The Devourer

By Chris H. Chelser

How far will a mother go to protect her dead daughter?

Mercedes Fabron, pragmatic wife and childless mother, has her hands full running her husband’s fashion shop while ignoring the uninvited ghosts that haunt her night and day. Only the spirit of her deceased daughter Danielle gives her comfort in her increasingly claustrophobic life.

In the darkness beyond life, something stirs. Out in the streets, mysterious deaths shock Paris. The newspapers speak of an unknown disease, the police speak of accidents. But when even the ghosts are scared to death, Mercedes suspects a far more sinister culprit. One that would kill Danielle all over again. This time for good...

Behind the oppressive reality of abuse, depression and suicide, there is light on the edge of the darkness. "The Devourer" is a psychological horror novel that goes beyond the classic paranormal genre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris H. Chelser
• Release date: Jan 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9789492194206

Chris H. Chelser

Reading can be a transformative experience. Any story, whatever genre or purpose, has the potential to show new perspectives. You can't put an upfront price tag on such discoveries, only a token of appreciation afterwards. If you have enjoyed my stories, please visit my website and let me know. :)"Chris Chelser writes dark paranormal fiction about ghosts, monsters, history and the human soul. Preferring dark stories to ‘happy ever after’ since she was a child, she began writing in her teens and never stopped. She lives in the Netherlands with her family and the demons under the bed."

Book preview

A masterful psychological horror novel.

Circle of Books

The way Chelser describes the inhabtants of the spiritual world, the ghosts and other wandering souls, is different from anything I’ve read before.

On Goodreads.com

It was a terrific read: thrilling, moving and rendering a view into the afterlife. I highly recommend it!

On Amazon.com

The

Devourer

C.H. Chelser

Published by Azera Publishing on Smashwords

Copyright © 2019 by C.H. Chelser

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

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Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Mercedes’ Cards

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Chapter I

Confusion killed. This observation shouldn’t matter to him in his present state, but universal facts remained blissfully unaltered by such trivialities.

He lay suspended in the chilling darkness. Its silent embrace was a haven and a scourge in equal measures. Countless needles etched his mind and carved into his soul. Annoying, but acceptable. The needles made him forget the pain that was seated in deeper recesses he didn’t care to visit. Entertaining such thoughts caused only confusion, and the mere contemplation of it was a futile exercise.

His attention, he found, was better spent on more important tasks.

Mercedes Fabron believed that good service started with paying attention. As hostess of one of Paris’ renowned fashion boutiques, her professionalism demanded that she listened carefully to what her clients desired, what they needed, and what they didn’t yet know they would need. At the moment, though, listening attentively while the lady in question wept into her handkerchief between uncontrollable sobs proved to be something of a challenge.

It took a good ear to make out what the lady was babbling about in the first place. Her halting sentences contained but few understandable words, most of which were mangled by her obvious foreign accent. At times her pronunciation was so far off the mark that Mercedes couldn’t be sure whether she had been speaking French at all.

To make matters worse, the man who accompanied the lady tried to explain the situation too. Mercedes ignored him. The bloodstains on his jacket and the hole in the side of his head were clear indications that he shouldn’t be partaking in the conversation in the first place.

Madame, my sincerest condolences, Mercedes said when the lady’s incoherent plight at last ran out of steam. I understand your grief, as well as your wish to express it. Forgive me, but I believe I detected you are from the British Isles?

The lady sighed into her hands. More than five years I have lived in Paris, but I still cannot hide my roots.

None of us can help how we are made, madame. There is no shame in wanting to mourn your— Mercedes’s voice caught when the bloodied man forced the answer on her unspoken question. "—to mourn your brother in the manner in which you were raised. The French mourning customs are not as extensive as those of the British, but neither are we barbarians. Nicole!"

Her senior shop assistant hurried across the shop floor.

Nicole, fetch me a roll of black silk and one of black... bombazine! Yes, bombazine. And I believe we still have some lengths of black crepe stored in the back? See if you can find that, too.

New tears shone in the lady’s eyes, but not for sorrow. Oh, Madame Fabron! My friend was right when she said you would help me.

At your service, madame, Mercedes said, and produced a few sketches of dress designs for her client to choose from.

Parisian boutiques rarely got requests for mourning dresses in the style of British fashion, and most workshops thought it too costly to anticipate such orders. A poor business decision, in Mercedes’ opinion. While rare, these requests were always well-paid rush jobs for three dresses or more. Not an order to be sneezed at, and so she didn’t. If that meant keeping a small stock of otherwise unsaleable fabrics, the cost was well worth the profit it made.

The only significant downside of rush jobs was the pressure on her seamstresses. For that reason, Mercedes made sure to limit her client’s choice to a handful of designs, all of them straightforward and therefore quick to make.

Madame, whenever you are ready to decide, Nicole will take your measurements and my girls will start on your dresses this afternoon. The first dress will be ready for fitting by end of business tomorrow.

The lady stood agape. Really? So soon?

We understand time is of the essence in these matters, madame She gauged the lady’s figure and current dress. Ten years of experience told her what she needed to know. She entered the order in the order book, made a quick calculation in her head and added the outcome to the bottom of the page before showing it to her customer. For three dresses, all services included.

Yes, yes, of course. The lady attempted to dry her eyes as she pulled a small purse from the hem of her bodice. How much is the advance?

Mercedes stayed the lady’s hand. We only ask for advances for the more, shall we say, impulsive orders. Mourning dresses were guaranteed to be collected, so her generosity bore no risk. Her grieving clientele appreciated the gesture, while the shop’s finances were secured. A perfect deal.

Except for the bloodied man who followed in his sister’s wake: his presence had nagged at Mercedes ever since they had come in. Most of the time she could filter out his kind well enough, but if she spared them a fraction of attention, she could sense their intentions. Sometimes without wanting to.

This one must have been very close with his sister –

Twins!weweretwins!

– because his contrition –

I’msorryI’msorry·Ididn’tmeanto·Ihadn’tseenthem·Ididn’tknow·until·Iheardacrackanditwasmyskull·andImeanttocomeback·sorry·Arlene·sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry

– threatened to overwhelm her. The sister’s grief was equally tangible, but easier to ignore than the incessant voice in her head. Mercedes pretended not to hear him. Much as she wanted to comfort the distraught twins, her task didn’t go beyond the supply of the woman’s mourning dresses. When the soldier realised this, Mercedes felt him pull away and return to his sister’s side.

Soon Nicole returned with the promised fabrics and a measuring tape. The lady approved the fabrics at a glance and at Mercedes’ direction, stepped behind the curtain in the corner.

Nicole will take good care of you, madame. Please excuse me for a moment while I make the rest of the arrangements.

Mercedes cast polite nods at the regular customers browsing her wares before pacing through the narrow doorway to the workshop at the back of the building. An overnight order didn’t get filled on promises alone.

By the light of big windows and plenty of oil lamps, two dozen seamstresses worked on various items of clothing in various stages of completion. Younger girls toiled away at the repetitive work of men’s shirts and straight capes, while the more experienced women sewed intricate dresses and exotic waistcoats. Mercedes headed for the workstations of the three senior seamstresses, which were positioned between the back entrance to her boutique and that to the boutique for menswear next door. It irked her when she saw that their best seamstress, Yvette, was already engaged by the only man who dared to venture into the workshop.

I don’t care what Nicole said! Nicole is an assistant, I am your boss. Therefore I am the one who tells you what to do. Let there be no doubt about that!

Eric-Marie Fabron was a lithe man with short, red hair and a boyish face that deceived anyone who tried to guess his age. He wasn’t blessed with a strong voice, but he had learned young that hands demanded the respect his lack of stature failed to inspire. With his personnel, he spared the rod only because flogged horses might become dead horses, but threats were easy to make. Too easy, sometimes.

No one doubts who is in charge, mon cher, Mercedes cut into the conversation. Is there a problem?

I daresay there is, Eric hissed at her. Did you take on a rush job?

Yes, I did. Three dresses at twice the normal price, payment guaranteed. Nicole is taking the lady’s measurements as we speak.

Eric’s mouth twisted as it did whenever the world didn’t meet his expectations. I just had Monsieur Leclerc in my shop for a final fitting. You know, big customer? Bit of a dandy? Lots of money to spend? He said to make haste with his order, and I promised we would. He glared at Yvette. "That you would!"

Mon cher, that man always tells you to ‘make haste’, but he never gives a deadline.

Because if one boutique isn’t fast enough, he will go to another!

My rush job was forwarded to us by another customer. If I do not meet her requirements, we might lose more than just this one order.

His pale face ran red with indignation. Yvette hunched her shoulders, and all around heads bowed deeper over the workbenches, feverishly ignoring the argument. Mercedes, on the other hand, only lowered her voice.

Honestly, Eric, I do not see why you make such a fuss. Plenty of our girls are willing to work a night or two extra. There is no reason why we cannot have both orders done by tomorrow without delaying the regulars.

And who pays for that effort? Yes, I!

Untrue. The customers paid the extra cost, plus a margin. Eric had introduced that policy himself. However, the angry blotches on his cheeks spread, so she bit her tongue. A considerable part of keeping a marriage stable, she had learned, was knowing when to stop.

Eric held her gaze, nostrils flaring as he waited for someone to talk back at him. When Mercedes looked at her feet and Yvette retreated all together, he seemed appeased.

Right, then. Yvette, select the girls who will be working late today and tomorrow to get this done. But no more than three.

Yes, Monsieur Fabron.

Good. He eyed Mercedes as if he expected her to argue. She didn’t. Yes, good. He turned on his heels and returned to the men’s boutique.

Mercedes waited until the door had closed behind him.

Yvette, make sure the girls you select take two candles each from the candle cabinet. I will not have them working by poor light.

Yes, madame.

Eric wouldn’t be pleased when he found out, but candles were less expensive than replacing experienced employees who had ruined their eyesight for him. He knew that, too. A gruff glare and a snarl at her address, but after that no further word on the subject. Business as usual.

Mercedes gave the seamstress a last nod and went back to the women’s boutique to confirm to her grieving customer that the dresses would be ready as promised.

Through the darkness rippling about him, another approached. One of his kind. He focused on it, curious to find it so close. Yet when the other sensed his interest, it veered away.

Not uncommon. Most parasites sought only the company of hosts, opting to shy away from all others, even their own. Merely the natural order of things. Nothing to waste a thought on. He only acted when he had just cause, or when hunger compelled him. At the moment, neither factor was a convincing reason to leave his haven.

So he let this one go. For now. When the darkness extended tonight, he would go out to feed. That, too, was natural.

Chapter II

At closing time, the last customers of the day concluded their business and trickled out into the street one by one. The door was bolted, the shop floors swept and the registers counted. Mercedes carried the bag with the day’s proceeds and her order book to the small office at the back of the workshop, where Eric had just finished counting the contents of his own register.

Not a bad day, she said. How about yours?

Fine, fine. He wrote his own total in the ledger in front of him before acknowledging the bag and book she had placed on his desk.

Mercedes tilted her head. I meant your day, mon cher, not merely the financials.

Eric scoffed irritably, but took off his reading glasses and rubbed one hand over his face. A stricken puppy more than a hardened businessman.

Monsieur Leclerc is an impossible man. He came in for a final fitting, but then he made all kinds of gibes about his suit, would you believe it? Every detail was on point, every seam as he ordered it! Yet he complained about the angle of the design on the waistcoat, about too many pockets in the jacket, too few pockets in the trousers. It took me an hour to convince him to accept that the suit meets his specifications, but he insisted it has to be ready by tomorrow.

Mercedes gently laid her hands on his shoulders. Now I understand your agitation. Why did you not tell me sooner?

In front of the seamstresses? No. No, a boss must carry such burdens alone.

Her slender fingers rubbed his shoulders through his coat. Not all alone, mon cher. Not all alone.

Eric sat back, and for a long moment he allowed himself to enjoy the massage before straightening again.

Why don’t you go upstairs for dinner, ma mie? I have to complete the ledger first.

Mercedes’ hands fell to her sides. I will see you later?

Later, yes. May be a while, though.

The apology in his tone was left unspoken. She no longer expected him to voice it. Once upon a time she would have tried to convince him to leave the ledgers for tomorrow and come upstairs with her. She had since stopped trying, although she couldn’t remember when or why. Perhaps for no other reason than water passing under the bridge. To please him she retreated in silence which, as he often remarked, was becoming for a woman of her standing.

The workshop would be deserted by now. The girls who were working on the mourning dresses and M. Leclerc’s suit had taken their work home, to be continued after their families were fed and the children in bed. Abandoned for the night, all that fell across the workstations were the dark shadows cast by the streetlights shimmering through the large, barred windows that looked out on rue de la Fontaine Molière. As she strolled to the narrow flight of stairs in the corner, Mercedes caught a wisp of children’s laughter. She glanced at the far end of the workshop, in time to spot a boy and a girl running through the benches and disappearing through the wall. A faint smile tugged at her lips before she headed up the stairs, to the spacious flats on the next floor.

At the top of these stairs, a door separated them from the first-floor landing of the central stairwell. Upon her emergence, three young men streamed past her as they thundered down from the upper floors.

Oh, hello, Madame Fabron. Good evening, madame. Au revoir, Madame Fabron!

She returned a generic greeting. She couldn’t remember their names, nor did she have reason to. The income of renting out the rooms on the top floors more than covered the employ of a porter to keep an eye on the students residing there.

The first floor, however, was one large flat that she and Eric had to themselves, complete with two servants and a housekeeper to maintain it. And to prepare meals.

Mercedes bustled through the flat to the kitchen, following her nose. Oh, that smells lovely, Gagnon, she declared to announce herself.

The housekeeper bobbed in greeting without stopping the movement of the wooden spoon through the pan on the stove.

Good evening, madame. Dinner is almost ready. The table is set, so if it would please monsieur and madame to take a seat.

Monsieur Fabron will be late again.

Oh? Yes, of course. Will madame be waiting for him? Gagnon’s wrinkled eyes squinted a fraction. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

He may be a few hours yet. I will dine by myself tonight.

As you wish, madame.

Mercedes went through to the dining room and pulled out the high-backed chair at her end of the table. She stretched her back, but the bones of her corset dug into her skin. Too impatient to call her handmaid for assistance, she wormed her hands under her bodice and loosened the corset’s laces a fraction before she sat down just in time for the housekeeper to serve her a plate of baked fish, boiled carrots and some fresh bread.

I’ve left monsieur’s meal in the pan with the lid on, so it’ll keep until he arrives.

Thank you, Gagnon.

A considerate gesture, surely, but as always, an empty one. Not even the cast-iron pan would stay hot for as long as Eric would be when he worked late. Fastidious about details and proper procedure as he was, he cared little for food. Anything that was edible, he would eat, and only then if he remembered to. With Mercedes’ permission, many a forgotten evening meal had become a luxurious breakfast for the servants.

By the time Mercedes had finished her meal, her corset was poking her in the ribs and the steel cage under her skirts had left impressions in her thighs. These new crinolines might be the height of fashion, but the framework was even more cumbersome than layer on layer of petticoats. Good business demanded she wore the contraption to demonstrate its effect to the customers, but that was as far as she would concede. In her own house, she deserved a measure of comfort.

Amélie? she called out as she ambled to the master bedroom. Amélie, give me a hand here.

Her handmaid, a young girl with the slender but crooked build of an olive branch, hurried out of the study carrying a bucket and a cleaning rag.

Yes, madame. She tried to curtsey, but gave up when the bucket threatened to tip over. I was just... I mean, shall I make a fire in the parlour for you?

Mercedes shook her head. No, I wish to retire early. Light the candles and the hearth in the bedroom, and help me undress.

Blissful relief filled her lungs as much as the full breath of air when Amélie undid the laces of the corset and helped her peel off her clothes down to her undergarments. She was especially happy to be rid of the crinoline.

You should have a big doll in the shop wearing it, so you won’t have to.

The soundless reply to her silent musings filled Mercedes’ head like warm milk. It didn’t startle her to receive it, not when the one who spoke was so familiar. She concentrated, so that her mind saw what her eyes could not.

A little girl with honey blonde hair and a brilliant white dress sat on the chair by the dresser, her thin legs dangling a hand’s span above the floor. Mercedes smiled at the child as much as to herself.

Shall I braid your hair for the night, madame?

The maid’s coarse voice came as an explosion on senses attuned to words too fragile to hear. Mercedes hid a wince.

No, thank you, Amélie. I will do that myself.

As you wish, madame. Anything else I can help with?

Not at the moment. I will call if I have need of you.

Yes, madame." Amélie curtsied, properly this time, and left.

Mercedes shut the bedroom door as soon as the maid had gone. She checked the lock twice, but remained motionless until she could hear the servants going about their chores elsewhere in the apartment. Satisfied, she turned to the chair that appeared empty to her eyes.

Hello, Danielle, she whispered. I had hoped you would come by when I saw you with Antoine playing downstairs. Is he not with you?

The little girl shook her head, but gave no further explanation.

They shared a comfortable silence while Mercedes took off her undergarments and changed into her nightgown. When she removed the pins from her hair, Danielle hopped off the dresser chair and nudged the hairbrush. At the invitation, Mercedes began to brush out her long hair, which she then tied in a loose braid. All the while, the child stayed close.

Mercedes cherished the delicate warmth of Danielle’s presence, and even more with every moment it lasted. The slightest interruption might spoil the subtle balance. Eventually, something always did, but until then she wanted to hold on to that warmth.

Shall I read to you? she asked. It was a bittersweet pastime they rarely had a chance to indulge in, so Danielle’s eager nod was a reward in itself.

Mercedes put the candle on the bedside table and let her fingers run across the handful of books she kept there.

Papa was a bit cross with me today, so how about we make a good impression on him?

She sensed the girl didn’t care which book she would select, so Mercedes chose the one that made up for her weaknesses. Perhaps if she read from the Holy Bible, that small virtue would drown out her guilt over sensing Danielle’s presence at all.

The flimsy pages fluttered when she opened the tome in her lap. At random she sought a chapter and a verse and, in a soft voice, began to read. The parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, as it happened to be.

This man, I tell you, went home again justified; the other did not. For everyone who raises himself up will be humbled, but anyone who humbles himself will be raised up.

Her lips formed a wry smile of recognition. Her mother, a devout Catalan catholic, used to quote that verse to her, saying that a good wife was a humble one. Growing up, Mercedes had always wondered about the difference between humility and humiliation, but asking had only earned her young self a scolding for insolence. A memory she would prefer to forget.

People even brought babies to Him, for Him to touch them, she went on, playing with her intonation as if she read Danielle a bedtime story instead of Bible verses. But when the disciples saw this they scolded them. But Jesus called the children to Him and said…

Her throat constricted as her eyes recognised the verse she knew by heart. Stupid! She should have chosen another page the moment she had opened this one.

Only she hadn’t, had she?

She forced her mouth to shape the next sentence. He said... He said: ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God bel—’ Oh!

The book slipped from her hands and off the bed. She grabbed it before it could fall to the floor, but its covers folded as soon as she had caught it. When she hauled the tome back into her lap, she had lost her place. Beside her, Mercedes felt, more than saw, the defiance on the little girl’s face.

Not that verse?

I’m staying!

Mercedes bit the inside of her lip. She reached out to caress those perfect little cheeks, but her fingertips met only air.

You know... we both know it is not right that you come to me.

Lips that no eyes could see pouted. Should I go?

You... ‘should’, she meant to add, but her will failed her. No, my love. Please stay. Having you here makes it all bearable.

The child put her little head in Mercedes’ lap, disregarding the tome that already occupied it. Read me something else?

How could she resist? Only she did take care to open a chapter of the Old Testament and scan it for any reference to children before she settled herself against the headboard and continued to read to the intangible girl at her side.

At some point Danielle’s attention drifted off, and with it her presence. Mid-sentence, Mercedes stopped.

Danielle?

The reply she got was distant, an acknowledgement but not a return of interest. Reluctantly Mercedes let the girl go. The spot beside her felt like it was becoming cool after someone had lain in it, although the sheets were undisturbed. It hurt that Danielle’s visits left no evidence, no sign from which to prove her worst fear unfounded. That, perhaps, was the hardest to bear. She kept reading to distract herself from the sudden loneliness, but none of the words stayed with her for longer than a heartbeat.

Many pages later, the fire in the hearth had died and the candle burned low. When she heard heavy footsteps walking around in the flat, Mercedes put the Bible away and waited for Eric to come to her. Time passed. The candle wick burnt out and extinguished itself. Beyond the walls, the silence broke as metal ticked against porcelain.

Both hearth and candle stub had long since cooled when at last the bedroom door opened and Eric sneaked in, his shoes in hand. He carried no light and didn’t attempt to make any. He simply undressed in the dark and put on his nightshirt. Through the open bed curtains, Mercedes watched his black silhouette against the grey wall. The mattress dipped when he climbed into bed.

Did the ledgers not add up, that they kept you so long?

Oh. He froze. I didn’t mean to wake you.

You did not.

Hmm, good. In the dark, his searching fingers found the creases of her nightgown. Were you about to go to sleep? His hands caressed her arm, asking another question altogether.

Not necessarily, she said sweetly.

At her invitation, Eric crawled closer and pressed his body against hers. Thin, wet lips traced a path of kisses from her mouth down to her neck. She giggled when the stubbles on his chin tickled. His touches were eager, but he held her with the clumsy tenderness of a man who had learned that patience was the key if he wanted this act to be pleasurable. Long fingers hitched up her nightgown and explored her naked body. He wasn’t being overzealous today, but his fumbling hit enough soft spots. By the time he prepared to enter her, Mercedes welcomed him.

They were silent but for the occasional moan and the creaking of the bed as they moved. The act was simple, quick and born of a mutual need rather than loving attention to each other. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his pelvis for her own comfort more than his, and his deep thrusts weren’t for her pleasure. It didn’t matter. In the end their grinding served each other’s purpose just as well.

By luck more than design, their hushed panting pitched in unison. She tensed around him and he spilled inside her, shuddering all over before he collapsed on top of her. Mercedes still panted to catch her breath when he pressed a close-lipped kiss to her jaw.

Thank you.

She rolled them both on their sides. Likewise, she said as she detached herself from him. Eric didn’t notice. As usual, he was fast asleep already.

Even so, Mercedes waited a few more minutes before sliding out of bed and straightening her nightgown. Her bare feet made no sound on the floorboards as she crossed the room, lifted the jug from the washstand and sneaked out.

To her eyes and ears, the house was quiet. The rattle of a carriage passing through the street below punctuated how little noise she heard after it had gone. Yet the atmosphere was that of a crowded market: busy and tense with so many people. People she only saw with her mind, but who felt very real nevertheless.

Most of the insubstantial figures she passed on her way to the kitchen were unfamiliar to her. Passers-by, visitors gathering here for no particular reason. They came almost every night. Some came so often she had learned to recognise them. She let her senses wander. No, Danielle wasn’t among them tonight.

In the kitchen, she put the jug on the table. By the moonlight that shone through the narrow window, she took a clean towel from the cabinet and tipped a small measure of water from the jug onto the fabric. Then she poured the rest of it into the big kettle on the stove. The wood inside still had some burning time left, so she took out the tinderbox and lit a fire.

While she waited for the stove to heat and the water to boil, she willed her stray guests to give her some privacy. They complied with the astral equivalent of turning their backs, and she went about washing herself. Eric’s seed trickled down the inside of her legs and the sensation disgusted her. A lady shouldn’t have to tolerate bodily fluids sticking to her skin, her own or anyone else’s. Besides, the semen was useless. Or it would be, once the water was hot.

When she felt acceptably clean, she tossed the used towel on the heap of dirty rags that Gagnon hadn’t put in the laundry basket yet. Such sloppiness warranted a reprimand, but the negligence was too convenient for her own purposes to draw attention to it.

From the top shelf of the high cupboard she retrieved a mug, a tea infuser and a small, black tin. She shook the tin.

A hollow sound answered.

Merde!

She scrunched up her nose as she opened the lid and peered in. Why had she permitted herself to forget replenishing it after last time? The piteous amount of chopped tea leaves and herbs left inside barely sufficed for one serving.

Given the hour, it would have to do. The remaining contents fitted into the tea infuser without overflowing. She closed the tin and put it back in its corner at the rear of the shelf while making a mental note to go shopping for more as soon as possible.

The water in the kettle gurgled and steam began to rise from the spout. Not yet boiling, but hot enough for her purpose. She put the infuser into the mug and poured the water. A few more minutes for the herbs to steep and then her brew would be ready.

Mercedes strolled around the kitchen, arms folded against the nightly chill. The rooms beyond now teemed with ghosts, she noticed. None of them stood out enough to be identified, nor did they seem to want contact.

What are you all doing here? she said. Why are there so many of you?

It’sdarkoutside

The instant response came as a condensed emotion, which took her a moment to decipher. While she did, the figure and the face belonging to this person appeared in her mind. It was the bloodied face of the English soldier.

You here? And what do you mean, it is dark? Of course it is dark. It is night-time.

afriendlyface·isprecious·likelight

Please, slow down. I need words, not mere notions.

The young soldier nodded like a chastised boy. a·friendly·face... a·friendly face... He repeated the same phrase several times before he got the pacing right. A friendly face... is precious... like light.

Mercedes smiled when his thoughts turned to her in particular. That is kind of you to say, she whispered, but what about your sister?

A... A friendly face is precious like light when it’s dark outside.

His attention flitted to the world beyond the house. She understood that his advertence was neither to the absence of light nor the peculiar energy inherent to the night. He meant something else, something that had, for lack of a better word, spooked him.

And not only him. The ghosts she sensed huddled together like scared kittens in a corner. She asked them what had caused such a stir. In vain. They heard her, but refused to answer. Even the young soldier.

Have it your way, she said, and went back to her mug of tea.

The strong scent filled her nostrils before she took the first sip. The infusion’s bitter fluid tasted as vile as ever. Still, knowing the only alternative gave her the courage to drink. She rinsed the empty mug with the hot water left in the kettle and wrapped the wet leaves from the infuser in one of the rags Gagnon had used for the dirty dishes, hoping the stench of the rag would overwhelm that of the herbs.

Once the kitchen was clean enough for her satisfaction, Mercedes quietly made her way back to the bedroom. The ghosts still hung around when she shut the door behind her. Their fear hadn’t diminished, but she was confident they wouldn’t bother her. Even ghosts tended to leave a friendly face in peace.

Like all parasites, he preferred to prey on the living. A matter of efficiency. Mass consisted of energy, and physical beings consisted of little else. This human in particular. Better yet, it possessed other traits befitting his appetite. He was pleased with himself for having tracked such a fine, fat specimen.

He reached out to feed on the abundant, if bland energy. Long talons came down with exquisite care, when suddenly the presence of another interrupted him. He looked up. Something observed him from a distance. Something that cast… a light.

Without moving, he lashed out at the white spirit’s aura and carved his thoughts in the fog between them. Ever the advocate of plain speech, no one mistook his intentions when he spelled them out thus. Even the densest of ghosts understood this to be their first and final warning, and in his experience these luminous creatures that called themselves guides were quick to catch on. This one was no exception.

The meddlesome light vanished. A relief, but his concentration had suffered all the same. The brief encounter had drawn him away from the physical world, far enough to lose sight of his so promising prey. Only two options were left to him: trace the corpulent human again or select a different target to hunt down. Either way, he had to start over.

How vexing.

He shifted through the fog until Paris rose around him, forever painted in faded greys. Dawn was still a long way off and the atmosphere vibrated with potential targets. In his hand, a thick cane manifested itself. The hunt was on again.

Chapter III

Mercedes woke to find Eric’s side of the bed empty. And cold. Yet another day saw him awake and dressed hours before dawn, while she hadn’t found sleep until as many hours past midnight. She yawned and buried her face in the soft pillow. Dozing a few minutes longer would be grand, but morning, like duty, was relentless.

With her maid’s assistance, she wrestled herself into crinoline, corset and dress. Despite the awkwardness of youth, Amélie was good with a brush and hairpins, and she had fixed Mercedes’ long hair in a becoming bun in a matter of minutes. Meanwhile Mercedes applied some make-up according to current fashion: subtle enough to be decent yet visible enough to make a difference.

Only poor men started a day on an empty stomach, but what little Mercedes had by way of breakfast was not worth the trouble Gagnon had taken to set the table. Still chewing the last mouthful of bread, Mercedes headed downstairs for what promised to be a regular Saturday.

The workshop and sales floors bustled with activity. The seamstresses who had taken on the extra work had made good progress, so that when M. Leclerc arrived – much earlier than agreed – his order was ready. As always, the atrocious man hid his surprise behind money, overdone compliments and a pledge for future orders, all of which naturally pleased Eric no end.

That bit of staff gossip delighted Mercedes, who now had her own reasons to be thankful to M. Leclerc. His financial generosity made for a perfect sugar coating to help her husband swallow something he would be far less keen to accept.

Mercedes left her present client in Nicole’s capable hands and slipped through to the office in the workshop, where she knew Eric would be taking a break with coffee and today’s newspaper as a reward for a job well done.

By the way, I shall be out this evening, she said without pre-amble.

Eric peered over the rim of his reading glasses. Will you now?

For a long-overdue visit to a friend. I have put it off too often already. I will not be long, just an hour or two.

I see. Well, of course you cannot leave until after closing time.

I did not plan to.

Very well. Then there is no harm in it, I suppose.

He continued his perusal of the paper, and Mercedes was about to leave when he suddenly shot up.

Where does she live, this friend of yours?

She raised a brow. On the Cité. Why?

What? Among the rabble?

The isle houses more than rabble, mon cher. My friend lives close to the Palais de Justice. It is a very calm neighbourhood.

It’s not the crime rate that worries me. Magistrates and justice cannot prevent everything. Eric pulled off his glasses and held out the newspaper to her. "That mysterious disease that the Moniteur has been reporting about for the past months? It’s not relenting. Every day more people drop dead without cause or sign of illness. He gave her a stern look. Most cases happen to be reported in the oldest parts of the city."

There was no part of the city older than the Cité. The conclusion that Eric left unspoken was evident, but Mercedes feigned ignorance as she scanned the article. Le Moniteur was a respectable newspaper and less prone to exaggeration than some of the cheaper publications, but even so, their speculation about a new epidemic ‘worse than cholera’ seemed premature given the modest number of victims so far.

It says here that only a handful of deaths each day answer to the description of this new disease.

Indeed! A handful now, yes, but that is how these things start.

Fear was more contagious than the worst infectious disease, and Eric’s radiated off him like a blazing fire. Mercedes imagined a transparent wall between them to spare herself his agitation. It worked. The tension flowed from her body.

When disease spreads, the number of patients increases over time, she said. Not so now. Whatever the cause, do you not agree that under these circumstances, it is unlikely to grow to epidemic proportions?

Eric grimaced in frustration. Thousands and thousands of dead. That was what the cholera reaped when it swept through Paris twenty-five years ago. I don’t expect you to remember, since you were only a child. But I do recall it. That was why I took you to my mother’s house in Provence when that second outbreak began.

Mercedes nodded, although in truth she recalled little of that period. Her heart had been too heavy with loss at the time for her mind to remember much of anything.

Both those epidemics started small, like this one now, Eric said. I don’t think you realise that the deaths they are reporting may only be a fraction of the actual casualties.

And what if they are? Accidents in factories and workshops alone claim more lives on a daily basis than this does.

That doesn’t matter! His hand slammed down hard on the desk. Whether this threat claims dozens or thousands, I won’t have you amongst them!

Even the silence seemed loud after his outburst. Mercedes forced herself not to talk back. She might disagree, but she had neither the right nor the will to blame him.

I appreciate your concern, mon cher. She handed the Moniteur back to him. It is kind of you to worry for me, but what is outside can be carried through the shop’s door. Forbidding me to go out will not keep me safe.

Much as that grieves me.

He flattened imaginary creases in the front page. All the while Mercedes could almost hear his teeth grinding.

Right. Go if you must, he spat. He tossed back the last drops of his coffee and got up. But I won’t allow you to roam those festering streets, you hear? You will take a cab all the way to your friend’s door. More than that, you will have it wait for you there and bring you back home when you are done.

Mercedes gaped at him. Have it wait? That will make for an expensive fare indeed!

That cannot be helped. I swore before God I would take care of you, and I will. Now, if you please, our staff shouldn’t be left un-supervised any longer.

They didn’t speak of the matter again. In fact, they didn’t speak at all throughout the rest of the day. Even though they both worked in the same building, Mercedes and Eric often saw little of each other during business hours. Today perhaps that was for the best, because their tiff in the office had undone the good mood left by M. Leclerc’s purse.

The British lady in mourning arrived late in the afternoon, with her deceased brother in tow. The soldier was still nervous, but Mercedes filtered him out by concentrating instead on the fitting of the first of the black dresses. The garment required only a few minor adjustments to the sleeves, so Mercedes ordered Yvette to put down her regular work and make those changes.

When at last the church bells of Paris rang at closing hour, Mercedes had her assistants clean up while she set herself