The Parisian Codex

27 - Necromancy

Once Romane left, I sat back in my office chair with a sigh. "Stashing the codex might not be a bad idea," I said.

"It's in a lead box, in a safe, in the basement of a bank," Zagan reminded me.

"Banks can be robbed. We need a longer-term solution."

"Which is why I've tasked you with finding a way to destroy this monstrosity."

"What if I can't? What if there's no way to destroy the codex? After all, we're talking about an essential part of the divine plan..."

"Ah!" said Zagan. "Ah! Ah! Ah!"

He didn't seem the least bit amused.

"What, 'Ah'?"

"Divine plan, my foot! A few archangels have taken it into their heads to do us in, and they've got everyone fooled with their propaganda."

"I'm not up to facing 'a few archangels' either." I said. "I don't think it's possible to destroy the codex. If we want to prevent it falling into the wrong hands, we'll have to seal it off, conceal it and protect it from any magical search."

"I'm not going to spend the rest of eternity with my ass on this thing," said Zagan. "If we're going to hide it, it needs guardians. Are you volunteering?"

"Me? All alone while you're having a good time in hell?"

"You're not alone," said Zagan.

The demon gave a horribly convincing meow, and Kitten leapt onto the desk.

"Me and Kitten against Christianity?" I said. "You're right, it's a cinch."

The demon sighed and started pacing.

I left him to brood, and grabbed the third grimoire. Zagan had put it back on my desk as soon as Romane had left. What could have hypnotized the girl so much?

I began flipping through the pages, and suppressed a grimace. Not only was the leather cover moldy, but inside the parchment stank. How many books in human skin did Sofia own? And why did some sorcerers insist on using this medium? I took it upon myself to continue turning the pages. "How to question a recently deceased"; "How to make an ancient soul speak"; "Summoning and binding the dead"... The chapter titles had the advantage of being clear, and saved me time.

"There's nothing in there to destroy a codex," I announced at last. "I don't even know why you brought me this thing."

"It was stashed with the others. And human skin is always promising."

"If you want to talk to the dead or create an army of the undead, maybe."

"All I need to do to talk to the dead is ... what?" said Zagan.

"What?" I repeated.

"What was the second thing?"

"To create an army of the undead," I said.

"Yes! That's exactly what we need! Show me!"

I found the passage in question, and Zagan leaned over my shoulder to read. "Ah!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "Ah ah! That's just perfect. But we're going to need your little witch."

"Leave Romane alone," I growled.

"Do you know another necromancer?"

"I can learn."

"No, you can't. For necromancy, you need to be alive."

"You're talking nonsense."

"The dead are drawn to life like flies to dung. Why else would they come to be interrogated by the first medium who comes along? And to enslave them, you'll need more than your medieval allure."

"You can't expect me to believe that my neighbor is the only necromancer in Paris."

Zagan grabbed the phone book and started leafing through it. "Let's see, 'n', 'n' ... 'naturopath', 'neurologist' ... no, no necromancers."

"You're a president of the underworld—whatever that means—you must know a couple of demons who could fill us in?"

Zagan pouted. "I'm not very popular in hell. At least, I wasn't seven centuries ago. And demons have excellent memories."

"So those threats you made about Sofia, that you could have them tracked down anywhere...?"

"I can contact some allies!" Zagan cut in. He strode around the desk and dropped into the visitor's chair. After another theatrical sigh, he closed his eyes and didn't move.

"Don't forget to breathe," I scoffed.

He opened one eye. "It's not the first time I've occupied a living body, thank you very much."

I soon tired of watching the demon meditate, and returned to the necromancy ritual in front of me. Kitten sat on my lap and rested a paw on the page, as if to read along with me.

"Diddly-squat!" snapped Zagan. "Nothing, ziltch, nada."

"Are there no necromancers in Paris, or haven't you been able to contact anyone?"

"No one who sold their soul to the few demons I could talk to. You'll have to make do with your girlfriend."

"Romane isn't my girlfriend, she's my neighbor. And you said yourself she wasn't any good."

"I'll give her a hand."

"You're not buying her soul!"

"All right, then. It'll be a voluntary help, just so she can save the world with us. I've sold my collection of human souls, anyway."

***

As soon as Zagan left the building, I embarked on my necromancy training. I began with a simple ritual designed to summon ghosts bound to a particular place. In just over a century, the building had seen its share of deaths, from Commandant Lamotte, who breathed his last in his bed on the sixth floor, to Madame Deroche, who tumbled down the stairs on a rainy day, not to mention several resistance fighters executed in the courtyard during the Second World War. I was spoilt for choice.

But Zagan must have been right, for no spirit deigned to appear before me, not even to make conversation. When you think of all the ghost stories humans feast on, it was enough to offend anyone.

I finally gave up and went to bed, taking the grimoire with me. In a few hours, I'd have to talk to Romane and convince her to help us. Damn, I hated it when Zagan was right!