by Jackie Ivie
The private investigator also seemed to have a sixth-sense about his environment. More than once he’d appeared to check about surreptitiously, as if aware he was under scrutiny, but unable to verify. He had a nasty habit of chain-smoking, however. And an equally nasty cough. He was probably flirting with some cardio-pulmonary disease if he wasn’t already suffering it. That might explain his foray into blackmail. He might be looking to retire... before the cancer killed him.
Hmm. Looked like he was handling a mercy killing, not just a hit. That should alleviate some of the gloom that surrounded him.
It didn’t.
Out here, it was hard to think of Paris as the city of light. Or the capital of love. Or a city of life. Verve. Imagination. No. To him, Paris was dark. Distasteful. Ugly. And the longer he lingered, the more the bitterness grew. Something perverse made it happen, too. He could have taken out Harold any number of times, but something made this delay part of his penance.
To Sebastian, Paris was a reminder of failure.
He dropped soundlessly to the railing below him, and then the one beneath that, hovering at the second floor fire escape. Just above Harold’s head. The guy was coughing again, shoving his face beneath the right lapel of his jacket, apparently trying to keep it quiet. Somewhere in the street he watched, Harold’s junkie was buying a fix. Maybe even shooting it up. Sebastian didn’t look. He didn’t care. He’d finished wasting time.
He dropped into the spot before Harold. The guy looked up, and then stumbled back, reacting instantly to the threat. He had a wicked-looking blade in one hand, too. Sebastian grinned.
“Good eve, Harold,” he said.
“Who the hell are you?”
He’d been off a bit on Harold’s height. The fellow was diminutive. Or Sebastian’s six foot, six inch size was larger than it used to be. He looked down at the fellow, and his smile broadened. This time he let his canines grow. He watched Harold’s eyes grow larger. Round. Harold worried needlessly. Sebastian wasn’t fond of nicotine.
“I believe tonight... you can call me... Reaper,” Sebastian said. And then he smacked Harold right in the chest.
The P.I. snapped back several feet, both hands clutching at his chest as if that could restart his heart. He made gulping noises, while his mouth worked to suck at air. His eyes were still wide as he sank to the ground at their feet, but he wasn’t seeing anything. He was dead before he hit the mud. Face first. If all went well, the medical unit would suspect a heart attack and fail to check for postmortem bruising under the skin.
Sebastian didn’t truly care. It was over. He headed now toward the one place Akron had told him not to. The underground city of the dead. Officially the Ossuary of Paris, but always called the catacombs.
Because his penance included this, as well.
It took him awhile to reach the right area. It wasn’t due to incompetence, or loss of direction. His approach slowed as he neared the arrangement of human bones that decorated the walls of the catacomb. It was as if his feet were mired in quicksand, bogging him down. Making each movement more difficult. More poignant. Blacker. The tunnels hadn’t been crafted for a man of his size, either. He’d stooped more than once, and even that dragged at him.
And then he was there.
At the place where the bones from the Church of Saint Nicolas des Champs had been placed.
The place that held her.
His Isabelle. His wife.
Sebastian put his head back and howled, the sound echoing and re-echoing back to him. It didn’t matter. The catacombs were empty this time of night. The tunnels leading to this section had all been black. Eerie. They didn’t have much light in this area but that didn’t hamper him. He found the marker: “OSSEMENTS DE LANCIEN CIMETIERE ST NICHOLAS DES CHAMPS DEPOSES DE 1843... TRANSFERES DANS LES CATACOMBES...”
Sebastian went to his knee before it.
This plaque was all he had to show that Isabelle’s remains had been ripped from her grave, piled onto a cart for transportation, and then dumped into a tunnel that held millions of bones. Nobody had kept track of names. Dates. Grave markers. Sebastian faced a sea of bones. He didn’t even know which ones were hers.
This was the reason he hated politicians. They were the ones allowing this desecration, this transfer, the creation of this macabre display. They’d needed the ground for the living. The dead could simply move.
Sebastian bent his head down, his view taking in the scuffle of footprints on the dirt beneath his knee. The area had seen a lot of foot traffic recently. He didn’t know why anyone bothered. Images were available in graphic detail on any internet search. And yet, they’d made the bones of his beloved nothing more than a tourist attraction.
Merde. He really detested Paris.
If he had sensation, he’d probably feel grief, experience pain... maybe even rage. But all that was gone. Just like his Isabelle. She’d been lost the moment he left her side. Isabelle had been stricken by the plague. Nobody could help. Nobody would even approach. So Sebastian had washed her body down with water, wrapped her in sumptuous blankets, and gone on a quest.
Sebastian was a rare creature. He hadn’t been saved from death by a vampire bite. He’d been healthy, strong, and desperate. He’d actively pursued tales and sightings of the monstrous creatures. And one night, Akron had appeared. Sebastian had begged and pleaded and been granted his wish. He needed immortality. For her.
But it had taken time. He’d been too late.
And this was the result.
He stood, and bent to dust his knee. He’d picked up several sharp shards on his leather trousers. As if someone had broken something glass-like. They pricked his fingers as he brushed. It stung slightly. Sebastian turned his hand over and watched as the tiny cuts closed up and disappeared.
Odd.
For a moment there, he’d almost felt... something. Sebastian lifted his head and looked down one tunnel and then the other direction. Nothing but rows of arranged bones, dimness that led to more of the same, silence that had a weight to it. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the temperature was cooler down here. Almost chilly. It wasn’t bothersome. It was simply an observation. Sebastian shook his head. He was imagining. Vampires didn’t feel anything. Never had. Never would.
He took a deep breath. Held it for long enough it pained. Released it. He might as well leave. He’d done what he came to do. Harold Bracket was dead. The League was at work erasing files and eliminating evidence at his office and his home. And he’d paid his respects to his one true love. His life.
His heart thumped heavily at the thought. And then it did it again.
And again.
On the third beat Sebastian’s mouth went wide, stretching his jaw. His eyes followed. His limbs went weak next. His legs wobbled. And then he dropped onto both knees. His sword landed somewhere beside him. He watched it without really seeing it.
Was it possible?
He was breathing?
Oh. This was bad. This only happened if a vampire found their one true mate. The one creature designated throughout time for them. He couldn’t have a mate. He’d already had one. He’d loved Isabelle too deeply. She owned his heart. She always would. Gooseflesh raced along his skin next, lifting bumps. Sebastian tried to stop the shivers. He tightened every muscle. Held his chest from inhaling. Willed his heart to cease beating. Tried to force the reanimation to cease.
Nothing worked.
All that happened was a repetitive dull pounding as his heart hammered away in his chest, while his muscles grew cramped and angered. He gave a huge sigh, retrieved his sword, and gained his feet. There was nothing for it. The pull of it was too strong. He’d have to go find her. Maybe even mate with her.
And try not to hate her, too.
CHAPTER THREE
There was stupid.
And there was major stupid.
Stupid had been when she’d swum across Rockport Reservoir during a camping trip at dusk. Without any notice to the others. She hadn’t worn a lif
ejacket. Or even shoes. She still remembered how it had felt to reach the middle of the reservoir and float on her back, watching the stars come out, while exhaustion weighed down every limb. She’d known stupidity then. She’d had quite a bit of time to question her intellect while the water slowly lapped inexorably toward the dam, taking her with it. She didn’t think she had the energy to continue. And she hadn’t. Except one of the smartass guys had swum up beside her and challenged her to race him...
She rarely even thought of that episode anymore, unless it was to match it against something even more stupid.
Like now.
Why, oh why, had she agreed to this?
Jill Johnson was normally level-headed. Loaded with common sense. She wasn’t at all like the rest of the group. She rarely fit in anywhere. She’d been the gawky one. The one without friends. Heck. She hadn’t even had breasts until she reached her senior year in High School, making every shower in gym class a lesson in humility. She didn’t possess much cleavage now, although the push-up bras helped. But she wasn’t interested in visiting a plastic surgeon to assist nature, like six of the other women in this group had. She couldn’t afford it. She also couldn’t afford laser surgery for her eyesight. She’d rather pay for things like rent. Utilities. Transportation. Food.
Face it, Jill.
She just didn’t fit in. Ever.
The others in her art group were rich girls on a “Spring Break” vacation to Paris. Jill was an art student on a sanctioned field trip that set her back into poverty because it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity she refused to miss. She got eight days to study sculpture at the Louvre! In Paris! It was an amazing experience. She’d been happy to go back on noodles and peanut butter for this trip.
That was before this midnight side-trip, however. She tripped on something, and caught the fall with a hand slapped against the tunnel wall. Nobody noticed. She didn’t really expect them to. They were avoiding her. She didn’t blame them. Her attitude had been going downhill for some time now.
She wasn’t even trying to fit in.
It was obvious even to a casual observer. She wore pleated slacks that had some give in them, a loose-fit blouse with a sweater atop it, and flat-heeled, sensible shoes. The others were sporting tight shirts, even tighter pants, and ridiculously high heels. They looked curvy and long-legged. And ridiculous. Jill snickered more than once at a stumble. Somebody was going to twist an ankle. Or worse.
Shrieks came occasionally as hair got mussed, too. That was amusing. Her fellow students spent hours on their hair and faces every morning. They looked it. Jill rarely wore makeup and usually had her hair up in a clip. She didn’t remotely fit in with any group of gorgeous, giggling girls.
She was probably born into the wrong century, although none of the past eras, with their lack of technology or cultural niceties like indoor plumbing appealed to her, either. And she was really fond of plastic. Without gas permeable contact lenses, she’d have been in an institute for the blind. They were really bad in dirt-filled situations, too, but she hadn’t another option. She hadn’t brought her glasses for a day trip to the museum. Unfortunately, as it was past midnight, her contacts kept reminding her that they needed lubrication. They needed to come out for the night. And dirt was everywhere in these caverns.
Jill stopped. Flipped a contact out of her left eye, and violated several optometrist health warnings by sticking the lens in her mouth. She spent the next few seconds rubbing at her eye, attempted to dislodge the dirt speck before reinserting the lens. Nobody stopped for her. Nobody even seemed to notice as she lagged behind.
A flash of a headlamp speared her, making her momentarily blind. Jerk. She said it silently. Somebody else verbalized their opinion. She recognized the voice.
Oh.
Yeah.
That’s right. There was a reason why she was down here in miles of tunnels beneath the streets of Paris with a group of guys who called themselves cataphiles. The reason was named Sebastian Rashe.
They’d met in the Louvre, studying Flemish paintings. A small group of physically fit and attractive men had appeared. They’d stopped to flirt, and then actually talked the art group into this excursion. Every single guy was cute... some more than others. Especially the one named Sebastian Rashe. He was really something. Tall. Lean. Light brown hair that he wore short-cropped. Spiked. He had a hint of a mustache on his upper lip.
Oh my.
Even now, hours later, Jill could still remember how her heart had ticked up when he’d looked down and spoken to just her. Wow. The guy had magnetism. Or something. He’d made her head spin. He’d made it sound like he’d be with her. Every step. He’d make sure nothing happened to her. She’d be back in the little hotel before sunup. Nobody would know. Didn’t she see how much fun it would be?
Jill actually felt the same jolt. Hours later.
Wow again.
Sebastian Rashe could be charming... and then some. Enough that she’d actually agreed to this. She had to. They weren’t taking anyone unless they took everyone. That way, nobody could rat anyone out. That had been a heady sensation.
She’d actually felt needed. Desired.
Sebastian had told her they wouldn’t go far. Just a little way into the tunnels. She could view the graffiti – and Jill had to admit – some of the artwork down here was worth the trip.
Sebastian Rashe had used his charm on her. He had a deep, baritone-range voice. He’d even promised to hold her hand if she got scared. He’d take care of her. Besides, there were ten of them and only five cataphiles. What could go wrong?
Sucker.
She’d been watching as the girls paired off with guys, holding hands. Caressing shoulders. Giggling. Disappearing for a span. Five men to ten women were great odds, but they could just factor her out of the equation. What could go wrong? Unprotected sex for starters. And then add a moron who couldn’t read the thirty-seven pages of hand-drawn maps they carried. Oh. And he should have taken a head count before entering this particular tunnel. Jill suspected they’d lost three more girls. And two guys.
This was so stupid!
Ouch!
Jill sucked in on the instant stab of pain. Unless a person wore the old-style gas-perm lenses, they didn’t know how much it hurt to have a dirt particle in the eye along with a contact. Sometimes it started a stream of tears from the affected eye. That helped a little as it soothed and washed her eye out, but it was like a magnet for more dirt. Jill put her back against a wall and flipped the other contact out this time. She was on her way to putting it on her tongue, when all hell broke loose.
“Gendarmes!”
All the lights went out. A body raced by, kicking up more dust, and worse. It jostled her arm, sending her contact airborne, and just like that, she lost her ability to see well.
Oh. Shit.
“Run!”
More bodies rushed past her, showing the cataphiles could move pretty well, even in the dark. It also showed their lack of chivalry. Jill slid to her haunches along the wall, cupping her hand over her left eye. She was protecting this one. She’d gone with one contact before. It wasn’t a life altering situation. She could make it. Depth perception was the real issue, but she wasn’t handicapped.
But if she lost this lens...
Shouts came from somewhere to her left. They sounded like they were a long way away. Already. Jill turned that direction, moved her hand, and squinted. Nothing but dark and more dark. Great. Somebody had mentioned that tunnel-exploring was illegal. The fine was sixty some-odd Euros. That’s why someone was supposed to be on the look-out for police. Jill had been a proponent of that idea. Others might be able to afford the penalty. She wasn’t one of them. Right now, however, she was all for finding a cop and getting the hell out of here.
“Hello!”
She called it loudly, but it sounded like she’d lost a couple of decades from her twenty-six years. Jill cleared her throat and tried again. And this time she yelled. Nothing but an echo answered
her, and it came back twice. She stood, and tried again. This time the echo was louder. And just as fruitless.
This wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be lost somewhere in the underbelly of Paris with a limited ability to see, no water, and no companionship. And she might as well factor in her limited ability with the language. All told, there wasn’t a range in her stupid level for this shit. Jill’s good eye was still sending a solid stream of tears down her cheek. She kept it closed. The contact wouldn’t scratch much that way, and she wouldn’t lose it. She didn’t dare fuss with anything until she had some light... and why? Because legally blind really was a handicap. She squinted and looked about with the contact-less one. It didn’t do much. They’d taken the light. Everything was pretty much the same shade of black. The fact that it was a blur was completely inconsequential.
Decision time, Jill.
She could stay here. Wait for a rescue. The others might come back. Another gendarme might come by. There might even be another cataphile group out and about that she could join. Or... she could work her way out by herself.
Hmm. Stay here. Or leave. Both sounded bad. And then the strangest moaning sound came, seeming to seep through the area from the ground up.
Oh, double shit.
Jill’s heart kicked into overdrive. This place was the largest necropolis in the world. A literal bone yard. The tour guide brochure in the hotel room had all kinds of info on it. They had over six million skeletons down here somewhere. And that meant a lot of ghosts.
Oh, stop it, Jill.
Her entire body broke out in a cold sweat accompanied by a full-body tremor. She’d heard it described. She’d never felt it. She was a grounded, skeptical, sensible woman. There were no such things as ghosts. Why was it easier to think it than to believe it? I’ll tell you why, Jill. Because being all alone in the dead of night lost in the Paris catacombs could trump anything commonsensical. And eat it for lunch.
