The Parisian Codex

8 - The Hunting Spell

Nadine Leroy had given me the address of the trading house her husband shared with Bel in the Carré des Antiquaires, a strange assemblage of multi-millennial object dealers and contemporary art galleries.

In the past, different trades were grouped together in different parts of Paris. Butchers near Châtelet and armorers near the Cimetière des Innocents. Antique dealers were among the few to preserve this tradition. They had settled in two blocks of the 7th arrondissement, as banners displayed on stone facades proclaimed.

It was almost 10 p.m., and the stores had all drawn their curtains. In any case, Leroy and Bel didn't own a store, just offices on the top floor and the infamous cellar.

Entering a vault full of sacred objects of my own free will was out of the question. So I simply stopped in front of the entrance to the building. The only way to get in was through a wide archway, now closed by a large wooden gate. I took refuge under the archway, both to escape the rain and the passers-by hurrying home. Leaning against the stone, I closed my eyes and concentrated on my other senses.

It had been a few years since I'd last hunted the demon, and I was feeling rusty. But magic is like riding a bike, and I never forget anything anyway. After a few long minutes, I felt I'd touched a familiar scent. The sensation wasn't really in my nostrils, not really on my skin, nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Yes, magic is sometimes difficult to describe to those who don't feel it, like explaining blue to someone who's never seen.

I allowed myself a few seconds to tighten my grip on the sensation. No doubt, it was the same demonic energy that lingered in the embroidery. When I thought I had it firmly in hand, I opened my eyes and took a few steps down the street. I was hoping to track the demon. Alas, half a dozen steps in the direction of the Seine, and I lost the trail. I pushed on to the junction in the hope of finding out if the demon had turned into another street, but I had to face the facts: I couldn't follow Zagan without resorting to drastic means. I would need some tools and a quiet place.

For peace and quiet, I knew the little garden on the corner of Saints-Pères Street and Saint-Germain Boulevard. But finding a piece of chalk or a marker at 10 p.m. in this neighborhood was impossible—unless I broke into one of the prestigious schools and institutes in the area. I wasn't in the mood. In the end, I jumped the garden gate and picked up a dead branch.

Parisian gardens are closed to the public at night. That doesn't mean they're deserted. I could feel the presence of at least three humans lying under various bushes to protect themselves from the rain and prying eyes. If I left them alone, they'd probably return the favor. So I settled down in an open space between a chestnut tree and a children's playground. Here, just a few yards away from the boulevard and the traffic, I was in a bubble of calm, sheltered from glances and noise. With the tip of my stick, I traced my circle in the sodden earth. Outside the circle, I inscribed the directions. I didn't dare ask the archangels for protection, as my master had taught me. Since the demon had deprived me of my humanity, I was no longer entitled to it. Instead, I invoked the elements.

Towards the Tuileries Gardens, the north and its element, earth.

Towards the boulevard, the south, associated with fire, like the headlights of cars.

To the west, water and the Seine River.

Finally, towards Boulevard Raspail, I invoked the East and the protection of the Air.

Under these four symbols, I traced a second circle, closer to me. In this one, I placed the embroidery that had contained the demon. Then I breathed my will into the line, and the circle activated around me.

A large part of the curse that has afflicted me for centuries involves my memory. While humans fear the age when their recollections will fade, I have to endure never forgetting. I remember every event in my life, from the day the parish priest took me to the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the hope that the monks would take me in. I remember the first nights in the cold dormitory where the kids were crammed together. I remember the chores we had to do to earn a living. I remember the brother I kept insisting should teach me my alphabet ... even if I've forgotten his name. I remember every ritual, spell, and formula my master taught me. The ritual I needed that night wasn't very complicated. At the age of twelve, I used it to hunt hares. Now my game was much more dangerous, but the principle remained the same.

The circles allowed me to cut myself off from outside influences and focus the magic around me. Kneeling in the center of my circles, I closed my eyes. With one hand resting on the embroidery, I gathered my thoughts and murmured the incantation.

According to my master, it should never have worked. Magic, as I learned it as a child, is a gift of life. Vampires aren't supposed to be alive, and I shouldn't have been able to call upon the various energies of the elements. And yet... I felt the magic of the earth flow through me from head to toe as the force of the air filled my lungs. Every drop of rain brought me a spark of energy. But above all, the embroidery caught fire.

With a flick of my foot, I broke my double circle. The world rushed to meet me. In my hand, the stole leaped towards the boulevard. All I had to do was follow.