by Aderyn Wood
Michael’s face warmed. Henri knew too much about him and it was disquieting. But Michael had to follow this lead, and see where it would take him. He cleared his throat. “Go on.”
“He begged his superiors not to punish him. He faced a dire sentence – to be walled up and left to die. And he promised to write the world’s greatest work that would be a celebration of God and all human knowledge. In one night he pledged to write this tome and if he succeeded he begged them to let him live.”
Michael’s thoughts raced ahead. He’d heard this story.
“The monk began writing. But by midnight exhaustion took him, and he knew the task was too great. He would never be able to finish the work by dawn. And so, in desperation, he prayed for help. But not to God. No. He prayed to Lucifer and promised his soul in exchange for intervention. And Satan appeared to him, in his cell, and helped him write the bible according to his own teachings.”
“The Codex Gigas,” Michael whispered.
Henri nodded. “The Devil’s Bible.”
Michael shook his head. “You’re saying that you have a book that documents all of the text from the lost pages of the Codex Gigas? This is not heard of.”
“It is, Monsieur. Though few know of it. The Codex Gigas left death in its wake wherever it went. Even today some have blamed it for certain acts of terror. It was thrown out of a window once, when the monks attempted to save it from a fire. That is when it lost some of its leaves and they would have been damaged, burned, but for one monk who collected them and, in secret, rewrote the script before the pages disintegrated – and this is the Foliss Abesse.”
Michael frowned; the whisky now pulsed through his blood and warmed his cheeks. “It is quite a tale, Monsieur.”
“The pages are among the darkest in the entire tome. And as you can see, there is a section that would, no doubt, be of interest.”
Michael studied the photocopy. “And you have this Foliss Abesse?
Henri shrugged. “I have a copy – eighteenth century.”
“And what do you want in exchange?”
“The library of the Athenaeum holds a little book – Meditations by Bernard of Clairvaux. They have five of the ten copies in the world today. No one has any particular interest in it. I know it sits in a corner, forgotten, collecting dust. Bring me one copy and the Foliss Abesse is yours. But please, in the meantime take the photocopy. I’m sure you will find it informative.”
Michael nodded and adjusted his glasses. “How exactly do you know that I was an exorcist of the Pontifical Athenaeum?”
Henri let slip a grin before taking another sip of whisky. “I do my research, Monsieur.”
Chapter 9
Email to Father Patrick Duffy at the Pontifical Athenaeum Regina Apostolorum, Rome – Friday 21st November
Dear Patrick,
It must be a surprise to receive an email from me after all this time. I wanted to call but I’m not sure whether you would be compromised. I’ve no wish to put you in a difficult situation. I’d like to talk about a case I’m working on. If you have time, could you call me? It’s the same number.
Your friend,
Michael
The train pulled up at Étienne Marcel Station and Michael slipped the tablet into his pocket as he stepped onto the platform. Friday night, and the city was buzzing more than usual. Pedestrians huddled in groups outside late-night cafes and bars. Michael touched the inside fold of his coat pocket where he had placed the photocopy that Henri claimed would help him on his quest. A dull tingle awoke in his fingers. Michael frowned. He’d had no particular response when Henri had handed him the paper. Perhaps the whisky had dulled his gifts; alcohol did that sometimes.
He pulled his coat tight. It was a cloudless night and a frost had already settled on bench seats and footpaths. The pavement sparkled as though blanketed in broken glass. A cup of tea and a warm bed awaited him and he increased his step toward the Petite Chez.
His phone rang and Michael pursed his lips when he registered the number. Rome. “Hello.”
“Michael?”
“Patrick. You got my email then.”
Laughter. “Yes. What’s all this rubbish about me being compromised? It’s been too long, my friend. How’s life as a ghost-hunting civilian?”
Michael took a breath. “It’s – complicated. More so than being at the institute, if you can believe it.”
Patrick whistled. “No, I can’t believe it. You don’t have to put up with old Vincenzo.”
Michael laughed. “True. I don’t miss his perfectionism.”
There was a pause. “And, how is – how’s married life?”
Michael swallowed. There it was. A harmless question and one five years ago he would have answered with no hesitation. But now it threatened to let free old memories and emotions. Phantoms he’d done an excellent job of keeping locked up and buried. “No, Patrick. We are no longer married.”
A pause seemed to suffocate him and Michael searched for what to say next.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Michael. You gave up a lot for Judith.”
“I know. But you are probably not surprised.”
“Another man?”
Michael exhaled a sharp breath. “Yes. She has remarried.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“You know we really should meet up. If you’re in Paris it’s not so far to Roma.”
“Well, that might happen yet. I’d like to visit the library. Do you think I would gain admittance?” To steal a book. A thin pang of guilt teased at Michael’s stomach.
Patrick laughed. “I practically run the whole scriptorium now. Old George spends most of his days rereading questionable doctrines – you know, the naughty ones that were forbidden him as a young novice. Or he’ll just nap near the fire.”
“There’s something else. Years ago in the institute we attended a lecture given by the visiting demonologist, Leopold Dobrescu. He spoke about an Irish monk working in Rome, who had been practising some unconventional methods in exorcism.”
“Yes, I remember. O’Leary was his name, Brother Gerold. He had an unnaturally high success rate.”
“That’s him. Do you recall Dobrescu speaking of O’Leary’s comments about other occult creatures, vampires for instance?”
“Yes, but I don’t think we were meant to take it seriously. Michael, what are you involved in? You’re not practising exorcisms, are you? Vincenzo would have a fit.”
“I’ll tell you more when we meet. But I was wondering if you would find Brother Gerold’s whereabouts for me. I assume he’s in a monastery somewhere in Rome.” A pause, and Michael almost felt like crossing his fingers.
“I think I can do it for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I better go. I’ll make some calls before mass tomorrow. God bless you, Michael.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Patrick.”
The guesthouse stood in an old lane and was not as well-lit as it should have been. Michael didn’t like returning to it in such darkness. He fumbled for the key in his pocket and reached for the door. Madame Terreux would be retired for the night and he had no wish to wake her. She worked hard.
“Mister D’Angelo?” A female voice, heavily accented. Footsteps echoed behind him and he turned with a start.
A large woman with messy hair stood before him, vaguely familiar.
“Yes?” Michael had met this person before, but he couldn’t recall where. His head hurt a little, no doubt from the Talisker.
“I’m Georgette. From the police.”
Michael opened his mouth and nodded. Yes, she was the young officer who had asked him about the Farleigh case when he interviewed Schleck.
“Yes, I remember you now, Georgette.” He frowned. “You have something to tell me?”
Georgette glanced up the alley and then in the other direction. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
Michael offered Georgette the only chair in his roo
m and put the small kettle on to boil. The digital alarm clock blinked quarter past midnight; Michael glanced at his warm bed before placing two tea bags in the cups.
“Does Detective Schleck know you are here, Mademoiselle?”
“No – and our meeting must remain strictly confidential.”
Georgette’s eyes were wide with excitement and Michael wondered if he had another supernatural fan on his hands. But she was a policewoman, and had been involved in Emma’s investigation. She had to be taken seriously despite the messy hair. In the lamplight, he saw the coffee stain on her blue jacket. She seemed to be the very opposite of the neat and emotionally sterile Schleck.
“You have my word.” Michael used his soothing tone and poured their tea. He handed a cup to Georgette and sat on a corner of the bed with his own cup warming his hands.
“So, what is it you want to tell me?”
Georgette took a long sip and swallowed, closing her eyes and seeming to appreciate the warmth. She had probably waited for him in the lane for some time and it was a cold night.
“Did you ask Schleck for the footage?” she asked.
“Footage?”
“All police investigations have footage, Mister D’Angelo.”
“Please, call me Michael.”
“Michael. There are cameras everywhere in the city now. CCTV, you have heard of it?”
“Yes.” Michael frowned. Of course. Why hadn’t he asked Schleck about footage? “Emma’s apartment. There was a camera on the ceiling.”
Georgette nodded. “I put it there. But, I never removed it.”
“On purpose?”
Georgette nodded, her eyes wider now. “I continued surveillance, even when the investigation, it was closed. But Schleck found out.”
“Oh.”
Georgette pursed her lips. “So I had to stop.”
“And – the footage, did you find anything?”
She took a deep breath and put the cup down on the small table to open her large cloth bag and extract a slim laptop. She opened it and swivelled the screen toward Michael.
An image opened of a restaurant. A large opulent dining room with velvet curtains and chandeliers came into view. At one table sat a woman. Emma.
“This is the night he took her out for dinner, isn’t it?”
Georgette nodded. “Yes. We see Emma clearly.” Georgette pointed where Emma sat. Then she zoomed the frame so that Emma was close up. “You see her eating and talking? But opposite, there is no one.”
Michael squinted. It was true. Emma was talking to an imaginary friend. Could it be a demon? Michael had never come across such a sophisticated one that would take its victims out to dinner. Perhaps Emma was mentally ill. Certainly, that is what Schleck had suggested. And now he could see why.
He sighed. “Perhaps your Commandant was right about Emma.”
Georgette raised her eyebrows, shrugging. “Let me show you something.” She altered the image so that Emma’s table was highlighted. Then she changed it to black and white. “I’m getting a better view of the light. Look carefully at the seat opposite Emma. What do you observe?”
Michael looked, but failed to notice anything. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to spell it out, Georgette.”
She smiled and pointed to the screen. “The image, the light, it is darker. Just slightly. I didn’t notice it either but one night after studying our footage for too many hours, it occurred to me there was a shadow, very faint. But it was there.”
Michael searched again and his heart skipped. She was right. There was a shadow. And it looked like it had a shape. Like a man?
Georgette played the file again and a waiter came into view delivering two meals. The waiter spoke to the shadow.
Michael swallowed. “Did you interview the waiter?”
“Yes. He had no memory of them. He could recall other couples he served that evening.” She pointed to the tables surrounding Emma’s. “But not this one.”
Georgette typed on the keyboard. “Let me show you some others.” Several images appeared on the screen. “I studied Emma’s blog and was able to take the dates and locations to collect these images from our CCTV. You can see the shadow on all of them.”
Michael studied each one. Emma coming out of the Gypsy bar. Emma walking along the Seine. Georgette was right. The shadow, almost wraithlike, haunted Emma in each still, all of them at night. Michael rubbed his hands together. The tingling was becoming uncomfortable.
Georgette stared at him, a spark in her eye.
“Thank you for showing me this, Georgette.”
“Do you know what he is?”
“No.”
“You’ve not come across this kind of – thing in your line of work?”
“Not really. Nothing like this.”
“Then it could be true what people were saying.”
“What were people saying, Georgette?”
She looked down at her own hands, now curled in her lap. “Morts-vivants.”
Michael sighed and adjusted his glasses. “Oui, mademoiselle. Vampires.”
Chapter 10
Extract from Michael D’Angelo’s case notes – Sunday 23rd November
Translating the photocopied page from the Foliss Abesse is not the easiest of tasks. The Latin is ancient and the photocopy poor. The page seems to be an introduction to the broad topic of occult figures, namely vampires. I have managed to glean the following notes:
* God made man from the earth. Satan made vampyre from man.
* Man is of the light. Vampyre is of the dark.
* Angels and Demons hold no corporeal substance, they must work through man, but Vampyre is immune both to angels and demons.
* Vampyre is as old as man.
By the time the plane landed in Rome it was ten in the morning. Michael left the airport and headed to the train that would take him straight to the institute. His return flight was booked for late that evening. He had to get everything done in less than twelve hours. Rome proved to be warmer, and the morning sunshine heated his face. It was a nice change from the icy winds of Paris.
Michael turned his phone on as he walked. He’d told Patrick he would call when he landed. It would be good to see his old friend. The last time they’d seen each other Michael was still a priest – just. That was over five years ago. A lot can happen in five years.
His phone blinked a message. Patrick had probably tried to call him when he was still in transit. Michael dialled the number to listen.
“Michael.”
He stopped walking. “Michael, it’s Judith.”
Yes it was. Michael cursed his heart that now paced like a caged lion.
“I – I wasn’t going to call you, but seeing you the other day – I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.” Laughter.
Don’t do this Judith. He should push the button. Stop listening. Delete the message. But he kept the phone to his ear, and Judith’s smooth voice melted his defence.
“I thought we should catch up. To chat. It was good to see you, Michael. You haven’t changed.”
Hadn’t he? No. She wouldn’t think so.
“So.” More nervous laughter. “Call me, okay? You know I live in Paris. No harm in two old friends catching up over dinner.”
She’d left it there, and with her voice gone, her mystical hold over him seemed to lift. It was good he was in Rome. His ex-wife had influenced his life enough as it was. Dinner with Judith wouldn’t be just dinner. It would be another entanglement. No. He wouldn’t call her back. He needed to save himself the unnecessary pain.
He put the phone in his pocket, adjusted his glasses and walked toward the platform.
Michael stood outside the Athenaeum. The grand entrance flanked by two large marble columns looked so familiar that it seemed as though he’d only been here yesterday. No familiar faces manned the desk at reception, though. A godsend. He didn’t want to explain his failures and face the smug expressions from those just wanting to say ‘told you so’.
He stated his appointment with Patrick and the clerk phoned through. A few minutes wait and his old friend’s hearty chuckle sounded behind him.
“Michael you haven’t aged a bit. Civilian life must be the secret.”
Michael embraced Patrick who had aged – silver hair peppered his sandy curls and he’d grown fatter. “I see the priesthood still suits you, Father.”
“They encourage us to exercise now.” Patrick caressed his belly with two ringed hands. “But I’m always too busy with the books. Come let me show you.”
They swept through the foyer and up a marble staircase. His friend’s robe swished as he walked. That was one thing Michael didn’t miss. He’d always tripped over his cassock.
The library, located on the third floor, took up an entire wing and two storeys of the ancient building. Books sat on their shelves, perfectly ordered; everything in its place. It seemed nothing could be taken without being immediately noticed. How was he supposed to steal the book for Henri?
A computer rested on the oak counter – this was where priests and lay students could borrow the books, both new and ancient, to help with their studies. He’d spent hours pouring over old tomes on demonology. The books had taught him a little about his craft. But, in truth, he’d learnt more from his old nan. She’d had the gift, and no doubt Michael had inherited it from her. She’d taught him almost all he knew about the strange spirits, both good and evil, who exist at the edges of the world. She’d smelled of rosemary and had a cat on her lap as she knitted, always knitting. And she would listen to him.
“Michael?”
Michael blinked. He’d let his memory vault open. At least this time it was a good memory. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”
Patrick laughed. “You haven’t changed at all. I remember you drifting off into your little dream world.”
Michael adjusted his glasses. It was true, although it didn’t happen all that often. These ‘episodes’ always held some significance. He’d remembered his grandmother for a reason. Maybe she was trying to contact him. Often spirits of dead relatives tried to influence their living family members, but surely, she would be more direct with him. Or was she blocked somehow?
