The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  “Alright, mes chauffeurs. Everyone together now. Lighten up!” As she called out the planned signal, all over Paris the headlamps of taxis came blazing to life, pointing into sewer grates and shining into the openings to the underground. The river rats could be seen fanning out alongside the river, beaming their torches into crevices known only to them and the few others who inhabited the darker corners of the city. Rudee jumped a barrier, and his bumper gave a nauseating scraping sound before dangling like a broken wing from his car, as we bounced dangerously over cobblestones toward the edge of the river. He swung around and headed along a narrow path, sometimes on two wheels, in the direction of the crane, silhouetted against the night sky. We came screeching to a halt, almost skidding into the Seine as he hit the high beams, illuminating a chilling sight.

  Stunned at the controls of the crane was a Shadow in a hardhat with his arm up trying to block the glare of Rudee’s headlights. The crane’s hook was dangling inches from Henry IV, who seemed unmoved by the imminent danger. With the cab lights keeping the Shadow from his dirty work, Rudee and I leapt out of the car and ran toward the opening to the sewer under the bridge. A large rusty grate was lying on the ground, and emerging from the darkness we saw a group of Shadows, one driving an empty mining cart, presumably meant for Henry IV, and behind him another with snarling gargoyles on a leash. I couldn’t see Rudee’s expression in this light, but my own experience with these monsters came rushing back to me, and I froze. Why had we been in such a rush to peer into the depths of Paris? We were in complete darkness, and the cab lights weren’t going to help us now. I could make out the shape of a flapping trench coat and fedora just barely holding the beasts back, then I heard a chilling voice I recognized too well. “There she is. Grab the kid. Forget the joker with her.”

  Out of all the sewer entrances in Paris, why did I have to choose the same one as Scar? Just then a couple of river rats with torches raced down the ramp in our direction. Just in time, I thought, but then Scar released one of the gargoyles, and it flew at me like a foaming panther. I saw the horror on Rudee’s face in the approaching torchlight as the beast snatched me by my coat, lifted me in the air like a morsel of prey and carried me back to Scar. At the thug’s instruction, the gargoyle deposited me in the mining cart, which immediately began retreating back underground into the darkness.

  As I looked back, wiping foam from my collar, I could make out the river rats and Rudee racing toward the shrinking hole behind me. One of the Shadows was doubled over, shielding his eyes from the torchlight, and the gargoyle at his side appeared to be frozen as stiff as a snow sculpture. Scar jumped on to the edge of the cart and pushed off into the blackness below. The reek of the sewer came from his breath as he leaned within inches of my face.

  “You’ll make the perfect little Bastille Day gift for Louche. Hang on, little troublemaker.”

  I would have closed my eyes, but I couldn’t see anything anyway. It was like a roller coaster out of control, hurtling straight down into complete darkness. We made sudden lurches to one side then the other, and one hideous bump left us in midair for what seemed like days. Scar coughed out a cackling laugh when we bounced back onto the cart’s wheels again. When we finally hit bottom, chaos greeted us. Cranes were backing up and trying to turn around in the darkened passageways, and Shadows were stumbling with their hands across their eyes, cursing and bumping into each other.

  I allowed myself a moment of pleasure as it occurred to me that the lights from Madeleine’s drivers, together with the river rats’ torches, must have driven the Shadows back where they came from. The blue lights embedded in the stone walls of the underground were flickering madly, and many were dead completely. I guessed that the power failure must have had its effect down here as well. Scar quickly took in the surrounding mess and grabbed me, dragging me down a foul-smelling passage away from the chaos.

  Twenty-Seven

  The level of the rank-smelling sewer water rose as we headed farther away from the mad scene behind us. The stone walls of the passage were increasingly covered in a grey fungus that fought for space with the dangling spiderwebs that swayed above as we hurried by. More than once, Scar angrily flicked bits of web from his face, muttering. There was clearly no one following us, but he kept looking back anyway, and he paused as we reached a neat pile of skulls stacked like blocks in a recessed section of stone. I recoiled when he lifted the jaw of the topmost skull and reached inside it. At this, the stack of empty heads swung to one side like the devil’s garden gate, and we plunged into yet another level of darkness. Either those ashy eyes could penetrate the dark, or he was very familiar with the place, because Scar whisked along the winding paths.

  The sewer smell was fading, and its place was taken by a salty mineral odour. The dampness was even more present than usual, and the temperature was rising. I loosened Sashay’s scarf so that I could breathe a bit more easily. Then Scar passed through a rounded arch just ahead and stopped to snap on his mirror glasses. A large room with a domed ceiling lay before us with walls of huge amber stones, and there were smoking pots everywhere. A series of long, smooth marble steps led to a steaming pool that was decorated at the edges with carvings of people in flowing robes, some with dogs’ or horses’ heads, some with wings for arms. A chubby stone violinist with curly hair dominated the centre of the pool and a fountain of water flowed from the head of his instrument into the steam below. The only sound was the bubbling of the pool. This was the source of the mineral smell, now almost overpowering.

  In a hesitant, almost hushed tone, Scar finally spoke to the bubbles. “Boss? Louche? Sorry to bother you, but ...”

  A voice responded from the cauldron of steam below, and I could just make out the shape of a head seeming to rise disembodied from the warm fog. “Yessss, ouiii ... welcome, little mole. Few have seen this place, and then only Shadows. What do you think?” He seemed to be wheezing steam.

  “Louche, uh I’ve gotta tell you ...” Scar interrupted before Louche cut him off.

  “Roman, little one, but I suppose for you ancient history would be the lunar landing, or maybe Woodstock.”

  Scar was twitching like he had to go to the little Shadows’ room. His voice was nervous, but he persisted. “Louche, it’s all gone up in smoke. The lights out plan. The clouds, the mini cranes, all of it. Once they access emergency power, it’ll be back to the city of light as usual.”

  “Yessss, ouiii, Scar. Breathe. Have a smoke. Relax, a drink perhaps.”

  Louche gestured toward a large corked bottle of black liquid resting in a stone holder at his side, and his teeth gleamed into a slit of a smile. I recognized the bottle from my first visit to the lab but tried not to focus on it too long.

  “Sure, boss,” laughed Scar nervously, sounding a little more like his old nasty self.

  “Fear not, the underworld will rule when the time is right,” Fiat went on dreamily.

  I could feel a speech coming on with lots of cheesy references to dark destiny, the true Paris, and maybe even his great-great-grandmother’s birthday cake, so I risked an interruption. “Look, Louche, you could return the monuments, no real harm’s been done. A good lawyer, a full confession, you’re maybe looking at a suspended sentence, some community service erasing graffiti in the Métro, I don’t know.” It was desperate, and he wasn’t buying it, but I kept going. “There’s no need to keep me here. I won’t mention this place, you know, your Roman sauna, or whatever you call it.”

  This seemed to have the opposite effect on him, and he hissed his reply. “I may be mad, but I’m not stupid, little one. Nor am I finished, despite what my smoky associates believe, either. You see, unlike my dim bulb of a brother, I could never live above ground, not that I would want to in that baguette-and-brie mall they call a city. Scar, my robe.”

  Scar handed Louche a black toga as he emerged from the steaming liquid. I caught a glimpse of his greyish, perfectly smooth shoulders and chest before looking away, hoping to find a quick exit. Scar, an
ticipating this, was soon back at my side. “Louche, what do you want me to do with the twerp?” he rasped, lighting up and blowing smoke at me.

  “Nothing, mon flou. She will be my accomplice in a final, albeit symbolic act that the darkness will allow us, the sweet desecration of the soul of the city, Notre Dame de Paris.”

  While I was trying to sort out what this meant and how I could possibly be regarded as an accomplice, he slipped into an adjacent room and emerged minutes later, dressed in a tight-fitting black outfit, with gloves and hood to match.

  Scar led the way out of Louche’s private Roman bath, which was extraordinary, I had to admit. My curiosity got the better of me. “How come nobody knows about this place? It looks like an archaeologist’s dream.”

  Louche eyed me with suspicion but replied anyway, “Ouiiii ... quite right, little wisp. The Crypte Archéologique is right next door, with its admirable Roman ruins, but they stopped excavation before finding the real treasure for fear of weakening the foundation of the great cathedral. At least, that was the reason given in my brother’s report to the city.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and a most sinister look came over his face. “But tonight, a new chapter will be added to the history of Notre Dame. Yesss, something added ...” he paused and snarled “… and something taken away. Let’s go.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Louche led the way through an entrance like a sewer pipe, in which we all had to crouch as we walked, into the Crypte Archéologique. It held a very stylish presentation of Roman ruins with historical maps of the original site and photos on the walls that I couldn’t make out in the dimness. We came out on the street in front of Notre Dame. The Place du Parvis, normally crowded with tourists, souvenir hustlers, and business people having lunch, was empty. In the deep darkness that the power outage had thrown the city into, the shape of the magnificent cathedral was more dramatic than ever. A few people walked the streets, but most seemed to have headed indoors to party by candlelight. Those that were out ignored us as we moved down the street bordering the cathedral, watched by the ominous stone gargoyles leaning over the sides of the building. As we rounded the corner and entered the Place Jean XXIII, my heart stopped beating for a moment when I saw Louche’s destination.

  Before me was the biggest construction crane I’d ever seen, looming like a giant steel dinosaur in the stillness of the park. If possible, it looked larger and more powerful than when I’d seen it being constructed in the underground workshop of Shadowcorps. Louche crossed the square to the base of the crane in seconds, and I had no choice but to follow with Scar urging me from behind, one grisly hand on my arm the whole time in case I had any thoughts of skipping the festivities.

  Louche must have had some spider blood in him, because he quickly scaled the ladder that led to the operator’s cab, champagne bottle in hand. I was in no hurry to follow, but Scar, who remained on the ground, wasn’t open to discussing the matter. I’d seen enough ladders for a lifetime, but this one was downright disturbing as I made my way up into the black Parisian night sky. A breeze from the river below turned the July night a few degrees chillier, and I tugged Sashay’s scarf gratefully around my neck. Louche had already reached the metal crow’s nest and was opening the door while I was barely a quarter of the way up.

  With too much time to think and too far to fall, the events of the past week turned in my mind in a dizzy playback. I’d gotten into a lot of this on my own through a combination of foolishness and good intentions, and we know where those will take you. My hands were turning sweaty, and I had an increasingly hard time clinging to the cold black metal of the crane’s ladder. Once my sneaker missed a step. I lunged for the next rung and clung to it with my heart and head pounding. I remember thinking that this would be a bad time to faint. I concentrated on my life at home in California, my parents, friends, and school until I could make my breathing regular again. It was one thing to save Paris from “eternal midnight,” as Louche called it, but it was a whole other to think about not seeing Upper Mandeville again. I pushed myself upwards, concentrating on one rung, one breath at a time.

  Reaching out of the little door, Louche grabbed me by my coat and hauled me into the little box in the sky. “Beats the Roue de Paris any time, non, ma petite?” he laughed viciously.

  He had the lights on the crane’s dashboard illuminated and seemed to be reviewing the controls. He flipped over a key and the engine jumped to life, shuddering and shaking the driver’s cab like a box of bolts. The green glow from the controls reflected off Louche’s phantom gaze, and I saw him for the true madman that he was.

  From below, no sound reached us, and all I could see was the silhouette of the city’s skyline, jagged with rooftops and chimneys, the dark-flowing River Seine to one side and the colossal shape of Notre Dame on the other. Candlelight twinkled in the city’s windows as Bastille Day had gone indoors for the night, spirits dimmed but no doubt not defeated. A thundering lurch that made the ones on the Ferris wheel feel like soft caresses shook the cab as Louche kicked the full power on for the main boom of the crane, and it began to swing in the direction of the church.

  Scar, alone in the square beneath us, began waving his arms like he was trying to taxi in a jumbo jet, but I’m almost sure Louche paid him no attention. He seemed completely intoxicated by his power over the hulking device as he engaged the gears with an ugly grind and turned, rolling across the square toward the cathedral. He was so pumped up, he was unable to sit any longer and planted himself with one hand on the wheel like a crazed bronco rider. I sat dumbly at his side, not daring to move or spend too much time looking down, trying to guess his ultimate goal but gradually sensing where he was heading.

  The giant hook hanging from the end of the crisscross steel limb swung like a possessed pendulum as the arm arched over the famous flying buttresses of Notre Dame toward the grand spire that dominated the night sky. Impossible, ridiculous I thought, but then I realized it didn’t matter to a man who’d lost whatever fragile grasp of reality he’d had left when this episode began. His grandiose scheme had been shut down, but he was reacting like a mosquito had annoyed him. His brother had, in his mind, betrayed him; and all of his plans, except this last one, were history.

  One more grinding metallic shudder, and Louche bounced in place like a cartoon fool. I could see that the crane had found its destination. As he’d said himself, he might be mad, but he was not stupid. He had calmed down enough to zero in on fine-tuning the claw above its majestic prey when I saw something in the dull blur of the city that caught my eye. Tiny dots of light, in pairs, were moving in and out of sight, but gradually making their way toward the Isle de la Cité and Notre Dame.

  The cabbies! Madeleine’s chauffeurs must have abandoned their stations at the openings to the underground, having driven the Shadows into retreat, and were now zooming en masse toward the scene of Louche’s ultimate crime in action. He, on the other hand, was so preoccupied with perfecting the placement of the crane’s giant arm and swinging hook that he clearly hadn’t noticed.

  “Aha!” he yelled triumphantly as the hook found its way around the top of the spiky spire of Notre Dame. He was reaching for a large lever on the floor, which I’m certain would have started to separate the spire from the roof of the cathedral. I shouted “No!” and pushed him as hard as I could. I’m not that strong, but the unexpected thrust while he was engaged in his task must have taken him by surprise, because he bounced across the cab, knocking the door open and falling partway out into the night air. In an act of pure reflex, I reached out to stop him from tumbling to the ground, and he snatched my hand, yanking himself back in. If I expected gratitude, I got fury, and he turned back to the controls just as a crossfire of light from the square below pinned him in place. In the glare I could see the cabs gathering beneath us, some with their front wheels on the trunks of others, some on makeshift ramps, all shining up in the direction of the crane and illuminating Louche’s desperate enterprise.

  After onl
y a moment’s hesitation, Louche grabbed his bottle and blindly leaped from the cab. I watched, horrified, as he jumped onto the arm of the crane and raced in the direction of the roof of the cathedral. In the time since, I’ve had many opportunities to try to answer the question of why I did what I did, but I still don’t really know for sure. Was it bravado or some overdeveloped sense of responsibility that pulled me out of the crane’s cab? I mean, what’s the worst that he could have done with a bottle of black paint and a wild glint in his eye? Maybe the altitude affected my judgment — I don’t know. I do know that I followed Louche down the length of the boom, not as quickly as his spider-like motion took him, but I didn’t stop to take in the sights either.

  When he reached the end of the crane’s huge arm, Louche stopped to look back and seemed momentarily stunned to see me following him. “If I can’t steal it, I can stain it forever,” he shouted in the blaze of taxi lights that caught him like a soloist in a spotlight. He was about to race away, but then he turned back and called out more calmly, “You’re over your head, little one. Go back while you still can.” With that, he grabbed the rope with a gloved hand, the bottle still in the other, and slid like a crazed swashbuckler down the cable to the hook that dangled below.

  I don’t remember thinking about turning back, but I must have had a moment’s pause, because I recall looking down and seeing Rudee racing madly across the square, arms and hair flapping frantically. I knew I couldn’t let my attention be pulled toward the ground, but I also realized quickly that Louche’s downward route wasn’t available, even if I wanted to brave it. He hit the roof of the church and grabbed the crane’s hook, pulling it backwards then flinging it with all his strength out into the night. The wild sway made climbing down the cable impossible and the thought of staying on the rocking steel tentacle very scary. Fear is a strange feeling and quite useful at certain times. It focuses everything in you on one thing; I guess some would say survival. I don’t know. We haven’t started psychology yet at school.