[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Read online

  The Wizard of Rue Morgue

  The Wizard of 4th Street

  - 04

  Simon Hawke

  Prologue

  By day, Jacques Pascal scuttled through the darkness of the Paris sewers with nothing but rats and water bugs for company. He paddled through the tunnels in an old boat left over from the days when guides had taken tourists on short excursions beneath the city streets. The complex network of sewer tunnels was like an underground city beneath the streets of Paris. That they had once been a tourist attraction was something of a mystery. They were only sewers, after all, and there was not that much to see, but the public curiosity about the Paris sewers began centuries ago with the publication of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. The image of Hugo's romantic fugitive, Jean Valjean, sloshing through the slimy tunnels had captured the imagination of the public and after that, the sewers beneath the Paris streets became the setting for all sorts of strange and nefarious goings-on, at least in fiction.

  In the days prior to the Collapse, guides had taken tourists on short fifteen-minute boat rides through the principal tunnels, beginning on the Left Bank at Pont de l'Alma, explaining to the visitors how the sewage was chemically treated for use as fertilizer in the fields outside the city. They had pointed out the telephone lines and the old system of pneumatic tubes once used for sending letters across Paris. They had shown tourists how the streets above were clearly labeled in the tunnels and how the branch pipes were all numbered, corresponding to the buildings above. They had often pointed out the ones leading to some of the more famous establishments of Paris. Now, no one came down to the sewers anymore. At least, no one in their right mind.

  The Paris sewers had long since ceased being a tourist attraction. Sewage was no longer treated chemically. At the outlet points, it passed through thaumaturgic treatment plants, where it was magically processed. But under the streets, the dark and musty sewers stank and no one remembered who Jean Valjean was anymore. No one came down to see where he had fled from the relentless policeman who pursued him. Only the desperate and the crazed ever ventured down into the sewers now and Jacques Pascal was both.

  By night, he crept through the back alleyways and side streets of Montmartre, searching through the garbage, sustaining himself on scraps thrown out from restaurants and nightclubs, dressing himself in rags. He wore battered, lace-up army boots; threadbare woolen pants and sweater; a moth-eaten coat he had fished out of a trash bin and regardless of the weather, he kept his face swaddled in a frayed and dirty muffler, his long gray hair sticking out from beneath a shapeless old fedora. He looked like an old, decrepit derelict, which was exactly what he was.

  Once, many years ago, Jacques Pascal had been a featured performer in the nightclubs whose garbage he now picked through in the dead of night. He had been a handsome young man, tall, muscular and graceful, and he had set many a chorus girl's heart to fluttering with his acrobatic feats and carnival stunts. But after trained adepts had started entering the entertainment business, Jacques found himself unable to compete. His acrobatics, his fire-eating stunts, his feats of strength and miraculous escapes seemed trivial compared to the illusions that adepts could conjure up. No one cared about the skill involved and no one was impressed that he could do those things without the aid of magic. What could be done with the aid of magic was a great deal more spectacular. Jacques Pascal's career was ruined.

  Having no other skills, he was reduced to working menial jobs, performing unskilled labor and competing in an already overburdened job market with much younger men and women. He had never saved up any money, so he fell farther and farther behind, eventually losing his apartment and most of his possessions. He wound up on the street, one of the city's homeless, and with no regular address, he was unable to find work. His pride had succumbed to mortal wounds and his spirit had been bludgeoned to the ground. Somewhere deep inside, the essential part of Jacques Pascal expired. He became one of the walking dead. He did not survive so much as he merely managed to exist.

  The sewers were his home now, his place of sanctuary. He had found little nooks and crannies here and there where he could curl up and sleep and if occasionally he did encounter another lost soul like himself down in the tunnels, they usually fled from him, being just as frightened as he was. His reason had not fled entirely, it had simply become thoroughly numbed. He was filthy, scrofulous, tubercular and the moisture of the sewers had seeped into his arthritic, eighty-year-old bones. He was old and sick and his mind had long since retreated from the horrible reality that his existence had become. Life had been reduced to a hopeless and deadening routine, scraping through the city's garbage by night, like an emaciated alley cat, and shambling through the sewer tunnels by day, ceaselessly exploring his underground domain. And nothing ever happened to change this soul-deadening routine until the day he discovered the new tunnel.

  It was not, actually, a new tunnel at all, but an extremely old one that had been exposed when one of the old sewer walls collapsed. Taking one of the crude torches he used to light his way along the dark tunnels, he climbed through into the passageway that had been exposed. It was very narrow, with just enough room for him to pass if he stooped slightly, which had long since become his normal posture. Like a hunchback, he shuffled down the musty corridor until it opened out into a larger chamber, with several other tunnels branching off from it. Strewn all around this chamber were ancient bones, dark brown with age, some simply scattered, others stacked in piles, some laid out in bizarre arrangements.

  He had found an old tunnel that led into the ancient Catacombs, originally formed out of Roman quarries dating back to ancient times. Over the years, the Catacombs had been expanded; scooped out to provide building materials for the city and a place to dump the bones of millions of dead bodies transported from overcrowded cemeteries and graveyards such as Les Innocents, which had given way to urban development. During the Reign of Terror, the bodies of those claimed by the guillotine were brought down into the Catacombs by cartloads, which saved the time and expense of proper burial. Like the sewers, the corridors of the Catacombs honeycombed the ground beneath the city. No one alive had ever explored them fully. They were like a vast underground maze, a dark and foreboding final resting place for millions of dead souls. It would be easy to become lost in them forever.

  Jacques Pascal did not think about any of those things as he shuffled through the subterranean corridors, the light from his torch throwing garish shadows on the rock walls and mounds of ancient bones. He did not think to mark his way, nor did it occur to him that he might never find his way back to the more familiar sewer tunnels once again. Something drew him onward through the dark and ancient passageways. It was like walking through the halls of Hades, exploring the city of the dead. After he had walked for what seemed like hours, he perceived a dim light at the end of a long corridor ahead of him. He quickened his step, moving toward it like a moth attracted to a flame.

  He came out into a large, rectangular chamber hollowed out from solid rock. Here, there were niches carved into the walls, some containing piled-up skulls, others holding entire skeletons propped up like grisly statues. The light came from burning braziers placed around the perimeter of the chamber. Spiderwebs covered the ancient skeletons like transparent shrouds and rats nosed among the heaped-up bones. The air was thick with a peculiar smell, a cloying, pungent odor that came from the burning braziers, filling the chamber with a smoky mist.

  "Come in, Jacques," said a deep, mellifluent voice. "We have been waiting for you."

  He spun around with a startled gasp.

  At the far
end of the chamber, standing on a rock ledge slightly raised above the floor, were three black-robed, hooded figures that had not been there a moment earlier. It was as if they had simply appeared suddenly out of nowhere. The torch fell from his hand and he started to back away, but one of the hooded figures raised an arm and Jacques found that he could not take another step.

  "Come closer, Jacques," the hooded figure said, beckoning. "Don't be afraid."

  The old man was terrified, but he slowly started moving toward the hooded figures. He couldn't help himself. His heart hammered within his chest like a wild thing trying to escape, to claw its way out of his rib cage.

  "Who . . . who are you?" he stammered fearfully.

  "We are your life, Jacques Pascal," the hooded figure said. "We are your life and resurrection."

  He stood before them, uncomprehending, trembling as he gazed up at their shadowed features. The one who spoke stepped closer to him and brought his hands up to pull back his hood. Jacques caught his breath. Long, flame red hair cascaded to his shoulders. It framed perfect, finely chiseled features. The youthfully smooth skin was of a slightly golden hue. The eyes that gazed at him were a bright, metallic green that seemed to glow with an inner light. The other two reached up and pulled their hoods back. One was a young man, as handsome as the first, and the other was a stunningly beautiful young woman, both with the same red hair and copper-hued skin. They looked like angels, but there was something frightening about them, something palpably malevolent.

  "How . . . how do you know my name?" said Jacques hoarsely.

  "We know everything about you, Jacques Pascal," the first one said. He reached out and Jacques flinched as the young man put his hands upon his shoulders. "We know how you have suffered. We know how unjustly life has treated you. We sensed you groping in the darkness and we have summoned you to us so that we could make amends."

  Pascal looked around him wildly, seeking some means of escape. The thought crossed his mind that he had died back in the sewer tunnels and he was now in Hell, confronting demons. His mind recoiled from the idea, he did not want to accept it. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be dead. He did not remember dying. Surely, one would remember such a thing. Unless, perhaps, he had died in his sleep and it was his spirit that had come here, to remain beneath the earth, wandering tormented through the stygian corridors forever. No, he thought, no, it simply couldn't be. After all the misery that his life had encompassed, surely he was entitled to an afterlife in Paradise. Surely, he had not been such a sinner that he was now doomed to suffer in Hell for all eternity. But then, the hooded figure had spoken of redemption. Of life. He clung to that thought desperately. Perhaps this was no more than a dream. But the reality of his surroundings seemed unmistakable and the hands grasping his shoulders were strong and solid.

  "What do you want with me?" cried Jacques, cringing fearfully. "Please, let me go! I meant no harm! I have done nothing!"

  "There is no need to be afraid," the man said gently, still holding Pascal by his shoulders. "We are going to give you a great gift, Jacques. You are about to be reborn. Look at me, Jacques. Look into my eyes."

  Jacques could not resist. As he met that intense, emerald green gaze, he began to tremble violently. He couldn't breathe. Those unsettling eyes seemed to glow brighter and the grip upon his shoulders tightened. He felt a strange, burning sensation as those awful eyes glowed brighter still and the whites around them disappeared entirely. Suddenly, two brilliant beams of green light shot forth from them and struck Jacques in the eyes, penetrating deep into his brain. He screamed as thaumaturgic fire exploded in his mind. He tore loose from the man's grasp and fell to the floor, writhing in agony and clutching his head with both hands. He was suffused with an incandescent, burning pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His flesh felt as if it were melting away from his bones.

  He tore away the muffler covering the lower part of his face and gasped for air. He brought his hands up to his face. . . . and suddenly the pain was gone. He touched his face in amazement and wonder. It felt very different. He could hardly believe it. His face was smooth. Unlined. His scraggly beard was gone, as if it had been burned away. Slowly, he got up to his feet and found that he could stand up straight. His skin tingled. He could feel the blood coursing strongly through his veins and the dull, arthritic ache in his bones was gone.

  "What . . . what have you done to me?" he said, and he was startled at the sound of his own voice. It was no longer hoarse. It sounded young and strong.

  "We have given you back that which was lost," the man said. "Behold."

  He made a pass with his hand and a full-length, gilt-framed mirror suddenly appeared in front of Jacques. He stared at his reflection with utter disbelief.

  The years had magically dropped away from him. He was no longer an eighty-year-old man, but the same Jacques Pascal who had appeared in the nightclubs of Montmartre, young and strong and vibrant. His hair was no longer limp and gray, but black and lustrous. His jawline was firm, his teeth were no longer rotted, but sparkling white and even. He stared with disbelief at his youthful features, touching his face, feeling the power in his muscular arms and chest. He ran his hands over the rock hard abdominal muscles beneath his sweater. He had been magically given back his youth.

  "I must be dreaming! How is this possible?" he said with awe.

  "For us, anything is possible," the black-robed sorcerer said.

  "No, it cannot be," said Jacques. "Not even sorcery can do this!"

  "Oh, but it can, Jacques," said the woman, coming close to him and lightly touching his cheek. "Can you deny the evidence of your senses?"

  She gently stroked his cheek and ran her hand around behind his neck, pulling his face close to her. She kissed him lightly on the lips. He felt her tongue slip into his mouth and suddenly he was kissing her hungrily, feeling the supple body underneath her robe as she pressed against him. He hadn't touched a woman in years. He felt a desperate longing building up within him, but she broke away from him, laughing. He looked up at her two companions and blushed with embarrassment.

  "There will be time enough for that," she said, touching his cheek again. "That was but a hint of the pleasures you will be able to enjoy again. Merely a taste to whet your appetite. But you will have appetites for other things, as well."

  Pascal was dazed and overwhelmed by what had happened to him. He couldn't think straight. Conflicting emotions raged within him, fear, confusion, joy and an overpowering desire for the incredible creature that stood before him.

  "I. . . I don't understand," he said.

  "You will," she said with a cunning smile. "You have lived for years in darkness and it has sheltered you. Now you will truly learn its power."

  She put her lips to his once more and he clutched her to him, eagerly opening his mouth to receive her tongue. Instead, she exhaled into him. Her hot, burning breath hissed down his throat like a jet of steam, spreading through his entire body. He tried to break away, but she held him tightly, breathing her fire into him. She let him go suddenly and he staggered back, clutching at his chest and staring at her wildly.

  And then the change began.

  Chapter

  ONE

  Max Siegal hurled his paintbrush across the dingy, unkempt garret that was his studio on the Left Bank, near the old church of St.-Germain-des-Pres.

  "God damn it, you moved again!" he shouted at his model, in French that was only slightly tinged with an American accent.

  Joelle sighed and pouted at him, making a sad little girl face. "But Max, I'm tired!" she said plaintively. "I've been holding this pose for hours! Can't we rest now? I'm cold! Look at me! I have goose pimples all over!" She smiled and tossed her long, ash blond hair. "Why don't you bring some of that cognac over here to warm me up?"

  She was completely nude and reclining on a sofa covered in black velvet. It was not, by any means, an uncomfortable position and the pose that Max had carefully arranged her in, while deliberately intended to be ero
tic, was not very difficult to hold. It was simply that Joelle was young and not very patient. The thrill of being asked to pose for the celebrated artist had worn a bit thin and Joelle was fidgeting impatiently. She had heard that Siegal often had torrid, passionate affairs with his models, but now she was starting to think that he was interested only in her body.

  Siegal rolled his eyes up in exasperation and ran a hand through his thick, dark, curly hair. He poured her a small snifter of cognac. "How do you expect me to paint you if you won't sit still?" he snapped at her in frustration. "You're squirming about like a dog with fleas!"

  "Why don't you come over here and squirm about with me?" she suggested coyly, arching her back and stretching out her lovely legs.

  Siegal sighed as he handed her the snifter. "For God's sake, Joelle, I've got paintbrushes older than you are."

  "You don't find me attractive?" she said, shifting around on the sofa, putting her legs up and swirling the cognac around in the snifter. She dipped a fingertip into the amber liquid and gently sucked it while gazing at him with a smoldering look.

  "I find you very attractive, Joelle," he said, wearily. "That's why I wanted to paint you. You're a beautiful girl, but I didn't pay you to come here and have sex with me, for God's sake. In fact, I don't know why I'm paying you at all," he added in a surly tone. "As an artist's model, you're an absolute disaster!"

  "Do you really think I'm beautiful?" she said, slowly moistening her lips with her tongue and taking a small sip from the snifter.

  He made a low sound in his throat, halfway between a moan and a growl. It was just impossible. Lately, every time he found a model who possessed all the right physical qualities, a certain look he wanted to capture on canvas, the moment he got her to the studio, all she wanted was to make love with him. It was probably his own fault for having unrealistic expectations. He had thought that Joelle had a lovely, waiflike innocence about her, but it seemed there was no such thing as an innocent young girl in Paris. Even at sixteen, Joelle was already fully aware of her own lush sexuality.