by S. Cedric
The First Blood
S. CEDRIC
Translated by Anne Trager
Contents
Epigraph
I: Resurgence
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
II: Superstitions
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
III: Convergence
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
IV: The Breakway
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
V: Relics
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
VI: Communion
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
Two Months Later
Acknowlegments
I’m swimming hard and fast
Against the time
Lost in a flood
Of ancient fire.
—Doro Pesch, Bad Blood
I
Resurgence
1
Neuilly-sur-Seine
January 20, 9 p.m.
A small drop of deep-red blood fell on the edge of her plate. When it hit the porcelain, it took on the shape of a tiny, hypnotic sun.
Madeleine Reich did not understand what was happening right away. She was having dinner with her husband, Jonathan, at their large dining-room table, just as they always did. It was precisely 9 p.m. Both of the Reichs were fifty and liked the rituals that reigned over every aspect of their daily lives—absolutely every aspect. Tonight, like every other night, Jonathan had ordered the meal from their favorite Japanese takeout while she set the table, as usual. Maybe it seemed inconsequential, but that kind of detail was of utmost importance to Madeleine. She had chosen a white embroidered tablecloth and taken out the Limoges china. After making her fortune in a business she started—it had already been fifteen years—Madeleine ate only on fine china and drank from the best crystal glasses. She took almost childlike pleasure in being among the privileged, the well-to-do. She knew that if her parents had still been alive, they would have been extraordinarily proud of her.
Success did take its toll. Madeleine had just finished a long, grueling day. Problems at work had drained her. She was in a hurry to eat. Then she could relax while watching a television show selected from the on-demand options, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, it would start all over again. At dawn, she would be in the ring with multinationals that never seemed to rest. But that would be tomorrow. There was no sense dwelling on it now. She savored her soup, taking small sips, and then she picked up the bottle of Asahi—Jonathan had ordered one for each of them—and filled her glass to the brim. The beer was cold, just the way she liked it. There was an assortment of sushi, set out in an orderly and reassuring manner. A second dish held sashimi, set alongside thin slices of pink ginger. Using her chopsticks, Madeleine was dipping an appetizing California roll in a small bowl of soy sauce.
The sight of blood interrupted her.
Surprised, Madeleine leaned over the red splotch on her plate.
A second drop of blood, rounder and larger than the first, fell and burst on the back of her hand. A bad omen.
Is my nose bleeding?
She set the California roll down on her plate, carefully laid the chopsticks on their stand, and wiped her hand with her napkin. She touched her nostrils. No, the bleeding did not come from there. Her nose was perfectly dry.
“Darling?” Jonathan said, having just looked up from the other side of the table. “Oh, my God.”
Jonathan’s voice was unusually high-pitched. Madeleine recognized fear. Intense fear.
Why? What is happening? Where is the blood coming from?
“Madeleine, how did you do that?”
Madeleine gave him a puzzled look, and Jonathan jumped up, letting his chopsticks and napkin fall askew on his plate.
“You’re bleeding. Can’t you tell?”
“Yes, but...”
“We have to do something,” Jonathan said, his voice tense.
His face had gone pale, and his eyes showed signs of panic, but he was clearly trying not to frighten his wife. In vain. Madeleine felt a thick liquid run down her right cheek.
Jonathan came around the table.
“Your cheek. It’s your cheek.”
My cheek. Madeleine finally became aware of the pain. It was a small tingling sensation that was intensifying. So it was her face that was bleeding.
“How did you do that? What did you cut yourself with?”
She wanted to say that she had not cut herself, that she did not understand what he was talking about, but more and more blood was flowing onto her plate and the white tablecloth. She had cut herself, somehow. She pushed her chair away from the table, and the blood dripped on the hardwood floor.
“I need a bandage, something to stop the bleeding,” she said.
“But how did you do that?” her husband repeated.
“I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know.”
Disconcerted, Madeleine raised a hand to her cheek. It was sticky with blood. At that moment, the pain shot through her cheek, as if someone was...
(slashing...)
ripping open her skin. Madeleine screamed and doubled over. The pain was worse than anything she had ever felt before. Except for one time. A long time ago. The pain had been the same. She had forgotten how awful it had been.
What if... What if that meant...
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Jonathan said, rushing to the bureau where they kept their cell phones.
“No ambulance,” Madeleine said.
“Of course I’ll call one.”
Jonathan grabbed his phone. His hand was shaking, and he dropped the device.
“Shit.”
“Jonathan, listen to me.”
He knelt down to pick up the phone.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’m calling the paramedics. Everything is going to be all right.”
“Don’t call anyone. I just need a bandage.”
Madeleine’s head was spinning. Memories were coming back. It had been so long ago. She kept telling herself that it was impossible, that she had to be wrong. Yet it was happening. It was, without a doubt, happening, in the sanctuary of her own home, at her luxurious table, despite all the precautions she had taken.
No, it can’t start again. She reasoned with herself. It cannot. Not after all these years.
But
what else could it be?
“A bandage,” she said again. “That’s all.”
She could not finish her sentence. The skin on her cheek burst open, making a hideous tearing sound and uncovering the red muscle underneath. The pain blinded her. More blood sprayed the floor.
Madeleine shrieked. And three feet away, her husband cried out.
“Madeleine. My God!”
She wanted him to shut up but refrained from yelling at him. He was not helping, and, in any case, he could not understand. The poor man was in the dark. She had never told him. It was better that way.
Seeing him try desperately to use the phone, she ordered him to stop. “Do not call anyone. You must not.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Madeleine clenched her fists. The pain was getting worse. Blood was streaming onto the floor.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s not necessary. Put the phone down.”
“You can’t see yourself,” Jonathan sputtered. “I swear, you should see yourself.”
He had finally managed to punch in the number and held the small phone to his ear.
“Jonathan, no,” she begged. “Hang up. Listen to me.”
Her husband shook his head. “Madeleine, you don’t understand.”
“HANG UP THAT DAMNED PHONE RIGHT NOW!”
Jonathan stared at his wife as if he had never seen her before. And Madeleine saw a graying man of fifty who could no longer hide his stout belly in the tailored Italian suit she had given him. He was a simple man who had escaped the projects in Marseille. He had shared her life for the last fifteen years without knowing anything about her—without any idea of what she was capable of. And she suddenly found him to be ridiculous, pathetic even. He did not understand what was happening under his very nose every day. How could she have hoped that he would protect her? She pushed aside her pernicious thoughts. She knew that Jonathan had nothing to do with this, that he could not know. She was the one who had always held the cards. She had had enough time to prepare. Decades. She should have known that one day the past would resurface, as it was right now. Tonight. In her flesh.
“It’s over,” she lied.
In reality, searing pain was moving down her cheek, along torn skin of the wound that was opening on her right cheek. She was afraid to look in the mirror and see the extent of the damage. Yet she would have to resign herself. Before it continued. Before there was a second wound.
“You should see someone. There’s so much blood.”
“I don’t want to.”
Jonathan shook his head. He waved the phone, looking lost.
“Why don’t you want to?”
“Because I’m asking you. Because I’m telling you.”
She teetered as she rose to her feet. The fiery sensation was riddling her cheek, and she did not feel well at all.
And then it happened, exactly as she knew it would. The pain spread to the other cheek.
“I need...”
She took a few steps and grabbed the china cupboard. She saw a vase fall but could not catch it. It shattered on the floor. Madeleine was now shaking from head to toe.
Her husband moved toward her.
“Leave me,” she said, stifling a sob.
“Madeleine, you need help.”
“Leave me.”
She managed to climb the stairs to the second-floor bathroom. She locked herself in.
Jonathan stood on the other side of the door.
“Madeleine? You’re scaring me. What’s happening?”
Inside, Madeleine held onto the sink.
What’s happening? Idiot. I’m bleeding. I’m hurt. That’s what’s happening.
She looked in the mirror, trying not to flinch.
Madeleine Reich had always been beautiful. At fifty, her full head of blond hair and steely eyes made her look barely forty. Her colleagues and competitors mostly saw the shark in her. She had eliminated obstacles, one after another, in her pursuit of success, whatever the cost.
And now?
Her face was smeared with pulsating blood,
She turned on the faucet and splashed water on her face. The wound on her right cheek was horrible. The gash ran from her ear to her lips. It was so deep, she could see the white bone under the throbbing tissue. Then a fresh veil of blood covered her cheek again. It was as if some savage butcher had wielded his knife on her.
Madeleine felt herself grow weak.
“Darling? Open the door. I beg you.”
Her husband’s voice was filled with distress.
“I need to be alone,” Madeleine told him.
“I’m calling an ambulance, whether you like it or not.”
“Don’t do that, Jonathan. I forbid you. I...”
Her eyes widened. She could barely breathe. She gripped the edge of the sink. In the mirror, she saw a scarlet line appear on her left cheek.
“No, no.”
“Madeleine?”
Blood began to seep from the second wound, the same way it had on her right cheek. Then, as she knew it would, the pain intensified. It exploded. A blinding red flash cut her off from the world.
Madeleine understood that there was nothing she could do.
She closed her eyes, tightened her grip on the sink, and bent over.
When the skin gave way, she let out a shriek.
2
Police headquarters
9:20 p.m.
Inspector Eva Svärta wore a dangerous smile.
Her obsession was back. Her nightmare. Her secret.
The heels of her boots clicked on the black linoleum stairs as she nodded at fellow officers who were leaving the building or who, like her, were coming back after dinner to finish their reports.
On this January night, there were few people in the hallways of police headquarters: a couple of guys from the drug squad, a handful from homicide, and some chiefs. Eva knew most of the people she passed. She recognized the five o’clock shadows, the tousled hair, and the files under their arms. She surprised the others, newcomers who had not been warned. They looked at her with curiosity. She did not need to profile them to understand what was going through their minds. They were wondering who the strange white-haired woman wearing dress slacks and a leather jacket could be. Why did she have sunglasses on hours after the sun had set? Inspector Svärta looked out of place even here, where she had worked for years.
She smirked when she walked past them, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary.
When she reached her office, she noticed that one of the new recruits, a boy who still had the naive look of a teenager, continued to follow her with his eyes. He was, in fact, contemplating her derriere. He had the cocky look of a young rooster. When he saw that she had noticed, instead of looking away, he grinned and waved.
The temptation was too great.
She removed her glasses with a dramatic gesture and showed him her red albino eyes. The neon lights where harsh but tolerable.
The effect was immediate. A look of nearly comic surprise came over his face. His mouth dropped open, his hand stopped mid-air, and he clearly did not know what to do next.
Eva Svärta smiled, saluted him with her glasses, spun around with a wave of white curls, and slammed the door behind her.
There’s something for you to talk about tonight, little man. The others will be quick to fill you in.
She had carved out some time to herself at the office to focus on a case. It was a case she had been putting together relentlessly for months, snippet by snippet. It was her personal puzzle, her desperate quest, her obsession. She admitted it—it was an obsession.
First, she put her glasses and her thermos of tea on the desk. She then took off her jacket, slipped it on a hanger, and hung it up.
She glanced around, examining her space, making sure that no one had gone through her things. It was an old habit. The files were neatly lined up. The piles of papers were arranged with reassuring meticulousness, just as she had left them. She had insisted on
working alone, so the space she had been allotted five years earlier was the smallest on the entire floor. It was under the rafters and windowless. In the winter, icy air from outside seeped in through an air duct. The tiny heater never managed to warm the space sufficiently. Nobody else would have wanted this closet. Eva Svärta, however, felt totally at home here. It was her well-ordered and controlled cocoon. At least nobody bothered her when she holed up here to work on her cases.
Her case. That case.
She sat down in front of the computer and turned on the green lamp at her right. A halo of warm light filled the room.
She had only one report to finish. She would do it later.
She poured herself a cup of tea while the file came up, and the computer connected to the various databases.
Her hand trembled as she placed an amphetamine on her tongue. She swallowed it with a gulp of jasmine-scented liquid.
Case and autopsy reports scrolled across the screen.
They came with pictures. Eva knew them by heart. She had read the reports and examined the images a thousand times.
And she would continue to do so every day until she found what she was looking for.
The drug left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She drank more tea.
She knew that in the division—and perhaps beyond the division—her colleagues had nicknamed her Robocop because of her idiosyncrasies. The other day, the misogynist ass Jean-Luc Deveraux had called her that in front of everyone, causing a wave of small, knowing smiles. But she could not do anything about it. She was who she was. Her own squad members had never entirely accepted her odd behavior. Her appearance—and particularly her unusual red eyes—frightened them. Her frequent rages reinforced their opinion. Actually, though, she did not mind the nickname. It did have “cop” in it.
Not so long ago, she learned that they also called her “the vampire.” She did not like that name at all. She saw enough bloodsuckers, pedophiles, and psychopaths in her line of work. She spent enough time inside their heads. They were monsters in the dregs of humanity who devoured society from the inside out, like black cancers. She studied them. She drew up their psychological profiles, down to the most sordid detail. She knew what went on in their sick minds. She knew what their hands could do with rope, knives, and innocent human flesh. She saw it every day at crime scenes and on autopsy tables.
I am not like them. I am not like the monsters I hunt.
