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Diana L. Paxson is the author of twenty-eight novels, including the Westria series and the recent Sword of Avalon, featuring history and magic. She has contributed to many anthologies including Thieves’ World and Sword and Sorceress, and has served as a judge for the Pagan Fiction contest. She lives in Berkeley, California. Read about her Westria books and more at http://www.westria.org.
In “The Crow,” the protagonist of “Crossroads” from the first Lace and Blade, returns home, to the beginning of his journey, but like any hero he brings with him surprising gifts—not only the magic of Brazil, but courage and hard-won insight.
––––––––
As Claude’s carriage rolled toward the wrought iron gates, a gentleman costumed as a crow emerged from the barouche that had halted in front of the mansion. Claude took a deep breath. It had been three years since he had moved among the glittering throng he glimpsed beyond. The scents of straw and forest-tanned leather from his own costume reminded him abruptly of Brazil. He found himself wishing he had stayed there.
His friend Henri gathered up the folds of his toga as a footman opened the carriage door.
“Madame D’Arbalêt will not mind that you have brought me?”
“Mon ami, it is a masked ball. No one will know whether you were invited or not.” Something tore as Henri pushed forward. “Name of God! How did the Romans conquer the world wearing garments like these?“
Claude eased himself through the opening in a rustle of straw and leaped lightly to the cobbled street. Clearly, their hostess believed in doing nothing by halves. Even the footmen were costumed in the gaudy orange and blue-striped doublets and pantaloons of the Vatican Swiss Guard. Henri followed his glance with raised eyebrow.
“Well, that is original. But I doubt they will be guarding the pope. If Madame has invited her usual habitués, the guest list is likely to be weighted in the opposite direction.”
“Truly? I would not have believed you such a sinner.” Claude smiled.
Henri shrugged and straightened his wreath of vine leaves. “Oh, these days we are all decadent. Fortunately, it is not necessary to name one’s sins, only to drop a dark hint now and again. When you tell them that you have been in Brazil, you will be quite in fashion.”
My friend, you have no idea. Claude remembered a courtesan called Corquisa, and the flicker of swords in the light of a bloody moon. His business tonight was with another, very different lady who called herself Manon.
“First they must find out who I am,” he said lightly, drawing the straw fringes of his headdress over the brim of the hat to veil his face.
Henri shook his head. “Merely to see the mask will give them a thrill. Did you not tell me it was given you by some kind of native priest?”
“He was a cacique of the Truxa tribe whose life I saved when hunting wild pig in the sertão—the back country—of Bahia.”
“You will be a great success, I assure you,” replied Henri, leading the way up the curving drive.
The mansion was another relic of Napoleonic pretension. Light from crystal candelabra shifted through open doors and windows. At the entry, Henri presented his card of invitation.
“My friend is the Baron Claude Delorme.”
“Monsieur Thibaudet, Monsieur le Baron, you are welcome. You will find refreshment in the blue salon.”
And music, Claude found as they pushed through the crowd, was available everywhere, wafting in different keys and tempos from consorts of instruments tucked into the corners of the various rooms as the forests of the Amazon rang with the competing cries of myriad birds.
“Madame has bagged a fine collection of the famous and infamous,” murmured Henri. “The fellow dressed as the Devil is a young poet called Paul Verlaine, whose book of Saturnian poems caused quite a stir last year. The gentlemen garbed as Sarastro from The Magic Flute calls himself Eliphas Lévi and is reputed to be a master of esoteric lore.”
Claude nodded without paying much heed. He was here to find a woman, not a man, and some of the things he had seen in Brazil would make a poet’s blood run cold.
They had scarcely entered before two young women costumed as nymphs seized upon Henri and carried him away. Claude continued on alone. In that collection of bright fabrics and glittering paste jewels, his painted leather and straw attracted curious looks. They spoke of a world where these fantasies were real. He told himself that the outfit was only a disguise, but he could feel his body swaying, his booted feet beginning to carry him with the feral tread he had seen when the cacique danced.
The music was loudest in the ballroom, where fantastic figures whirled, their images repeated endlessly in the mirrors that lined the walls. But Manon’s slender shape was nowhere to be seen. He glimpsed instead his own reflection, and for a moment the blaze of the candelabras became firelight, the ballroom a clearing in the sertão. He saw the figure of the cacique weaving among the Beings of Light that the sacred drink had summoned, that fluttered about him like so many birds. Then the dark shape of a crow flapped past and they were only costumed dancers once more.
In the gaming room, a murmur of conversation rose above the click of dice and the soft slap of the cards. Beyond the curved backs of the baccarat players, he caught a flash of green. The line of a lifting arm struck instant recognition. That surprised him. He had thought the memory of Corquisa would insulate him from the physical response that at one time had made him Manon’s slave.
Claude felt in his pocket for the hard edges of the box that held the emerald. For the past two years he had labored to lay the foundation of a new fortune in the Santo Pedro mine, all that remained of his family’s fortune. Once he had planned to return to Manon with a new mistress, decked in emeralds, on his arm. But surely a better revenge would be to give her the jewel, so that every time she wore it—and she would be unable to resist—she would remember what she had lost.
Tonight she was garbed as a serpent in viridian satin that sheathed her supple figure from breast to hip and clung shockingly to thigh and calf before it trailed across the floor. She sat perched on the padded arm of a chair, clinging to a florid gentleman in the diamond-quilted doublet of Pierrot who was sweating beneath his mask.
A close-fitting cap formed the serpent’s head. Her arrested pose as she saw him was very like that of a snake he had once surprised in the sertão.
Her lips tightened as he halted before her and bowed.
“Is that a costume of Brazil, monsieur? I had a friend who went out to that wild land—” One graceful hand played with a tendril of golden hair.
Was it possible that she did not recognize him? Claude’s skin was still bronzed from work outdoors, and he no longer minced like the boulevardier who had been her lover.
“If you would honor me with your company, perhaps we might find that I know him....” Gruffly, he offered his arm. She smiled and started to slide off of the chair, then made a little moue of frustration at the constriction of her gown.
“I am a hunter from Brazil, mademoiselle, accustomed to carrying off my prey,” said Claude, in one swift movement gathering her into his arms. The florid gentleman dropped his cards and began to protest, but she only laughed.
“Is he your new beloved?” Claude asked in his own voice, and felt her stiffen in his arms. Until now, she had not been sure, but even without sight he would have known the supple form beneath the satin hide.
“He thinks so...” she replied, and then, “In the next room there are curtained alcoves. We can be private there.”
As he settled Manon on the cushions, she tipped back her mask.
“Claude, is it really you?” she gestured nervously. “Put off that straw and let me see you!” With a curious reluctance, he set the headdress aside, realizing only now how the role, or perhaps the spirit of the cacique, had armored him. But Manon was still looking at him with more than professional appreciation. “Oh, you have changed!”
“You are the same,” he responded, realizing even as he spoke that it was not true. Still slim, she was more finely drawn, her complexion almost translucent, the good bones pressing against the skin.
“While you have been dancing with the savages, I have been learning the ancient wisdom of our own land.” She drew a handkerchief from her décolletage, coughed discreetly and thrust it back again. “Monsieur Pierrot—” she nodded scornfully in the direction of the gaming room, “has the privilege of paying my bills, but I have a teacher now who shows me marvelous things. Master Zabadon has the secret of youth eternal, Claude. With his aid, I will never be less than I am now. Come to my salon on Sunday evening, and you will see....” She extended a slim hand and although he still desired her, it was all he could do not to recoil.
“I have brought you something from Brazil,” he said abruptly. As she opened the box, the calculation in her eyes gave way to wonder. The emerald glowed in the candlelight, shaming the satin of her gown.
“Oh, Claude! Claude...” With trembling fingers she lifted the golden chain. Green fire swing hypnotically, then he fastened it around her neck so that the emerald pulsed upon her breast. “Oh, how beautiful. My dear,” she said meltingly, “I have missed you so....”
In another moment, she will be telling me that Monsieur Pierrot disgusts her, Claude thought. She will say that she always believed in me, that she sent me away for my own good. She will not say that she wants me because I am once more wealthy, but that will be the truth behind her words....
He got to his feet. “Then you will not forget me. Mademoiselle, adieu.”
If he stayed, he would not be able to leave her, and then the whole cycle would resume. Snatching up the headdress, he made his way blindly toward the door. The roaring in his ears was so loud, he did not know if she had called his name.
~o0o~
When Claude could think again, he found himself in the garden beside a fountain whose crystal drops reflected the light of colored lanterns. Before him stood an enormous crow. He blinked, focused, and the impression of enormity vanished as he realized he was looking at a gentleman in an evening cape whose edges had been dagged to suggest wings. A hood drawn up over his head joined a beaked mask.
“Monsieur le Baron, bonsoir.” The stranger spread his wings in a bow. “I trust you have been refreshed by the cool night air.”
“I am well, Monsieur le Corbeau,” said Claude, amusement mastering his surprise. “My thanks for your concern.”
“And Mademoiselle Manon, is she well also?”
Claude stiffened. “What do you know of her?”
“I know that you are correct to be concerned. The master she follows treads a dark path.”
Claude’s amusement abruptly disappeared. He knew better than to return to Manon’s bed, but it would seem that he was still bound to her, if only by chivalry.
“What do you mean?”
“To learn more, you must explore paths that a man of your class does not often essay. But I see from your garments that you have already done so.” Teeth flashed beneath the mask as the man smiled. His accent belonged to Brazil.
The leather poncho rustled as Claude rose. “What must I
do?”
“There is a bookshop on the Rue de Clichy in Montmartre called the Bibliothèque Lyons. If you were to appear there at about four o’clock of the afternoon, you might find those who can advise you.”
“Will you be there?”
“Oh, I may turn up anywhere. If you take this road, you will surely see me again.” The crow cape swept up as the stranger laughed. A few steps made him one with the night, leaving Claude staring.
The noise from within had diminished, and the cacique’s headdress held no more magic. It must be growing late. Time, he thought, to find Henri and go home.
~o0o~
Striding up the avenue on a fine autumn afternoon with the pearly dome of Sacré-Cœur rising like a cloud from the hill before him, Claude found it hard to believe in secret societies and evil magicians. He had put off last night’s fears when he replaced the straw and leather of the cacique’s garments with a new coat of fine grey wool. His old clothes had been hopelessly behind the fashion, and in any case, a new breadth in chest and shoulder made them unwearable. In the clear light, his memories of the night before seemed a fantasy. Magic belonged to Brazil. This was Paris, where the Age of Reason had been born.
If it had not been such a fine afternoon for walking, he might have turned back, but somewhat to his surprise he found the bookstore almost immediately. Bins filled with tattered volumes had been set out beneath a sign that showed an ancient god with a raven at his feet. Lettered in gold were the words “Bibliothèque Lyons”, and below them, “J. Rondelle.”
Claude paused just within the door, breathing in the powerful scent of old paper. Tiered shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with books thick and thin. Beyond the counter at the far end was a door, but he could see no one.
“May I assist you?”
The voice came from above him. Recovering, Claude looked up and saw a fair-haired young woman with a smudge of dust on her nose perched on a ladder, a book bound in blue leather in her hand. Additional volumes were stacked precariously on the upper rungs.
“I was expecting to meet someone here—” he covered his confusion with a bow.
Still on her perch, she inclined her upper body in a suggestion of a curtsey, a motion that suited her rounded figure well. “The bookstore belongs to my father. I believe he is drinking wine with the gentlemen you seek in the back room.”
Claude watched appreciatively as she slid the blue book into a space on the shelf and reached for another volume, then he made his way past the counter. The door behind it opened to a cloud of tobacco smoke and a babble of speech that trailed off as he stepped inside.
“Excuse me, your daughter—”
“Ah, Célie. She must have liked your looks if she directed you in here without coming to ask...” replied a rotund gentleman with thick glasses whom Claude supposed must be Monsieur Rondelle.
Claude shrugged. “She was up a ladder at the time.”
The others laughed. In one of them he recognized the nobly bearded Eliphas Lévi, looking rather less imposing in a black frock coat that had seen better days. Of the others, one wore the open collar and loosely-tied cravat of a denizen of Bohemia, and the second was a young man whose coat was even more fashionable than the one Claude wore.
And what, he wondered, did they see when they looked at him? The gentleman he had been? Or the man of action he had become?
“My apologies if I intrude,” he said uncertainly. “I was invited by a—gentleman—whom I met last night at Madame D’Arbalêt’s ball. He wore the costume of a crow...”
“Ah, Monsieur Marabô!” exclaimed the young man of fashion. “Did I miss him? I was hoping to see him there!”
“He did not give me his name,” Claude said stiffly. “I am the Baron Delorme.”
“You are welcome. My name is St. Cloud.”
“Are you a Seeker?” asked Lévi. Claude met the older man’s deep gaze, trying to understand the question.
“Only in the sense that I seek to do a little good in the world when I can.” That would cover what he had done in Brazil for the courtesan Corquisa, what he hoped to do now for Manon.
“That is as good a path as any to the Way,” said Monsieur Rondelle with a laugh.
“So why did Monsieur Marabô send you here?” St. Cloud asked.
“A...friend has become the student of someone called Master Zabadon. I am concerned about her safety.”
The atmosphere in the room chilled.
“He leads a lodge known as the Société du Lys Noir,” Lévi sighed. “I counsel you to remove her from their influence as soon as may be. The dreadful orgies so often attributed to those who study the secret doctrine are for the most part fantasies of the Christian bourgeosie, but there are some deluded souls who profane the Mysteries by seeking to make them real.”
“We have no certain knowledge,” added the Bohemian, an artist, to judge by the stains on his hands. “But it is said that Master Zabadon’s followers do blood sacrifices there...”
“It is said...” Claude echoed, “but what do you know?”
“There are some things it is better not to know,” muttered the artist darkly. “Baudelaire and his imitators sing of the flowers of evil, but they are poseurs, more concerned with the frisson created by the thought of evil than by the thing itself.”
“By their fruits shall ye know them,” murmured Lévi, stroking his beard. “There are some who would ban all study of the Mysteries, but the Wisdom of the Hidden Temple that has guarded the truth behind all true religion since the beginning is far older than this pursuit of evil for the sake of Power. Study of the occult lore should ennoble the spirit and purify the soul. We do not have to risk the contamination of direct contact. It is enough to observe what becomes of the disciples of Master Zabadon.”
“Young Stuyvesant, who threw himself off of the Pont de l’Archevêché,” said St. Cloud.
“And Dumaille, who bankrupted himself funding Zabadon’s search for the Potion of Youth...” muttered Rondelle.
“But he is not dead!” objected the younger man.
“He might as well be—lives in a hovel and cringes when you call his name! To think that he was once a scholar.” He shook his head with a sigh. “I can’t count the books he bought from me. I wanted to buy up his library when his possessions were auctioned off, but all the books were gone.”
“Gentlemen, you have said enough to alarm me,” Claude interrupted them. “If my friend is truly involved with this scoundrel, how do I break his spell?”
“You must go to the lady and reason with her,” said Rondelle. “If she still cares for you.”
It is my emeralds she cares for now, came the bitter reflection. He should forget Manon, start anew with someone like the bookseller’s daughter, Célie. But the old protective instinct would not be denied.
“And if that does not serve?” he said then.
“I will seek the counsel of the Ascended Ones,” Lévi said slowly. “I have long believed that those who serve the Light have the obligation to oppose the forces of Darkness. Perhaps the time has come.”
~o0o~
During the remainder of that week, Claude was on the watch for Monsieur Marabô, but although he often heard crows calling in the trees, he did not encounter that elusive gentleman. By Sunday evening, the crisp fall weather had become a cold rain. To Claude, his blood thinned by two years in Brazil, it seemed that winter had already arrived, chilling both body and soul.
As he walked he fingered the folded paper, covered with Hebrew letters and magical sigils of protection that Monsieur Lévi had inscribed for him. It reminded him of designs he had seen drawn in chalk at a crossroads with candles and offerings in Brazil. Had the one tradition inspired the other, or were both part of a greater mystery? In any case, to carry it could do no harm. Just outside Manon’s door, he noticed the feather of a crow on the cobbles and slipped that into his pocket as well.
Manon had redecorated her lodgings while he was away. The drawing room was now hung with a rather heavy flocked paper in dark red, the chairs and sofas covered with velvet in dark jewel tones. Manon herself wore black lace over maroon taffeta and a curious necklace of garnets that glowed like drops of blood against her white skin.
Claude paused in the doorway. A thin girl in brown was playing the piano. The other woman wore grey and lilac with a mourning brooch. The pale skins of the men suggested that they did not often see the sun. It was not difficult to identify Master Zabadon, a man of medium height with flowing, silver-shot hair, dressed in a white suit that would have been commonplace in Brazil but was startling in the gloom of a Parisian October evening. Claude would have known the man in any case, the faces of the others turned constantly toward him, like flowers to the sun.
Flowers of evil? he wondered. These people did not seem wicked so much as lost. Even Manon, who as he recalled retained her self-possession even in the throes of passion, covertly tracked Zabadon’s movements even when she was speaking to someone else.
The servant announced him and Manon fluttered forward in a rustle of silks, but it was Zabadon whose gaze, open and luminous, held his. Eliphas Lévi had spoken with a venerable dignity, but this man exuded charisma. Claude felt his skin tighten. He had seen eyes like that in Brazil when men were possessed by Powers.
What are you? he asked silently, and found himself stroking the crow feather in his pocket as if it could reply.
“Good evening,” said Master Zabadon. “You must be the Brazilian of whom all the world has been telling me. You have been blessed by a hotter sun than shines on Paris, but I see you are a gentleman.” His laughter let Claude know that this was to be taken as a pleasantry.
“I left my pelts and feathers at home,” Claude smiled politely.
“So I perceive,” came the reply. “I have been hearing about the witch-doctor costume you wore to Madame D’Arbalêt’s ball. I understand that it is unique—perhaps one day I might persuade you to show me. You understand, I have a professional interest in such things. These primitives sometimes retain surprising glimpses of the True Wisdom.”
For a moment memory filled Claude’s vision with bright fluttering images. Had he really seen the Beings of Light, or were these the memories of a brain disordered by the brew called Jurema that the cacique had given him?
“In their own setting, I found their intelligence no less than my own,” Claude said blandly.
“Mademoiselle Manon has perhaps told you of our studies.” Zabadon’s dark eyes glowed. “A man of your experience could be quite valuable, and you might find that the Mysteries of the Old World as compelling than those of the New.”
Claude had half expected this, and found it interesting that the magician had chosen to try flattery. What, he wondered, had Manon told him? Their eyes met, and for a moment Claude felt an odd sensation, like a pressure within his skull. Anger flared as he recognized the attempt to invade his mind, and the feeling eased.
“You must understand that after so long abroad, my affairs are in disarray. It will be some time before I am free to pursue other interests, but certainly, once I am free....” He let the phrase trail off with a bland smile.
“Of course. But now I am sure you would wish to speak with our hostess, so I will detain you no more.” With a royal wave, Master Zabadon turned to the thin gentleman with whom he had been conversing.
Manon came towards him, slipping her handkerchief back into the bosom of her gown.
“Now do you see why I call this man my teacher?” Her eyes glowed as they never had in the days when she swore that Claude was her dearest love. “Is he not wonderful?”
“He impressed me greatly,” Claude replied with some truth. “But so do you. The dress becomes you, but I confess I had hoped to see you wear my emerald.”
The color that rose in Manon’s cheeks made him realize how pale she had been. “I would have done so, but Master Zabadon says that the green vibrations are bad for my health just now, and I must only wear red jewels.” She took a small box from a mahogany table, and set it into his hand. “He says that you must take this. Soon I will be better,” she smiled winningly, “and then you may give it back to me!”
Claude bit back the retort that there had been nothing wrong with green vibrations on the night of the masked ball. He had never heard of a courtesan refusing an expensive gift, especially Manon. She must be ill, or more bewitched than he had believed.
“Then I must trade my emeralds for rubies,” he said, tucking the box into the pocket of his vest.
“Oh yes!” she replied with a brittle laugh, coughed into her handkerchief and laughed again. “Yes, indeed!”
~o0o~
In the nights that followed, Claude slept badly, haunted by dreams in which Manon fled toward some faceless terror. In an attempt to dispel those visions, he returned to the bookstore and persuaded Célie to walk with him and once or twice to have dinner in a café. She seemed a vision of health and sanity in comparison to the guests at Manon’s salon, but when the dream changed, it was Célie who was running down that dark tunnel, equally oblivious to her danger. He tried to warn her, but each night she seemed farther away.
On the fourth night, he was wakened by stealthy movements in his dressing room. For a few moments he lay very still, wondering why the thief had not tried the desk or collected the silver in the sitting room. Perhaps he was looking for the cuff-links and jeweled stick-pins that were part of a gentlemen’s wardrobe. Or perhaps he had heard that the Baron Delorme had brought a fortune in emeralds back from Brazil.
Claude heard the squeak as his steamer trunk was opened, and then the rustle of straw. With that, he guessed who had sent the thief, and what he had been told to steal.
At the emerald mine, he had formed the habit of sleeping with a knife beneath his pillow. Now, without conscious thought, it was in his hand. Soft-footed on the carpet, he slipped across the room and eased open the door. The dressing room had one small window, through which a little moonlight showed him a dark figure. In the next moment, the thief leaped up to face him, the bag that held the cacique’s costume swinging. Claude ducked as a blade flashed in the other’s hand, then feinted with his own, the moves he had learned at the mine coming back to him.
Steel clashed and scraped as they closed, stumbling over the clothing swept from shelves. The thief’s arm came around in a swirl of cloth, trying to catch Claude’s blade, but the sharp edge sliced free. Claude strove to grapple with his opponent, but the thief was serpent quick and serpent strong. The knife flickered; Claude ducked and drove beneath it, but his opponent evaded wth a quick twist, crashing into the wardrobe.
Claude straightened, knife ready. The dark shape swayed, muttering in a thin high voice that made his skin crawl. He saw it grab the bag with the costume and felt his own arm move in slow motion as he tried to respond. The paralysis held him as the thief fled. The click of the front door released him, but by the time he reached it, the moonlight showed him only an empty road.
~o0o~
“We apologise for asking you to meet us here,” said St. Cloud, indicating the wooden tables where laborers and tradesmen were drinking wine. Faded playbills were tacked to the walls. The establishment, clearly a place where the working class mingled with the demi-monde, was called Le Corbeau. Claude had found that amusing when he arrived. He was not amused now.
“The bookstore is watched, you see.”
“Monsieur Lévi’s lodgings have watchers as well,” added the artist, whose name, Claude recalled, was Lebrun. “Corporeal and astral, though his wardings have turned back any attempts to do more, and he knows how to veil his movements so they did not see him come here.” He turned to the older man. “I warned you not to fare out on the spirit road to spy on the Lys Noir. I told you how it would be.”
Claude sighed. Strained muscles still reminded him of last night’s encounter. He had not thought he wounded the intruder, but in the morning, the floor of his dressing room had been splattered with red. He thought the thief had been too small and agile to be Zabadon—some boy, perhaps, whom he had hired for the deed.
Lévi sighed. “It was my mistake. For so long I have opposed the forces of materialism and tyranny. I had forgotten that those who work evil in the world of the spirit can have great power.”
Claude poured more wine from the carafe. It was a harsh country red, the color of Manon’s garnets. A waiter passed, bearing a flask of absinthe to a gentleman in black who sat in one of the darker corners. The liqueur glowed emerald green...like Manon’s eyes....
“I have renewed the wardings on my own home,” the occultist went on. “I can do the same for you—”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Claude replied. “I saw no suspicious loiterers. And why should they bother? As I told you in my note, they already have what they wanted from me.”
“But what do they want it for?” asked St.Cloud.
“Power...” Lévi said heavily. “It is always Power that the Enemy seeks, whether to rule men’s bodies, or their minds, or their souls.”
“Zabadon is like the man who will take whatever strange herb or liquor he can find, hoping for the inebriation that leades to inspiration,” Lebrun said then. “I was that way myself, until I learned that the Doors of the Infinite may only be opened by patience and discipline.”
Sometimes, thought Claude, one has to kick them down. His nerves twitched with an itch that only action would relieve. He tried to tell himself that the cacique’s costume was no more than a souvenir of an interesting experience. Let it gather dust in some other man’s closet. And yet—
“He might have a reason,” he said unwillingly. “When I wore it at the ball, my perceptions...changed.” And Manon had sensed a difference in him. He remembered once more the wiry energy of the person with whom he had grappled in the dark, and an unwelcome suspicion began to grow. If she had been the thief, then magic had surely been at work, to make her so strong.
“So we may perhaps have pagan spirits to deal with as well?” Lévi sighed.
“Perhaps,” Claude agreed, “but the costume comes from a very different world, and I think it might take time to understand.”
“Do you?”
“Not enough...” he said slowly. “But too much for my peace of mind.”
“Do you still wish our help to save your friend?” the occultist asked then.
“I do not know whether she is endangered or she is the danger,” Claude replied. “But I have been attacked, and so have you. I learned in Brazil that ignoring enemies will only encourage them.”
“We have found out more about Zabadon’s associates, but we do not yet know where they meet. Before we can act we must gather our forces, we need to learn—” began St. Cloud.
The door slammed open. Monsieur Rondelle stood in the entrance, cravat askew and a swelling bruise on his brow. As his wild gaze fixed on his friends, he staggered forward.
St. Cloud eased him into a chair and thrust a glass of wine into his hand.
“Célie!” Rondelle whispered when he could speak. “They took Célie!”
“Who? Speak, man!” The artist gripped his hand.
“Dourdonais, the young man that we saw with Zabadon, and two toughs. They knocked me down and took her away.”
Claude gripped Lévi’s arm, his chair nearly crashing into the corner table behind him.
“You talk so glibly of magic! What is all your learning good for if you cannot find Célie?”
“Do you think we are living in some fairy tale?” growled the old man. “High Magic requires preparation and ritual. That cannot be done in a day.”
“I’m not sure we have a day!” exclaimed Lebrun.
“What will they do to my girl?” Rondelle covered his face with his hands.
“Why not ask your lady friend? It is her fault that this has happened!” Lebrun turned on Claude. “You know where she lives—”
“No need,” came a lazy voice from behind them. “I can show you where the black lily grows.”
The gentleman in the corner had come forward. He was, Claude saw now, dressed quite correctly in a black tailcoat and pantaloons that strapped beneath his boots, though the red and yellow striped waistcoat was perhaps a little gaudy for afternoon wear. It was only the dark cloak that had reminded him of wings.
While the others sat staring, Eliphas Lévi got to his feet and bowed. “Monsieur Marabô...”
If Claude’s request for help had indeed led to Célie’s abduction, they ought to blame Marabô himself, who had told Claude about the Lys Noir, but meeting that sardonic gaze, no one ventured to say so.
“Lead on, then,” Claude stood. “I will follow you.”
~o0o~
In the end, all of them followed, in two carriages that deposited them in a decaying neighborhood near the Seine. Claude had his sword-stick, and the others had provided themselves with clubs, with the exception of Monsieur Lévi.
“I am no man of my hands,” the occultist said solemnly. “There is no time to return to my temple and prepare for a battle on the spiritual plane in my accustomed way, but the time has come to test the disciplines by which I have lived for so many years. As above, so it shall be below, and without, as it is within. If you will deal with those threats that are visible, I will do what I may against the invisible world.”
Night had fallen, and the street was deserted. The wind off the river felt dank and cold. But as their oddly assorted band marched toward the old warehouse, Claude found himself smiling, and only then realized that the life of a gentleman had become as constricting as the fine coat he wore. He laid it down outside and slipped the sheath from his swordstick. He had no doubt of his ability to handle the effete specimens he had seen in Manon’s drawing room with fists alone, but the bravos Monsieur Rondelle had described sounded more formidable.
As they approached the doorway, Monsieur Marabô stepped aside. Claude recalled now that the man had promised only to show them the place, not to fight beside them, and wondered why he had expected more.
“Many thanks for your guidance,” he said shortly. “I would ask only that you stay nearby so that someone may report our fate if we fail.”
“But of course,” came the reply. “If you will take advice, go quietly through the door.”
“Pray they have not locked it,” muttered the artist.
Marabô laughed softly and leaned forward. Claude heard something click as he touched the lock.
Inside, the sweet stink of incense lay heavy on the air. Lebrun crossed himself. Claude heard a whisper that must be Lévi, praying. Curtains of black velvet had been hung on frames to create a room within the warehouse. Moving softly forward, Claude separated the nearest and peered through.
The space was uncertainly lit by black candles, set in a pentagram drawn in chalk upon the floor. Was it their smoke that made it so hard to make out the figures that moved within? A sonorous, dissonant chanting rose and fell, grim with purpose, even though he could make out no words.
“They have raised a circle of power,” said Lévi at his ear. “It is meant to keep out alien spirits, but it may keep them from seeing us as well.” He pushed through the curtains, and the others followed him.
Black-robed figures were posted by the candles at the five points of the star. Two dressed in white stood before an altar on which Claude could just make out a pale female form. The barely seen barrier kept him from moving forward, as if he forced himself against a wind.
The chanting ceased.
“The planets are aligned, the spirits satisfied. It is the hour of destiny!” the resonant voice of Master Zabadon rang out. “Come, my sister, and take this sacrifice. Her blood shall be your blood, her youth your youth, her life yours!” There was a pause, and then a murmur Claude could not make out. “My beloved, believe, this is the only way. Look at me and know that I speak truly. I was born when the Sun King ruled France, but I will never die! Strike, and you will reign forever at my side!”
“On the table—that is Célie!” Rondelle’s hand closed painfully on Claude’s arm. At his cry, the nearest black-robe turned.
“In the name of the High God and all His holy angels, be opened!” cried Lévi, drawing a complex sigil in the air. The air before them cleared, and they burst through.
The artist, who was nearest, swung his club as the black-robe drew a dagger. As the others started toward them, Claude caught Rondelle’s arm and dragged him forward Lévi, still intoning invocations, puffing behind.
The woman bound to the altar was indeed Célie. To one side stood Master Zabadon. Claude snarled as he realized that the magician was wearing the cacique’s leather poncho over his robes. Facing him stood Manon, nearly as pale as her white gown. An evil triangular knife wavered in her hand.
“Get that blade away from her,” he hissed to Rondelle. “I will deal with the man!”
Or try to, Claude thought as Zabadon turned to face him, raising the heavy ritual sword two-handed. I wonder if he knows how to use that thing? Against it the slender blade of Claude’s sword-stick seemed a wand. Behind him came the grunt and scuffle of a fight. Someone cried out, but he dared not look to see who had fallen, for Zabadon was advancing with the lithe tread of a jaguar, his lips drawing back in a feral smile.
Claude feinted and lunged, disengaging as the heavy sword came round, and realized in consternation that the thing projected an aura of force that pushed his blade aside. He no longer feared his own weapon would be broken, but how could he strike when a single parry protected Zabadon’s entire torso?
To draw the magician away from the altar was the only thing he could think to do.
The light dimmed as first one, then another candle was knocked over. Two of the black-robes were down. Lebrun and St. Cloud stood back to back, flailing at the other three. The cacique’s poncho flapped as Zabadon swung, sending a ripple of light along the fringes. Had Zabadon learned to wake its magic? The images painted on the leather seemed limned in lines of light as well. Zabadon’s gaze shifted as sparks began to whirl around him, and the blow that would have taken off his opponent’s arm went awry.
“You should not have stolen the poncho,” Claude cried, remembering where he had seen those lights before. “Behold the Encantados de Luz! The Beings of Light have come!”
As Zabadon swung frantically at the little lights, Claude lunged once more. The slim steel slipped beneath the poncho to pierce the magician to the heart. The sparks spiraled around him like maddened butterflies as he crashed to the floor.
Claude whirled, and a stab to the calf brought one of the bravos down. Leaving Lebrun and St. Cloud to finish the other two, he sprinted toward the altar.
Rondelle sprawled across his daughter’s body, blood pouring from his side. Manon tried to pull him away so she could reach the girl, but with his last strength the old man held fast. Claude grabbed the courtesan’s arm and flung her to the floor, setting his heel on her knife as he used his own blade to sever Célie’s bonds. Lebrun had finished off his opponent. He hurried towards them, saw what had happened and helped the weeping girl to sit, cradling her father in her arms.
Manon lay curled on the floor, coughing. As Claude bent over her, he realized with sick understanding that the blood staining her lips was her own. But even a wounded serpent could still strike. He knelt beside her, tossing her knife across the room before laying down his sword.
“Manon...” he said softly. “Is it the consumption? Why did you not tell me?”
She shook her head. Her skin was too white. He should have recognized that pallor before. “He promised me life! He gave me the power to take the magic garments. He said her blood would cure me. He promised me....”
“Zabadon is dead,” Claude said flatly.
“Then I will die,” she whispered. “I have nothing now.”
On the altar Rondelle lay still. Lebrun was holding Célie, murmuring softly, and she seemed to find comfort in his arms. It was just as well, Claude thought grimly. To Célie, he would always be the one who had brought her father to this doom.
Heart wrenched by guilt and pity, he looked down at Manon. “You have me,” he said softly. “As long as you need me, I will take care of you.”
Something dark moved on the other side of the room. Claude turned, fearing one of the black-robes had revived. Monsieur Marabô stood by Zabadon’s body with the cacique’s poncho in his hands. White teeth flashed in a swarthy face as he pulled it on.
“Don’t touch—” Claude began, but the man was laughing. He stared. He had never noticed that the central image limned on the garment was a crow. Marabô was a younger version of the cacique who had given him the costume, with the look of a drummer in red and black whom he had last met at a crossroads in Brazil. Why had he not seen it before?
“This power doesn’t belong here.” The soft, accented voice was clear. “Best I keep it, don’t you agree?”
“Was all this no more than a way to bring it here?” A jerk of Claude’s head indicated Célie and Lebrun weeping over Rondelle, St. Cloud clutching a wounded arm, Eliphas Lévi gazing around him with tragic eyes, and the fainting woman who lay in his arms. “I would have given it to you, had you asked.”
“You choose your roads,” replied Marabo. “I only open the door.”
The folds of the black cloak lifted like wings as he settled it around him. For a moment his grin gleamed above it. He turned. For a moment Claude glimpsed the great shape of the crow, then there was only the dark.
