The Parisian Codex

18 - Night-club and Neons

A guy was waiting for me outside my office.

I'd blocked the entrance with the metal cupboard when I'd left, but with its contents sprawled across the floor, the piece of furniture didn't weigh as much as it used to. The guy had simply pushed it aside. He'd probably wanted to get in, but a little demon as black as night had stopped him. Kitten stood in the doorway, hair bristling, back arched and fangs out.

The guy hadn't heard me approach, focused as he was on the feline threat he faced. He was wearing a navy coat. A matching woolen cap covered his skull. The bottom of his suit pants was wet, and his shoes had caught the rain. He wasn't tall but had a nice build.

"We're closed for renovation," I said.

The guy gasped and turned to me. He was in his early sixties, with a tanned face and a hand ravaged by Kitten's claws. I'd seen him around Mathieu before.

"Leave your contact details with my receptionist," I said, pointing to Kitten, "and we'll get back to you."

He was blocking my entrance. I stood in front of him, but he didn't move.

"Monsieur Mathieu wants to see you," he said.

"I gathered as much. But if you don't get out of my way, I'm going to swing you so hard that..."

The man reached around his neck and pulled a pendant from his collar. A large silver crucifix. Mathieu must have bought a whole lot of them. I snatched it from him so quickly that he didn't immediately understand. I gently swung the cross in front of his nose.

"Coming to a vampire's house wearing a cross. Tsk tsk. This is rude and only serves to piss me off. How are Laurel and Hardy?"

The guy stopped squinting at the cross to give me a look of incomprehension.

"Who?"

"Your two colleagues, skinny guy and thank boy.

"We had to give Mehdi a transfusion, and Gregor took a bullet in the femur."

"Hey, don't look at me like that! They jumped me, and they did the shooting."

"If you don't follow me, Monsieur Mathieu will send the pictures to the police."

Nothing new under the Parisian sky.

"Well," I said, "are you going to move, or am I going to move you?"

In a fit of survival instinct, the guy stepped aside to let me pass. Kitten stood still, his yellow eyes fixed on our visitor. I stepped over the cat.

I took a minute to stow my supplies in their cooler, and another to find the cat's bowl and fill it with water. Then I followed Mathieu's henchman.

***

Sitting in the back of the car, I spun the crucifix on its chain. The driver kept glancing at me in his rearview mirror. He grimaced every time he saw the crucifix. Yes, sacred objects made me cringe, but buying a cross wasn't enough to make it sacred. It required a little faith, a minimum of conviction. The cross itself was just one symbol among many. Like the ankh that symbolized immortality among the Egyptians, or the multiple meanings given to the ring. Eternity, transformation, infinite link... Like... Like the magic ring used by Solomon to enslave demons and force them to build his temple. Like the magic ring Josephus describes in his "Antiquities of the Jews", when recounting a man's struggle with a demon.

An object for mastering a demon. Something to think about. I couldn't hope to find the Seal of Solomon in Paris, but if there were any other rings like it... I'd have to find out.

***

For the second night in a row, I found myself in the Champs Élysées district, not far from the Lido—close to where Zagan had disposed of Leroy's body.

Mathieu owned a club on a street parallel to the Champs. A bartender in full regalia served expensive cocktails while naked young women performed acrobatics on stage. Very classy.

My driver double-parked the car in front of the club's entrance. He opened the door and handed the keys to a kid in a bellboy outfit. His job was to circle the block fifteen times in the hope of finding a parking spot.

The entrance to the club was an insult to good taste. Black-painted walls, lit by a debauchery of pink neon. A staircase led down to the club itself. Music blared so loud that the double padded doors at the bottom of the stairs barely managed to muffle it. Another staircase led to the upper floors, but my guide ignored the steps in favor of the elevator in the corner. I followed him into a pink-carpeted cabin. Each time I had to visit Mathieu, I lost a little more faith in humanity.

Mathieu had set up his office on the fifth floor, the last one before the maids' rooms where he housed "his girls." My guide knocked on the door, opened it and beckoned me in. He didn't cross the threshold himself and closed behind me without a word.

Mathieu's office was the antithesis of his club. Here, everything was luxurious and discreet: antique oak parquet flooring covered with Persian rugs, a dark wooden desk, and a matching bookcase lined with numerous old books. I doubted anyone had ever opened them.

Mathieu didn't look like a mafioso—which didn't stop him from doing everything he could to become one. He must have been under 5′3″ and a mere 35 years old. A fine nose, dimpled cheeks and a plump mouth for a man. He wore a black beard and matching mustache, probably to age himself a little. His eyes had all the humanity of a shark. He was young, yes, but an absolute psychopath.