"Then we shall have to apologize to them for having wasted their time. I will explain to them. Under the circumstances, I'm sure they'll understand. Now come on, let's finish packing. The sooner you're out of here, the better off you'll be."
He gently turned her around and led her out of the apartment. He turned back to shut the door and his gaze fell on the bullets lying on the floor. He frowned and stared at them for a moment, then quickly went back inside, picked them up and put them in his pocket. Then he left the apartment and shut the door behind him.
They reappeared back inside their suite at the Ritz, giving Jacqueline a start. She had been on her way out of the bedroom, where she had changed, and had been about to call for room service when they all suddenly appeared out of nowhere right in front of her. She almost ran right into Wyrdrune. Startled, she cried out. Another step, and she would have been standing right on the spot where he'd materialized.
"That was a little close for comfort," she said.
"Yes, let's try to keep the middle of the room clear," said Modred, "just to avoid any potential accidents."
"That was a neat trick you did back there with Rienzi," Wyrdrune said. "You'll have to show me how it's done sometime. I didn't even hear you speak a spell of compulsion."
"That's because I didn't use one," Modred said. "And, regrettably, it's not the sort of trick that one can teach."
"Then what did you do?" asked Kira.
"He simply overwhelmed Rienzi's will with his own," said Merlin.
"How?" asked Wyrdrune, frowning.
"As I said, it's not the sort of trick that one can teach," said Modred. "I simply willed him to believe what I wanted him to believe. It isn't a technique so much as a talent. I discovered that I could do it about a thousand years ago and I've gotten somewhat better at it since. It takes a good deal of concentration. It doesn't work with everyone, but it's come in handy on occasion. I can't really explain it."
"It's an ability inherited from the Old Ones," Merlin said.
"You mean you can do it, too?" asked Wyrdrune.
"I could at one time," Merlin replied. "However, I've discovered that my inborn abilities are considerably diminished in Billy's body. As Modred said, it's a latent talent, one that develops with time, and it doesn't work with everyone, though I've found that it works fairly dependably with animals."
"I imagine it's where the myth about vampires bending people to their will came from," Modred said. "People descended from the Old Ones inherited many of their talents, such as extrasensory perception and, in certain rare cases, even telepathy, but I've noticed that those abilities tend to diminish with each succeeding generation unless both parents possessed the talent, in which case the child may have it stronger."
"You know, it's entirely possible that you may have it, too," said Merlin. "You may have acquired it through the spirits of the runestones."
"It's possible," said Modred. "I find it easier to do now that the runestone is a part of me. But it's not enough merely to inherit the talent. One must practice to develop it."
"I wonder if it would work on Broom," mused Wyrdrune. "Maybe if I really concentrated. . . ."
"To really concentrate, you first have to have a mind," the broom said, coming in from the back bedroom. "But I'm telling you right now, if you start staring at me and coming on like Dracula, I'll laugh so hard I'll plotz. Anyway, I've got all your things laid out. Is there anything else you want I should do or can I go back to watching television programs I can't even understand?"
"You won't have to suffer the frustration of watching French TV, Broom," Jacqueline said. "You're going out tonight."
"I'm going out?" the broom said. "Me?"
"Yes, it has all been arranged through the hotel," Jacqueline said. "I've engaged a guide who speaks English to take you out tonight and show you some of the Paris nightlife. He should be arriving any moment."
"I'm going out?" the broom said. "I'm actually going out? Oy vey, I can't believe it! I'm actually going to get to do something for a change?"
There was a knock at the door and Jacqueline went to answer it. She opened it to admit a very handsome and urbane-looking young man, dressed in the height of fashion. He took one look at Jacqueline and smiled broadly.
"Ah, c'est magnifique! Delightful! My name is Pierre Bouchet. I am the tour guide you engaged. Mademoiselle is ready to go out?" he said.
"No, not me," Jacqueline said, in French. She turned and pointed at the broom.
The tour guide's jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up. "That?" he said. He stared at her with disbelief. "Mademoiselle is joking!"
"Mademoiselle is not joking," said Jacqueline, still in French.
"But ... but mademoiselle . . . you cannot be serious! You mean you wish me to take that . . . that . . ."
"That broom," Jacqueline said.
"But I will be a laughingstock, mademoiselle! You cannot seriously expect me to escort a ... a broom to the finest nightclubs and restaurants of Paris!"
"You will be paid three times your usual rate," Jacqueline said, "with a substantial bonus if the broom has a good time. You will treat it no differently than you would a wealthy socialite. You will be courteous and polite, and as attentive as if you were escorting me, is that understood?"
The man sighed with resignation. "Oui, mademoiselle. If that is your wish. "
"That is my wish," Jacqueline said. "I might add that the broom is this gentleman's cherished familiar," she said, indicating Wyrdrune, "and he is most solicitous of its welfare. It had served his departed mother faithfully while he was completing his thaumaturgical training and it is the only thing he has left to remind him of her. He would take it very badly if it were treated with anything less than the utmost respect."
"Ah, oui, mademoiselle, I understand," the guide said, glancing at Wyrdrune nervously. "Please explain to the gentleman that I will take very special care of it. I would never wish to offend an adept under any circumstances."
"Good. See that you do not," Jacqueline said. She turned and switched to English. "Well, Broom, all the arrangements have been made. You'll be in capable hands. Go out and enjoy Paris."
"I can hardly believe it," said the broom. "Where are we going to go? Where shall we start?"
"I was thinking that perhaps we could start with a late dinner, perhaps, or a light snack at . . ." The guide's voice trailed off. He swallowed nervously and cleared his throat, glancing at Jacqueline. "Excuse me, mademoiselle, but. . . does it eat?"
"No," Jacqueline said, "but you could dine and I'm sure that Broom would appreciate the atmosphere of a fine restaurant, just the same."
"If you say so, mademoiselle," Bouchet said dubiously. With some trepidation, he offered the broom his arm and they left together, the broom sweeping down the hall with him.
"Don't stay out too late!" Wyrdrune called after it, then turned and shook his head. "What am I saying?"
"Perhaps we should go out, as well," said Modred. "I think I'd like to make some inquiries at the Cafe Noir."
Chapter
FIVE
The Cafe Noir was located in the basement of a brownstone on the Rue de Seine, in the district of St.-Germain-des-Pres. Unlike many of the chic, touristy nightclubs that surrounded it, its entrance was nondescript, with only a small sign over the stairway spelling out the club's name in blue neon letters. Inside, however, it was a different story. The moment they came through the heavy black lacquered front door, they were assailed by a throbbing wall of sound that filled the large, dimly lit, basement nightclub. They paid the cover charge and entered the large room, which was packed with people. The decor was black, befitting the establishment's name. The floors, the walls, the ceiling, the banquettes, the chairs and tables, all were black with silver accents. The bar ran the length of the entire room along the left side of the club, with a long stage behind it. Scantily clad chorus girls danced onstage, not merely doing the bump and grind of strippers, but moving in precise, skillfully choreographed routines. The main stage was
at the far end of the club, where another group of chorus girls dressed in flashy, revealing costumes was performing an elaborate dance number. The stage had several levels, consisting of scenery and dance platforms, rivaling anything seen in Las Vegas or Monte Carlo, with miniature waterfalls and flashing lighting effects orchestrated by the club adept. Crackling globes of ball lightning spun in arabesques around the dancing girls, discharging bolts of energy into the air in precise time to the music. Paragriffins with glittering, metallic wings darted among the artificial trees set up on the stage and swooped down over the patrons, whistling like skyrockets as they came gliding overhead. Some of the girls danced with enchanted instruments that played themselves and sang. It was a spectacular show.
An attractive waitress in a scanty black costume led them to a table and took their orders as the dance number reached its climax, with the miniature waterfalls flowing in a riot of glowing colors and the globes of ball lightning splitting up into smaller globes, circling around and around, discharging jagged bolts of energy that sparkled in the darkness as the number reached its dramatic conclusion. Then all the lights went out and the audience burst into applause as the voice of the announcer came on over the public address system, speaking first in French, then in English.
"Le Danse Noir, ladies and gentlemen! Let's hear it for the girls!"
He paused to allow the applause to die down, then the lights slowly came up over the stage again, revealing that the set had been changed. The multilevel stage had now become & stylized graveyard, illuminated in dark violet as a smoky mist undulated along its floor. On the various platforms of the stage stood tombstones, crosses and stone monuments of saints and angels. The full moon rose high and dark clouds scudded across the cyclorama. Bats cried out as they winged their way across the stage. Dirgelike organ music filled the air, slow, majestic and foreboding.
"Mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen," said the announcer, "Prepare to be astounded! None of what you are about to see is an illusion! It is all absolutely, one hundred percent real! Le Cafe Noir, in an exclusive engagement, is now proud to present for your entertainment pleasure one of the world's most gifted thespian adepts, the one, the only, the incomparable . . . Jacques Pascal!"
There was a dramatic stab of organ music, a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder as a jagged bolt shot down from the ceiling and struck one of the graves, sending up a shower of earth and rock. Stiffly, like a vampire rising from the grave, Jacques Pascal rose straight up from a lying position, wrapped in a flowing black cape, hands crossed against his chest. The public applauded.
Wyrdrune grimaced. "Cheap theatrics," he said. "Nothing a first-year student couldn't do."
The music changed tempo, with a rapid, steady, staccato dance beat underlying the organ music as Pascal stepped forward, spread his cape dramatically and bowed. Wyrdrune frowned at the strange familiarity of the music, then he realized what it was.
" 'Danse Macabre,' " he said, naming the piece. "Only they've jazzed it up so much it's barely recognizable. Saint-Saens must be spinning in his grave, if you'll excuse the pun."
"Never mind the music," Modred said, leaning forward intently. "Don't you feel it?"
Even as he spoke, Wyrdrune became aware of a sudden, burning sensation in his forehead. Kira gasped and clutched her hand. She opened her palm. Her sapphire runestone was glowing brightly. Wyrdrune quickly slipped a headband on over his forehead, covering the stone before anyone could notice its telltale glow from beneath his hair. Modred's rune-stone was invisible beneath his shirt, but they both knew that the ruby was glowing just as brightly. Kira reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and took out a thin, black leather glove. She put it on, hiding the runestone's glow.
"They're here!" she said.
"It's him," said Wyrdrune. "Pascal! He's the Dark One!"
"No," said Modred, as Jacques Pascal began his act.
"But the feeling is so strong!" said Kira. "Are you sure?"
"I sense the presence," Modred said. "But the Dark One is not here."
"What do you mean?" asked Jacqueline.
"I don't know," said Modred, frowning. "I feel the presence, but it isn't the same somehow. As if the Dark One is here, and yet not here. There is a sense of distance, somehow. . . ."
"Astral possession," Merlin said. They all turned to look at Billy, who was sitting watching the stage intently. The fire opal stone in his ring was gleaming brightly. "Pascal is not the Dark One, but one of the Dark Ones is working through him."
"You mean like you possess Billy?" Kira said.
"Not exactly," Merlin said. "Billy and I share consciousness. We share the same body. But the man up on the stage is not the repository of the Dark One's spirit. Only of the power."
"You mean the necromancer is controlling him, from somewhere else?" said Wyrdrune.
"Undoubtedly," Merlin replied. "It is an old spell, one that only the most powerful mages are capable of casting. Their physical selves can remain elsewhere, partly conscious, aware of everything that is going on around them, but they can send a portion of their consciousness, like a remote part of themselves, to control another person. They can then use that person as their agent, while they remain in safety, where they cannot be harmed."
"That would explain the feeling of the presence being here and yet not here," said Modred. "Pascal is acting as the vehicle for the necromancer's power. I didn't know that they could do that."
"It takes an enormous amount of energy and concentration," Merlin said. "This necromancer must be a very strong one."
"But why?" asked Wyrdrune. "Why expend so much energy just to stage a magic act?"
"I don't know," said Merlin. "Perhaps it was part of their bargain with the acolyte, the price the Dark One had to pay to obtain his cooperation. Or perhaps because it amuses the necromancer and provides a focus for his concentration, much like a musician might do finger exercises to strengthen his technique. It will be interesting to watch what this man does. It will help us to judge the necromancer's power."
"You think the Dark One knows we're here?" asked Wyrdrune.
"It's possible, but astral possession takes a great deal of focused concentration," Merlin said. "The Dark One may not be able to sense the power of the runestones at a distance while working the spell."
"But you don't know for sure?" said Kira.
"No. I don't know for sure," Merlin replied. "In either case, we'll find out soon enough."
Jacques Pascal had started his act. As the music increased in tempo, he began to make dramatic passes with his hands and skeletons rose from the graves and began to dance upon the stage. Pascal choreographed their movements with expansive gestures, weaving among the dancing bones, bringing more of them out of the graves until the entire stage was filled with them, ^whirling about and dancing with a wild, jerky abandon. Several more skeletons drifted in from offstage, dragging a girl, one of the dancers, dressed in a long, filmy white nightgown. She cried out and straggled against them, but she couldn't get away. They brought her up to Pascal and he made several passes in front of her face. She went into a trance. As the skeletons danced around them, he slowly levitated her.
As she rose, a wind plucked at her gauzy nightdress, blowing her hair so that it streamed out behind her. She rose higher and higher, then began to turn, whirling around faster and faster. Her nightgown burst into blue flame and burned away from her, leaving her naked, yet unharmed. She turned in the air until she was horizontal, supported only by Pascal's magic powers. A stone altar rose up out of the stage and slowly, she descended to it as Pascal moved to stand behind the altar, guiding her down while the skeletons increased the frenzy of their dance. A long, gleaming knife appeared in Pascal's hand and he held it over her, making passes with it over her nude body.
"You don't think he's really going to . . ." Kira's voice trailed off.
"It's only an act," Wyrdrune said. "I hope."
Pascal plunged the knife down. The girl screamed and there w
as a blinding white flash and a puff of smoke and she was gone, vanished into thin air. A white dove fluttered up from the altar where she had lain. The audience applauded.
Suddenly, a group of dancers dressed as peasants came running out from the wings, carrying torches and weapons. Some of them had swords and clubs, others had pitchforks. They joined in the dance, fighting with the animated skeletons. A club swung and a skeleton's bones flew apart, only to reassemble once again and continue fighting, but the peasants kept on striking at the skeletons until bones were spinning through the air all over the stage, reassembling themselves into various strange configurations, flying apart again and coming back together to form new and more surreal shapes. And then a priest came out onto the stage and started sprinkling holy water. The bones began to smoke. The peasants retreated behind the priest as he continued to dash holy water all around him and the skeletons dissolved away until there were none left standing. Then it was only the priest, with the peasants behind him, facing Jacques Pascal. He held up a cross. Pascal shied away from it, holding his cloak up to protect his face, then he turned and twin beams of bright green thaumaturgic energy shot out from his eyes, striking the stone statues on the monuments. They began to move.
Slowly, ponderously, they came down off their pedestals and started moving toward the priest. The peasants shrieked and fled the stage. The priest dashed holy water on the statues and they began to smoke as well, but they kept on coming at him, surrounding him until he was hidden from view. Their massive limbs rose and fell and the priest could be heard screaming. Then, one by one, the stone statues began to crack and crumble. They all collapsed into a heap of shattered stone and the priest's arm could be seen rising from the pile, fingers twitching spasmodically. Pascal walked over to the pile, grasped the twitching hand and pulled, but instead of the priest, the girl who had been the sacrificial victim came flying up from the pile of rock. She sailed up into the air and slowly floated down to stand beside Pascal. He wrapped his cloak around her, hiding her from view, and when he opened up his cloak again, she had disappeared. As the music reached its crescendo and the first gray light of dawn showed against the cyclorama, Pascal spread his cloak wide and its bottom edges burst into green flame, rapidly burning upward as Pascal seemed to melt and flow into another shape. He ran forward toward the edge of the stage, leaped up into the air and turned into a giant bat with leathery wings. He flew out over the audience, shrieking loudly, and when he had reached the middle of the room, there was a bright green flash and he was gone. The audience erupted into wild applause.
[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Page 8
