The Parisian Codex

28 - Bird of prey

Romane lived on the third floor, the "noble" floor of Haussmann buildings. I had once visited her parents there, who had the good taste to keep me at a distance with their formal politeness. I think they were a little wary of me, which proves the power of their survival instinct. If a drunk driver hadn't cut them off, they'd still be here, and I wouldn't have to deal with their daughter's reckless enthusiasm.

I put my finger on the electric doorbell and prepared to wait. I knew the apartment was all in a row, with the kitchen opposite the entrance, on the courtyard side.

There was a shriek in the apartment, and the sound of objects being subjected to gravity, then a rumble so low that only I and the neighborhood dogs could hear it. I forced the door open. A second cry mingled with the protests of the door frame—a cry of joy.

I burst into the antechamber. Romane had left the decor untouched, but stacks of books adorned the gilded chest of drawers, and her yoga bag lay abandoned on the carpet.

I walked through the double doors into the dining room. It smelled of old carrion, earth and ... magic. It reeked of magic. With the pentagram drawn in chalk on the floor and the legion of candles—extinguished but still warm—dripping onto the furniture and wooden floor, it was hardly surprising.

The pigeon that swooped down on me, however, caught me a bit off guard. It aimed for my eyes, its deformed feet forward like an eagle's. I caught it with one hand and released it immediately. Upon contact with the bird, an awful sensation had overtaken me. Like ... like...

"Don't hurt him!" cried Romane.

She was naked as a worm. Soot streaked her face and chest, and she smelled of blood.

Good thing I fed before coming.

The pigeon had lost interest in me. Looking drunk, it flew at an angle toward one of the large windows and slammed into the glass. It knocked itself out and dropped to the rolled-up carpet.

My gaze fell on the pentagram. It was more sophisticated than I had first thought. Around the central star, no less than three circles delimited two glyph zones. Glyphs I'd just spent hours trying to use.

"I recognize this architecture," I said, pointing to the circles. "It's from the necromancy grimoire!"

I reached for Romane's cell phone, lying on the floor next to the circle, its screen still displaying a photograph of the book in question. Blood started boiling in my veins and I turned to the young woman.

She was getting dressed.

Another crash against the glass, and the pigeon fell back to the ground. What had that kid done to the poor thing?

"You find an old grimoire of necromancy," I said, "and your first instinct is to photograph its contents and try to reanimate the dead on your own?! Can you imagine what could have happened?"

"It might not have worked," she said without looking at me. "Like the fifty times before. Your sources are much better than mine. When I think of the money I've spent on these lousy books..." She buttoned her jeans and turned to me. "Do you think I should ask for my money back?"

The window sounded a third time under the pigeon's attack, and the bird left a trace of blood on it. Romane rushed to pick it up.

"Calm down, little one. Don't... Ouch! Ouch!"

The pigeon struggled like a man possessed, and its beak opened bloody wounds in Romane's hands.

"Did you bring this bird back from the dead?"

She nodded without letting go of the agitated pigeon.

"Are you sure it's a pigeon's spirit you've put back into this body?"

She finally took her eyes off the bird and gave me a worried look. "What do you mean? What...? Can you revive a body with an unrelated soul?"

"I don't know," I confessed. "If there's one thing I've always avoided, it's necromancy."

I'd always been too afraid of what my victims might have to say if I started chatting with the dead. In view of my recent failure, my fears were unfounded.

"Get rid of this horror," I said, pointing at the pigeon. "I need to talk to you."

Romane looked down at the crazed bird lacerating her hands. "Get rid of it?" she said indecisively.

I handed her my penknife, and she gave me a horrified look. Then, before I knew what she had in mind, she opened the window and released the pigeon.

"No!" I shouted, rushing to catch it.

The bird left two feathers between my fingers and flew off into the distance.

Romane stared at me with wide eyes. "You're too fast..." she breathed.

Crap.

I kept my distance from humans precisely to avoid this kind of blunder.

There was no point in denying it now. What was needed was to change the subject and let Romane's mind do the work for me. In a few minutes, she'd convince herself she'd had an optical illusion.

"Your pigeon is dangerous," I said. "Aggressive as it is, it's liable to take someone's eye out."

Romane raised her chin defiantly. "I'm a vegan. I refuse to kill."

"What did you use as a sacrifice?"

She raised her left hand. A large wound crossed her palm.

"Are you out of your mind? Don't they teach you anything these days? Never—ever—cut your palm. It's full of tendons and nerves, and if you cut too deep, you won't be able to use your fingers!" I rolled up my sleeve and pointed to the inside of my forearm. "You find a vein here, make a small cut and bandage it immediately. That'll keep you from getting blood everywhere and catching the first infection that comes along."

This last part was much more important in the 14th century when my master gave me the same speech. Since the invention of antibiotics, humans have relaxed about infections. That was no reason to ignore the basics.

"Go rinse your hands and tell me where your first-aid kit is," I said. "Then we'll talk."

Romane's bathroom was lovely and poorly equipped for first aid. It was a mess, but I managed to find an old box of adhesive bandages and some 70° alcohol. I insisted on disinfecting the wounds, despite my patient's protests that the operation was too painful.

"Next time, you should think twice before handling a bird with open wounds," I said. "Those things transmit just as much filth as sewer rats."

And the zombie pigeon had done more damage than I'd thought. I did a quick count of the adhesive bandages. I'd never have enough. "Where are the clean cloths?"

I escorted Romane to the kitchen, forbidding her to touch anything with her hands. The place was enough to give a health inspector nightmares. She pointed to a cupboard. were kept. Impeccably folded tea towels formed a regular pile.

"You're not the one ironing these towels," I said.

"And why not?"

"I've seen the rest of the apartment. Your stuff is all over the floor, and your laundry bin is overflowing."

She frowned and then admitted. "I haven't touched these dishcloths since Mom died. I use two alternately and hang them by the sink as soon as they come out of the dryer."

I picked a tea towel from the middle of the pile and started tearing it.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

"Lint, to bandage your hands. And stop shaking, or I won't be able to work."

"Do you really think I've brought back the wrong soul? In the pigeon, I mean."

"Are you worried about your parents?"

"If I've really introduced the spirit of another animal into the body of this bird..."

I bit my lips to keep from telling her that she could very well have introduced a human soul into her bird's body. She seemed shaken up enough as it was.

"Listen," I said, "if you really want to bring your parents back, you'll need to practice a lot longer. And that's just as well because I've got a project for you to cut your teeth on."