Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (2 page)

Swallowing his fear once more, Michel cast a last glance back the way they’d come. The urchin had disappeared. Doubtless he knew his way to the surface, but Michel wasn’t so sure he could find his way back even with the marks on the walls. He turned and followed the light down into the tunnel.

* * *

“AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD,” Dutilleaux said as they walked, “I’ve recently returned from an extensive stay in the Orient. Shanghai, actually.”

Michel knew that because he’d written the piece on Anton Dutilleaux divulging that information. The reporter had interviewed one of Dutilleaux’s servants the previous week.

“While there, I learned much about the spirit world,” Dutilleaux said. The lantern light revealed him ducking beneath a low arch. “Do watch your heads here, please.” He continued down the steep incline. “The Chinese spirits and ghosts are quite active, you know. Have you heard of the
huli jing?
”

“No,” one of the women answered. Others echoed her answer.

Michel followed cautiously. His fingers trailed over the rough stone as he passed beneath the arch.

“The
huli jing
is a fox spirit,” Dutilleaux continued. “It takes the form of a beautiful maiden and seduces men, turning them weak or cruel. There are a number of stories about them.”

“Have you ever met a
huli jing?
” the woman asked with keen interest.

“No, sadly.”

“Why do you say sadly?”

“Because the amorous nature of the fox spirit is legendary.” Dutilleaux turned and smiled at his small audience. “I’m told it would have been quite the experience. I embrace challenges on the field of ardor.”

A couple of the women laughed.

Gervaise glared them into silence. “Dutilleaux, if I don’t see something soon, I’m going to—”

Dutilleaux clapped his hands. Immediately pale yellow flames jumped from his palms and raced along the walls to outline a small chamber filled with stacks of bones.

“God help us,” one of the men said.

“Witchcraft,” one of the women gasped.

Cotton-mouthed, Michel stared at the flames. For the first time in his life, he felt he was in the presence of something truly arcane.

As if entertaining in a well-appointed drawing room instead of beneath the city, Dutilleaux turned to face his audience and spread his arms wide. “Come. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything you see here harm you in any way.”

“Where—?” Gervaise raised the lantern and walking stick before him. “Where did you get all these skeletons?”

“He’s brought us down here to kill us,” a woman whispered. “Those are the bones of his previous victims.”

“I should think I would have been quite busy, if that were true.” Dutilleaux smiled and shook his head. “These poor souls aren’t here through any doing of mine.” He gazed at the stacks of skulls and long bones. Rib cages lay in another pile. “The church is responsible for their presence with us. Everyone interred at Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs is being moved here.” He shrugged. “The church takes care to work at night. It wouldn’t be seemly for people to see them trundling around wheelbarrows filled with skeletons, would it?”

“Dutilleaux is telling the truth,” an older man said. “I’ve talked to some of the priests. They’re emptying the graveyards so Paris can grow.”

The flames in the room continued to burn. Upon closer inspection, Michel noted that gutters had been cut into the wall for oil. Dutilleaux had simply—through some sort of sleight of hand—lit the oil.

“Did you want to talk about real-estate possibilities, gentlemen?” Dutilleaux asked. “Or did you want to talk about what I discovered in my travels?”

“Show us,” Gervaise ordered. “I’ve not got all night.”

“Don’t be so demanding,” Dutilleaux cautioned. “The spirits of China can be quite vengeful. I thought I’d already apprised you of that.”

The fat man scowled at him and his jowls quivered as he restrained what was no doubt a sharp retort.

For a time, Dutilleaux talked about his journey to the old empires of China. He mentioned the people he’d met and the places he’d seen. As he spoke, the flames depleted the oil in the gutters and the room grew gradually darker.

* * *

IT WASN’T UNTIL FULL DARK had almost returned that Michel wished Dutilleaux would hurry up his presentation. Dutilleaux was an excellent storyteller, though, and his trained orator’s voice filled the cavernous space with excitement.

“Though I saw all these things,” Dutilleaux concluded, “I saw nothing as stupendous as that which I’m about to show you.” He paced the room like a wild animal, and the darkness settled about him like a favorite cloak. “I found a way to open a gate to the Celestial Heavens. I can visit the Oriental afterlife. Tonight, I can take you with me.”

Michel leaned against the cold stone wall and waited. The room seemed colder, and he didn’t think it was his imagination.

“I don’t see a gate,” Gervaise grumbled.

“That’s because your eyes aren’t finely attuned to the spirit world. But perhaps I can help you to bring the spirit world into better focus.”

Michel’s heart thudded in his chest and blood roared in his ears.

Theatrically, as if all of this was taking place on one of the stages where he’d first honed his showmanship, Dutilleaux gestured to either side. Gray smoke billowed up from the stone floor.

It’s just a trick, Michel reminded himself. It’s nothing you haven’t seen in theaters.

But the unsettling sensation within him grew stronger. The smoke continued to swell till it nearly filled the room.

Then a glowing shape appeared in the haze. Indistinct at first, the image gradually grew sharper, till it revealed itself as a beautiful young Oriental woman. Dressed in a long flowing red gown and with her black hair pulled up, she hovered there in the smoke.

“My lady,” Dutilleaux greeted warmly. “I bid you welcome to the earthly realm.”

The apparition nodded slightly but did not speak.

“I crave a favor,” Dutilleaux said. “I have friends with me tonight. They wish to look upon the Celestial Heavens.”

Just a trick, Michel thought. It’s all done with lights and painted glass. No one is there.

But the woman in the smoke moved and pointed to her right. A moment later, a doorway appeared and hung in midair.

The crowd sat silently. Michel didn’t know if they were even breathing.

Slowly, ponderously, the doorway opened within the smoke. On the other side of the doorway, a beautiful land filled with flowers and trees lay waiting.

“Do you see it?” Dutilleaux asked softly. “Do you see the Celestial Heavens?”

“Yes,” a woman said in a strained voice. “I do. I see it. I can’t believe I see it, but it’s there. Right there.”

Dutilleaux basked in the glory of the moment. He turned to the crowd and bowed deeply.

“We must be careful at this point,” he told the audience. “We have to keep a wary eye on the gateway before someone—or some
thing—
manages to get through.”

“You brought us here to endanger our lives!” Gervaise shook his walking stick and the cover fell away to reveal a gleaming sword cane.

Dutilleaux raised his hands in a placating manner. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” Gervaise insisted. “But I won’t allow you to endanger these women.”

“I’m not endangering them. I can control the ghosts.”

“Listen to him,” another man, this one’s voice harder and more confident, interrupted. “There
is
nothing to be afraid of—because there’s nothing there.”

“Who’s speaking?” Dutilleaux demanded. The confident smile never left his handsome face.

Another man stepped from the back of the crowd. He peeled back his cloak and revealed saturnine features. “I am.”

For a moment, Dutilleaux seemed at a loss. Then he smiled and said, “Professor Étienne-Gaspard Robert. Welcome to our festivities.”

Michel recognized Robert’s name. The man was Belgian by birth but had recently moved to France to pursue a career in art. He was also reputed to be a professor of physics.

“Not festivities,” Robert stated. “This is merely a parlor show.” He turned to the audience. “What you’re seeing is an illusion. A play of light and shadow. Less substantial than an early-morning fog.”

“Are you so sure, my friend?” Dutilleaux asked in a calm voice. “Perhaps you’d like to be the first to go through the gateway.”

Michel stared at the professor.

“There is no gateway there.” The people nearest Robert stepped back as though afraid of being struck down by any forces that chose to punish him for sacrilege. Robert sneered at the audience. “Superstitious fools. You’re letting this bag of wind with a handful of tricks sway your good judgment.” He locked eyes with Dutilleaux. “Permit me passage, then, charlatan. Show these sheep your power. Or be cursed for your fakery.”

Boldly, Robert strode forward.

An eerie hiss came from within the mystical doorway. Michel tried to remind himself that everything he was witnessing was a trick, but the mood Dutilleaux had established held him firmly in place.

Before the Belgian professor reached Dutilleaux, a garish figure with a horribly white face darted out of the doorway. The figure raised a long-bladed knife in one hand.

Robert stepped back with a curse.

But the figure wasn’t hunting him. The phantom turned on Dutilleaux. The knife flashed down and the flames went out.

Men and women cried and screamed as they stood in the meager pool of light provided by the lantern. None of them were close to where Dutilleaux had stood.

Trembling, Michel scooped up the lantern and carried it toward Robert and Dutilleaux. The light crept across the stone floor with him.

Robert stood against the nearby wall, obviously fearing for his very life. “That
thing
was here. I felt it. By God, it was real.”

Michel turned the lantern toward Dutilleaux and found the man stretched out on the stone cavern’s floor. Several skulls and bones littered the ground around him.

And the large knife the phantom had carried stuck out of the phantasmagorist’s chest. Dutilleaux’s face was already pale white in death.

1

London, England
Current day

“Couldn’t you have worn something a little more…revealing?”

Annja Creed frowned as she considered the question over the Bluetooth earpiece that linked her with her satellite phone. She stood in the middle of a dank alleyway stinking with rotting garbage and Chinese takeout. Dark rain clouds hung in the sky visible between the buildings. Sporadic smog patches drifted past.

“Doug, I’m way underdressed for a potential mugging as it is.” Annja wore a silver calf-length duster over black pants and a pearl-gray silk tie-waist blouse. Slouchy microsuede boots pushed her five-ten up to something over six feet. The boots were comfortable, stylish, and she could run for her life in them if she had to. She wore her auburn hair clipped back.

“This guy’s not a mugger.” Doug Morrell sounded put out. The producer of
Chasing History’s Monsters—
the syndicated television show Annja costarred in with Kristie Chatham—was twenty-two, young and driven by all things Twitter.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t really interested in history or archaeology, Annja genuinely liked Doug. He was like the younger brother she’d never had.

“I know he’s not a mugger.” Annja walked through the alley with her hands in her pockets. “He’s killed three women that the Metro police know about.”

“I saw those reports, too, which is why I want you to be careful.”

“Careful, but less dressed.”

Doug hesitated only a moment. “Yeah.”

“Not happening.”

“You could at least get rid of the jacket.”

“And give it to Igor to carry?”

“Don’t make fun of your bodyguard.”

Annja resisted the impulse to look back at Ray Venard, the guy Doug had hired for the shoot tonight. Venard was a large, hulking brute who had played professional rugby before he’d gotten caught shaving points, then was injured by outraged fans. He’d gotten through the court system unscathed, but the fans had left him with a knee that would never be the same.

“I thought he was a cameraman.”

“He is. He’s both. Kind of like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Bodyguard and photographer.”

“Did I mention to you that when I met him in his office he was taking pictures of women for a skin magazine?”