The Parisian Codex

10 - Violent Encounter on the Avenue

At two o'clock in the rainy morning, the Champs-Élysées were almost deserted—almost. I raced up the avenue as the flames devoured the last few inches of embroidery. Silhouettes emerged from an adjacent street. One in a black jacket, hoodie, and puffed-out chest; the other in a large suit and Italian leather shoes.

"You see it's him," exclaimed the skinnier of the two, the guy in the black jacket.

"Dupré," grunted the other, "how kind of you to fall into our arms."

"We went all the way to your place to find the door closed," said the skinny one. "Can't you afford a receptionist?"

"Hi Laurel, hi Hardy," I said.

I had no intention of stopping, but Hardy pointed a gun straight at my chest. I froze.

"Monsieur Mathieu wants to talk to you," said Hardy.

Hardy wasn't his real name. The chief enforcer had never had the courtesy to introduce himself, and I hadn't bothered to find out. His beer-loving wrestler's build and retired boxer's face had led me to nickname him Hardy. The young shrimp who accompanied him at all times didn't come up to his shoulder and must have weighed a quarter of his weight. Obviously, he was Laurel.

"No time," I said.

I took a step forward, and Laurel, too, drew a gun. A revolver too big for him, its barrel reflecting the light of the street lamps.

"We've got silver bullets," said Laurel, "so don't get any ideas."

I resisted the urge to explain that silver bullets were used against werewolves. One day, one of them would try to kill me, and I'd rather not lecture them on the subject.

I showed them the stole that was still burning—but not for long. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. Shall I come and see him tomorrow?"

Hardy took an object out of his pocket and held it up at arm's length. It was a massive silver crucifix. "Monsieur Mathieu wants to see you now," he growled.

As if in support of his colleague, Laurel pulled aside the front of his jacket, revealing an even more imposing cross.

"You know," I said, "this is very rude."

I hadn't finished my sentence when my left foot made contact with Laurel's stomach. It wasn't a kick: I supported myself on the street punk's stomach with my left foot and sent my right foot into Hardy's chin. Laurel folded in two, and Hardy fell backward like a redwood under the onslaught of an army of lumberjacks. Three shots rang out between the facades of the most beautiful avenue in the world.

I landed between my two victims.

Hardy had been shot in the thigh, probably by a ricochet. The smell of blood tickled my nostrils.

Where had the other two bullets gone?

Suddenly worried, I opened my coat and reached into my inside pocket. Ten sharp little claws plunged into my hand, and I fished the kitten out like a pike. I lifted him into the light of a street lamp and turned him over to examine him from every angle. He didn't seem hurt—angry at being woken up, soaking wet, but not injured. I replaced him in his pocket of choice when I noticed that my shirt was stained red. Kitten had escaped the bullets, but not me.

"Hell's Teeth!" I growled. "I don't have time to fool around..."

The embroidery was about to fade. But I was bleeding out—I could feel it running cold and sticky down my stomach and back.

At least the bullet's out of my body, I thought, as I raised my hand above my kidney, where the projectile had exited.

I wobbled. I was losing too much blood. The problem with being neither dead nor alive is that you can succumb to your wounds like anyone else, but you can't heal. At least not without outside help.

My gaze moved from Laurel to Hardy before returning to Laurel. Hardy had more to offer, but he, too, reeked of blood. If I drew too much, Hardy might die on me. And after that, I'd have to square things with Mathieu.

So I knelt down beside Laurel, who was struggling to catch his breath, still bent double. I didn't bother to unfold him, just pushed aside the collar of his jacket and sank my teeth into his carotid artery. He tried to struggle but didn't have the strength.

His heart raced, and I forced myself to stop. As a further sign of my good faith, I took the time to remove Laurel's belt and improvise a tourniquet on Hardy's thigh. Then I sped off before some sleepless stroller could identify me. And I'd forgotten to check for surveillance cameras, damn those.

***

It was so late that even the Lido had closed its doors. I sped past the famous cabaret, almost missing the stole's invitation to turn into a side street. I slowed down.

Under my clothes, I could feel my body repairing itself. In a few hours, I'd be as good as new. But those fools had punctured my favorite coat, and my shirt was garbage. The second in two nights, and each time because of Mathieu. Not to mention the blood loss, which I was going to have to replace. What I'd taken from that shrimp Laurel wouldn't get me fixed up again. Damn henchmen looking all over town for me. Damn Mathieu. I had to get rid of this guy. Just as soon as I'd finished with Zagan.