Of Fever and Blood

by Cédric Sire

  Things like wolves?

  “Doctor, one last thing. Was Judith Saint-Clair at Raynal when your patients suffered from hallucinations?”

  “Well, now that you ask,” Fabre-Renault paused to think. “I seem to recall that the hallucinations began immediately after her admission.”

  While Vauvert and Fabre-Renault talked, Leroy made a series of phone calls. He came back into the office, his face grim.

  “All right, I have some info.”

  “So?” Vauvert asked.

  “There’s a Judith Saint-Clair at that address, and we’ve got meter readings showing that somebody’s been using electricity there for the past two years.”

  “Must be her family’s still living there,” Fabre-Renault guessed.

  “I don’t think so,” Leroy said. “My buddy in the records department checked out Saint-Clair’s family situation. Her parents died five year ago. She has no other family members. And as for her, there’s no trace of a death certificate.”

  The psychiatrist frowned.

  “That’s impossible. Her parents had her sent her home. I read their letter requesting her release myself.”

  “Did you meet them? Either of her parents?”

  “No, of course not. There was no reason. The paperwork was all in order.”

  “Well then, doctor, believe me, it wasn’t anyone from her family who wrote those letters. Judith Saint-Clair must have written them herself, or she had someone else do it for her.”

  56

  Rain pelts the low-rise houses along the deserted street. Water gushes from the gutters of these homes, saturating the ground and then pooling when the ground can no longer absorb any more. The trees sway and moan in the freezing wind.

  The lone light in the house next door flicks off.

  There is no chance anyone can see her cross the garden, a dark shadow among the dark bushes.

  The key slips into the familiar lock. The door opens without a sound. She creeps into the hallway and shuts it without turning on the light.

  Everything is perfect.

  She can feel the energy rising all around her. She can hear a whisper growing louder. The gods are calling. They can smell the blood. They want more.

  She knows she is almost there.

  In the living room, with the streetlight pouring in through the window, she takes off her gloves and examines her hands, wrinkled more today than they were even yesterday.

  The reason is simple. The ceremony has been interrupted.

  But she knows that now everything will go back to the way it is supposed to be.

  As soon as she is finished with the female cop. Yes, everything will once again be as it should be.

  The thirsty gods are whispering with ever increasing insistence.

  They want the scarlet feast.

  She won’t make them wait any longer.

  She gently unfolds the velvet cloth on the table. Her wrinkled hands close around the porcelain mask that was encased in it.

  57

  In the dark, in her memories, Eva is gasping for air.

  She no longer knows where she is.

  She no longer knows how old she is. Six, or thirty, as if there were a difference. The monsters are always there.

  She has returned to a place in her mind that she has tried to keep locked away all these years. That red zone of memories that had to be isolated and banished so that she could pretend this place never existed.

  She is hurled once again into the heart of her childhood.

  She wants to move. She can’t. She’s still tied down.

  “You have to remember,” her sister whispers in her ear.

  Eva looks down. She can feel Justyna’s tiny body snuggled against hers. This little six-year-old girl who died so that she could live.

  “Justyna,” she says softly.

  “You have to accept it,” the little girl says.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s been twenty-four years. It’s about time,” Justyna insists. “You have to do it.”

  “To do what?”

  “To remember.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  “You have to.”

  “No,” Eva says in a voice that’s more like a cry.

  The little girl snuggles even closer. She softly kisses Eva’s trembling eyelids and her tears. “Now,” she whispers. “Before it’s too late.”

  Eva is sobbing.

  “I’m so afraid. If you only knew how afraid I am, Justyna.”

  She has never been so scared.

  And not knowing what else to do, she holds her sister in her arms in a corner of the living room.

  They are such vulnerable prey. Waiting, breathless, for the monster to appear.

  They did not see him kill Mrs. Rieux, but they know that is what happened. They heard the cry, short and high-pitched. They heard the crashing of glasses, pots and pans as her body was hurled across the kitchen. No need to see.

  Eva and Justyna get up, shaking. They do not look at each other. They stare at the front door. They know that only this door separates them from the street and all the people who are out there. They think about everything that Mommy has taught them. Run. Run away, making as much noise as possible to attract attention.

  And that is exactly what the two little girls with white hair do. They dash for the door, screaming.

  They almost make it.

  When the monster steps out of the kitchen and plants himself in front of the exit, blocking their way.

  The monster is a man. Tall and thin, dressed in black from head to toe.

  They can see that his hair is like theirs: as white as milk.

  And his eyes. His gaze, too, is like theirs. Two burning embers staring at them with obvious glee.

  The girls scream at the top of their lungs. They try to run in the other direction, but the man is on them. He snatches them with no difficulty at all. They fight back as best they can. Like six-year-old girls. They claw and bite him. Then he takes each one by the neck and squeezes. He pins them both against his chest. They can feel his heart pounding.

  “Oh, at last,” he says.

  Justyna tries to kick him with her heel of her shoe. The man tightens his grip on them, while out on the street, a police officer is slowly walking by.

  If only the officer would turn his head their way, if only he would peek inside the house through the window. He woukdd see them.

  The man pulls them out of view.

  The police officer glances inside the house.

  He sees nothing, nothing at all.

  Did he even really look? He continues walking until a neighbor stops him. They begin to talk less than ten yards from Mrs. Rieux’s door.

  In the entrance hall, the man finds the door leading to the basement.

  “I came for you, my sweet little things. For you and nobody else. Your mother, that slut, she really drove me nuts, you know.”

  The little girls do not understand. They are hurt. They are scared. They know what bad men do. They can see blood seeping in streams from the kitchen like languid red snakes.

  The man opens the door and tosses the twins down the stairs. They tumble, they fall, and they slam into each other.

  Standing at the top of the stairs, the man looks down at them.

  “It is time.” he says.

  He starts down the steps toward the terrified little girls.

  “It is time to wake up, little tiger.”

  Eva opens her eyes. The masked woman is standing over her.

  “You know that you talk in your sleep?”

  Eva swallows. She can hardly breathe. Six years old or thirty, it makes no difference. The monsters are always after her. She does not even know how long she has been in this basement. An hour? A day? Or has it been even longer? She can’t remember. She thinks she has already started losing her mind. Soon she is going to mistake fantasy for reality.

  She tries to pull on the rope. She has spent so m
uch time trying to cut into it, strand after strand. But the rope is still holding. Maybe she hasn’t worn it away at all. She no longer has the strength to try.

  “Who’s Justyna?” the masked woman asks.

  Eva says nothing. She will not say anything. Her heart is going wild.

  If only she could free herself. Just one hand. She is certain that she could fight back then, as she always has. Her entire life has been a fight. It cannot come to an end this way. Not now. She starts moving her wrist again. Starts working on the rope. Up. Down.

  The woman grabs her by the throat.

  Slowly, she squeezes.

  “You were talking to someone named Justyna. I heard you. Who is she?”

  “Nobody!” Eva spits out.

  Her scarlet eyes glare at the eyes behind the porcelain mask. She has nothing to lose anymore. She can defy this crazy bitch.

  The eyes behind the mask darken.

  The woman lets go of her throat. She pulls back and gives Eva a tremendous slap across her face.

  Pain courses down her neck. “You know… you are… nothing but… a sick bitch,” she manages to spit out.

  The woman stares at her with even more interest and slowly smiles. It is a predator’s smile, baring sharp teeth.

  “Sick? Interesting you should say that.”

  She slaps her a second time.

  “Why do you think I’m doing all this?”

  With the third slap, blood streams from Eva’s nose.

  “You think I’m enjoying any of this?” the woman continues.

  She brings her face close to Eva’s. Eva can feel her breath on her skin.

  “Although, actually, you get a taste for it, after a while.”

  She reaches for Eva’s face. Eva winces as the icy fingers caress her cheek. Then they caress her forehead, pushing aside her tangled hair.

  Exactly the way he caressed the little girl.

  And the look on his face—shock transformed to joy in an instant, when the knife blade stuck in the middle of his chest.

  The little girl, with all her might, thrusts it deeper into his chest.

  Eva blinks, returns to the present.

  She forces herself to remain clear-headed.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not an answer,” Eva whispers. “If you have to kill me… at least tell me why.”

  The woman’s mouth stretches into a depraved smile.

  “I told you already. It’s beyond anything you can understand.”

  Eva swallows a trickle of salty saliva. “Do you think you’re another Elizabeth Bathory?”

  Saying the name has the desired effect. The woman tilts her head.

  “Maybe you can understand, after all.”

  She straightens. She pushes the long brown locks of her wig over her shoulders. Eva has the impression that the woman is going to remove her mask but she does not. Instead, she opens the front of her dress and exposes her heavy, white breasts. She presses them together with her hands.

  Eva’s vision is blurred, but she notices something strange about that bare chest. Not the breasts, but the skin. It seems to be stained with bruises.

  58

  Outskirts of Rodez

  2 a.m.

  It had been more than half an hour since they had passed another vehicle.

  For good reason. They were not on a paved road anymore. The were driving over a rutted dirt lane in Rouergue that was barely wider than the SUV.

  Vauvert kept a firm grip on the steering wheel as he navigated around the potholes. Leroy hung onto the passenger seat and the handle above the door to avoid being tossed around the cabin. He did not dare say a word about the inspector’s driving.

  The headlights illuminated only the space immediately ahead of them, but Vauvert was not slowing down. Time was ticking, minute by minute, and it was already two in the morning. The GPS was telling him to keep driving down this tight, bumpy road, and he was doing just that.

  Judith Saint-Clair’s address was about six miles outside Rodez. It was not in a village, though. Not even a proper hamlet. They had gone through a few of those, small clusters of houses by the side of the road. They had even drive past the ruins of a small castle. That was when they were still on a semblance of road.

  “Vauvert, seriously,” Leroy finally muttered.

  He stopped in midsentence when a narrow bridge loomed in front of them. Vauvert did not let up on the gas. The vehicle sped to the other side of the bridge and bumped back onto the dirt road.

  “Seriously,” he tried again, “are you certain this is the right way?”

  “We’re almost there,” Vauvert said.

  And, indeed, just a few minutes later, the road widened and ended in front of a small house. Vauvert brought the SUV to an abrupt halt and turned off the headlights.

  “You have reached your destination,” the GPS’s synthetic voice announced.

  Vauvert turned off the engine. There was total darkness now, inside and outside the vehicle. It took them a good minute to adjust their vision. A black mass in the dark, the house stood about ten yards away.

  “Ready?” Vauvert said.

  Leroy drew his handgun from his holster.

  “Ready.”

  They opened their doors at the same time.

  59

  “Can you see?” the woman asks as she walks over to her.

  Eva squints, and she sees. The woman’s naked breasts have the deadly white color of a corpse. They are slack and wrinkled. Eva can also make out bloated veins, blue and green, under the age-damaged skin.

  “How old are you?” Eva asks.

  “About the same as you.”

  “No. That’s not possible.”

  “What would you do if such a thing were to happen to you? If suddenly your life started to fly by too quickly? If fate decided to con you? Would you just accept your lot, without doing anything?”

  For the first time, Eva notices the wrinkles at the corners of her lips below the mask. And suddenly she understands why this woman does not want to show her face.

  “What would you be willing to do? What would you be willing to give?” she hisses.

  The woman leans into her ear, and Eva feels the icy porcelain mask grazing her temple.

  “I found out. There are ways to get back at fate. Very old rituals.”

  The woman blows softly on her face.

  “Magic, you understand? Once it was a basic part of life and death. It’s still here, even after thousands of years. The gods are still here, just at the periphery of our senses. They’re the gods that we forgot about, the gods that we denied. They’re still here. They’re still waiting to be served.”

  Eva strives to remain clear-headed.

  “You sacrifice innocent lives.”

  “I have to.”

  “There are no gods listening to you,” Eva spits out. “You’re nothing but a psychopath looking for excuses to murder people.”

  The woman pushes down on Eva’s hip. The fresh wound gapes open again, sending an explosion of pain through Eva’s body.

  Eva understands what is coming next. She tenses, unable to do anything to prevent it.

  And the woman slowly drives her fingers into the wound.

  The pain, excruciating, blurs everything else.

  The woman’s face is pressed against hers.

  “Blood. That’s what attracts them. The blood feast. They would love to feed on it, but they can’t. Not directly, anyway. That’s why they demand pain… and tears.”

  She twists her fingers inside the wound.

  Eva howls, struggles against the ropes, cries huge tears.

  “The ancient people knew it,” the woman whispers in her ear. “They lived with the gods. They knew their demands, and they accepted them. Can’t you feel this energy? Can’t you hear the gods whispering?”

  All Eva can feel is that pain coursing through her. Those rivers of lava running everywhere inside her.

/>   Finally the fingers come out. The world spins. Blood starts to run down her thigh again.

  The woman brings her fingers to her mouth before putting both hands on her breasts and smearing them with blood. She squeezes her nipples, making them erect, and throws her head back. Now Eva can clearly see the skin under her throat. It is gray and stained. The skin of a mummy.

  “You’re so pretty, little tiger,” she says, leaning over her again. “So pretty, so fragile. I suppose you must use a lot of medication? And beauty products?”

  Eva gags. She is only half hearing her. She does not know what to say. Every breath is torture.

  “I know that you do,” the insane woman whispers. “Everybody uses them. Those creams. Those products that the commercials sell us, promising they will make us look more beautiful, younger. How’s that different from what I do?”

  Eva shakes her head.

  Tries to control the pain.

  She manages to utter, “That’s got nothing… to do with it.”

  The masked woman snickers.

  “Don’t you know where those products come from? Just think about it. They’re animal byproducts. There’s always an inferior life to take in order to improve your own, to erase the inevitable wrinkles, to tighten the aging skin, to regenerate sick organs. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  Eva’s heart slams in her chest. She needs to take action.

  “Just like… Bathory,” she manages to say.

  The masked woman smiles.

  “Yes. Just like her. Everything I’ve been able to do, I owe to her. The secrets were lost. Countess Elizabeth is the one who found the ways of the past again. She unearthed the secrets and the rituals. She gave her life to that end, to present the gods with blood and tears.”

  She giggles and licks her bloody fingers.

  “For this is the source of everything, isn’t it? What runs in our veins, what gives us life, what makes the gods hungry.”

  “Bathory ended up being tried… and locked up in her room,” Eva coughs before adding, “Then she died, like… the poor crazy bitch she was.”

  The woman’s face registers disappointment. She buttons her dress.

  “You don’t understand a thing after all.”

  When she comes near again, she’s holding the scalpel. The small blade, gleams in the dark.