Scherana: Angel or Demon: Scherana, #1

By Federico Ferrantini

The Scherana is trained to think first in the interests of the Esoteric Order, but the love of an orphan will awaken in her the desire to be a mother, and to free herself from the control  of the Masonic Congregation. Her hopes for an ordinary life are threatened by events thatshake the streets of Paris, as well as the lives of the Grand Masters of this Order. Forced to make a painful choice, she  takes on the most dangerous mission of her life, knowing that she may  never find redemption. Things seem to be governed by an ancestral force leading her to discover her origins while salvaging her emotions .

As Paris  celebrates  the approach of New Year's Eve, it is rattled by a series of barbaric murders. The Esoteric Order has been struck with brutal force, and its arcane foundations, which date  back to the time of Solomon, are about to crumble under the blows of  centuries-old enemies.

A  police investigation gets  more complicated, with a trail of suspicious deaths making  the city inhospitable to tourists. Commissioner Moreau seems to be in the dark. Behind the trafficking of archaeological artifacts are the unsuspected Counts of Gaillard, in search of the legendary scrolls of the Esoteric Order, which, according to ancient tradition, hide a secret of primordial importance. The Gaillards, aided by the criminal gang led by the Decker brothers, appear to have everything under control. But a mysterious  force emerges from the shadows of the city that will illuminate the darkness and disrupt the lives of those involved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helike Publishing
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224948291

Federico Ferrantini

Federico Ferrantini, laureato in Giurisprudenza presso l'Università "La Sapienza" di Roma, lavora nel settore dei media e della comunicazione. Scherana rappresenta il suo romanzo d'esordio per Helike Edizioni.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Monsieur Simons, from Brussels?

Alain turned, inhaled the fruity aroma of the cigar, and nodded. The stocky man approached, grinning fatally at him, slipped the silver dagger from his charcoal leather jacket and plunged the blow, extinguishing the glare of the sharp blade in the depths of his gut. He felt the icy slash cleave him and the arid coldness of the metal rise to his heart. He puffed suffering in a cloud of smoke, in the pungent air blown by Parisian gusts. The astonishment in his eyes turned into anger, the disbelief turned into hope for survival. In a desperate gesture of protest, using the last breaths of vitality, he put out his cigar against the face of his aggressor. The murderer cursed with contempt and walked away with his usual ease. Alain was lying on the icy cobblestones of Rue Lepec, his vacant eyes staring at the round moon. He felt the life leave him, broken by a fatal gust a few days before Christmas. 

It was just after eight o'clock in the evening when Alain came out of the bistro Le Madigotte, after ordering some Foie Gras. Rue Lepec was deserted. The clangour of the shutters of the stores, which were lowered announcing the end of the working day, resounded liberally in the neighbourhood. Steamy drafts dragged dried leaves over the cobblestones that paved the street. His wife and sister were waiting for him at the corner of the cozy bistro. Just before going out into the street he had pointed to the article in a newspaper absent-mindedly abandoned on the table. Gentleman Thief Dishonors Louvre. Priceless artefacts stolen. Suspicion seems to fall on the elusive Spectre, he had read. This... Spectre! He's lucky he doesn't have you on his trail, little sister!, Alain had joked, cracking a smile at the two women. I need a smoke! he had greeted them as he stood up to reach the doorway.

He lit the cigar and savored the Hoyo de Monterrey, relaxing with the aromas of dried fruit. From the darkness, in the distance, he was surprised by a call. Alain, man! he heard. He turned around. He saw a stocky man emerge from the dimness, with a rough walk and a brigandish style. She had not recognized him. Certainly a relative of his beloved wife, born and bred in Paris, he considered. Before he could satisfy his own curiosity, the stocky man fatally assaulted him.

His sister Sigrid and his wife Eloise sat at the table of Le Madigotte, discussing the newspaper article pointed out by Alain. The Spectre is very famous in Paris! His exploits have even inspired some novels!, Eloise pointed out, responding to her sister-in-law's incredulity. She was an administrative clerk at the Brussels police station, where Sigrid had become an established and respected detective. The two women had become good friends, sharing their place of work and affection for Alain. The pleasant conversation was interrupted by the restless roaring that penetrated from the street. Attracted by the excitement, Eloise reached the door of the bistro: when she saw Alain lying on the ground, with a vermillion stain flooding his cream shirt, she fainted, falling onto the stony ground of the street.

Sigrid threw herself over her brother's lifeless body, looking for signs of the vitality that had always distinguished him. She placed the palms of her hands on the man's abdomen, trying to tamp down the crimson rash. He knew there was no hope but he wanted to avoid rationality and cling to illusion. She looked up at the gathering of onlookers, incredulous. Her scarlet hair wrapped around the lacerating pain that gushed silvery from her slate eyes.

Chapter 2

She had evaded surveillance by posing as an orchestral player, brandishing her inseparable violin. She had been entrusted with the task of exposing the ambiguity of the Gaillard counts and had spied on their moves for most of the afternoon, without obtaining the desired results: she decided to speed up the process and reach the vault in the basement of the villa, she wanted to attract their attention and assess the threat. The Gaillard residence was bathed in tranquility, surrounded by vegetation. The walls in the reception room were covered with paintings depicting scenes of horse battles. Crystal chandeliers in the eighteenth-century style descended from the ceiling, carved in snowy wood. Two large windows overlooked the majestic terrace, from where one could see the wake of the Seine illuminated by the moon. The maids, in their impeccable outfits of white shirt and blue skirt, made their way through the festive cacophony brandishing trays full of dishes.

The Counts Gaillard entertained the guests with friendly, courteous and helpful conversation, while the background music mixed with the moderate buzz. Philippe was a gentle man in his late sixties, with a high forehead and a sad look. While his wife, Countess Sophie Gaillard, slender and twelve years younger, seemed to surpass him not only in height but also in cunning. They were owners of the prestigious champagne wine maison Mollermy, born from the fusion of their respective families after their wedding. A marriage wanted by Countess Marine Liberec, Sophie's mother, who saw in their union a patrimonial opportunity to be seized even at the expense of her daughter. As they did every year around Christmas, the Gaillards organized a pompous banquet to formalize their good wishes to their eminent guests: a tradition that had become, over the years, one of the most eagerly awaited evenings in the wealthy circles of Paris.

She gracefully shook the strings with her bow and plucked them harmoniously with her fingers, keeping the violin resting against her elegant neck, clasped to her defined chin. The violinist scanned the bystanders in the reception hall, careful to seize the propitious moment. She noticed one of the waiters with a suspicious attitude, who glimpsed the Gaillard accounts fleetingly; in his eyes she seemed to glimpse a flickering feeling of revenge. He apologized to his fellow musicians and left the orchestra for the restroom, alluding affably to an unexpected and forced pause. She walked through the door attracting the gaze of the diners: the violinist's marble elegance made her look like a deistic sculpture that had broken its secularity to advance vividly through the bewitched crowd. She vanished beyond the snowy arches of the hall and descended the stairs without crossing the threshold of the bathrooms, reaching the basement floor. She found the crackling of the pots lying on the kitchen stove reassuring, and for an instant she dreamed of living a different existence from the one that had been imposed on her. She visualized the map of the house, memorized the previous evening in front of her fireplace, and proceeded cautiously. She walked down the hallway to the freight elevator, a maid came out of the kitchen with a steaming tray and greeted her busily. She walked past the arch where the hallway narrowed to form a tunnel. She walked through the narrow passage to the west wing of the villa. She came out in a luxurious antechamber with carmine leather armchairs: the room was monitored by cameras but she didn't care, she wanted to be noticed and force the events. She didn't have the means to violate the armored door that stood circular on the wall. She pretended to unhinge the armor plating by approaching the locks and waited, determined to catch the signs of a plot that was struggling to emerge. She reflected on the genuineness of the Gaillard accounts. Maybe they're not hiding anything dark, she considered. Two men from surveillance surprised her. Raise your hands and turn around slowly! they ordered her. Finally! Let's see what the esteemed Gaillards are hiding! the violinist ironized to herself, letting the guards overpower her.

Chapter 3

She had been planning the theft for weeks, and that very afternoon she had hacked into the Gaillard mansion's video surveillance system. No one present suspected that the fearsome Spectre, the elusive and elusive thief who oppressed the wealthy Parisian landowners, was hiding among them, disguised as a waiter and ready to act. He took out his smartphone from his jacket and checked the footage of the security system. He peered at the woman walking down the corridor parallel to the kitchens; he recognized the violinist who had left the orchestra a short time before. Her platinum hair looked like a fluorescent trail that blurred the frame of the small screen. He watched the maid leave the kitchens with a tray in her hand and the violinist vanish under the archway of the hallway. He waited. One of the cooks pushed a food cart, leaving it unattended in front of the elevator. It's time! he said to himself. He stowed his smartphone in his jacket pocket and walked down the stairs to the kitchens. One of the cooks was about to grab the food trolley, but was cheered by the voice behind him. I'll take care of the old woman! said the Wraith disguised as a waiter, pushing the cart into the elevator shaft. He mirrored himself in the silverware lying on the rack, adjusted his glasses, fixed his wig in a brown pigtail and waited for the lift door to open on the ground floor. He grabbed one of the trays and handed it to the two security guards at the entrance, placing it on the surveillance monitor station in the lobby of the villa. He greeted the guards and re-entered the elevator shaft. He reached the upstairs quarters, where Countess Marine Liberec, a despotic seventy-five-year-old who liked to dine away from distractions, was waiting for her evening meal. He knocked and stepped away with immediacy, leaving the food carrier on the threshold.

The Spectre pointed his smartphone cameras at the staircase leading upstairs. The only way to act undisturbed inside the villa was to replace the surveillance videos with repetitive footage showing the rooms cleared. He sent the footage to the closed-circuit surveillance system, now accessible since it had been hacked, and placed the smartphone in his jacket pocket. He pressed the basement button without entering the elevator shaft and waited for the freight elevator to reach the kitchens. He knew that the security guards stationed in the lobby would be waiting to see the elevator pull up to the lower floor, to make sure that the waiter had come back down after serving the Countess. He climbed the stairs and violated the study of Count Philippe Gaillard, on the second floor of the villa. The walls were carved in brown wood, with a sumptuous, unadorned chestnut desk used as an altar for photos of his wife and two children. A bookcase sat against the wall and kept a few dozen books in order. While the gaudy curtains of the two windows, with their honey-colored fabrics, completely obscured the room. His attention focused on the solid gold crucifix displayed beyond the desk, attached to the wall. Since he had received the news that the relic was no longer kept in the villa's vault, not a day passed without him planning the theft. A shiver suddenly seized him and the memories emerged powerfully from the torpor in which he had relegated them. He yearned for the moment when the crucifix was once again in his hands, the same hands that had pampered him as a child, when he helped his grandfather clean it from the dust that penetrated the countryside. He noticed the contacts of the system from the weapon, he was not discouraged, he was prepared for any eventuality. He was about to grab it, to make it his own, when he heard fast and heavy footsteps coming from the corridor. He approached one of the windows, concealing his presence behind the honey curtains.

Two strong men in black suits entered the study, dragging a woman with her wrists bound by adhesive tape. One of the gorillas made her sit ungainly on the chair, while the other placed a violin case on the parquet floor.

The Wraith recognized the elegant violinist, wearing a jacket and pants. Her dyed hair looked like a cascade of liquid gold. He could have freed her with dexterity, using the stun darts kept in his jacket pocket, but he wanted to prioritize his mission: he had to steal the crucifix.

Marine Liberec, accompanied by her daughter Sophie Gaillard, reached the studio. I don't think you ever met my late husband! introduced the elderly countess. My poor Hector often spoke to me of the demonic nature she manages to match; he considered her so deadly that he feared her more than cancer! My dear Hector was always exaggerating! she immalinised. She doesn't seem so dangerous, now that we've captured her! she commented haughtily, taunting the violinist.

Sophie Gaillard sat at her desk, in her husband's study, with the disinterested expression of one who drew no satisfaction from the circumstance, annoyed at being taken away from activities she preferred.

My daughter cannot comprehend what sinister terror hides her presence in this abode; she believes that you are really a musician! considered Marine, catching an apprehensive glimpse of Sophie. Forgive her if she does not accord you due reverence! granted the violinist.

The Spectre did not understand the Countess' attitude. The old woman's voice had a tone that was both derogatory and obsequious, as if she were facing the most latent of pitfalls.

This is a great day for our family, at last our efforts will be recognized! We will finally enjoy the consideration we deserve! Our allies will have to listen to our pleas, Marine assessed, arranging her silvery hair gathered by a charcoal clip. Did she really think she could breach the vault of this house? What a fool! he accused her in a saccharine tone. Tell me rather, why did they send you to spy on us? he asked, fixing her with angry eyes.

The violinist raised her head and stared at the countess, without admitting any fear. She remained motionless and scrutinized the tension that enveloped the old woman, her charismatic and inescapable manner aroused anxiety. I answered an ad for a reception! she protested candidly.

Marine winced. He grabbed the letter opener kept in the pen holder resting on the desk and, with a gesture that seemed dictated by desperation, tried to stab it into the prisoner's left thigh, barely tearing the elegant pants.

The Spectre felt uneasy, horrified by the treatment reserved for the musician. He was about to intervene and shatter the project to recover the coveted crucifix, he wanted to save the young woman from the clutches of the evil countess. But he became paralyzed. Nothing he saw seemed ordinary. The musician's reaction had petrified him; he had never witnessed such dexterity. He watched as the violinist flexed her long legs against the desk, using them as leverage to catapult herself to the floor. The impact shattered the chair. She seemed trapped, sprawled and helpless. She arched her pelvis and spun her legs vigorously, as if they were whirling propellers slamming into the soft abdomen of gorillas. The first vigilante drowned on the floor in a gasping breath, surprised by the musician's vehement reaction. His companion tried to throw himself on the woman, but she flexed her knees to her chest and released her legs, striking him with unprecedented violence, sending him flying over the desk as if he were a blade of grass torn by a vigorous gust.

She's not a violinist at all! reflected the Spectre.

The Countess slid fearfully across the floor, until her back was against the wall. Marine Liberec's arrogant grin had turned into a mask of grim terror.

Sophie Gaillard remained motionless, seized by a sudden sense of inadequacy.

Free and vigorous, she intimated obedience with the magnetism of her emerald gaze: her harmonious manner expressed a secular calm. She looked like a ballerina in the most suggestive of performances: a graceful and fatal dance. The violinist dropped the letter opener, grabbed the violin case, stared at the two oppressed women on the wall and leapt against the glass window, breaking it.

The Spectre, hidden behind the honey curtains, was hit by her sharp gaze. He felt spied on, as if the violinist was rummaging through his intentions. He remained motionless and she jumped off the ledge, disappearing into the gloom of the night, beyond the garden beds.

The two gorillas, still groggy, helped Countess Marine Liberec and her daughter Sophie Gaillard to get up from the corner where they had been confined. Don't let the Scherana slip through your fingers! the elderly woman shouted panting.

Chapter 4

Scherana! chimed in his mind. He had not heard that epithet since he had overheard his parents' conversation when he was little more than a child: he remembered his father's fear as he avoided uttering it, replacing it with long silences. Joke! echoed cavernously to him. Don't get distracted, he snapped back. The Count Gaillard's study had emptied. The moment seemed propitious to him. The Spectre abandoned his hiding place and tore the crucifix from the wall, heedless of the alarm that spread through the villa: all need for caution had vanished with the marasmus generated by the Scherana. He climbed down from the shattered window, falling into the flowerbed below. He heard quick, sudden footsteps heading toward him.

Stop, you bastard! the security guards intimated, as they chased him over the gate.

He ran without looking back, with a steady and regular rhythm, careful to catch the breath of his pursuers. The sound of the footsteps chasing him faded away. All that remained to accompany him was the luminous wake of the Seine.

He entered the unlit alley, paused to admire the crucifix that shone palely in the moonlight, and reached the garbage can against the brick wall. He rummaged in the garbage bin, pulling out a charcoal trolley. He opened it, grabbed the dark overcoat, and put it on. He pulled the mask off his face and placed it in the carry-on. He slipped the crucifix into the trolley and resumed his flight.

He reached the whispering crowd that oppressed the woman kneeling over the dying man, while a slab of blood thickened on the cobblestones of Rue Lepec. The scarlet-haired woman, dabbing at the man's wound with a cream handkerchief, looked up. Her face was pale and imploring, and she seemed to wonder at the reason for such brutality.

The Spectre was enraptured by those pleading eyes. He felt a sinister gust of wind disturb the crowd: the dexterity of the Scherana and the drama spied in Rue Lepec had shaken him, making him doubt his own readiness.

Chapter 5

Who is this...Scherana? asked Eveline Mayer curiously. Coal hair cut in a bob and brown eyes, Eveline was Sophie's best friend and marketing director of the Gaillard family champagne wine house. Having become her confidante, ally and accomplice, she observed with detachment the signs of the scuffle in the villa's study: the remains of the chair, the broken glass and the letter opener lay on the walnut floor. From the hallway came a vague melody, the orchestra in the reception room playing Por una cabeza by Carlos Gardel.

A demon! replied Marine Liberec greedily, sitting in the armchair, across the desk, holding up her aching head.

Philippe Gaillard questioned the security guard and got the confirmation he feared: the Spectre had broken into the house and stolen the crucifix from the study. The security service had spotted a man fleeing through the gates of the park, and the description of his features and style pointed to the notorious thief...

The Spectre does not have the means to understand our plans. He will not risk revealing his identity. No! He is not a threat! protested Marine Liberec.

Are the Scherana and the Wraith allies? wondered Eveline.

Don't talk nonsense! The Scherana represents a mythological scythe, she has no allies, she is a ruthless killer! She was here for us, she wanted to kill us! speculated Marine Liberec.

But we're alive! opposed Sophie Gaillard doubtfully.

Don't ever make the mistake of underestimating her! I was a fool to think I had captured her. She wanted to test us, assess our goals, glimpse our weaknesses, Marine paused and sighed. I cannot say for what reason she spared our lives but if the Scherana has discovered our plans, we are in grave danger. You cannot imagine what that devilish being is capable of! My poor Hector used to call it 'the devil's sharpest blade'! the countess concluded, with an anguished glare vibrating between her greedy eyes.

Chapter 6

Morning glimmers filtered faintly through the wide stained glass window and paled before the brilliance of her emerald eyes. Her licorice mane fell damply over the cream cloth that covered her back, had washed away the golden tint and restored her hair to its natural color: bright raven. The fire in the fireplace crackled in the room with its tobacco parquet floor and cream walls. A spruce violin rested in its case on the armchair. Nina kept her left leg extended and resting on the chair. At the level of her femur, a stab wound had been dressed with healing gel. Just a scratch! she noted, recalling Countess Marine Liberec's despair as he struck her in the study of the Gaillard mansion. She sat bored by the reproaches of her Aunt Edwina: Grand Master of the Esoteric Order of the Lodge of Western Europe. She loved the old woman but considered her an obstacle to achieving her own aspirations.

You were supposed to look like a simple violinist, gathering information! Instead you wanted to be discovered, didn't you? protested Edwina, as she stoked the fire in the fireplace.

The Gaillard counts are pawns, the threat is elsewhere! asserted Nina.

Explain yourself!

There is nothing to explain! The Gaillard Counts are acting under the direction of someone else! They certainly boast an aspiration for revenge against the Esoteric Order, but I don't know their goals yet! he commented.

Edwina was sixty-two years old, silver-haired and enjoyed the respect of the world's greatest authorities, but Nina's presence intimidated her; she could not separate her niece's identity from that of the dreaded Scherana. She remained silent; she knew the infallibility of her niece's intuition. In spite of her temperamental intemperance and her constant search for a past that she could not reveal to her, before her stood a woman shaped by years of training: a rigorous strategist and formidable fighter. She yearned and dreaded the moment when Nina would assume the role of Grand Master, she would be the first Scherana to hold the prestigious role of command. Forgive me my dear Nina! I don't have the courage to reveal who you really are, I can't reveal your true identity! she reflected, scrutinizing her granddaughter with affection, concealed by a vein of reproach.

One day you will have to take my place, you will understand the meaning of responsibility! concluded Edwina.

The crackling of the coals produced a sparkle that fell to the floor, Edwina hurried to retrieve it to prevent the parquet from being scarred, but the sparkle lay extinguished, consumed with intensity. That same glow Nina sought in life, considered too fleeting to go along with the plots her aunt had drawn.

You know perfectly well what I desire, dearest aunt! she commented sarcastically.

Nina's reply had once again shaken Edwina's certainties, and before she left she turned around on the threshold. I will gather the Great Council! We'll have made a decision by then, and she walked out without admitting to a reply.

Nina's mind had registered her aunt's imposition, sooner or later she would have to face Edwina and make her future clear: she didn't want to live oppressed by plots of secular memory anymore. She avoided any reflection on the matter and concentrated on the evening that awaited her, she wanted it to be perfect. While she was fantasizing about the coveted normality that her aunt had never experienced, she was attracted by the newspaper article she was reading from her iPhone. Sacrilegious Spectre, solid gold crucifix removed from Gaillard mansion, with the image of the relic standing out in the foreground. He recognized the object he had admired hanging on the wall of the study the previous evening, the same wall where he had thrown one of the gorillas. Nina focused on the slender and motionless figure, hidden behind the honey curtains, which she had scrutinized as she entered the window of the villa; she hadn't seen any threat in the man but she had been intrigued. A curiosity that had accompanied her back from the mission. The Wraith! Mystery solved! she considered amused. Another piece of news attracted her attention. Tourist killed on Rue Lepec! Authorities rule out robbery! she was saddened to see a photograph of an auburn-haired woman kneeling on the white cloth that covered the body.

Chapter 7

Alain. Sweet Alain! How could you do this to me? she couldn't explain her brother's murder. Sigrid felt annihilated by the questions that plagued her with tragic unbearability, while dawn shyly illuminated the austere police station in the eighteenth arrondissement of Paris. The office had a minimalist decor, with aluminum drawers, an old wooden desk and a silver coat rack on the threshold. Leaning back in her chair with her elbows planted on her knees and her hands supporting her sagging head, her forehead brushing the edge of the desk, she felt a growing sense of emptiness that from her abdomen encircled her heart: oppressing her. She was an inspector of the Belgian police, with a law degree and an acute practical sense that had allowed her to make a good career. She had the highest percentage of solved cases in the last year in her department, Rue de Wimpelberg in Brussels, so much so that her colleagues had nicknamed her The Fatal Redhead. Her pearly eyes had scrutinized and interrogated many suspects, chased and captured as many criminals, gathered information and comforted families of victims. Now that fate had placed her on the other side of the desk, she understood the vacant stares of the victims' relatives: those dull eyes looking for an escape route, something to cling to in order to avoid the suffocating reality.

Beside her was her brother's wife, grief-stricken. Sigrid saw in Eloise's eyes, looking at the washed-out floor, the discomfort of incomprehension.

Inspector Cesar Moreau's expression was stern, but he allowed a glimpse of displeasure at the insensitivity his role imposed.

Eloise, can you tell me for what reason your husband left the bistro? asked the inspector.

He needed a smoke, Sigrid intervened, rescuing her sister-in-law.

Moreau poured some water and handed the glass to Eloise who could hardly hold it back.

Was she meeting someone? he insinuated.

No, my brother and his wife came to Paris to spend Christmas with relatives, Sigrid retorted.

Dr. Simons! intervened Moreau. Your role in the Belgian police should allow you to understand my position! admitted the inspector in an admonitory tone, as if to remind her that however inappropriate those questions were, they were necessary. You should know that a crime can be prosecuted more successfully during the first few hours after its commission!

As long as you investigate in the right direction! criticized Sigrid. I would like to participate in the investigation! he concluded.

Moreau believed that the woman's arrogance was dictated by suffering and forgave her without retort. She is too involved, it would benefit neither her nor the investigation. I remind you that you do not belong to the Paris police force! pointed out Moreau peremptorily.

An agent, in his early twenties, knocked on the office door. The inspector let him in. The young man confirmed what had already emerged from the initial findings. No possessions were taken from the victim, it was not a robbery, proclaimed the young policeman.

Sigrid did not hold back her investigative nature, until then repressed by pain, and spied on Moreau's desk. She scrutinized the files catalogued by type of crime. Beautifully laid out was a voluminous file with the words The Spectre taking up the entire front page. Next to the bulky envelope was a meager, open file with a list of five names protruding from the edge. He was able to read the first two: Ekaterina Mokozav and Hector Georgos. On the epigraph of the small envelope, he could make out a pencilled note, The Tourist Killer!

Eloise had sunk into a catatonic absence, as if she were in a parallel dimension. She had