by Aderyn Wood
He sipped his tea and flipped to the first page. An illustration filled it – a black and white lithograph, typical of medieval scripts. A demon-like figure, much like a wolf, assaulted a young woman. It was highly sexual in nature. Michael raised an eyebrow. He’d seen many such pictures before. There had been more than the odd perverted monk that worked in the scriptoriums of the middle ages. Though some of them certainly illustrated a perfect likeness to the demons he’d seen.
The entire book appeared to be a guide on how to defend the village, the home and the individual against an attack from vampires.
Michael sighed, struggling with the small amount of scepticism left to him. He knew firsthand that spirits and demons existed. But this? Vampires? If they were real why hadn’t he come across them before?
Still. The monk had given him the book for a reason. Michael took a final gulp of tea and retrieved his tablet, opening to his notes to add more:
To prevent the affliction taking hold in victims:
*Mix a sticky paste of minced garlic and frankincense, smear in four points along the victim’s body (this should most ideally be performed by the oldest woman in the village).
*Put a thistle flower, in full bloom, next to the deceased’s head.
*Thrust an iron needle into the victim’s heart.
*Place a cross in the immediate vicinity of the body.
Cross. Michael studied that word. Did the holy cross really hold such power? Surely, that was a myth. In his own exorcisms, Michael had never used a crucifix as he was supposed to, as the church had instructed him to. They seemed, unnecessary. He wrote the word down anyway.
An hour later he was back in Paris and the night was icy. He caught the bus to the city and turned his phone on. There were two messages: one from Henri asking him to do the exchange tonight, and another from Judith.
Michael grimaced, remembering the message from his nan, but listening anyway.
“Michael. Please call me. I need to talk.” Judith’s voice was strained.
He recognised her mood; she was on the verge of tears. He bit the inside of his lip and took a deep breath as he pushed a button and deleted the message. He had to let her go.
The next morning Michael lingered in bed. He’d returned to the Petite Chez late after visiting Henri and making the exchange. The Norman’s small eyes widened to double their size at the sight of Bernard’s Meditations, and he insisted that Michael share a whisky. One whisky had turned into four, or was it six?
Michael sighed and rolled over. His head throbbed, but his hand reached for the slim book with the worn leather cover sitting on the bed table; the Foliss Abesse was small. It seemed inconceivable that it had come from the world’s biggest book.
His hands tingled as he brought it close and put his glasses on, blinking away the grogginess. He’d tried to translate some of it after he returned to his room in the small hours, but exhaustion and the whisky had made his head swirl and he’d gone to bed instead. He flipped open the pages. There weren’t many. He could have it translated in a few days. Perhaps. The Latin was old.
The alarm clock read nine fifteen. Yawning, he got out of bed. He had things to do.
As he walked the cold Paris boulevards, Michael ticked off his findings so far. Or the lack of them. Emma had been dating a vampire. He scoffed to himself, imagining that particular conversation with the earl. Regardless of what Nathaniel Chartley was, some kind of monster came to mind. He’d made some headway with the reflections, or lack of them. But did this mean ‘vampire’ or some other demon?
A chill breeze cut through the streets as he turned a corner and he put his ungloved hand into the warm protection of his coat pocket, clutching the square camera battery he’d just bought. The whereabouts of the letterbox key remained a mystery and Michael had his suspicions why. He hoped some footage would reveal more clues.
He crossed the road and the police headquarters came into view. The large glass doors opened and Michael went to the reception desk. A young officer manned it. Her tight bun and red lipstick reminded him of Commandant Schleck. Perhaps the detective was the one to emulate in the Paris Crime Squad.
“Bonjour,” she said, glancing up from her computer.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Où est, Georgette?”
The woman eyed him, but picked up the phone and dialled.
Georgette was in a briefing, she told him in French. Well Michael was pretty sure that’s what she said.
He told her he would wait.
The officer’s eyebrow rose slightly and Michael hoped he hadn’t drawn too much attention to himself. He just needed a quiet word with Georgette.
Michael sat on the hard wooden bench. On the wall in front of him were police posters – official promotional campaigns designed to educate the public about the good work of the police. There were similar ones in London. Michael wondered why the police needed to work on promotion at all – they weren’t in competition with anyone. On the ceiling was a camera, silently observing all. He swallowed and wished Georgette would hurry.
“Monsieur?”
Georgette appeared through the door, her large frame squeezed into a police uniform. There were no crumbs now, but a streak of coffee stain adorned the top of her shirt. Her hair remained a frizzy blond mess and the eager glint in her eye still burned. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to ask you something,” Michael replied, smoothing his cowlick. Georgette’s hair gave him an urge to groom.
Her eyes darted around the foyer. “Not here. Quickly, step outside.”
She grabbed his arm and he was about turned and marched back through the glass doors and out onto the street. She was strong and smelled of coffee and cinnamon. Outside she kept marching until they finally turned down an alley.
“You shouldn’t contact me here,” she whispered, her eyes still dancing from left to right as she caught her breath.
“I’m sorry, Georgette, but you didn’t leave me your number.”
“I only have a minute, so tell me quickly. Have you made progress?”
“Very small. But I have an idea. Do you still have access to the CCTV footage outside Emma’s apartment?”
“That footage was more focused on the pizzeria than her apartment. But yes, I can access it.”
Michael frowned. “Can the apartment be seen from the street at all?”
“Only part of the door.”
“Oh, well would you be able to get some recent footage, say from the last week or so?”
“That’s a lot of footage.”
“I know.”
“Is there a time of day you want me to focus on?”
“The night. From sundown to sunrise.”
Georgette’s lips twitched. “I’ll see what I can do. Meet me at four at the Café de la Poste.” Then she turned and stomped back to her work.
Nothing had changed at the apartment. The photo frame sat in the same spot, and Dracula remained missing from the shelves. Michael swapped the battery in the camera and pushed the button. The little light blinked green. He put the old battery in his pocket. He would need to charge it and come back to change the battery every second day at least.
He sat at Emma’s desk. The dried roses still gave off a spicy scent. He touched a petal and it crumbled. They were old and Michael didn’t doubt they were the very roses that Nathaniel had given to her, as mentioned in Emma’s blog over a year ago.
He took out his tablet to check the time. Two o’clock; he had time, so he placed the tablet on the desk and opened his email and began typing.
Dear Anais,
I would like to learn more about Emma. I believe that while in Paris she was closest to you. Could we arrange to meet soon?
I hope you are well,
Michael.
Michael sent the email and looked up, wondering what to do next. He had left the Foliss Abesse in his room at the Petite Chez. He wished now that he had brought it with him rather than the little book the monk had given him. So far it had
seemed rather far-fetched, but perhaps it would reveal more relevant information. He sighed and took out the book on Vampiric infestation from his pocket and opened to the page he was up to. He made another list:
Prevention –
* Keep a fire burning in the hearth – vampires are afraid of fire.
* Burn incense – sage, frankincense, lavender and rosemary are particularly effective.
* Place garlands of garlic on gates and doors.
* Place branches of elm trees near windows.
* Paint a cross on the exterior of all doors.
His phone rang. A local Parisian number – probably Georgette. He answered on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Michael.”
His heart froze. “Hello, Judith.”
“Michael, can we meet? I need to talk.”
He adjusted his glasses, his grandmother’s warning replaying in his head: Guard your heart.
“Michael, please. Just let me see you this once.”
Her voice was thick with emotion, she’d been crying. And his heart wrenched despite the control his mind tried to exert.
“All right.” His resolve betrayed his better sense as it always seemed to do, but perhaps Judith could help him with something. “You can take me out for dinner.”
It was four thirty and still Georgette hadn’t showed. Michael had ordered and finished a café au lait and the waiter kept looking in his direction, a frown on his face. It was busy, with locals, not tourists, and his table was in high demand. Michael put his arm up to gain the attention of the waiter just as Georgette appeared. She’d donned large sunglasses and had a heavy black scarf tied around her head, Jackie O style. Her unruly hair refused to be constrained and sprung out at odd angles. She wore civilian clothes now, no stains or crumbs – yet.
She plonked her vast body down on the chair opposite him and waved for the waiter, her breath heavy. “I am late, sorry.”
“It is all right, Georgette.”
The waiter came over and Georgette ordered tea and some apple cake. “And would you like some tea, Michael?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
The waiter scurried off, still looking grumpy, but Georgette seemed oblivious so Michael relaxed.
“In disguise, Georgette?”
She turned to the window and the streetscape beyond. Piles of autumn leaves blocked the gutters and pavements. They would spiral up in a breeze whenever a pedestrian or cyclist rushed past. “One cannot be too careful. This cafe has no surveillance; it is safe to talk.”
Michael frowned. “You are very concerned about being seen with me.”
Georgette stilled and took her glasses off, folding them and placing them on the table. “After you left the headquarters on Tuesday I was summoned to Schleck’s office. She told me under no circumstance was I to see you again and if she found out it would be back to the village for me. I want to help you with this case, but not at the risk of my career, Monsieur. We must be careful.”
Michael wasn’t surprised. Schleck was proving to be as hard as she looked. But he didn’t think she had the power to track Georgette every minute of every day. Still, he’d best not see her at the police headquarters again. “Can I have your number?”
“But of course.” Georgette opened her bag and rummaged through it. The waiter came with their tea and cake.
“Merci,” Michael muttered and still Georgette fumbled.
“Merde! I have a card somewhere,” she said.
Michael took his phone from his pocket. “Just tell me the number, Georgette. I will store it in my phone.”
Georgette sighed. “Of course, silly me.“ She told him the number and poured their tea, then cut a big slice of cake and popped it in her mouth, crumbs spilling everywhere.
“Would you like a bite?” She pointed to the cake with her fork. “C’est délicieux. There is no better traditional French cake than this, Monsieur.”
“No, thank you, Georgette.” He’d not long had lunch – a quick bite at the pizzeria by Emma’s apartment. “Can we talk about the case now?”
Georgette put the fork down and nodded, before taking a sip of tea.
“Did you manage to get some footage?”
She opened her bag again and did some more rummaging before extracting her super slim laptop. She typed, then spun the screen between the two of them. “I have the night footage as you requested, for the last week.”
An image of the pizzeria flashed clear on the screen, and the blue door to Emma’s apartment building was just in view. People walked the pavement seemingly endlessly.
“That pizzeria is certainly popular,” Georgette said.
“I can understand why. I had lunch there today, very good.” Michael didn’t lie; it was possibly the best pizza he’d ever had.
Her eyebrows rose. “I’ll have to try it. I love food.” And she took another bite of the cake, crumbs falling, as if to prove it. “So, what is it you’re looking for exactly? I’ve had a brief scan and haven’t seen anything of particular interest.” She pushed the fast forward tab and the footage sped through more quickly, but the passers-by were still clear. “Is there someone you’re looking for?” she asked, before putting another forkful of cake in her mouth.
Michael took his glasses off to clean them. “Yes, there is someone in particular I thought we might see on this footage.” He put his glasses back on and returned his gaze to the screen.
“Who?”
Michael’s eyes met Georgette’s green ones. “Emma Farleigh.”
Georgette put her cup down with a clank that rang through the cafe. The grumpy waiter gave them another disparaging look down his nose. “You think she’s returning to her flat. Pourquoi?”
“It is a feeling. And I may well be wrong. I need more evidence. Here—” He pulled the camera battery from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Can you charge this for me?”
Georgette handled it. “You want to resume filming inside the apartment?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and put the battery in her bag.
“Don’t lose it in there.” Michael smiled.
Her mouth fell open and she blushed a little. “I won’t.”
“Could you have a closer look at this footage?” Michael indicated the laptop. “And search for any of those shadows you found with the other tapes.”
Georgette swallowed. “Shadows? You don’t think—”
“I’m not sure of anything, Georgette. Could you do it?”
She nodded, her eyes almost as wide as her mouth.
“And one more thing. In your capacity as an investigating police officer, are you able to book a table at a high-end restaurant – the type that usually takes six months to get a reservation?”
“I suppose so. If there are reasons.”
“I need a booking at Le Meurice tonight at eight. For two.”
Georgette lowered her voice. “Are you taking me out for dinner, Monsieur?”
“Unfortunately, no. But please know, Georgette, I’d much rather be taking you.”
Chapter 12
Michael D’Angelo’s Case Notes – Monday 24th November
The Foliss Abesse is not so easy to translate. The Latin is very old and aside from that the voice is peculiar. Still, I have managed to extract some points, all on ‘vampyre lore’:
The vampyre has such supernatural abilities to aid in both survival and concealment. While they are immortal, they can be snuffed out with the appropriate knowledge, courage, and tools. Thus, the vampyre must go to great lengths to remain hidden, and should seek out and disempower any with the knowledge of their existence. Preservation of their kind is a most immediate priority. Nature has thrown up an enemy – the Sanguis Sicarii – and they are a living threat to all vampyre kind. Any found must be destroyed.
Supernatural abilities:
Powers of the mind, reading thoughts and controlling the fears and desires of others.
Transmogrification – to beas
t or mist
Powers of flight, speed and strength
NB – I’m stumbling with the translation of ‘Sanguis Sicarii’ – Blood Assassins perhaps? And what does it mean by ‘enemy’?
At seven, the streets of Paris were icy and dark. A fine mist had descended over the city at dusk and grew thicker with the deepening night. But people didn’t keep to their homes; restaurants brimmed with diners.
Michael walked quickly. He wanted to visit the apartment one more time before his reservation at eight. An idea struck him earlier, and he had to do it tonight.
In Emma’s street, the fog swelled. Each streetlamp was shrouded in golden haloes casting Paris in a romantic glow. Ahead, the florist was busy selling the last of his flowers. Michael paused, thinking of the dried roses in Emma’s apartment, and he inspected the arrangements.
“Puis-je vous aider?” the florist asked.
Michael pointed to a wildflower arrangement that looked as though it had been picked from a field that afternoon. “Que, s’il vous plaît.”
The florist nodded and wrapped the flowers in crisp brown paper. They smelled of summer – such a contrast to the cold city fog. Michael kept them close as he walked, and hoped he was doing the right thing.
At the apartment, he flicked a light switch and scanned the small space. Nothing had changed.
He checked the time – almost half past seven – and set to work. He removed the dead roses from the vase and put them on the bench in the kitchen, then filled the vase with water and arranged the wildflowers in it. Their perfume was light and sweet – so different to the spice of the roses. He returned the vase to the desk and exhaled a breath.
From his pocket Michael took the book Brother Gerold had given him and a letter. He opened the letter, rereading the words he’d written earlier.
Dear Emma,
My name is Michael. I am a friend. I would like to help you. I will return here every day. Or you could let me know where and when to meet you.
