Seven Kinds of Hell (17 page)

The next morning, I threw down the newspaper and tried to clear my head. Reading about Grayling’s murder seemed to make the incident even more violent than I’d experienced nearly firsthand. I’d never expected anything like this. So quick, so bloody, so…utterly lacking in discretion. Whoever had done it hadn’t cared who knew about it. It might as well have been a billboard:
We find you, you’ll get the same.

And how did they know about me? What did they want with the figurines? What was this mass hysteria about Pandora’s Box, when not even the Fangborn believed it actually existed?

I read through the files Gerry had finally managed to send me on Dmitri, which confirmed many of my observations on the phone: his parents had been academics and he had gone to a good
university, but shortly after leaving, he went down a different path. Something had driven him into a criminal life, and he’d taken to it with an alarming affinity. Unafraid of violence, he dabbled in moving drugs, weapons, and stolen art, but not always for profit. Many of his crimes, according to the Fangborn analysts, were attempts to learn more about the Fangborn, especially werewolves. He had a kink for the occult.

There was a comprehensive list of Dmitri’s crimes and a few interviews with the Fangborn who’d been briefly in his hands, but escaped. They all came to the conclusion that he’d learned something about the existence of vampires and werewolves, but was ignorant as to the specifics of their culture. His obsession, they confirmed, was to become a werewolf, and he refused to believe it was a matter of birth.

I glanced at the pictures; the wounds sustained by the quick-healing Fangborn were shocking. My own experiences so far paled in comparison. I was glad, half-surprised, that I didn’t recognize anyone familiar in the photos.

Was he really innocent of the attack on Grayling? It seemed to fit. But there was no reason for it to be Dmitri or his people, unless they knew I’d failed initially. And why deny it, when they could follow my movements? Why bother when he held all the cards? Why not simply kill Grayling to begin with and collect the figurine?

It had to be other Fangborn. That had all the hallmarks of what my mother had told me about my father’s people. But I hadn’t gotten the same feeling I did when I was near the Steubens, and the gruesome murder didn’t seem to line up with what Claudia and Gerry told me. I certainly didn’t want to get in the middle of political strife. That bald guy I saw going into the house…I shuddered at the memory of the raking scars on his head.

But why were
they
looking for the figurines? Claudia and Gerry hadn’t asked me about the figurine when Dmitri had called, so I
assumed they didn’t know anything about them or about their supposed connection to Pandora’s Box.

What had Grayling told his attackers? He had no reason to protect me, apart from his hatred for Dmitri and obsessive love for his artifacts. It might have spared him some pain to tell what little he did know.

I had to assume he had talked. There was no real reason for me to trust him, after all, including the details he’d given about the apartment in Paris. Who knew what was waiting for me there?

But I was going, that was absolutely certain. Even the slightest chance of getting an edge over Dmitri, while I had this breathing space, would help.

I had never been so aware of the crowds of a city pressing around as I made my way to the train station. Every person seemed to be staring at me, and rush-hour traffic was as hostile as it was confusing. When I inadvertently bumped someone with my pack, I got a muttered “bloody American tourist” for my trouble. I felt a wave of anger wash over me and tamped it down.

I’d decided not to fly to Paris. Trains weren’t cheaper, but it would save me finding a room for the night. Frankly, I trusted them more. A fracas on a train, you can jump out halfway to your destination and still survive. OK, barring tunnels, bridges, and high-speed rail. Still, I was betting
I
could survive a leap from a TGV, even though it would hurt like hell. There was absolutely no getting out of a plane—neither Claudia nor Gerry had said anything about Fangborn being able to fly. I wasn’t going to learn by myself at thirty thousand feet, that was for sure.

Plus, I’d already seen what could happen at airport security, and I didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to myself. Didn’t want to take the figurines through, either, and risk losing them.

When I got to St. Pancras and bought a ticket, I felt safe enough to call Jenny from a pay phone.

“It’s me,” I said when she answered. I felt foolish about my precautions, but at the sound of Jenny’s voice and the kids fighting in the background over the blaring television, a massive weight rolled off my shoulders. “You OK?”

“Yes. You saw the news?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t know I’d been at the scene. “That’s why I figured I’d better check in before I left, make sure you were…safe.”

I could tell Jenny had turned away from her children; their racket was suddenly muffled. “I am. Not happy, but safe. Hence the precautions. I hope this will underscore what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“I got what I needed, in any case,” I said. “I met with him before it happened. There was some unpleasantness at the restaurant. This might have been retribution.” Several truths, and not necessarily in chronological order. “I’m leaving.”

“Keep in touch,” Jenny said after a long pause. “Let me know you’re all right, if you can.”

“Bye, Jen. I can’t tell you…Just, thanks again.”

I left messages for the Steubens and Sean, found a seat on the train, stowed my bag, and ate some breakfast, marveling at how mediocre the stuff from the dining car really was.

Once my ticket had been taken, I surveyed the car. It was full, but seeing no one who looked like a werewolf, an archaeologist, or a vicious international antiquities thief, I fell asleep.

I got into Gare du Nord in Paris a little after noon and bought a map of Paris. Then I realized I should also get a highway map of Europe since I was covering more ground than expected.

Like London, Paris was a blur of pale buff buildings, but these had gray-blue slate roofs to distinguish them—very nineteenth-century—with shutters and wonderfully colored window boxes filled with geraniums. More tiny cars tearing around as if in combat, or at least a contest. I craned, but didn’t even catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.

Grayling had given me the key to a small apartment over a flower shop. Knowing the idea of lockers in public places was as outdated as his antiques, he’d rented space on a larger scale. You still ran the risk of finding yourself surveyed, stung, or mugged, but a private home was as safe as anything.

The Rue Mouffetard was in a neighborhood of the Quartier Latin, an area crowded with students coming and going across cobbled streets. I rented the table at the café across the street from the apartment with a glass of juice and a sandwich far better than the one I’d had on the train. I watched over the next hour, but didn’t see anything amiss. To be sure, I wasn’t certain what “amiss” would look like, but it seemed prudent to wait all the same.

I looked at the patrons around me; I saw no berets, but a number of perfectly affected scarves. I was aware I lacked a personal style of my own. I listened with little comprehension to the discussions around me. Each speaker was very passionate about his argument, and everyone spoke with such a certainty and precision, I had no doubt they were all correct, at least in their own minds. Attitude must come by the gallon with the wine around here, I decided.

Finally I realized I was starting to doze in the warm sun, so I threw a few euros on the bill and crossed the street.

The flat was on the top floor. It was two rooms and a tiny kitchen: empty, dusty, and cobwebby. There were a few pieces of furniture—a couch, a table with one chair, and a futon frame with no mattress—and it looked as though it had just been emptied for the end of term.

I realized my senses were telling me I was in the right place. I could detect a faint scent of Grayling here, along with others, more transient, but still identifiable.

He’d said something about the cupboard.

The kitchen was full of cabinets, all of which, oddly, had locks on them. This was some kind of clearing house—who knew what was in the other cabinets? The second cupboard opened to my key, but it took some jiggling of the old lock to get it. The shelves were anciently lined and on the orange-and-yellow swirled paper, there were marks of rust where cheap cooking pots had sat. It smelled of dust and dead herbs, mold and rat turds.

Sometimes having a supersensitive sense of smell was a liability.

I examined the paper, but it was exactly what it appeared to be. When I pulled it up, however, to look beneath, I heard a rattling noise and a bump.

Something had rolled to the back of the cupboard.

Crinkling my nose and pulling my sleeve back, I reached back into the darkness. My fingers brushed something light; it slid over the gritty surface. I stretched and managed to grab a small container.

It was a small, empty spice bottle. It was the generic brand of oregano from Sainsbury’s, an English supermarket I’d noticed yesterday.

I was on the right track. It
thunked
when I shook it; oregano doesn’t thunk.

The top was sealed with tape. I started to peel it off.

The front door rattled.

It might have been nothing, it might have been students looking for a squat or a place to carry on an affair, but somehow I didn’t think so. This place was a clearinghouse for criminal commerce. I glanced out the window: There was a car that hadn’t been there earlier, illegally parked. I knew instantly it was trouble. It reeked
of anonymous officialdom. Some of the neighborhoods I’d lived in had taught me such things.

No time for hope. The front door wasn’t going to stand up to applied force. I pocketed the container, moved to the bedroom, and shut the door. I pushed the futon frame against the door, hoping to buy enough time to scream for help. I thought of my cell phone—but who could I call? I was consorting with criminals. Yelling might create enough distraction to slip away.

The back window overlooked a maze of steep roofs a story below me, a tangle of alleys. One flat terrace, covered with plants, offered me hope. No one was there.

I heard the front door clatter in its frame. I twisted the latch on the side of the window; it turned, barely. I pulled with all my strength, straining against the swollen wood and generations of over-painting.

I pried it open, with a creak of hinges, just as the front door gave. I could hear two sets of footsteps, one heavy, one light. Neither was speaking—they knew what they were looking for and it wasn’t a rendezvous. The Beast opted for running rather than further cataloging my pursuers.

I thought about throwing my pack down first, but couldn’t risk it being found by a passerby and taken, leaving me stranded and without the figurines. Better to keep it on my back.

It was harder than I thought, trying to wedge myself out the window while trying to aim for the open space of the terrace. I battled vertigo and the urge to scream.

I was stuck.