The Parisian Codex

17 - Buying Blood

My cellar has no toilet—I don't need one. But I do have a small bathroom, barely bigger than a closet. A glorious bathroom with running water, a functional water heater and a jet shower. What a wonderful invention the shower is! Over the centuries, I've learned a thing or two about plumbing, and keep my bathroom at the cutting edge of balneotherapy.

I opened the shower jets wide and got rid of the rest of my clothes. I selected a sandalwood soap and dove under the warm water. Ah, the benefits of modern living!

After three shampoos and two latherings, I resigned myself to getting out of the shower. I had an appointment, and Selene wasn't the sort to wait for latecomers. She was far too nervous for that. She lived in fear of being discovered, of losing her job and perhaps custody of her child. Her paranoia was sometimes annoying, but it guaranteed discreet service.

My coat was still damp, and the wad of bills had taken on water at the bottom of my pocket. I put it to dry in a drawer and drew instead on the advance provided by Nadine Leroy. My professional pride urged me to repay my client. But after all, I'd found her husband. Not in the state she'd hoped, but it wasn't my fault the guy had contracted a demon.

Anyway, I pocketed Nadine Leroy's money. I gathered up the empty blood bags, stuffed them into a yellow plastic bag intended for blood products, and concealed the bag in a cloth satchel.

***

On the Île de la Cité, in the heart of modern Paris, the Hôtel-Dieu is, according to legend, twice as old as I am. It's the oldest hospital in Paris, and when I was just an orphan taken in by the Saint-Germain-des-Prés abbey, the Hôtel-Dieu had already been caring for the sick for centuries.

Fortunately for patients, medicine has come a long way since then—or so humans claim. In the 19th century, a century that decidedly liked to turn my city upside down, the Hôtel-Dieu was transferred from one side of the island to the other, in a huge block of stone buildings. Automobile pollution has blackened the stone, and terrorist attacks have thrown their victims onto the Hôtel-Dieu's stretchers, but the hospital is still going strong. There aren't many institutions on the Parisian landscape older than me. Maybe that's why I brave the aura of Notre Dame to come to the Hôtel-Dieu district. And because that's where Selene works and where she indulges in her little trade.

At 8 p.m., I stood as agreed on the Quai de la Corse, just opposite the flower market, sheltered from the wind between two booksellers' shacks. With the rain, the cold and the time of day, florists and booksellers had long since closed up shop. Only tourists persisted in raving about the beauty of Paris. From time to time, the ultra-powerful spotlights of a "bateau-Mouche" boat lit up the riverbanks like the searchlights of a watchtower looking for an escaped convict.

Selene kept me waiting. Oh, she wasn't late: she was watching me from a corner to make sure I was alone. I could have had fifteen cops stashed in the various cafés around here, and she wouldn't have known a thing about it. But her apprentice spy techniques seemed to reassure her, and as long as she supplied the goods, I was willing to put up with a few eccentricities. Having to attack fellow citizens to survive had always been dangerous, but with the advent of modern police techniques, it had become a real headache.

Selene had pulled up the hood of her raincoat, and the bottom of her face disappeared under several layers of a scarf. She leaned against the parapet beside me, seemingly enthralled by the waters of the Seine several yards below.

As if on cue, she slid off her satchel and placed it on the ground next to mine. "Have you got any change?" she asked without turning around.

The wad of bills changed hands. Selene pocketed it without bothering to count.

I'm not one to burden myself with remorse, but I hear blood is scarce in hospitals, and sometimes I wonder how Selene justifies dipping into such vital reserves. And then I see her pallid complexion, her bloodshot eyes and the smell the drug gives her sweat, and I remember that, like me, humans don't always have the luxury of listening to their conscience.

She bent down to grab the strap of my satchel and left as she had come, without a glance at me. The exchange had lasted less than thirty seconds.