The Parisian Codex

1 - Paris by night

Paris, Petite Truanderie Street.

Curled in a ball on the sidewalk, the kid squealed like a piglet. He reeked of blood and piss, and I was getting fed up.

It had been dark for hours, and the Halles district was buckling under the rain. The streets were empty, apart from the occasional bum asleep on a subway grate.

"Say it again!" I growled.

"I... I have to leave the neighborhood," he said, three octaves too high and sputtering.

It wasn't his fault. I'd probably knocked out a few too many teeth.

"When?" I asked.

The kid whined—not the answer I was hoping for.

I bent down to grab him by the collar and lifted him off the ground.

"You and your pals are leaving the neighborhood tonight," I said. "This is Monsieur Mathieu's territory now. If you and your buddies ever come back to deal here, you know what you're in for."

I let go of the kid, who fell back onto the sidewalk like a stinking rag doll. He cowered as if the protection of his arms could prevent me from wringing his neck. I could have killed him without wrinkling my shirt. But I wanted him to go and warn his dealer buddies: this territory now belonged to Mathieu, and Mathieu wouldn't tolerate any competition.

I turned on my heels and set off at a leisurely pace. The asphalt gleamed in the fine, stubborn rain. I turned left towards the Seine. At almost four in the morning, Paris was deserted. I'd intercepted the kid just as he'd wrapped up his last drug deal, a nice bundle of cash in one pocket and not a single dose of dope left in the other. The bundle was now resting in my pocket. Mathieu was forcing me to do his dirty work for free. He could have paid me—he could afford to—but he liked humiliating me. Having a vampire at his beck and call made him all hot and bothered.

He could also have integrated the kid and his friends into his sales team instead of hunting them down like dirt. He wiped the soles of his Italian shoes on the working class. One of these days, it would come back to bite him in the ass.

I walked in the rain all the way to Louvre Street. I was soaked and cold. But what really pissed me off was the idea that Mathieu would continue to use me for his dirty work. Unfortunately for me, this bastard was no fool. If I wanted to end his little blackmail scheme—and I did—I'd have to work a little harder.

I passed by the Halle au Blé, a round, squat building huddled in the cold rain. I reached the corner of Rivoli Street and stopped. This was where I'd set up shop just over a century ago, in the cellar of a then brand-new stone building. I pushed open the heavy door, thinking of the drink I was about to treat myself to, to wash away the night's affronts.

I passed Romane in the building lobby.

She was wearing a sports outfit—probably fair-trade organic cotton—under a parka I imagined was made of recycled plastic. She had tied her blond hair into two little buns, making her look like a sporty, smiling little devil.

"Mademoiselle Bourgeois," I mumbled without stopping.

My glass was waiting for me. But Romane wouldn't let me get away with it. If I gave her the cold shoulder, meetings between the co-owners (Romane and me) would become even more uncomfortable.

"Rohh, it's okay," she said, "you can call me Romane. After all, we're almost the same age."

Romane was nineteen. I was ... a little older. But of course, I hadn't looked my age for a few centuries.

Romane's parents had died the previous spring. The kid had inherited the building and its tenants—except my cellar, which I owned. Since then, she'd been a model landlady, a model student, and a model young lady. I was exhausted just thinking about it.