Jack Templar and the Lord of the Vampires

by Jeff Gunhus

  “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?” Will said.

  “I’m trying not to think anything until we check out this story,” I said. “Come on, let’s find an Internet café and see if big Rusty was worth his twenty bucks.” As we walked away, I tried to keep my composure, but I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. The thought of climbing that spire had my legs shaking and an ice ball churning in my stomach. I found myself hoping Rusty had made the whole thing up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The good news is that Rusty wasn’t making everything up,” Xavier said as he scrolled through pages of information.

  It was just Xavier and I at the terminal, the others waiting for us at an outdoor café nearby. We had started by all huddling around the computer together throwing out suggestions for search terms and sites for him to look at. After only one annoying minute of Googling by committee, Xavier shooed us out, telling us to wait for him across the street. For safety sake, I stayed behind with him even though I wasn’t much help. He moved too fast for me to read anything on the screen, scanning documents in seconds, deciding to print or move on before I even knew what the page was about. I wondered if this was the closest thing to seeing what Xavier’s mind must be like. Constantly processing data, sorting it, filtering it. After about five minutes, he suddenly stopped.

  “What is it?” I asked, thinking he’d found something. I was too busy looking at the screen to notice Xavier’s face was red and he was on the verge of crying.

  “I don’t know how I missed the clue,” he said. “The first one about the beginnings and ends. It was so obvious.”

  “It all worked out,” I said. “Your wrong guess still put us in the right area.”

  “But what if it hadn’t?” he sputtered. “What if I make a mistake like that again, and I send us in the completely wrong direction?”

  Only then did I notice how upset he was. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he left them alone. He refused to look at me. His fingers were back to dancing across the keyboard, bring up images of Notre Dame, schematics of the interior, architectural drawings of the exterior.

  “What if I make a mistake and get everyone killed?” he whispered.

  I put my hands over his and stopped him from typing. He froze but continued to stare at the computer screen, avoiding eye contact.

  “Xavier, we’re all going to make mistakes,” I said. “The reason I was so mad at Daniel at that restaurant in Spain was because he was right. I’ve messed up so many times I’m losing count.”

  He shook his head. “You’re doing the best you can.”

  “And there isn’t a minute when I don’t worry that my best isn’t good enough,” I said.

  “How do you keep that from driving you crazy?” he asked quietly.

  I thought about the night with Eva on the cliff, how she had refocused me on how important our mission was to the unknowing world. I gave Xavier the only answer I could. “Because there’s no other choice. We’re it. If we don’t reunite the Jerusalem Stones and stop Ren Lucre, no one will.”

  “Is that supposed to help with the pressure?” Xavier asked. “If so, it’s not really working.”

  “I’m being honest with you,” I replied. “You’re one of the smartest guys I’ve ever met, so you’d know if I was trying to baby you.” He nodded. “I just know that all I can ask of myself is to try my best. And when I make mistakes, trust that my friends with be there to cover my back. Will you do that? Will you cover for me when I make mistakes?”

  He finally looked at me, wiping the tears away. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “And I promise I’ll do it for you. Anytime. Anywhere. Deal?” I held out my hand, and he shook it. I pointed to the tidy stack of printouts in the printer tray. “So, did you find anything good?”

  He broke out into a wide grin. “Of course I did. Come on, let’s show the others.”

  A few minutes later he smacked the printouts onto the center of the café table where the rest of the team had gathered. I grabbed the top few pages and thumbed through them. The story of St. Denis was told with slight variations over and over on different websites. “So it’s all true?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about true,” Xavier said. “A thousand years ago, people believed the world was flat. Just because a lot of people believe something is true doesn’t make it so.”

  Will took a few more pages off the stack. “You don’t believe this guy carried his own head through town preaching a sermon? We’ve seen worse, haven’t we?”

  “Not with a human though,” Daniel said. “The only time we’ve seen that kind of behavior is with…” His voice trailed off and he stroked his chin.

  “He was a vampire,” Eva said flatly. “If this actually happened, then he had to have been not only a vampire but an extremely powerful one. Usually decapitation does the trick, but I’ve seen heads continue to live for a minute or two afterward.”

  T-Rex turned squeamish. “See? This is exactly why I liked being a Ratling. Give me turnips and carrots any day.”

  I thought through the evidence, trying to make sense of it. “So you guys think our Saint Denis was a vampire?”

  Daniel nodded. “Think about it. An extremely powerful vampire hides in plain sight as a priest, using the position to direct suspicion away from other Creach when there are sightings. But one day, someone shows up with a powerful weapon strong enough to decapitate him.”

  Eva picked up the story. “Because he’s so strong, he walks through town carrying his own head. In today’s world, that would be on Facebook and YouTube within minutes.”

  “And people would think it was either faked or some science experiment gone bad,” Will interjected.

  “Exactly,” Daniel agreed, retaking the lead. They directed the story at Xavier and me as if we were the judge and jury trying this eighteen-century-old case. “But back then people were more superstitious. Something like this had only two possible sources. Heaven or hell. He was a priest, so they chose to see heaven. But they were probably wrong.”

  Xavier joined in, showing that he was buying their theory. “But we know from experience that this phenomenon happens with vampires. Therefore, St. Denis was a vampire.”

  He said this a little too loud, and Eva and I both looked around cautiously to see who might be listening. There were other customers on the small sidewalk patio, but they were a few tables away and were absorbed in newspapers, phone calls, and reading their electronic devices.

  “I think we ought to keep that to ourselves. I get the sense the French really like this guy,” I said. Xavier looked embarrassed.

  “Alright, so what’s in the rooster?” Daniel asked. “This guy’s ankle bone or something?”

  “Could it be the Jerusalem Stone?” Will offered.

  Xavier shook his head. “The timeline doesn’t work. This happened in the third century, and the Knights Templar didn’t find the Jerusalem Stones for another thousand years. Even this spire is weird. It wasn’t built the same time as the rest of the cathedral.” He dug through his stack of papers and found several sheets covered with black and white photos showing the construction of the spire. “They added the spire during a renovation around 1870.”

  Something caught my eye. I grabbed at one of the pages and looked closer at the photo. Everyone watched me curiously as a smile spread across my face. “I think we found where Gregor hid the weapon.”

  I slid the photo back onto the table. It showed a group of men in old-fashioned suits and top hats on a construction site in front of Notre Dame. The metalwork of the spire lay on the ground at their feet and the bronze rooster sculpture sat propped on a table. Even though the photo was dark and grainy, there was a face in the back row that was unmistakably familiar. Gregor.

  I looked back in the direction of Notre Dame. Even though we were a few streets away, and there were townhouses blocking the view of the cathedral itself, the spire rose high into the air above it all. The bronze rooster was no more th
an a dot in the sky from this distance. Inside was the weapon that had killed St. Denis and that Gregor had used during his legendary career as a vampire hunter. He hadn’t wanted to destroy it in case it was needed later, but he also didn’t trust that he could keep it safe. And now it fell to me to recover it. I imagined the view from the top of the spire was something incredible. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to see it in person.

  “Looks like I’m going climbing tonight,” I said. “Xavier, can you hook me up with one of your inventions so I don’t…you know…”

  “Fall to a grisly death?” Will offered.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I replied.

  Xavier looked over his diagrams and photos of the cathedral and the spire. Talking to himself under his breath, doing calculations. Finally he looked up. “Maybe I can help a little, rig some climbing gear, modify it for the surfaces you’ll encounter, trace a route for you, those kinds of things. Even with a week or two...”

  “You have two days,” I said.

  Xavier looked horrified. “Then…I…I don’t think it can be done safely.”

  “Then I’ll just have to do it unsafely,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “What else is new, right?” I half-expected everyone to pounce on that idea and talk me out of it. But no one did. We all wanted to know what was inside that rooster. “All right, it’s settled. Xavier, you have Daniel, Will and T-Rex to help you.”

  “What are you and Eva going to do?” Daniel asked.

  “Tiberon showed me an image of where the vampire lair is located. Turns out there’s a tour of it this afternoon.” I held up the brochure for the catacombs I’d taken from inside the cathedral. “We’ll scope that out and meet back here by eight. Let’s hunt some vampires.”

  As Eva and I stood to leave, Xavier was already handing out assignments to the others. As we left the café, none of us had the slightest clue how terrifying and horrific climbing Notre Dame was going to be. But that was going to have to wait because Eva and I had a date with the remains of a hundred thousand dead people.

  I know what you’re thinking…how romantic.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Locked. We stood outside a small, black wooden building with a small sign, Les Catacombes de Paris, on the metal gate blocking the entrance. Thick chains wrapped around the gate with an impressive padlock in the center of it. A quick study of the hours listed on the sign showed we were already a few hours late for the last tour. I knocked on the window that faced the street, hoping someone would come out so that we could at least try to bribe our way in. Nothing.

  “I guess I should have read the brochure more carefully,” I said, seeing now that the hours were on the handout I carried in my hand. It had only been a twenty-minute walk to get there so it wasn’t the end of the world. I really wanted to get a look at the catacombs though. I could tell Eva felt the same way since she was busy trying to pick the padlock.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a French-accented voice from behind us. Eva stepped back quickly, her hand with the hook falling to her side. I used to think she did that because she was embarrassed of her missing hand. Now I knew she did it to keep the element of surprise for when she needed to use the hook in a fight.

  We both spun around and saw an odd-looking boy watching us. I say boy, but he was probably seventeen or eighteen, a little shorter than average, but he had a scruffy goatee that made him look older. He had hair as dark as pitch that he wore long and pulled back in a ponytail. His skin was a burnt brown like he spent every waking moment in the sun. He wore baggy clothes cinched at the waist by a rope. A gold earring hung from one ear. I thought for a second that he might be a pirate from some tourist dinner show in town, but the clothes were well-worn and didn’t look like a costume. He was ridiculously good-looking and eyed Eva appreciatively. I disliked him immediately.

  “Big brother, he is watching you,” he said, nodding to the cameras mounted on the roof. “And he likes to keep his locked things locked up.”

  “We were just excited to see the catacombs,” I said, guiding Eva away. “We’ll just have to come back another time I guess.”

  Our new friend padded after us. “You are American?” he asked with the easy graciousness of a talented panhandler. “I am Pahvi.” He held out his hand to Eva and she shook it.

  “I’m Ashley,” she lied. “This is Matt. He’s American. I’m British.”

  “Ahh…” Pahvi grinned. “So much more beautiful…” I looked at him oddly. “The sound of her speaking is what I mean,” he said, obviously not meaning it that way at all.

  “And you are Romani?” Eva asked.

  Pahvi’s eyes lit up. “You know the proper name. Very good. Gypsy has so many conjugations to it.”

  “I think you mean connotations,” I said, stepping up the pace a bit and hoping Eva would keep up. I put my hand next to my pocket with my wallet to keep it safe.

  “Yes, connotations,” Pahvi agreed. “Excusing me. English is still very hard. But connotations, yes. Like you, American. I say gypsy and now look at your hand.”

  Self-consciously, I pulled my hand away from my jean pocket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Pahvi laughed loudly, like I had just said the funniest thing in the world. “I like you, American.” He produced my wallet from his own pocket and tossed it to me. “It’s a good trick, no?”

  I took my wallet, opened it to make sure everything was there, and then shoved it deeply into my pocket. The Romani, or gypsies as they were called by the politically incorrect, were notorious for many things, excellent pickpockets being one. We needed to get rid of our little friend as quickly as possible. “Yeah, good trick. Nice to meet you. Maybe we’ll see you around Paris.”

  Pahvi slowed, and we pulled ahead of him. I thought we were rid of the pest until I heard him say seven words that brought me to a stop, “I can get you into the catacombs.” Eva and I both turned and faced him. The smile was gone and he was all business. “One hundred euros is un tour privé. How you say? A private tour. Unofficial. You get to see things the tourists don’t.” He broke back into his ingratiating smile and gave Eva a short bow. “The lady, of course, is free.”

  I noticed Eva flash an involuntary smile at the gesture before catching herself. She looked at me and nodded. “Pahvi, do you think my friend and I could talk about this for a second?” I asked.

  “Of course, take time. I will be over here trying to listen to what you say.” He grinned.

  I forced a laugh that came out as a short bark and drew Eva away to confer. “What do you think?’

  “Why wouldn’t we do it? Access to the catacombs afterhours is perfect. We can really explore,” Eva said. “Wasn’t that the whole point?”

  “Part of the point was to blend in with the crowd and not draw attention to ourselves. Crashing a national monument with gypsy-boy over there is a different deal,” I said.

  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “He has buddies down there ready to jump us,” I answered.

  Eva arched an eyebrow at me. “And that worries you? We’ve defeated vampires, zombies, and a goblin army. I think we can take a few Romani teenagers, don’t you?”

  I shook my head, feeling the short sword I carried strapped to my leg. “I guess so. Okay, but first sign of trouble, we’re out of there.”

  “You got it, boss.” Eva walked over to Pahvi. “We’re in. When can we get started?”

  Pahvi clapped his hands and smiled. He shook both of our hands vigorously. “Excellent, excellent. We can go now?”

  “Now is good.” Eva waved at me. “Pay up, Jack.”

  “No need,” Pahvi said. He held up my wallet that he had lifted off me again when he shook my hand. He tossed it back to me, now a hundred euros lighter. “Follow me. Stay close. The catacombs can be deadly.”

  Turns out that was the understatement of the century.

  ***

  Pahvi took us away from the entrance and led us down a si
de alley between two buildings. There, he paused in front of a rusty metal door, pulled some tools from his pocket, and went to work on the lock. A minute later, we were inside. From Pahvi’s cool efficiency, it was clear he had done this many times before.

  We walked through the small museum on the ground floor of the building. Without any lights, it was hard to make out any of the pictures on the walls or see any of the artifacts laid out in glass cases lining the edges of the rooms we passed through. Soon enough, we reached another door. This one had keys hanging on a hook next to it. I thought it was interesting that the door down to the catacombs would be locked with the keys so obviously close. That’s when it hit me. The door wasn’t locked to keep people from going into the catacombs. It was locked to keep whatever was in the catacombs from climbing out.

  “This is the way,” Pahvi said cheerfully. “On the way down the stairs I will tell you the history of this place. Please take these.” He held out small candles, the same kind we’d burned in Notre Dame for our prayers.

  “Did you steal these from a church?” I asked.

  Pahvi stroked a match and lit his own candle. He pretended to be offended. “Steal? No, mon Dieu. Of course not. I only prayed for a way to control my costs for these tours, Iooked down, and voila. God provided.” He touched his candle to Eva’s and lit hers. “Is he always like this?” he whispered.

  Eva grinned and eyed me mischievously. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “How boring,” he sighed as he unlocked the door. A faint breeze blew up from the dark passageway on the other side. Our candles flickered dramatically. The air felt damp and warm, completely different that the air-conditioned room of the museum. It smelled raw and natural, like newly dug dirt—or a grave reopened. I knew this last thought was my imagination getting away from me. Walking by candlelight into a centuries-old underground burial site will do that to you.