The Parisian Codex

9 - Tracking a Demon

The stole guided me along Boulevard Saint-Germain, heading southwest. Despite the late hour and inclement weather, I passed several groups of tipsy young people. Cabs circled the neighborhood, looking for tired revelers. The little golden flames running through the stole drew me a few curious, astonished, or wary glances. I ignored them all. When the fire finished devouring the golden thread, the ritual would cease to function, and I'd have no way of tracking Zagan. I pressed on.

A few dozen yards ahead of me, the windows of the Café de Flore leaked warm light. Beyond, the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés towered rigidly.

I slowed my pace. I rarely came to this neighborhood. And not just because my tarnished soul dreaded the proximity of churches. The place had changed so much... It seemed to me I should have recognized the setting from my childhood, but the meadows were covered by so many layers of stone, concrete, and asphalt... Back when an entire abbey stood here, Saint-Germain-des-Prés was outside the walls—outside Paris. Centuries later, the area was one of the capital's most famous. Where I had learned to track hares, thousands of people came and went at all hours of the day and night. Car horns had replaced the abbey bells. I was no longer at home here, because "home" no longer existed.

I squared my shoulders and was about to override my reluctance to enter the plaza, but the stole suddenly pulled me toward the middle of the boulevard. I crossed diagonally, and a cab honked its disapproval. The stole guided me past the Brasserie Lipp and down Rue de Rennes, turning my back on Place Saint-Germain and its church. In my self-pity, I hadn't considered the effect of churches on a demon. I let out a sneer: Paris had two hundred religious buildings, and if the demon had to avoid them all, he'd be wasting a lot of time.

As if in confirmation, the stole suddenly drew me to the left. I looked up to see the silhouette of Saint-Sulpice church in front of me. Obeying the stole's signal, I turned left into Rue du Four.

A few centuries earlier, the devil had had no trouble penetrating the abbey. I wondered if his current aversion to holy places was a symptom of weakness. Perhaps one didn't emerge unscathed from such a long imprisonment? Perhaps the demon was so weak that I could defeat him?

I still had to get my hands on him, though.

In the Odeon Plaza, I noticed that the flames running through the embroidery had already consumed a quarter of the gold threads. I hurried on. I absolutely had to find Zagan before the flames consumed it all. If I didn't, I'd be left with a torn, burnt, and totally useless piece of fabric.

I strode down Rue Danton. Just before I reached Boulevard Saint-Michel, the stole forced me to change sidewalks and walk around the fountain. The fountain wasn't a sacred place, but the 19th-century sculptures depicted the Archangel striking down the Demon, and I imagined that my demon hadn't appreciated the message. Too bad for him, because I'd had it in my head to pretend I was an archangel and take down Zagan myself.

The magic trail crossed the bridge to the Ile de la Cité, continued straight ahead on the Boulevard du Palais—between the Sainte-Chapelle on the left and Notre-Dame on the right—then crossed the Pont au Change to the other side of the river.

I wondered whether my demon was trying to reach Les Halles or the Cimetière des Innocents.

Of course, as he spun around in his embroidered prison, the neighborhood had changed. Les Halles was no longer the bustling market of the Middle Ages, but a mall of concrete and glass. As for the cemetery of the Innocents, it had been emptied and leveled centuries earlier. All that remained was a plaza and a fountain. If the demon was looking for a particular corpse, he'd have to search the ossuary of the catacombs, and I wished him luck.

The stole led me between the Théâtre de la Ville and the Théâtre du Châtelet, past the eponymous fountain, before swerving left to avoid passing near the Saint-Jacques tower.

The demon had disdained the Innocents plaza in favor of Les Halles. It must have been quite a surprise for him to discover the monster of modern architecture that had supplanted the belly of Paris.

The magic trail blurred near Les Halles, before turning sharply as we approached the church of Saint-Eustache. I could almost hear the demon cursing all those churches that had survived the changes of modern Paris.

The night before, I'd beaten up a small-time drug dealer a few streets over. I wondered if he and his friends had obeyed Mathieu's order and gone elsewhere to sell their dope. I had neither the time nor the inclination to check.

One of the many homeless people who lived around Les Halles approached me at a brisk pace, probably to ask me for a coin or a cigarette. He noticed the flaming stole waving in my hand, stared at it for a few moments, then turned back without looking back.

The demon returned to Rue Saint-Honoré, then passed the Palais Royal and the Comédie Française. The Palais hadn't existed the last time Zagan had visited Paris. It had been built by Cardinal Richelieu a few centuries later. Zagan would have loved the place in the 18th century when it had all the wine, prostitutes, and gambling tables you could want. I doubted he particularly appreciated what the place had become, a mere backdrop for tourists.

He zigzagged between churches before reaching the Place de la Concorde. Two closed-faced military men stood guard in front of the American Embassy. The gardens of the Champs-Élysées teemed with night critters. My demon had apparently decided to visit "the most beautiful avenue in the world." The least populated but busiest part of the city. And my stole was three-quarters burnt.