Johnny Black, Soul Chaser: The Complete Series (Johnny Black, Soul Chaser Series)

by JJ Zep

  I was glad to be rid of the imp, even for a few hours, and as I lay down on my cot I tried to come up with a plan of action.

  Escaping from the Bastille was, of course, out of the question. It was a sturdy medieval prison and although it would soon be stormed and destroyed by the Paris mob, that event was still a couple of weeks away, and of no use to me now. My best chance of escape was on the transport from the prison to the guillotine tomorrow. If I’d had Jitterbug with me, I’d have asked him to create a diversion, but my impish assistant was by all accounts living it up at the Lido, in another version of Paris right now. I eventually fell asleep, with absolutely no idea about what I was going to do.

  douze

  I woke before dawn and lay on my cot as the darkness turned to watery gray light. Ringo was nowhere to be seen, and I figured the imp was already at the Place Louis XV, soaking up the atmosphere as the crowd gathered for the execution. A strange feeling, akin to déjà vu, suddenly washed over me, something to do with the Place Louis XV. It seemed important, but when I tried to figure out why, all I drew was a big fat blank.

  A while later the door swung open and two guards entered with a priest close behind. “Are you prepared to make your confession, child?” the priest asked.

  “That won’t be necessary, father.”

  “But child, your immortal soul,” the priest said.

  “Believe me father,” I said. “That’s already spoken for.”

  The priest insisted on giving me a blessing anyway and I didn’t object. I was in deep enough trouble already, so one more transgression of the ‘Hades Code of Acceptable Conduct’ was hardly going to make much difference.

  With matters of religion concluded I was taken down to the prison courtyard and loaded into an open cart drawn by two scrawny horses. There was another prisoner in the cart with me, someone I recognized immediately as Claude Duval, the French Dick Turpin.

  “Pah!” Duval said when he saw me, “I had a feeling we’d meet again. You have no talent for matters of a criminal nature, Monsieur. My suggestion is that you consider an alternative career path.”

  “Well, you don’t appear to be doing that much better yourself, Claude,” I said.

  “You dare to mock the blight of the fifty-forth arrondissement?”

  “I thought it was the forty-fifth,” I said.

  “I’m expanding my reach.”

  “For the inside of a prison? Some trick that.”

  A guard now climbed into the cart and shackled Duval and I together with an ankle chain. He barked out an instruction and the prison gate creaked slowly open and the cart trundled forward.

  The trip from the Bastille to Place Louis XV took at least an hour. At first the streets were relatively quiet, but as we turned into the Rue Honore, the crowd began to swell. By the time we passed the Jardin des Tuileries the cart had slowed to a crawl, and we were being pelted with rotten vegetables and all manner of other unmentionables. The crowd cursed and jeered and threatened, and it was almost a relief when we made the final turn and the Place Louis XV loomed in front of us, with the guillotine as its centerpiece. Once again, the strange sensation that I’d felt earlier in my cell washed over me, and it became even more intense when I saw the name of the square, etched on a plaque, against one of the buildings. I knew then that the feeling was more than mere déjà vu, and that it had something to do with the name of my place of execution.

  Up ahead I could see a raised platform and upon it Madame Guillotine, a crude wooden frame with a wicked, angled blade suspended at the top and held in place by a rope. Around the platform a garrison of soldiers kept the crowd at bay. And quite a crowd it was too, including many women and children as well as vendors selling everything from bread to small working models of the guillotine.

  The cart came to a halt and three military drummers started up a tattoo. Duval and I were forced up a steep set of stairs leading to the scaffold, a somewhat perilous undertaking with our ankles shackled together. The minute we stepped onto the platform, a huge cheer went up from the crowd. It was as though two prizefighters had just stepped into a boxing ring.

  There were three executioners in attendance, two of who waited by the guillotine itself, while the other stood close to us with a set of keys on a large metal ring held in his hand, presumably to release the ankle shackles when the time came.

  The drummers suddenly stopped playing and in the momentary silence that followed, someone in the crowd shouted out “Vive le revolution!” and another tumbler clicked into place as an image of Jacques Roux, the enraged associate of Robespierre and Danton, suddenly flashed into my mind. Something Roux had said when we’d been locked up together in the Conciergerie, came to mind, but I couldn’t remember exactly what it had been.

  The executioner was now crouching down to work the locks on the ankle shackles. “In the name of concord, gentlemen,” he said. “I ask you not to kick out or try anything stupid.” Quite suddenly, like the final piece of a jigsaw slotting in, the idea that had been trying to form in my brain came together in a picture that was as clear as the sun just beginning to peek over the trees surrounding the square.

  Pandora had said that the turnstile was in the Place de la Concord, but when I’d asked Robespierre about it he had said that no such place existed in Paris. And he was right, no such place existed in Paris, 1789. The Place de la Concord did however exist in 2012.

  But it was Jacques Roux who had inadvertently tied all the strands together. Roux had said that after the revolution, they’d change the names of everything. Place Louis XV will be renamed Place de la Revolution, he’d said, and maybe even Place de la Concorde. Could it be that the place where I was standing right now was actually the Place de la Concorde, and if so, where was the turnstile?

  The executioner seemed to be having a hard time slotting the key into the shackles and the crowd was getting restless. “Merde!” the executioner exclaimed. “Why are these things always so awkward. Oi you, Le Noir, turn will you. Turn to your left, so that I can get this infernal key into the lock.”

  I started to turn as instructed and a smile began to form on my lips. In hell, secret doorways can often be accessed only by approaching them side-on, and as I now turned left, the turnstile opened up in front of me, a rectangle of light slightly different in color and texture to the surrounding air, but unmistakably a doorway.

  treize

  I stepped through the turnstile pulling Claude Duval with me. One moment I was on a platform in revolutionary Paris with a crowd baying for my blood and the next I was hurtling along at warp speed, with a light show to rival the Aurora Borealis all around me. It was all very beautiful until I realized that I had no idea how to get off this thing, and even less clue as to where we might end up. In some past or future version of Paris was my guess, but for all I knew, we might even be deposited back on the execution platform in 1789.

  Next to me I could see Duval, his eyes wide in terror, his jaw dropped in astonishment, and I realized that he was another problem I didn’t need right now. I found myself wishing that I’d waited a second longer, until the executioner had loosened the ankle chain, before stepping through the turnstile. But it was too late for that now. What was done, was done, and my immediate focus needed to be on finding a way off the turnstile.

  While I was trying to figure out how I might do that, a clawed hand suddenly emerged from the ether and grabbed hold of my collar. I felt myself being yanked sideways and dumped unceremoniously onto a hard surface, with Duval landing on top of me. I pushed him aside and got myself into a sitting position. I was facing some kind of stone structure that towered into the sky some eighty feet. It looked ancient, possibly Egyptian, and for a moment I was sure we weren’t in Paris at all. But I soon began to notice the sound of traffic, and once I orientated myself, I could see that we were in a square, and that the obelisk was some kind of monument. Looking beyond the obelisk, I saw two identical stone buildings and beyond those, the skyline of modern Paris. If I had any doub
t at all as to where we were, the view to the other side of the square cleared that up, beyond a fountain, beyond the treetops, the Eifel Tower rose majestically into the blue Parisian sky.

  Of course, the miraculous appearance of two men dressed in eighteenth century attire, and shackled at the ankle, had not gone unnoticed. Pretty soon a large crowd had gathered and presently I heard the sound of sirens.

  “Coming through! Coming through!” I heard someone shouting and two gendarmes appeared from the crowd.

  “What have we here?” one of them demanded. “Sleeping rough hey? Well, you boys better move on. This is a public space you know, no place for vagrants.”

  “Hello, hello,” his companion said noticing the ankle chain. “What do you make of this, Pierre?”

  “Mmm,” Pierre said, “Perhaps not vagrants after all, hey. Maybe fugitives? Right then, you boys are nicked. You’re coming with us.”

  We were manhandled to our feet and marched through the crowd to a police van and thrown into the back. Soon we were racing through the streets of Paris with the sirens wailing.

  Duval hadn’t spoken a word since we’d been pulled through the turnstile and now sat across from me with his eyes closed. He appeared to be mouthing a prayer. When he opened his eyes he looked at me fearfully. “What place is this monsieur? Are we in hell?”

  “Relax, Claude,” I said. “This isn’t hell. Not even close. Just follow my lead and you’ll be alright, okay.” He nodded his head vigorously and then closed his eyes and returned to his prayers.

  The police van eventually came to a halt outside a prefecture building and we were taken inside, booked, and thrown into separate cells. The cell had a small basin, and I tried to clean up as best I could while also attempting to make sense of this latest twist. Most of all, I wanted to know about the clawed hand that had pulled us through the turnstile. At the time I’d been sure it was Jitterbug, but if that was the case, where was the little imp now?

  After a while an officer came to fetch me and escorted me to an interrogation room, where two plain-clothes detectives waited. One of them had a cigarette dangling from his lips and offered me one from his pack.

  When I declined he gave a typically Gallic shrug and put the pack away. “I’m detective Jean-Paul Fontaine,” he said. “This here’s Deschamps, he doesn’t have a first name.” Deschamps grunted at the joke that was obviously part of their regular routine.

  “So tell me,” Fontaine said. “Who you are, where you’re from, and what you’re doing in Paris? And don’t give me the same cow and bull story your friend tried about 1789 and the revolution and all that.”

  “I’m Jacques Le Noir,” I said, “I’m from Provence, and I don’t rightly know what I’m doing in Paris.”

  “Don’t rightly know?” Fontaine said. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I was at a fancy dress party and next thing I know I wake up in the square, shackled to that other guy, who I’ve never met before by the way. I think my drink was spiked.”

  “You were kidnapped? Robbed? Sexually interfered with?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it was some kind of a prank, my friends…”

  “Names,” Fontaine said, flipping open a notepad.

  “I don’t remember,” I said.

  “It’s like that is it?” Fontaine said. “Refusing to co-operate.”

  “No, I really don’t remember.”

  “Oh well,” he said. “No offense was committed in any case. If you don’t intend pressing charges, you’re free to go.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  “That’s what I said. Just keep your pranks to the provinces in future. Us big city cops don’t have time for this nonsense. And get yourself cleaned up man, you smell as though someone’s marinated you in a stew of rotten vegetables.”

  quatorze

  “Monsieur Le Noir?” The woman addressing me was a petite and very attractive brunette in a short black skirt, a leather jacket and dark glasses.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I am Chantal,” she said extending a hand then withdrawing it quickly when she saw the state of mine. “An interested party has asked me to collect you and bring you to his residence.”

  “An interested party?”

  “Qui,” she said simply, as though that explained everything.

  “Okay,” I said, after barely a moments thought. What did I have to lose anyway? I’d just been released from police custody and I was pretty much stranded in Paris, 2012, with no idea how to get back to 1789 and complete my mission. I figured I might as well go along for the ride and see what this ‘interested party’ wanted with me.

  I followed Chantal to an old, battered Renault and got in and she pulled away immediately from the curb without bothering to consult either her side or rear-view mirrors. A car came screeching to a halt behind us and laid on the horn.

  “Shut up! Idiot! Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Chantal shouted out of the window. That set the tone for the rest of the drive, which had more in common with a rollercoaster ride than a car journey. Chantal was heavy on the gas, heavy on the brakes and light on the mirrors. As for the direction indicators, the car may as well not have been fitted with them. She was also thoroughly convinced that every other driver on the road was somehow responsible for the havoc she was causing and spent half of her time with her head out of the window dispensing curses and threats.

  Eventually we came to a halt outside an apartment building and Chantal led me up three flights of stairs to an apartment on the top floor. She slid a key into the lock and threw the door open on a chaotic room.

  “Cherie!” she said. “I’m home!” Then to me, “You want a drink?”

  “I wouldn’t mind some water, if you have any,” I said.

  “Cherie!” Chantal shouted again, “I have Monsieur Le Noir, as you asked.” She walked into the kitchen, came back holding two glasses and handed one to me. I took a sip and almost choked on the fiery, aniseed flavored liquid.

  “Ricard,” she said. “You don’t like? Here sit, sit.” She pointed me to a couch that was barely visible under a pile of magazines, fast food boxes and various items of clothing. I cleared a spot for myself and sat down.

  “Cherie!” Chantal called again and this time I heard footsteps approaching.

  “Dexter,” Jitterbug said walking into the room. “Surprised to see me?”

  quinze

  Now, Jitterbug and I have had our differences in the past, like the time he pushed me into the pool on U14 with the Kraken, or when he placed a bet against me in a gladiatorial contest against a giant barbarian, but at that moment I could have kissed the little imp.

  “Jitterbug,” I said, “I never thought I’d say this, but man, am I glad to see you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Blackwell, curb your enthusiasm. And back off a bit. You smell like you’ve been rolling in dragon manure.”

  “I’m happy to see you too, Jit.”

  “Don’t take it personal, Dexter. I just don’t appreciate having to take time out from my vacation, to pull your ass out of the fire.”

  “Sorry? Did I miss something? Where exactly did you pull my ass out of the fire?”

  “Well, who do you think pulled you off the turnstile? Lucky for you I just happened to be peeking in at that moment. Otherwise, you and Commodus would be in 2118 by now. And that’s not a pretty picture, I can tell you. Where is Commie by the way?”

  “What do you mean, where’s Commie, I haven’t found him yet.”

  “Off course you have,” Jitterbug said. “That deadbeat that was shackled to you. I thought we could jar him in the bathtub, then you can head on back to hell and I can continue my vacation in peace. Where is he? Have you got him in the car?”

  “That was Commodus?”

  “Of course it was, I’d recognize those shifty Roman eyes anywhere. Where is he?”

  “I let me go.”

  “You let him go!” Jitterbug exploded. “Dexter, you nincompo
op! Did you fall out of your crib as a baby? You’ve just released the most wanted fugitive in hell, you fool.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know?” I said defensively.

  “You were supposed to know by doing your job. Even my Grammy Wrigglespike could have picked Commie out, and she’s as batty as a ping-pong paddle.”

  “Okay, okay I get your point. The question is how are we going to get him back?”

  “We? No, no, no mon ami, Monsieur Jitterbug is on ze vacation.” He looked proudly towards Chantal who blew him a kiss.

  “So you won’t help?”

  “It’s not so much that I won’t Dexter, more that I can’t.”

  “And why can’t you?”

  “Because I won’t.”

  “Can you at least direct me back to 1789 then?”

  “Why would you want to go back there? Commie is here, in 2012.”

  “Well, I figured if you won’t help I could maybe I rope in some help from Pandora Jain, maybe do a deal, pool our resources.”

  “Pandora’s on this case?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “She’s even brought her own imp along.”

  “It’s not Ringo is it?” Jitterbug hissed, suddenly attentive.

  “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “Quit fooling around,” Jitterbug growled. “This is important stuff.”

  “Ho hum,” I said, picking up a magazine from the floor and flipping aimlessly through it.

  “Oh, come on!” Jitterbug insisted. “It is Ringo, isn’t it?”

  I let him hang for a few moments more, enjoying the look of desperation on his devilish face. “Yes,” I said eventually.

  “That bobbit-stealing, tushy-shaking tramp!” Jitterbug exploded. “I knew she’d dredge up that treacherous, two-bit, son of a trailer park troll sooner or later.”

  “You two have some history then?”