The Red Necklace (29 page)

Yann felt the two parts of himself collide once again. The pain brought with it crystal vision. He dragged himself up near the workbench, feeling that he was ten feet tall and invincible. He pulled at the threads of light, lifted a chair, and brought it down on Milkeye’s head, then picked up another chair and another, until Milkeye let out a grunt and collapsed on the floor.

The room and its occupants began to spin around and around. For a moment Yann couldn’t remember why he was there. Then he felt a cold wax hand touch his face, and with a start became conscious of one of the Sisters Macabre standing next to him.

“We are his experiments. He believes that in us he can find the secret of perpetual youth. He believes he can hold time back for himself. We have been robbed of our lives. We have been robbed of our rest. What is it you want of us?”

“Letters, love letters written by Armand . . .” The name, what was the name? Why couldn’t he remember . . . “de . . .”

“Villeduval,” said all the Sisters together. “All you had to do was ask.”

Yann leaned lopsidedly on the workbench, trying to find his balance.

said the Sisters Macabre as Milkeye writhed on the floor, his legs twitching.

If only the pain would stop, thought Yann, I could think straight. I would know what to do. All his thoughts now were consumed by the burning ache in his shoulder. There, he could hear it again, that sound of the distant drum fading away as his strength ebbed from him.

“Is this what you came for?” asked a Sister.

He heard a ripping sound as the fabric of her dress tore apart, and where the womb should have been two doors sprang open to reveal a bloodred empty chamber. She reached in with her white wax hands and handed Yann a bundle of letters.

A second Sister pulled out a bloodred drawer from where her stomach should have been, and handed him a black book.

“This is for you. It is the Book of Tears. It is bound with our flesh.”

whispered the Sisters Macabre together as they gathered around Yann, making sure that the letters and the book were safely in his coat pocket before they lined up once more against the back wall, their eyes closing, their mouths whispering.

Yann was still clinging to the bench when he became aware of the grisly contents of the jars. They were filled with parts of bodies: in one, a head; in another, limbs; in another, a stack of hearts.
whispered the Sisters Macabre.

Yann’s shirt was wet and he wondered why it was red.

The room was spinning again and into this unsettling scene came Milkeye. Like some monster he had grown more arms and legs, all trying to get him. Yann kicked out desperately, but still those hands kept coming.

He staggered and sank to his knees. Someone should warn Têtu that Kalliovski can work the threads of light, he thought, as the curtains of his mind, blood-black, treacle-thick, came down for good: the show well and truly over, the end of the performance.

chapter thirty

"
Nom de dieu!”
said Monsieur Aulard, entering his apartment with Têtu to see Yann stretched out on his kitchen table and with Têtu to see Yann stretched out on his kitchen table and Didier, his shirtsleeves rolled up, washing blood from his hands in a basin. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Didier. “Luckily the bullet didn’t go into the bone and the wound is clean. He should be all right.”

Têtu climbed up onto a chair to take a closer look at Yann.

“What happened?” he asked, cautiously inspecting Didier’s work.

“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. I didn’t hear the gun go off, but I was worried because he’d been so long. I rushed into the apartment to see Milkeye with his hands around Yann’s legs. He’d been shot. I thought he was dead. There was blood all over the floor.”

Têtu felt Yann’s forehead. “At least he has no fever. That’s something.” Seeing the bullet sitting in the basin, he picked it up and examined it. “As always, you’ve done well, Didier.”

Didier gently lifted Yann up and took him through to the next room. “I’ll put him in your bed,” he told Monsieur Aulard.

“Can’t he sleep somewhere else?” asked Monsieur Aulard.

Didier looked disgusted. “No,” he said, “not after I’ve cleaned up that tip of a room of yours and put fresh linen on the bed. He needs to rest.”

Clean linen too, thought Monsieur Aulard. Do they think I’m made of money? Have I nothing left to call my own?

Didier came back into the room with a fresh basin of water and scrubbed the table clean. Then he went over to the cupboard, brought out a bottle of Monsieur Aulard’s best brandy and three glasses, and rolled down his sleeves.

“I don’t know about you two, but I need a drink and no mistake. How did your evening go?”

"Tricky. Tiring,” answered Têtu.

“And nothing to show for it but a bullet,” said Monsieur Aulard.

Didier said nothing.

Kalliovski had arrived at the Theater of Liberty, causing quite a sensation with his automaton, which looked as though it was modeled on that poor woman Madame Perrien. Monsieur Aulard had once seen her at the theater and remembered her as being pretty, with an infectious laugh. The automaton was a hideous mockery of what she had once been.

Though the audience had clapped when she walked unaided to her seat, her movements were jerkier than Kalliovski would have liked. To a perfectionist such as he was, it was one of the many flaws that needed ironing out. After tonight, with Têtu working for him, everything would be different.

He sat himself down in the front row next to his automaton, with Balthazar at his feet, and stretched out his legs. He all but had Têtu within his grasp, for he was certain that it was the dwarf who had sent the invitation. With the coming of the Terror, Têtu would need protection. Together, what couldn’t they do! Yes, it was worth coming for that alone.

He took out his watch. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, the face showing an image of the Grim Reaper. If he left at the intermission he would get to the meeting on time. He smiled to himself.

From the prompter’s desk, Monsieur Aulard dared himself to look into the face of his demon, for the man sitting in the front row had haunted him ever since that terrible day when Topolain’s body had been found in his office, and here he was, not ten feet from him. He held on tight to the black cap in his pocket. The feel of it comforted him and calmed his shredded nerves.

"Are we ready?” he asked Têtu nervously.

“Oh yes, my friend, and I think you are going to enjoy seeing a true master at work.” Têtu flexed his fingers as if about to play a piano. “Bring up the curtain.”

Kalliovski appeared to take little pleasure in what was happening on stage. The show itself was an affront to his intellect. It was just a cacophony of patriotic songs, drivel for the masses that fed into the fever of the moment.

Têtu was interested to see how tightly Kalliovski controlled his automaton. No wonder she had moved so stiffly. He started gently to play with her threads of light, expecting at any moment that Kalliovski would become aware of what he was doing, for a true shaman would know instinctively when someone else was interfering. It didn’t take him long to discover that Kalliovski was a mere amateur, with no natural gift.

Têtu stood the automaton up. Standing next to Kalliovski, she started to sing the Marseilleise. In the flicker of the oil lamps, the audience and the actors on stage whose performance had nothing to do with magic were taken aback by this creature and her ethereal voice.

A shout went up from the audience. “Bring up the lights! Let’s have a proper look.”

As if on cue, the automaton turned to bow at them. Try as he might, Kalliovski could not regain control of the threads of light; his mind did not have the strength. He could do nothing but sit there and envy the brilliance of such sorcery.

The audience were soon out of their seats and singing along with the automaton, tears rolling down their faces.

Kalliovski was caught, and he knew it. He was forced to take unwarranted credit for his patriotic creation. By the time the curtain came down, the applause was deafening. He was unable to leave his seat as members of the audience came to stare at the automaton and ask him questions about it.

He hissed to one of his henchmen, “Fetch me the theater manager.”

At this point Monsieur Aulard broke into Têtu’s story of the evening’s events.

“Go on, tell Didier what I did.”

And Têtu, who generally declined on principle to give credit to anyone, softened slightly and said, “There is no doubt that without our friend’s bravery, Kalliovski would have left the theater long before the final curtain call.”

Monsieur Aulard had refused to be hurried down the gangway, no matter how many times Kalliovski’s henchman prodded him in the back. He insisted on stopping and talking to the odd patron who would jokingly ask whether he was going to offer Kalliovski’s automaton a job in his theater. He walked toward Kalliovski as if toward the guillotine itself. With every measured step, he felt a little braver. At last he reached the front row. Kalliovski had a look that said: “You will be dead unless you can explain this.” He nodded at one of his men, who handed him the invitation.

“Are you responsible for sending me two tickets to your wretched fleapit of a theater to see this travesty of a show?”

Monsieur Aulard held tight to the black cap in his pocket; just to know it was there gave him courage. He leaned toward Kalliovski, a smile stuck fast to his face. “I don’t think the rest of the audience find it a travesty.”

Kalliovski stood up. He towered above Monsieur Aulard, who instinctively took a step backward as his stomach lurched forward. He had forgotten quite how frightening the man was. It was something about his face and those eyes that burned straight through you like drops of acid.

Monsieur Aulard kept talking. “Why, citizen, I thought by the reaction to your remarkable automaton that you were enjoying the performance.”

“The dwarf is in the theater, I know it,” hissed Kalliovski.

"You mean Têtu?”

“You know I do,” spat Kalliovski.

"I don’t know if he is here tonight or not. I will make inquiries, but first I must congratulate you, citizen, and ask you how such magic is accomplished.”

He knew he had him. Kalliovski’s pride was such that he was not going to admit that the automaton’s performance had little or nothing to do with him.

“If he’s here, shall I say you would like to see him after the show?”

“No, I will see him now.” Kalliovski nodded toward his two henchmen as each took an arm of the automaton.

Monsieur Aulard handed back the invitation. “Forgive me, but won’t you stay to see the end of—”

He never finished what he was saying, for the automaton said loudly, “I don’t want to go home. Don’t take me home. I want to stay.”

The audience started to clap. “That’s it, citizen, you tell him!” shouted someone. “Sing us some more songs!”

“If you wish,” said the automaton.

“We do!” shouted the audience.

Kalliovski shot a murderous look at the theater manager.

The bell rang for the second half to begin, and the little band started to play. Monsieur Aulard bowed and took his leave, saying he hoped Citizen Kalliovski would enjoy the rest of the show. He returned backstage, still stroking the black cap in his pocket as the curtain came up.

Just after the first song was over, one of Kalliovski’s men came in to give him a message. Once again it looked as if he was about to leave. Têtu acted quickly. He made the automaton rise into the air so that she hung there, hovering above the seats. The audience gasped in amazement. “She’s floating!” cried someone.

It was then that Têtu became aware that he had an invisible helper. Often when he played with the threads of light he had found that spirits would interfere. He had been concentrating so hard that he hadn’t realized there was someone else out there. As the automaton floated above the audience, out of it emerged a phantom in the shape of a beautiful woman, a spirit made of light that illuminated the auditorium.

Balthazar hid under the seat, his ears pinned back, whining miserably. A stunned silence broke over the audience.

“Who are you?” someone called out at last.

The spirit said nothing.

“Are you alive?” shouted another.

“I was alive once. I was murdered.”

At these words Kalliovski leaped up from his seat and backed away toward the wall of the auditorium where his two henchmen stood, terrified.

The apparition hovered above the seats, her dress flowing behind her, moving ever closer to him. Then, with a sudden wild laugh, she vanished. The audience, silent for a moment, started clapping and cheering, shouting for more.

Kalliovski, recovering himself, stared piercingly into the wings, wishing now that he could pull the theater down brick by brick until he found what he was looking for—the dwarf. What he would give to have that power! And he
would
have it. He would become master of the dark arts; nothing was going to stop him.

The final curtain came down. He clicked open his watch. He was late. He started for the door, leaving his automaton behind, nodding to his henchmen to bring her. But before they could reach her she called out, “Sweetie, wait for me,” and Kalliovski turned to see his waxwork lady gliding up behind him, all stiffness gone. As she reached the doors to the auditorium Têtu let go of the threads of light, and she collapsed lifeless on the floor, leaving Kalliovski’s men to pick her up.