Zann’s cackle shook rocks from the ceiling, and I knew that whatever good had once been left inside of him was gone, whatever soul he had, lost. There was no bringing him back now. Not that it mattered. We would die in that tomb. Whether struck down by bullets or his power, the end game was the same.
“Such a pity. No one will ever find you, Dr. Weston. No one will ever care. You will die, and I will rise.”
Zann held out his hand. My vision blurred. My chest tightened, and I felt as if his fingers were coiled around my heart. What happened next came in the blink of an eye.
The room dimmed. Then there was a flash and the sound of shattering glass, and I was plunged into night. I wondered if this was what death was like. Then I heard Zann’s roar. Only then did I realize that the lights—all the lights—had burst as one.
“Carter!” I heard Guillaume cry. “Run!”
The words had not but left his mouth when the flash of gun fire and the bark of angry rifles filled the chamber. I stumbled backwards, falling on my back as a bullet nearly clipped my scalp, slamming into the wall and raining broken granite and choking dust upon me. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear. Where Guillaume had gone, I didn’t know. I rolled onto my stomach, firing my pistol wildly in the direction of a muzzle flash. A pained scream told me my aim was true. Using the shots that answered back as my only illumination, I crawled in the direction of the archway that marked the chamber’s exit, daring to stand and run only when I reached it. I was followed out by Zann’s mad cries.
“You’ll die down here, Carter! You’ll never find your way out of the dark!”
Of course, I knew he was right. But that was a concern for the near future, not the immediate one. I stumbled into the darkness, driven by fear and horror and the same thing that spurs all men to desperate action—a fool’s chance at survival.
I ran until I’d made so many twists and turns that I no longer believed that Zann still pursued, if he ever had at all. That’s when the darkness truly closed in on me. Thick and eternal, in those endless passages that never would see the light of the sun, not even a thousand millennia after mankind had passed from the earth. I thought of the man Nassim had told us of, the one who had gotten lost in these same catacombs, who had shambled through the night until madness and hunger and thirst took him.
I stumbled upon the mound of bones we had passed hours before. If the passage through the moldering remains of those long dead had been unpleasant before, it was a nightmare now. I crawled through the skulls and mandibles and femurs, made somehow more horrifying because I could not see them. But at least there was reason for hope. If I had come upon the bones, then perhaps I might still find a way out.
That hope was soon dashed, for there simply were no other landmarks to guide me. I clung to the wall, creeping forward, even in my desperation wondering what had become of Guillaume. Was he already dead? Or was he, like me, cursed to a slow demise in this unlit tomb? But still I struggled on. There was nothing else to be done.
It seemed that I wandered for hours, but in truth, it may have been no more than a handful of minutes. In that titanic shade, I could imagine eternity. Then there was a moment when I wondered if I had truly gone mad. In the distance, I thought I saw a shimmer, a flash of light. I ran towards it, and if it were a demon of the pit waiting to devour me, so be it.
It was no mirage. The light grew brighter, clearer. I ran as hard as my tired legs could carry me. I heard voices that seemed to call me. I fell forward, bathed in, and blinded by, light. My vision cleared, and I was staring into the barrel of a gun held by a man, tall and yet elegantly built, a thick mustache defining his face and a bowler hat sitting on his head. Another man held Guillaume, his arms bound tightly behind his back. At least he was alive. The man who held the gun looked down at me and smiled. In thickly accented and yet impeccable English, he said, “Ah my friend, it appears God has answered your prayers. You will have plenty of time to thank him in prison.”
Chapter 27
Journal of Carter Weston
July 27, 1933
Once again, we are on the move, headed north by train to Normandy. I write today with an officer of the law seated across from me. The circumstances by which he came to be here and those surrounding our departure from Paris—like so much of this journey—are worth recording for posterity.
The gendarmes who took us into custody in the catacombs were, in fact, inspectors with the La Sûreté Nationale. As always it seems, we went from the pan to the fire.
For a long while we waited underground as they debated whether to delve deeper into the tunnels to seek what they assumed were our compatriots and collaborators. My pleas and protestations of a German infiltration fell on ears that, while not deaf, certainly were unwilling to hear. When I mentioned the infernal power that Zann possessed, well, I lost whatever credibility I might have retained.
Finally the man with the mustache, the one who was obviously in charge, walked over to where Guillaume and I sat and squatted in front of us. He removed a silver case from his pocket and cracked it open. He pulled out a cigarette, offering the two of us one as well. He shrugged his shoulders when we declined, snapping the case shut. He lit the cigarette, breathed deeply, and blew a column of smoke towards the cavern ceiling. The process seemed to go on forever.
“So you say there are others?”
“Yes,” I said, “for God’s sake, that’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“And you say they are Germans.”
“Yes.”
“I saw them as well, Monsieur,” Guillaume said.
The man nodded several times. Then he took another draw on his cigarette, this time breathing out the smoke through his nose.
“And one of them was a wizard, correct?”
I frowned. I was sick of being in this place, afraid that at any moment Zann and his henchmen might come around the corner and kill us all, police or not, and I was not well pleased with this Frenchman’s lack of faith.
“We’re wasting time. The longer we wait the closer they get to accomplishing their goal.”
“The Germans.”
“Among others.”
He began to laugh. “Yes, my friend. We’ve noticed an unusual amount of activity in the catacombs over these last several weeks. Just last night, we rounded up a small army of your companions. They didn’t go as easily as you, I must say. They certainly didn’t run right into our arms. But now we have you, too, and you are going to help us get to the bottom of whatever is going on down here. Now come on. I tire of this place.”
For the first time, I agreed with him.
* * *
The clacking of typewriters and the ringing of telephones drowned out all thought as I sat and waited in a holding cell to speak with someone who could release us. My requests to be put in contact with the American consulate were met with laughter and French curses. Guillaume, himself a citizen of the Republic, lay on a cot in the corner of the cell. He seemed as unconcerned as one could be in such a place.
“The wheels of justice grind ever so slowly here,” he said. “And there’s nothing you can do to quicken them. When they are ready, they will come. Until then…”
There was nothing more to be said. So we sat, and we waited.
It seemed hours before the detective who had interrogated us in the tombs returned.
“I trust you find the accommodations up to your expectations?”
“Quite,” said Guillaume, who did not bother to rise from his repose. The detective simply ignored him.
“Come with me, professor.” He opened the door to the cell, and I followed him down an inner hallway to a windowless chamber.
“So does this mean you believe me?” I asked as I sat in the only chair.
The detective lit a cigarette and leaned against a wall. “About your identity? That’s a funny thing, monsieur. If you are indeed Professor Carter Weston of Miskatonic University, then you are most assuredly deceased.”
“It wouldn’t be the
first time.”
“And with all the strange things we have seen in Paris these past weeks, I admit I am inclined to believe you.” The door opened and a man appeared with another chair. The detective thanked him in French and took it. As he sat, he said, “It’s a tactic, you see,” gesturing towards the chair. “Normally during an interrogation we make the accused sit while we tower above them. It adds to the intimidation factor.”
“But this is no ordinary interrogation.”
The man shook his head. “No. Though I do need to find out everything you know about what’s going on in my city.” He held out a hand. “Inspector François le Villard.” I took it.
“The late Carter Weston.”
“Something tells me your demise is related to the incident in the catacomb. Care to share that story?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“When you finish,” he said, “I will tell you some of what I have seen, and I think you will agree that I am ready to believe quite a number of things.”
So I did tell him. I told him about the Incendium Maleficarum, about the power it possessed, and of Zann’s desire to have it. I told him about my kidnapping, and my rescue in Germany. And finally, I told him of the ancient beings who once ruled this earth, and of those who would return them to power. He listened in silence, his countenance never changing. If he disbelieved me, he did not show it. In fact, I was quite certain that he put his faith in every single word.
By the time I finished, his third cigarette was nearly gone. He snubbed it out in an ashtray, but not before he lit another.
“Earlier this year,” he said, “in the spring time, there was a terrible murder in the Latin Quarter of the city. Officially, it is unsolved, though I believe I know who was responsible. It was a horrible crime, even as these things go. But what made it even worse was that it was a sacrifice of some kind, a ritual killing.”
“Was the victim a girl?” I asked. He nodded. “Killed with a knife?” He nodded again. “And how was the body arranged?” He seemed to age a decade in that moment, as his mind turned back to the scene of the crime.
“She was sliced from her throat all the way down, her internal organs removed. Her arms were spread apart and tied down, like so.” He illustrated with his own arms, holding them as wide as he could. “The same with her legs.”
“Like a St. Andrew’s Cross?”
“Yes,” he said, apparently thinking of it for the first time. “Yes, exactly like that.”
“Were there any markings, any writing?”
“The room was covered in symbols and runes, all in her own blood, none of which were familiar to me in the least.”
“But were there any that stood out, any that you noticed?”
Inspector Villard gazed down at his palms and furrowed his brow. I knew that he was transported back to that place, that he saw it as clearly as if he stood in the darkened chamber once again.
“There was one,” he said. “I remember it for several reasons. It was drawn beneath the altar on which we found the body, but in chalk, yellow chalk, instead of blood, which made us suspect that it had been made first. And it was very large, and very strange.”
“Can you tell me what it looked like?”
He reached into his pocket and removed a sheet of paper and a pen. He began to draw, describing what he saw as he did. “It was a great circle,” he said. “Unbroken, but for a single point at its base. In the center was something even stranger. An object that appeared to be three spheres melded together, as if one circle but with three lobes. It was an unnatural thing, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, it hurt my eyes to look upon it. Actual, physical pain.” He ceased drawing, studied the image for a second, and then nodded. “Yes, I think this is it. Very close indeed.” He held up the page for me to see. I recognized it instantly and gasped, for it was the stuff of legends.
“The three-lobed burning eye…” I whispered.
“Then you know it?”
I shook my head. “I know of it. But I’ve never seen it, at least in anything other than obscure writings and legends, even in all my years and all my travels. To tell you the truth, I never thought it was real.” I picked up the paper, and it seemed to vibrate in my hands. “I’d like to send this to a colleague at Miskatonic, just to make sure I’m right. A second opinion you might say.”
“Of course,” Villard said.
“But you should know this,” I said. “If the people we are dealing with have completed this ritual, and if this is the sign that marks them, we are in far deeper danger than you could ever have imagined.”
Chapter 28
Journal of Henry Armitage
July 26, 1933
We arrived at the headquarters of La Sûreté Nationale early in the morning, having departed Abbeville-la-Rivière on the first train out. While we returned to Paris empty-handed, our journey had been far from a waste. In fact, I had learned several important pieces of information. Obviously, the knowledge we gained as to the location of the staff was critical to our quest, and we were desperate to alert Carter who, even at that moment, was deep beneath the surface of the city, risking his life in a search that was entirely fruitless. But I also became painfully aware of a deep rift that had developed between Rachel and Margot. What drove it, I could not say. All I knew for certain was that if we were to divide our forces again, I would not suggest sending them off together.
When we returned to our hotel, neither Carter nor Guillaume was there. Rachel was beside herself, as was Margot. For different reasons, most likely. Or perhaps for the same, at least in part, which might explain the hostility. We debated our next move. Pursuing the men into the catacombs was madness. We would never find them, and we would likely become hopelessly lost ourselves. And so the only options that were before us were to wait or to go to the authorities.
“Carter and I have seen many things, gone on many adventures together. And I can tell you this, the police were never our friends. They don’t take kindly to treasure hunters or troublemakers, and we fit the bill for both.”
Rachel paced the hotel room from window to door, her hands clasped in front of her as in prayer. “Yes, I understand that,” she said, “but I don’t think I can stand to sit here and wait, either.”
“This is not about you.” Margot veritably spat the words.
“No, it is about my father, and about Guillaume. And right now they could be lost in the darkness, with no light to guide them and no hope of escape. Or perhaps worse, Zann could have found them. So you tell me, should we sit here and do nothing? Hope for the best? Or should we go to the police?”
So we went to the police.
What we found, we did not expect, even if perhaps we should have. The police had indeed heard of Carter Weston. In fact, they had him in custody at that moment. And to make matters even more interesting, he was in the process of being interrogated by the lead detective for that precinct on suspicion of murder.
At least he was alive.
I demanded to see him, and the man behind the counter turned to his compatriot and snickered. He said something in his native tongue that I did not understand, the words apparently not part of a classical French education. He looked back to me and said a single word in English—“No.”
“But I am his lawyer,” I lied.
“His lawyer?”
“Yes. And unless you allow me to see him at once, you’ll have a diplomatic incident on your hands!”
It was bluster and bull, of course. The officer looked me up and down as if he was studying an alien life form, but I suppose I can strike an intimidating figure at times, though less so perhaps than in my younger days. He tore off a sheet of paper and picked up a fountain pen.
“Name?”
“Henry Armitage,” I said. “Esquire.”
He wrote it out with a flourish and then disappeared into the back room. A few excruciatingly long minutes later, he returned with another man of evident authority.
“Dr. Armitage,” he
said, holding out his hand, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You know, in some jurisdictions it is a crime to impersonate an officer of the court.” I blanched, and his amusement was evident. “Do not worry, doctor, I have no intention of arresting you. Come, you and I and your friend have much to discuss.”
I followed him into an interior office where Carter was leaning over a table, his arms spread wide, examining a number of photographs. He looked up at me as I entered and said, “You’re going to want to see these.”
They depicted a crime scene, one as horrific as anything I had ever before seen, in war or in peace. Carter moved a large photo of the victim to the middle of the table.
“See the precision of the cuts,” he said, tracing his finger down what had been the center of her body. “At first glance you might say she was ripped apart, but that’s not right at all. This was a cold, calculated dissection. Opening up the skin and the abdomen, breaking the sternum, and pulling her ribs apart so they could get to the heart. And of course, all of it while she was still alive.”
“And how do you know that?” the detective, whose name I had learned was Villard, asked.
“A ritual like this requires a living victim. Blood is critical, as is the removal of the organs. But just as important are the less tangible forces that are unleashed. Fear. Pain. The inevitability of death. Only the living can provide that. No, she felt every minute of it, right until the end.”
“I wish I could say you were wrong,” Villard said. “But our expert concluded the same.”
I had picked up several other photographs, if for no other reason than that I could not look at the dead girl anymore. They were pictures of sigils, runes, and other strange forms of writing that had not been seen for a thousand years—and never in the civilized world. But one in particular chilled me to my core. I glanced at it, just from the corner of my eye. The photo was underneath a pile of others, and I might not have noticed it at all were it anything less significant. I slipped the photo out, and horror replaced curiosity.
He Who Walks in Shadow Page 17
