brushing something off the counter. She tugged at my gauze dress that was peeking out of the bag, pulling it out and show­ing me the neckline. "Here, you see? Dragon scales. They are all over your dress."

  I looked, my mouth unfortunately still hanging open. There was a slight iridescent powder on the left shoulder and neck of the dress. "Um ... dragon scales?"

  "Yes. You must have been with a dragon recently."

  I blinked a couple of times, but you know, I think I'm going to give up on blinking as a turbocharger for my brain. It didn't seem to be working. "Dragons as in the big fire-breathing creatures with wings and an aversion to saints named George, those sorts of dragons?"

  Amelie snorted and pushed my dress back into the bag. "Don't be ridiculous. What sort of dragon do you know who would walk about in his animal form? He would be captured immediately and put to those horrible tests the scientists so love."

  "I don't know any dragons," I said hastily, wondering if Paris had become a city of lunatics. First demons and now dragons? Maybe my name was Alice and I had slipped into Wonderland without knowing it.

  "If that is your dress, you most certainly do know at least one dragon," she said sharply, frowning at me. "Where is your portal?"

  I started to blink, but decided to go for the suave look instead. I raised my eyebrows and leaned one hip against the counter. "My portal? What portal would that be?"

  "The portal that you guard. You are a Guardian—it is not difficult what I ask. Where is your portal?"