Flight of the Crow

by Melanie Thompson

  Bryn patted her shoulder. “Come upstairs. Your old bedroom is empty. You’ve stayed here many times with me. I will have Fingle move your trunk.”

  “Did you not prepare for me to be restored to my adult form?”

  “I guess I didn’t think Lazarus could do it. I thought what he proposed was impossible.”

  “Who is he, Bryn? Is he indeed the Lazarus? He seemed so familiar to me. As though I had known him before. Did we know him?”

  “Not that I was ever aware of, though he may have crossed our paths over the centuries. It seems likely that could have happened.”

  Fenix tilted her head and looked thoughtful. “It was almost as though we’d been lovers. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Yes, my dear, very strange, He is a most dangerous and powerful enemy.”

  “Allow me to help steal the dagger, Bryn. You must.”

  “Of course,” Bryn promised, though in her heart she knew she would protect Fenix from any danger. It was impossible for her to change a behavior developed over centuries of caring for her as a child and young adult who’d never lived beyond thirty.

  “What is the penalty he spoke of? What happens if you fail?”

  Bryn had to stop and think before replying. It was dangerous to lie to her sister. If she discovered the falsehood, she would go berserk. “He gets you.”

  “Me?” Fenix laughed. “Why does he want me?”

  Bryn shook her head. “For nothing good, I’m sure. He said he would turn you into a creature like himself.”

  Fenix stopped at the door to the bed chamber. “Then we must acquire this dagger at all cost.”

  When Bryn had tucked Fenix into her bed and watched while she fell asleep, she hurried to change into her riding dress and ran down the back stairs to the mews. Fingle had her mare saddled and waiting. The man could read her mind. He tossed her into the saddle. “Have a care, Miss Bryn. It be late and that be a dangerous neighborhood.”

  “Did Sam return from the Exposition?”

  He nodded. “Her and Mr. Tomlinson came in right after midnight. They both retired for the evening.”

  “Well don’t bother her. I shall speak to her in the morning.”

  He nodded and released the mare’s reins. She waved once and took off at a brisk trot for le Rouge.

  The club was in the Pigalle district, famous for its prostitutes, houses of ill repute and secret sex clubs. She avoided eye contact with the seedy element frequenting the streets at this hour of the night. It was close to three in the morning. A man in a frieze coat and plaid trousers grabbed her reins and tried to stop her horse. He reeked of onions and body odor. She quickly held up her hand and froze him. Ice dripped off his scraggly beard and hooked nose as she kicked him away from the dancing horse and continued on at a canter. No more day dreaming. This part of Paris was dangerous.

  When she reached the club, a large building taking up half the block with a plain façade and a red door, she rode down the side alley. Police vans were pulled up behind the club and the place swarmed with gendarmes. She spotted Quinn’s bay gelding and urged the mare toward him. The mare, sensing her stablemate, shouldered her way through the throng of people from the club and the streets. Bryn slid to the ground and tied her reins to the same wrought-iron fence as the gelding.

  She saw Quinn speaking to a short man in a black suit. The man’s hair was slick with pomade and his handlebar mustache waxed. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a concerned expression. When she reached Quinn’s side, he glanced down and frowned. “What the Deuce are you doing here?”

  Bridling, she straightened her back and narrowed her eyes. “This is my club, remember?” She slapped her boot with her riding whip. “Remember?”

  She had the pleasure of seeing Quinn’s handsome face redden and smiled. “I see you do.”

  “There’s no need for you to be here, Bryn. Really, this scene is most sickening.”

  “Was it Priest?”

  “Without doubt.”

  “Then I would see the body.”

  He held her arm. “My darling don’t, it’s the worst one yet.”

  She shook him off and pushed through the circle of gendarmes. She saw immediately that Quinn was completely right. The sight that greeted her was horrific. A young prostitute with sad, wide-opened eyes lay draped over a barrel. She was naked and displayed in a grotesque manner.

  Bryn edged close enough to close the woman’s eyes. The communion wafer was plain on her swollen tongue and the marks of the cross and the red dots left by rosary beads stood out on her throat. Her breasts had been hacked off, slashes covered her thighs and there were multiple bite marks on her belly. The hilt of a dagger protruded from her vagina. The message for Bryn was clear. The woman’s red-gold mane was fanned out around her like a cape. Her mound was covered with more red-gold curls. She looked about twenty and obviously represented Fenix.

  Bryn covered her mouth and backed away. Quinn caught her in his arms as she wavered. “I told you not to look.”

  “He meant for me to see this. Look at the dagger. Look at her hair. He knows about Lazarus and he’s taunting me.”

  “Don’t let him get to you, my darling. He’s trying to upset you so you make a stupid mistake. The stakes are too high, Bryn. Don’t allow him to have power over you.”

  She turned into his embrace and buried her face in his coat. “I must find him. He shall pay for this.” She sobbed. “That poor woman.”

  They rode slowly back to the house side by side. Bryn could not stop thinking about the dead woman. Priest had dropped the gauntlet. He’d challenged her. She’d never backed down from a challenge before. Did he think her so poor a creature she would quit and forfeit her sister?

  “They plan to make plaster casts of the bite marks,” Quinn said. “The Prefect believes he can match them with the killer and prove his guilt. It’s a new crime scene technique they’re using. He seems positive it will help them find the murderer.” He reached across her horse and took her hand as they rode down the alley to the mews. “This is not the first one.”

  She stopped her horse in front of the stable. “What do you mean?”

  “The Prefect told me there have been two other dead prostitutes…both with reddish hair.”

  She slid off her horse and walked into the house through the door in the alley. Priest was more than taunting her. Just as Quinn had said, he was trying to make her so angry, she made mistakes. Fingle met them on the landing. His sad face was even more morose. He said nothing and she was forced to ask. “What is it Fingle?”

  He sighed and she longed to shake him. It must be bad news because he obviously didn’t want to tell her. “Just tell me.”

  Quinn added his bit. “Speak, Fingle.”

  “Babbette just came downstairs crying and threw herself on me chest sobbing fit to bust. Mistress Fenix ain’t in her bed.”

  Chapter 7

  Fenix knew about le Rouge Derriere. She knew what it was and remembered her part in its operation. She had a secret, something she hadn’t confided in her controlling sister. She could remember more than her most recent incarnation. Fenix remembered back through the Middle Ages. She remembered living in Rome under the Medici. She remembered tying up beautiful masked women in the club and whipping them.

  Dressed in her most revealing gown, a high-wasted dress in the empire style, with a low bodice and scandalously transparent skirt, she ran down the street to the corner. Over the dress she’d thrown a gold-velvet cape. The sun would soon be rising above the city. She must hurry if she wanted to catch Mistress Chat still in the club. Though if the murder had happened close to it, the dominatrix would undoubtedly still be there.

  She caught the tram, a steam-powered form of transportation unique to Paris, and found a seat. At this hour, it was empty save for a night watchman and an old woman holding a shopping bag with a baguette sticking out of the top. Her heart raced with excitement. She remembered so much. Her mind was bursting with memories. She scanned them, reliving
great and terrible adventures, getting to know Draak Priest more thoroughly. She felt as though she understood him better than Bryn ever would. While Bryn was pure and filled with light, Fenix knew she possessed a dark side. Perhaps it was because she never grew old and was always learning about life, while Bryn was old. She didn’t age physically, but she aged mentally. Fenix was eternally renewed as a child with childlike ambitions, thoughts and an innocence Bryn could never possess again.

  When the tram reached the Pigalle, it stopped and she climbed out. For a moment, she stood on the street corner beneath the gas light and twirled around. She breathed deeply of scents unique to Paris; the smell of the ever present river, sewage, bread baking, croissants and strong coffee brewing in hundreds of shops and homes. It was like a drug. It filled her with energy and nostalgia. For the first time in her life, she had memories of scents from long ago. It was wonderful.

  The Rouge was only a short walk. She saw the police vans were still parked in the alley and behind the building. She felt sure there were no customers because of the presence of the police so she entered through the red door, walked through a luxurious entryway and reception area, and down a long corridor to the back. She smiled because this was familiar. So few times in her life had she had that feeling of knowing where she was and remembering experiences she’d had in that location. As she passed a door studded with sparkling stars, she smiled. Behind that door, she’d spanked a French princess and received pleasure from her lips and tongue. Bryn must have this feeling all the time.

  At the end of the corridor was an elevator. The cage door was brass. She opened it and entered. The operator was a wizened gentleman. He’d been napping on a stool in the back corner. When he heard the clang of the door, he woke with a start. “Who are you?” he asked in French.

  She giggled because she knew French. How marvelous. She told him to take her to the third floor and leaned against the wall. She’d suddenly realized she knew hundreds of languages.

  When the elevator stopped, the old man in the black and gold uniform opened the door for her and stood back so she could exit. Without hesitating, she turned left and walked to the office in the rear of the building. She knocked and the door was abruptly flung open. “What now?” A harassed voice demanded in French.

  “Mistress,” Fenix gushed. “It is I, your best whipping girl, Fenix Sahir.”

  “But Fenix must be an old woman by now as am I. You are young, just a bébé.”

  “Nevertheless, I am Fenix.” Chat was thin and muscular. Her arms were ropes of sinewy strength. Her dark hair, piled high on her head, was obviously dyed black and her cheeks were rouged, but the remnants of her beauty still remained in the perfect bones of her face, her large brown eyes and wide mouth.

  She allowed Fenix to pull her into an embrace and kissed her on both cheeks. “Yes, you are Fenix. Always you smell of the sun, lavender and freshly washed clothing.” She held her at arm’s length and stared into her eyes. “Why are you here?”

  Fenix sat in one of the plush red-velvet chairs in front of Mistress’s desk and smoothed her gown. The dominatrix wore a skin-tight, black leather dress with a low-cut bodice, along with thigh-high boots. She’d wrapped an old paisley shawl around her shoulders against the early-morning chill which she tightened as she moved behind the desk and sat in her leather chair.

  “The murders, of course.”

  Mistress lifted one finely drawn brow. “What do they have to do with you?”

  “They are being committed by an older man who dresses as a Priest. Have you had such a customer or seen him in the area?”

  She leaned back in her chair and ran a long finger with a bright red lacquered nail down her lean cheek. “A priest?”

  Fenix hovered on the edge of her chair so excited she could hardly sit still. “Yes, an older man in a black cassock with long gray hair and a huge silver cross dangling from his waist.”

  “Does he sometimes carry a cane with a silver dragon head on the top?”

  Fenix placed a hand on her breasts above her racing heart. “The dragon, oh yes.”

  “I’ve seen him praying with groups of prostitutes on the street corner.” She pointed toward the Pigalle. “The corner of rue Sainte-Anne and rue Therese, and once I saw him coming out of a building on the rue de Seine.”

  “What kind of building?”

  She looked thoughtful. “I believe it was a building cut up into small flats.”

  Fenix sucked in her breath. “Can you tell me the address?”

  Mistress Chat shrugged, a very Gallic expression. “I’m not sure. I would have to see it again. I do remember I could see the tower of Saint Sulpice from the street.”

  Fenix smiled. “I know that church. It’s old.”

  The dominatrix shot out a claw-like hand and grabbed Fenix’s arm. “You will not go hunting for this man. If he’s murdering these women, he’s very dangerous. Fenix, the dead girl in the alley had red-gold hair like yours. If you go hunting for him, he will see you and kill you.”

  “I’m stronger than you know,” Fenix said carefully considering what to tell this woman. “I can well care for myself.”

  Chat tilted her head and inspected Fenix carefully from head to toe. “I don’t believe it. You look like a child.”

  Fenix held her palms flat and created a fire ball in their center. She tossed it up in the air several times, spun it and then made it disappear. Mistress Chat’s eyes grew wide. “I can do much more. Believe me when I say, I can take care of myself. I am so much older than you can imagine.”

  The dominatrix leaned forward. “Your sister, she can do this, too?”

  Fenix leaned back in her chair. “To Bryn, I am as a baby. Her powers are not as mine, but she’s a very dangerous woman.”

  “She was here this morning. Behind the building speaking with the gendarmes.”

  “Take me to the building where you saw the priest,” Fenix said.

  Mistress Chat smiled. “And what will you do for me in return?”

  Fenix instantly knew what Chat wanted. She smiled slyly. “I can whip a few of your clients for you. I imagine some are looking for new adventures, more dangerous situations. Maybe some very exclusive and special clients.”

  Mistress Chat’s eyes glowed. “Yes, I have several special clients just as you say, looking for more adventure, a more exciting experience with a new dominatrix, a new and infinitely beautiful woman to control them and make them beg for mercy.”

  “Then we are agreed. You will take me.”

  Chat meant cat in French and at that moment the dominatrix looked exactly like one. Her slanted eyes glowed, her pointed chin twitched and Fenix expected her to purr or lick her paw at any moment. “I am done here, finis. We will go and tonight you will come and entertain my clients especial.”

  Fenix was so excited she felt like dancing. She would find Priest before Bryn even knew where he lived and she would steal the dagger proving to her sister she could take care of herself.

  They went out the back door. The police were gone and so was the dead body. One of the new steam-powered horseless carriages waited. The dominatrix opened the door and hustled Fenix inside. She climbed in beside her and leaned forward to speak to the driver. He released a lever and the chug of the steam engine increased. Amazed, Fenix stared as they rolled down the alley without the benefit of horses.

  “This is your first ride in a steam powered carriage?”

  “I think so. Sometimes my memories are imperfect, but yes. I can’t believe it moves so fast and so easily.”

  Mistress Chat leaned against the black leather upholstery and closed her eyes. “It is a luxury but I no longer have to keep horses. So convenient, you see.”

  The driver kept to wider roads finally turning into the rue de Seine. He stopped in front of a building made of the white limestone so common in Paris. It was six stories high with a black door. Curtains fluttered in many of the windows. Fenix turned and stared behind. She saw the tower of Saint Sulpice and k
new his flat must be on the front where Priest could see the church. A sudden movement in the window of one of the third floor flats caught her eye. And there he was, Draak Priest staring right at her.

  Chapter 8

  Sam met Bryn on the stairs. When her former lover pulled her into an embrace, Bryn pushed her away. “What’s wrong?” Sam asked. She was dressed for the lab in a rubber apron and men’s clothing. Her heavy, black-rubber goggles were pushed up on her short hair.

  Bryn dropped her gaze. “I love Quinn. I feel like I’m being unfaithful when I’m close to you.”

  Sam snarled. “We’ve been together for three hundred years. How can you say that?”

  Tears ran down Bryn’s cheeks. “I don’t know. I just do.”

  Sam clutched her shoulders and shook her. “He’s going to die! He’ll grow old right before your eyes and die if you don’t kill him during sex. Your love is toxic and you’re completely aware of this fact.”

  Bryn nodded. “I know these things but I can’t help loving him. And I can’t betray him. Don’t ask me to.”

  Sam growled deep in her throat. “This is crazy and stupid and it won’t last.”

  Bryn brushed the tears out of her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I love you and only you, Bryn. This is torture for me.”

  Bryn started up the stairs, stopped and turned around. “Please, if you love me, help me find Fenix. She’s run off.”

  Sam snorted. “Of course she has. You treat her like she’s three years old.”

  “Lend me Fingle. I need his tracking skills.”

  “You know you may have his services when you need them. You don’t have to ask.”

  “He was your familiar. I feel as though asking you is the right thing to do.”

  Sam stiffened and played with the goggles on her head. “Take care of yourself. I sense you’re about to do something dangerous and no doubt crazy.”