Spectacle(74)

She clenched her jaw.

“Insightfuls,” he said in a stage whisper.

What? She pressed her back and hands even more firmly into the wall of skulls.

The Dark Artist chuckled. “I have extraordinary hearing, courtesy of one Dr. Henard. My parents were deaf, so I had to have ears for three as a youth. Exquisitely circular, isn’t it?”

Nathalie didn’t respond.

“It was especially useful today,” he continued. “I heard you ask that man at the depot if the tram went to Place Denfort-Rochereau. From a block away.” He twirled the blade handle with eerie gracefulness. “I’ve had my ear on you for some time and have tried to get you alone. I almost succeeded one time, and if it weren’t for my clumsy lack of subtlety, I might have caught up to you before you hopped on that carriage ride.”

She stifled a gasp. I knew it.

“After that I had to be much more careful,” he continued. “You didn’t notice me on most occasions—although you came close in the arcade—but what difference does it make now? It hasn’t been easy. Those damn policemen and those damn public spaces with all those damn Parisians.”

Her fingers crawled backward to reach for the skull once more.

“Once more,” he said. “Are you one of us?”

The muscles in her legs twitched, ready to spring. “My parents were Henard patients. My father has a magical ability. My mother doesn’t; she—she had a transfusion but nothing ever emerged. So I … inherited it somehow.”

The Dark Artist cocked his swaddled head. “You’re a natural?”

“I suppose so.” I’m much taller than him. One strike to the head and I can get past him.

“What must your blood be like.” A declaration, a thought out loud. Not a question.

Nathalie had bats in her ribcage, bursting to get out. She grabbed the skull, her fingers looping through the sockets.

“May I have some of your blood?” The Dark Artist stepped closer. “Just a few drops.”

She tugged lightly on the skull, a subtle shift rippling through the stack.

“Don’t worry. It’s not what you think. I promise not to kill you.” He sidled up to the candle he’d placed in the sconce and blew it out. “If you promise not to use that impressive power to turn me in.”

She jerked the skull out of the wall and swung it into the chasm of darkness between them. The skull smashed onto his head with a satisfying crack.

“Witch!”

The blade came at her quick as a viper. She felt it catch her bag as she stumbled past the Dark Artist onto the alley floor.

Blackness, shocking in its purity, swallowed her as she regained her footing. Not one candle, not one glimmer in sight.

“I snuffed them all out,” he hissed.

She charged into the darkness, dragging her fingertips along the left wall, feeling for an opening to a path, any path.

At last she found one and turned into it. She wasn’t two steps in when she fell headlong onto a pile of sharp rocks.

No.

Not rocks.

Bones.

“Wrong turn.” His whisper drifted over her like a spirit.

Her hands scuttled over a long, solid bone. She grabbed it, flailing in every direction as she stood up.

“Shall I show you the way out?” The whisper seemed to be everywhere at once.

The Dark Artist was in front of her.

Or to the left.

Behind her?

Utter silence. She couldn’t hear anything but her own labored breath.

Then the tip of the blade kissed her cheek.

Maybe the Dark Artist thought Nathalie would give up. Maybe he thought she’d be too scared to move.

He was mistaken.

Lightning possessed her. She thrashed her weapon and heard the knife bounce off some bones. She darted right; he lunged after her. He gripped her elbow for a second before slipping and falling onto the bone pile.

Nathalie put her arms out, feeling along the wall until she found the opening again. She turned left, back on the path she’d been on in the first place. She ran and ran, finally spotting a speck of muted light at the end of another tunnel on the left.

His footsteps rumbled behind her, louder and closer with every step.

She sped down the dim path, eyes on the tiny flame, arms pumping, legs moving faster than they ever had.

The Dark Artist was so close she could hear his shallow, wheezy puffs of breath.

Nathalie reached the flame and wheeled around the corner to the right.

The main tunnel.

She kept running but heard nothing behind her. No footsteps, no wheezing. Not a sound.

Why? She allowed herself a quick glance.

He wasn’t there.

She ran toward the entrance with as much speed as her lanky legs could manage and saw some tourists descend the stairs with a guide. Screams erupted when they discovered the policeman’s body.

The Dark Artist heard them coming. He’s hiding.

“Go!” she yelled in between gulps of air. “Get out of the Catacombs!”

Five or six people ran back up the spiral staircase; the guide and several others hovered around the body, as if they were afraid to leave it unattended.

“The killer is behind me! Run!”

They scrambled up the stairs with the guide at the rear. He kept his eyes on Nathalie until he disappeared from sight.