Spectacle(73)

Soon she backed around a curve and the fork was out of view. Footsteps thundered and came to a sudden halt; he must be at the fork.

He’s the one who followed me before. Same hat, same body shape.

What about his face?

Trembling, she retreated deeper into the darkness, winding around another curve. Farther and farther back she went until her hand struck something cold. Bones? No. Metal.

A gate. A closed one.

She crouched down, biting her tongue to keep from screaming, coated in a layer of sweat. She waited for seconds or minutes or hours or days.

No, minutes. Just minutes.

Maybe he was gone. Maybe he gave up.

A speck of flame appeared on the far wall near the curve. Nathalie balled up her fists, watching the flame dance across the wall until the man came into view holding a candle.

“Why, hello there.”





33


He wasn’t faceless after all.

Yet it was easy to think so from afar. His face was swathed in a white scarf, wrapped like a mummy. Slits for his eyes, nose, and mouth, nothing more.

A disguise.

He’s the Dark Artist.

Nathalie stood up and slid to the right, pressing herself against a wall of bones. She reached behind her and felt a skull. She tried to wrestle it loose.

It didn’t budge.

“No need for a weapon, my dear Scribe. You won’t be able to get one of those things loose anyway. Packed tighter than firewood.” His voice was smooth, almost indulgent. “I’m not going to hurt you. I have some questions, though.” He set the candle into a sconce, casting a flicker of light on his hand.

White gloves.

Nathalie shivered, her eyes darting to the space beyond him.

Can I make it past him?

His eyes trained on her. “No, you won’t escape. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to hide. I’d hear you.”

She glared at him. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be him. This man had to be an imposter, playing a joke, a cruel and terrifying hoax. The policeman wasn’t dead. Just knocked out. It was all part of the ruse by some disgusting man who wanted to chase her and threaten her and wear gloves to give her a fright and—

“Are you the Dark Artist?” Fear shot the words out of Nathalie’s throat in a high-pitched, angry tone.

The man tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “C’est moi.”

Nathalie’s intestines turned to liquid. She began to quiver uncontrollably, then channeled that into a yell as loud as her voice would go. “You killed my friend!”

The words echoed out of the chamber, along the bones, and into the darkness.

“You killed my friend,” she said again, her voice barely audible. “My sweet friend who loved life and brought some of that to everyone she met.”

“She was rather impressive,” he said, “for the short time I knew her. At least you had a nice lunch together beforehand.”

That feeling she’d had when she’d entered the arcade. Of being watched.

Nathalie wanted to kill him. Cut him to pieces with a shard of bone.

“It was her idea, not mine.”

“Her idea? Agnès didn’t ask to be killed. You’re mad.”

The candlelight flickered across his shrouded face. “No, I’m rather sane. Next topic. I have a question for you. Two, actually.”

“I have about fifty for you.”

“Very amusing, Nathalie.”

Her name sounded horrible coming from him. She wished it had choked him before coming out.

He cleared his throat. “Something happens when my exhibits are on display and you touch the viewing pane. You go into some sort of trance and say the name of the victim.”

She frowned, ready to deny it, but the Dark Artist cut her off. “I was there for Odette, remember? Now tell me: What exactly takes place?”

Nathalie wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers and straightened up. “Why—why should I tell you anything?”

With demonstrative nonchalance, the Dark Artist reached into his overcoat pocket and unsheathed a knife.

The same knife she’d seen in her visions.

“I thought you weren’t going to hurt me.”

“I might change my mind.” He gripped the knife firmly and took a step toward her. “Answer the questions.”

Distract him by talking.

She kept her eyes on the knife while answering. “Yes, I have an ability.”

“And the details?” The Dark Artist shifted his weight.

Nathalie felt dizzy, more disconnected from reality than ever before. “I—I see parts of the murder scene. Through … your eyes, it seems.”

“Too bad you can’t include those details in your morgue report, eh?” His lips parted the scarf, grinning. “So you don’t see me, you see as me. Perfect. I obscured my face before stepping into the Catacombs, just in case. Although that abhorrent policeman was a problem.” He shook his head.

“Is he dead?”

“I’m asking the questions,” he sneered, holding up the knife. “Now. You seem a touch too young, so forgive me if I seem perplexed, but are you one of us?”

Us?

“Well, based on that expression, I suppose it’s fair to say we’re both perplexed.” The Dark Artist laughed. “And here I thought you knew. Or guessed.”