The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  “You know them?” I must have sounded stunned.

  “Yeah, when I was kid, I’d sneak into the catacombs for fun, and I got to know a lot of the Shadow kids. We never really trusted each other, but I thought it was cool at the time. Luc was okay. He’s almost normal, got his mom’s aboveground eyes. His slimebucket brother makes up for it with pure creepiness, though.”

  I told him about the fight I’d witnessed between them. “Wow. Flying glass. A gold cross as a weapon. Cool!”

  I told him it hadn’t been cool for me, and I was glad to be out of that place. “I’m sorry I misjudged you, Antoine. You really saved me, big time.”

  “Call me Blag. Antoine sounds so lame. No problem. You gotta lot of nerve, kid.” I was about to tell him the rest of what I’d seen in Shadowcorps, but he jumped in. “Anyway, let’s save the chatting. This joint’s looking a little shaky to me.”

  He seemed to know his way around as we moved quickly and quietly through the underground. At one point, he stopped and leaned in to whisper to me, “I think I know a way out. I heard some of them talking about this giant ramp set up for the monster crane, whatever that’s for. I know where the workshop is, but we’ll have to go through town.”

  I must have looked puzzled, but he just grabbed my sleeve and said, “You’ll see. C’mon.”

  We soon came into blue-lit streets like the ones I’d seen when I’d first climbed down the ladder from the sewer grate. Occasional mini Métros rolled by with their tinted windows. “Check this out.” He pointed out a rambling collection of sheds at the end of the passageway. “Les Halles, the real Les Halles.”

  As we got closer, I could hear the buzz of activity. It was a full-fledged underground market, with merchants at their stalls and Shadow shoppers trying on trench coats, squeezing strange colourless vegetables, and strolling around admiring bony birds hanging from hooks, all the while smoking relentlessly.

  Blag leaned into me. “The outdoor market, Les Halles, survived every trashing of Paris for about seven hundred years, but eventually it got torn down too. At night, while it was happening, the Shadows would sneak into the demolition site and steal the remains, bringing them down below to reconstruct the market here. Saved the city a lot of haulage, I figure. No one knew where the piles of smashed sheds went. Voila!” He snorted, sounding sympathetic to the Shadows’ cause, as if they’d pulled one over on the big boys this time.

  We took a tiny passageway to avoid the shoppers, occasionally dipping into doorways without having to risk discovery. I didn’t mind a little break in the terror.

  Some things were looking familiar, despite the ever-present stone surfaces, bluish light, and the reek of sewer. Then I realized we were near the giant workroom where I’d seen the crane being assembled. As we peered into the cavernous room, there was activity everywhere. Metal clanged against metal, setting off reverberations in the cavernous room. The low roar of machinery and voices filled the air. Blag looked mesmerized staring at the now completed crane. It was dazzling, with section after section of black gridwork attached together and supported by thick metal girders. A cab for an operator was near one end, with wires extending off in both directions from a pyramid structure that sat on top of the cab. A series of sinister green lights was being tested. To one side lay an enormous hook-like attachment with thick-coiled metal cord wrapped around a cylinder beside it. We were so absorbed in looking at this monstrosity that we almost didn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps. I poked Blag in his considerable chest and hushed him. We ducked out of view as Louche and two of his puffing bullies came into view.

  “I’d weep if I could, Louche,” laughed one thug.

  “Heavy metal heaven,” said the other.

  “Yesss ... ouiii ... the mini cranes are in place all over the underground, ready for ‘lights out.’ Every shining monument in Paris will be a memory by tomorrow, my Shadows. But this,” he said as he gestured at the metal giant, “this is a work of art.”

  He turned to one of his cronies. “Did Scar find the little mole?”

  “Not yet, Louche. She’s probably lost in a slide.” The Shadow sounded delighted.

  “Ouiii ... yesss ... I suppose. And what could a little Yankee puff of nothing do anyway? Who would believe her story?”

  He laughed snidely as they moved on to inspect the finishing touches on the work at hand. Once they were at a distance, Blag tugged my sleeve, and we cautiously made our way past the construction. How could a person Blag’s size pass unseen? I wondered. Someone must have read my mind, because just when I thought we were clear and out of view of Louche and the workers, a nasty voice shouted, booming across the immense hollow room. “Hey, there she is! And squarehead’s with her. Gargoyles, attack!”

  Scar was at the far side of the room and released his pack at that moment.

  “Great,” Blag spat. “C’mon, kid. Let’s hit it.”

  He grabbed me by an arm, but I didn’t need any encouragement. At the far end of the room in the direction we were running was a gigantic platform, and Blag was heading straight for it. The gargoyles would be on us in seconds. Blag was strides ahead of me by then and jumped onto the platform. He pulled a lever on one side, and the whole thing started to tilt upwards toward a set of doors that I could now see beginning to crack open far above. Blag turned back and grabbed me, and we started running up the ramp in the direction of the distant daylight. He held my arm and skipped me like a stone across a lake as he pounded upwards at a remarkable speed, considering his bulk.

  The gargoyles were gaining, and I knew we wouldn’t make it to the top. In the confusion below, amid a chorus of shouting, Scar was racing toward the ramp as we flew to the opening yawning ahead. As he reached the bottom, he yanked on the lever. The doors started to reverse direction and began to close. The ramp jerked to a halt just as it reached the top and began to lower. Right at this moment, the first of the gargoyles caught up to us and grabbed for me, getting a mouthful of scarf. A rush of terror seized me, and if it weren’t for Blag yanking me along, I would’ve been dinner for six. Blag swung around, unwinding the scarf from my neck then wrapping it around the jaws of the snapping gargoyle. One giant boot to the head later, it tumbled backwards into the pack. Blag stopped briefly to admire his handiwork, but I yelled to him that the ramp was lowering. We hit the top, and he leaped into the shrinking doorway, pushing his beefy body into the crack like the last man onto a crowded métro. I closed my eyes and jumped, grabbing the frame and hoisting myself up at the last second as I looked down at the tumble of gargoyle dogs and the shouting gang below. I squeezed between Blag’s legs, and he released the doors, which closed with an awesome jaw-like snap.

  Twenty-Two

  Blag slumped against the wall of the Shadowcorps building to catch his breath. I was trying to gather my thoughts and recover from the madness we had just left behind. Outside it was a glorious summer day. I’d almost forgotten. It was Bastille Day! The shops were closed and the city was gearing up for a full-on party. So a whole night had passed while I was underground. In some ways it felt like about a month. I should’ve been tired, completely drained really, but I had this weird, sparkly, energized feeling. Relief, maybe, or hunger. Blag wiped his face with his already soaked T-shirt and gave me a weary look.

  “Did you check out that hound mound, Mac? Major league kick-off, huh?”

  Thinking about the gargoyles made me shudder. “But I thought they were supposed to be just scary-looking decorations on old churches, like the ones on the Notre Dame cathedral.”

  Blag nodded seriously. “I’ve heard of them, never seen one before. When we were kids, the geezers told us stories to try to scare us into not going in the sewers. At the end of the stories, the gargoyles always turned to stone when they hit the daylight.” He grinned again. “Man, they were seriously ugly. Anyway, we better beat it before the smokies come lookin’ for us.”

  He looked up at the sky. “’Course, they’d get pretty steamed on a day like this. Supposedly
the Shadows can’t survive direct sunlight. I’ve never seen one above ground, except at night, and almost always in the club.” Here his face darkened. I supposed he was thinking about the takeover of the Moulin D’Or. He led the way to his cab, which was parked illegally, of course, on the sidewalk. He shredded the parking ticket like confetti and jumped in, opening the passenger door for me from inside. “I’m kinda beat, mind if I go with something a little mellow?” he said, reaching for the stereo, “I’ll take you to CAFTA, see if we can find rug-dome there.”

  I assumed this meant Rudee and thought about having to explain myself to him again. If he’d known what was going to happen with me, he probably would’ve driven away on that first day at the Pont Neuf. I was glad, recalling my exposure to that cacophonous “Malade” band, to listen to something a little quieter. At that moment, the music started like a cannon shot, and some groaning sounds escaped from the speakers as Blag rolled down all the windows. The bass could have been measured, like earthquakes, on the Richter scale. “Hey, relax, it’s a holiday.” Like sunbathing on an airport runway, I thought.

  On the way, Blag seemed to revert to his old self, running lights, screeching to stops, and shaking his Viking action figures at innocent pedestrians, scaring children and their pets with the music thundering out of the windows. I slid down as low as I could in the seat, knowing that since I was sitting in the front, no one would take me for a customer.

  All of Paris was in a glowing mood, in contrast to that of my new friend Blag LeBoeuf. It seemed like the city was one giant picnic, with blankets spread out in every available green space that wasn’t host to a soccer game of some sort. At one of the fire stations, a fireman was holding a hose pointed in the air while a hundred kids danced in the spray, laughing and yelling. Looked pretty good to me. Even better, though, was when Blag stopped at a crepe stand and bought us the best lunch I’ve ever had from a street vendor.

  When we reached CAFTA, I could see that it was closed but that there was activity inside. I figured it was the Hacks setting up for the big party that night.

  “Okay, kid, last stop. It’s been a slice. See if you can get cock-a-doodle-Daroo to handle the Louche thing, will you? He’s got cop friends, and I don’t.” This was said with some defiance, but as I climbed out, he grinned at me. “Besides, I gotta go clean up. I’ve got a date for tonight; think I caught a live one!”

  What kind of girl would go for Blag? I mean, he had a good heart, but it would take some serious archaeology to find it. Someone for everyone, I guess. I waved and thanked him again.

  Looking through the window of CAFTA, I could see the Hacks hauling their gear onto a little makeshift stage in a corner of the room. Even without hearing them, I could tell that the usual bantering was going on. I knocked at the window. Mink saw me first and must have said something to Rudee, who came running to let me in. “Hey, little Mac, how are you?” he said cheerfully. “You’re just in time to help us plug in.”

  I smiled, wondering if I could hear anything after riding with Blag. I said hi to the other band members. Dizzy waved his trombone slide. “Hey Mac, ça va?”

  “So, did Sashay give you madeleines and tea all night, petite?” asked Rudee. I guessed that was my cover for last night’s absence from the church. I realized I couldn’t wait. I had to tell Rudee what was going on. This wasn’t a secret I wanted to keep. I started slowly. “I know you’re not going to be happy about this Rudee, but ...”

  That got all their interest. The Hacks put down their instruments and stopped the set-up to hear my story. I had to provide a little background for the others, but for once I had the feeling that they believed me, no matter how far-fetched some of it must have sounded. There were occasional interruptions, but not many, some oohlalas and mon dieus and much shaking of heads as the tale unfolded. They all agreed that something odd had been going on with the light in Paris lately, and except for Rudee, they’d thought the “Lighten Up” campaign was a joke. Maurice and Henri had heard the gargoyle stories growing up in Toulouse, and Dizzy said he’d seen the Shadows hanging out at an after-hours joint called le Marché Noir, where he’d done a couple of pick-up gigs. They all seemed as shocked at Blag’s part in the events as at anything else. Rudee rolled his eyes and curled his lip at the idea of Blag as rescuer, but the part about the closing of the club started him thinking.

  “Blag, eh? Well, you can’t tell an apple by the core, can you? Sashay had a feeling there were changes coming at the club. Mink, do you still have your hydraulic riser from the Colour Me CooCoo days?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Why, what’s on your mind?” Mink rhymed.

  “If tonight is Sashay’s last show, and the Shadows will all be there, we should make it a night to remember, or for them to forget!”

  Rudee laid out his plan to the Hacks, who agreed to help however they could. I think fatigue from last night’s craziness was beginning to overcome me, because I started to miss sizeable parts of the conversation, and I began feeling rather foggy. Next thing I knew I was in the back seat of Rudee’s cab, comforted by the familiar odour of marinated vegetables, on the way to Sashay’s. I woke up for a few moments when she got into the seat beside me and stroked my hair. I remember them talking in hushed tones on the way to the club, but little else.

  Outside, the club was draped in a huge banner that read, SOON TO RE-OPEN AS THE MOULIN NOIR, written in gothic script. It was early, so the streets around the club were empty. I noticed Maurice and Henri wheeling something in the back as we arrived at the stage door, then Dizzy pulled up and opened his trunk. Sashay led me into her dressing room and sat me down on a small mountain of silk. She lit some candles and began her preparations at the mirror. I knew she was waiting for me to tell her about my journey to the underground, so I related the tale once more. I could tell she was shocked by some of what she heard, but as always she maintained her air of calm.

  “Sorry about losing that beautiful scarf,” I said, and she sighed and smiled.

  “Mac, will you thank Blag for me? We don’t talk....” She shrugged and made one of her famous pouty expressions. “He’ll be here tonight, I’m sure. I hope that Rudee’s plan will work.” She explained what Rudee had in mind. It was a comforting feeling to know that I didn’t have to deal with Louche and his foul gang alone again. I was ready to sit back and watch the show.

  Twenty-Three

  The club was soon filling up for an early show so that everyone could be out in time to catch the Bastille Day fireworks and parties that were planned all over the city. Word had gotten out that this would be Sashay’s last appearance, so the nostalgic and curious were out in force. Extra tables were crammed into the balcony section in anticipation of a major Shadow party. The first hint I had of Rudee’s plan was when I noticed that some of the regular employees weren’t at their usual places. Maurice and Henri, looking very suave with their bulletproof coifs polished to a high gloss, were working together behind the bar, mixing drinks masterfully. Maurice was rhythmically shaking a cocktail mixer over his head while his brother was spinning variously coloured bottles on the bar and pouring two at a time from high above the glasses like a mad scientist. To one side of the stage I spotted Mink Maynard in a tuxedo uncoiling a microphone cable and checking over some notes. On the other side, Dizzy was laying out some vacuum cleaner–type hose, and we exchanged smiles.

  The regular petrified piano player was absent, and in his place was an odd-looking character I didn’t recognize, with a long set of gold lamé tails and a too-tall top hat. He was stationed to the left of the stage on a circular riser with velvety material draped around the bottom, at a multi-tiered set of keyboards. He was making last-minute adjustments to a set of pedals when he turned toward Mink side stage to offer a thumbs up. From beneath a silly handlebar moustache, a goofy grin emerged that I recognized right away as belonging to Rudee. The buzz of voices was loud in the club as the Shadows passed through their private entrance to fill the balcony to capacity. Michelle,
the cigarette girl, was dispatched with an overflowing tray to take care of their smoking needs, and I was very glad not to be in her place tonight. I’d seen enough of that rancid crew for one lifetime, and I figured they wouldn’t be too thrilled to see me.

  The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted in expectation. I saw Henri loading a bunch of glowing greenish drinks onto a tray that was bound for the balcony. A spotlight found Mink Maynard, who strode centre stage, bowed formally, and began his introduction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, a night to remember is yours to be sure. As the curtain falls on the Moulin D’Or and these magic moments will be no more, travel with us to the world of dreams and give yourselves up to the queen. Sail away to childhood’s shore with la Reine des Rêves, Sashay D’Or!”

  His voice rose at the end as the fog from Dizzy’s smoke machine seeped into the room, making the floor look like a misty pond at dawn. Rudee began with a low, mysterious wash of chords that floated out of the speakers encircling his riser. The rhythmic blue lights I recalled from the first time I’d experienced Sashay’s show were twinkling like soft stars over the crowd, which grew quieter and quieter. Sashay swept onstage in a cascade of silky scarves as Rudee’s music rose to meet the moment. Seemingly transported in time herself, Sashay resembled the woman I’d seen on the old Lido poster as she wove her spell on the audience. If not for the ridiculousness of Rudee, I’m sure I would’ve been caught up in it myself. His riser slowly began to rotate and elevate, adding a dizzy, swirling quality to the music. The smoke machine was working overtime, and Sashay seemed to be floating on waves of foggy satin, back and forth, dipping and spinning, her skirts and scarves overlapping in a golden cascade. The audience was, to say the least, mesmerized.

  For once, the Shadows sat in rapt attention as the show reached a majestic climax. Rudee’s hands flew over the keyboards. His feet pumped furiously on the pedals and his top hat twirled wildly as his riser ascended and teetered dangerously over the transfixed crowd. Sashay spun like whipped cream, jewelled gloves twirling in time to the spellbinding waves of music. When she finally disappeared in a column of golden mist and the music slowly eased, the audience was transported. Downstairs, happy faces shone like children at play, and laughter flowed through the dreamy crowd.