The Parisian Codex

36 - ... with the Wrong Guys

Zagan was running fast, but not as fast as a vampire.

I was tempted to ditch him in the maze of the mine, but that wasn't a long-term solution. So I stopped and waited for him by a pillar even more massive than the others.

Zagan eventually caught up, his lungs like forge bellows.

"At least you're not wearing stilettos!" I mocked.

"Watch out!"

A shock in my back, a sting, and the unbearable sensation of liquid fire in my body. I toppled over and my cheek hit the floor.

The pain of the fall was nothing compared to the agony that had gripped me. A knee was applied to my kidneys, and my arms were pulled back much harder than necessary.

The liquid fire had already spread to my back, weakening my muscles. My shoulders dislocated. Both arms were strapped behind my back. Ice-cold liquid fire had entered my veins. As it reached my heart, the howl of an animal in agony echoed through the mine.

It was my voice.

I should have passed out. The human body is not designed to remain conscious under such an onslaught of torment. But a vampire's is. Barely veiled by the pain, my mind remained awake.

My nose in the dirt, I couldn't see what was going on around me. I could hear a dozen hearts pounding. Grunts followed one another, suggesting stomachs suffering violent blows. A groan implied that a foot had hit a gonad.

A bang ripped through the air, echoing down the gallery. A male voice barked a command, distorted by the acoustics of the mine.

The liquid fire had taken possession of my heart, which was pumping it at high speed through the rest of my body. I began to tremble and felt a molar break under the pressure of my jaws.

A bony knee slammed my kidneys while a hand grabbed my hair. My head was pulled back, and my nose finally left the ground.

The scene was lit by a dozen headlamps. Most of the light beams converged on a single man—a single demon.

Zagan was fighting like the devil—ah! ah!—in the midst of a bunch of foes. These were clearly human. Former altar boys who shared the same hairdresser and undoubtedly wore the same burnt-out chi-rho on their forearms.

In the background, three guys were already knocked out and enjoying the comfort of the stone floor. Zagan dispatched a fourth adversary to join his buddies in dreamland.

Four guys remained around the demon, all ready to fight. Between them and me, two guys had their backs to me as if to enjoy the spectacle of Zagan kicking their buddies' asses.

That made ten guys in my field of vision. Plus the one trying to scalp me, eleven. Plus Zagan, twelve. No, behind me, a thirteenth heart was beating. Slow, steady, not much stressed by the situation.

God, these guys were even more psychopathic than Mathieu!

A cold, sharp object landed against my Adam's apple, and I stopped diagnosing my assailants for a moment. This guy was going to slit my throat.

It wasn't the worst that could happen to me.

The blade felt sharp, and if the man with the knife knew what he was doing, I'd bleed to death in a matter of moments. It wouldn't be enough to kill me, but it would be enough to knock me unconscious and rid me of the torture of liquid fire. Then, if he was smart, he'd finish cutting my neck, sever the ligaments, pass the blade between two vertebrae, and finally detach my head. That's one of two ways to kill a vampire: destroy his heart or cut off his head. At least, they're the only two on which traditions agree.

The blade cut into my flesh, and I breathed a sigh of relief: in a few moments, the torture would be over. But an image suddenly crossed my mind: Romane, hiding behind a pile of bones.

Was Zagan going back for her?

Was he going to hurt her?

I tried to call out to the demon but only managed to let out a strangled gurgle. The blade attacked my larynx, putting an end to my pathetic bleating.

Suddenly, Zagan was in front of me. He grabbed both spectators by the ear, and their heads collided violently. The two guys collapsed without a second thought.

"I'm gonna...!" shouted a voice behind my back.

Zagan's foot passed over my head, and I heard it strike its target. Vertebrae cracked, but they weren't mine. The bonds holding my arms suddenly disappeared, and my shoulders protested once more. Zagan crouched in front of me. He held a syringe between his fingers. An empty syringe, with feathers up its ass, like the ones that go into vet guns.

"Holy water and liquefied silver," said the demon. "I took three..."

He wiggled his fingers, and meager sparks crackled from the tips of his fingernails. He swore. Then he turned me over and began to pick my pocket. When he'd finished, he shoved a knife under my nose—and I recognized the smell of my blood on the blade.

"More are coming," Zagan said. "Hold them back."

He put the knife on the ground and ran off toward the exit.

I wanted to hurl insults at him, but my windpipe was cut, and I was silenced.

A few yards away, someone grunted. Someone Zagan hadn't killed but knocked out. Forget the insults: I wanted to curse the demon until the end of time. He'd just abandoned me, wounded, alone and defenseless in the face of enemies who were barely unconscious. I hoped he'd at least lose his way and wander a few decades in the mine.