Читать книгу: «Magic Lantern»

Prologue

Les Carrières de Paris

Paris, France

1793

In the darkness of the tunnel, the strong smell of old death struck MicThel Toussaint like a sharp blow to the face. He barely managed to keep from turning and leaving as the hair on the back of his neck rose.

Even the Revolution sweeping through Paris these past four years hadn’t affected him this much. Possible sudden death in the streets at the hands of madmen was not the same as death of an arcane nature.

Gulping back bile, he wrapped his arm over his mouth and nose and breathed through his rough coat sleeve. He peered at the darkness outside the reach of the lantern light. Most of the others in their group—three abreast in this dank passage—complained loudly.

“Where are we?”

“What is this place?”

The sound of their voices echoed and echoed again as it got lost in the long tunnel.

Their young guide raised the lantern above his head. The orange light cascaded over the nearby cave walls, chasing the shadows. The white limestone seemed to warm from the glow, but the chill air rattled Michel. He couldn’t forget that he was now dozens of feet below Paris.

God willing, he would go home again tonight.

A fat man in expensive business attire tried to seize the lantern from the guide. Michel recognized him as one of the wealthy merchants who had convinced Michel’s editor to assign him the task of covering Anton Dutilleaux’s show. As a distraction to the conflict raging throughout the city.

The boy refused to part with the lantern. Michel didn’t know if that was out of ownership or fear of the dark, which steadfastly lay in wait.

“Give me that light, you rancid bit of flotsam,” the fat man snarled. He swung his walking stick with considerable force at the boy’s head.

Outmatched, the dirty-faced street urchin let go the lantern and retreated with one hand raised protectively, scarcely avoiding the stick. Metal gleamed in the boy’s hand, and Michel knew the urchin had drawn a knife. For a moment the reporter thought blood was about to be spilled.

“I hope the ghosts get you, you oozing pox,” the boy called belligerently, backing away. He pocketed his knife and no one except Michel seemed the wiser.

The fat man snarled an oath at the retreating boy, then shined the lantern’s beam farther ahead into the waiting catacombs.

Michel hoped the man’s cruel act didn’t curse them all. Michel believed in ghosts and curses. He never walked across a grave and always went in the opposite direction if a black cat crossed his path.

I am, he thought miserably, without doubt the last person that should have been assigned to this story. Before he’d left the offices of the newspaper, he had made certain the editor had known that. Shaking just a little, he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.

“Dutilleaux!” the fat man roared. “I demand that you show yourself! I didn’t come all this way to be made to wait!” He paused as the thunder of his voice rolled down the throat of the tunnel. “Dutilleaux!”

“Quiet.” From out of the shadows, a man calmly asked, “What are you trying to do, Gervaise? Wake the dead? We all know that is my job.”

Anton Dutilleaux stepped from the shadows, but they didn’t easily part company with him. Rather, they lingered in his dark hair, his dark gaze and his black evening suit. Black gloves covered his long-fingered hands.

The three women in the crowd drew back with small, frightened cries.

“Pardon me, ladies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dutilleaux smiled disarmingly and bowed deeply.

Liar, Michel thought unkindly. You meant to scare them. He was even angrier because Dutilleaux’s appearance had scared him, as well.

“Is that your fancy, then, charlatan?” the fat man named Gervaise demanded. “Spending your nights with the dead so you can scare women and children?”

Dutilleaux smiled a second time, and it was a good smile. Michel had heard that the magician excelled with women. A number of scandalous stories had followed him through Europe.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” Dutilleaux replied innocently. “I merely stayed overlong at my studies. I’ve not lost my keen fascination for the things I’m about to show you. In fact, I’d wager after I reveal them to you that you won’t soon find them far from your mind, either.”

The mocking certainty in Dutilleaux’s voice served to further unnerve Michel. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring a handful of candles. They would have been better than nothing should he need to…leave these others behind.

“Well, I hope to see these fascinations of yours before I grow much older,” Gervaise groused. “Otherwise, you won’t see a single franc from me.”

Michel gazed at the other men and women gathered around the fat man. Nearly all of them appeared to be his toadies and hangers-on. Gervaise didn’t attract friends as much as he did dependents. Michel was certain the merchant was paying for everyone.

“Please come this way.” Dutilleaux gestured.

“How much farther?”

“Only a little.” Without another word, Dutilleaux walked into the darkness as if he could see in it.

They all hesitated. Then Gervaise took a fresh grip on his lantern and walking stick and started forward. The crowd seemed to shrink in on itself as everyone began to move.

Swallowing his fear once more, Michel cast a last glance back the way they’d come. The urchin had disappeared. Doubtless he knew his way to the surface, but Michel wasn’t so sure he could find his way back even with the marks on the walls. He turned and followed the light down into the tunnel.

* * *

“AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD,” Dutilleaux said as they walked, “I’ve recently returned from an extensive stay in the Orient. Shanghai, actually.”

Michel knew that because he’d written the piece on Anton Dutilleaux divulging that information. The reporter had interviewed one of Dutilleaux’s servants the previous week.

“While there, I learned much about the spirit world,” Dutilleaux said. The lantern light revealed him ducking beneath a low arch. “Do watch your heads here, please.” He continued down the steep incline. “The Chinese spirits and ghosts are quite active, you know. Have you heard of the huli jing?”

“No,” one of the women answered. Others echoed her answer.

Michel followed cautiously. His fingers trailed over the rough stone as he passed beneath the arch.

“The huli jing is a fox spirit,” Dutilleaux continued. “It takes the form of a beautiful maiden and seduces men, turning them weak or cruel. There are a number of stories about them.”

“Have you ever met a huli jing?” the woman asked with keen interest.

“No, sadly.”

“Why do you say sadly?”

“Because the amorous nature of the fox spirit is legendary.” Dutilleaux turned and smiled at his small audience. “I’m told it would have been quite the experience. I embrace challenges on the field of ardor.”

A couple of the women laughed.

Gervaise glared them into silence. “Dutilleaux, if I don’t see something soon, I’m going to—”

Dutilleaux clapped his hands. Immediately pale yellow flames jumped from his palms and raced along the walls to outline a small chamber filled with stacks of bones.

“God help us,” one of the men said.

“Witchcraft,” one of the women gasped.

Cotton-mouthed, Michel stared at the flames. For the first time in his life, he felt he was in the presence of something truly arcane.

As if entertaining in a well-appointed drawing room instead of beneath the city, Dutilleaux turned to face his audience and spread his arms wide. “Come. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything you see here harm you in any way.”

“Where—?” Gervaise raised the lantern and walking stick before him. “Where did you get all these skeletons?”

“He’s brought us down here to kill us,” a woman whispered. “Those are the bones of his previous victims.”

“I should think I would have been quite busy, if that were true.” Dutilleaux smiled and shook his head. “These poor souls aren’t here through any doing of mine.” He gazed at the stacks of skulls and long bones. Rib cages lay in another pile. “The church is responsible for their presence with us. Everyone interred at Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs is being moved here.” He shrugged. “The church takes care to work at night. It wouldn’t be seemly for people to see them trundling around wheelbarrows filled with skeletons, would it?”

“Dutilleaux is telling the truth,” an older man said. “I’ve talked to some of the priests. They’re emptying the graveyards so Paris can grow.”

The flames in the room continued to burn. Upon closer inspection, Michel noted that gutters had been cut into the wall for oil. Dutilleaux had simply—through some sort of sleight of hand—lit the oil.

“Did you want to talk about real-estate possibilities, gentlemen?” Dutilleaux asked. “Or did you want to talk about what I discovered in my travels?”

“Show us,” Gervaise ordered. “I’ve not got all night.”

“Don’t be so demanding,” Dutilleaux cautioned. “The spirits of China can be quite vengeful. I thought I’d already apprised you of that.”

The fat man scowled at him and his jowls quivered as he restrained what was no doubt a sharp retort.

For a time, Dutilleaux talked about his journey to the old empires of China. He mentioned the people he’d met and the places he’d seen. As he spoke, the flames depleted the oil in the gutters and the room grew gradually darker.

* * *

IT WASN’T UNTIL FULL DARK had almost returned that Michel wished Dutilleaux would hurry up his presentation. Dutilleaux was an excellent storyteller, though, and his trained orator’s voice filled the cavernous space with excitement.

“Though I saw all these things,” Dutilleaux concluded, “I saw nothing as stupendous as that which I’m about to show you.” He paced the room like a wild animal, and the darkness settled about him like a favorite cloak. “I found a way to open a gate to the Celestial Heavens. I can visit the Oriental afterlife. Tonight, I can take you with me.”

Michel leaned against the cold stone wall and waited. The room seemed colder, and he didn’t think it was his imagination.

“I don’t see a gate,” Gervaise grumbled.

“That’s because your eyes aren’t finely attuned to the spirit world. But perhaps I can help you to bring the spirit world into better focus.”

Michel’s heart thudded in his chest and blood roared in his ears.

Theatrically, as if all of this was taking place on one of the stages where he’d first honed his showmanship, Dutilleaux gestured to either side. Gray smoke billowed up from the stone floor.

It’s just a trick, Michel reminded himself. It’s nothing you haven’t seen in theaters.

But the unsettling sensation within him grew stronger. The smoke continued to swell till it nearly filled the room.

Then a glowing shape appeared in the haze. Indistinct at first, the image gradually grew sharper, till it revealed itself as a beautiful young Oriental woman. Dressed in a long flowing red gown and with her black hair pulled up, she hovered there in the smoke.

“My lady,” Dutilleaux greeted warmly. “I bid you welcome to the earthly realm.”

The apparition nodded slightly but did not speak.

“I crave a favor,” Dutilleaux said. “I have friends with me tonight. They wish to look upon the Celestial Heavens.”

Just a trick, Michel thought. It’s all done with lights and painted glass. No one is there.

But the woman in the smoke moved and pointed to her right. A moment later, a doorway appeared and hung in midair.

The crowd sat silently. Michel didn’t know if they were even breathing.

Slowly, ponderously, the doorway opened within the smoke. On the other side of the doorway, a beautiful land filled with flowers and trees lay waiting.

“Do you see it?” Dutilleaux asked softly. “Do you see the Celestial Heavens?”

“Yes,” a woman said in a strained voice. “I do. I see it. I can’t believe I see it, but it’s there. Right there.”

Dutilleaux basked in the glory of the moment. He turned to the crowd and bowed deeply.

“We must be careful at this point,” he told the audience. “We have to keep a wary eye on the gateway before someone—or something—manages to get through.”

“You brought us here to endanger our lives!” Gervaise shook his walking stick and the cover fell away to reveal a gleaming sword cane.

Dutilleaux raised his hands in a placating manner. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” Gervaise insisted. “But I won’t allow you to endanger these women.”

“I’m not endangering them. I can control the ghosts.”

“Listen to him,” another man, this one’s voice harder and more confident, interrupted. “There is nothing to be afraid of—because there’s nothing there.”

“Who’s speaking?” Dutilleaux demanded. The confident smile never left his handsome face.

Another man stepped from the back of the crowd. He peeled back his cloak and revealed saturnine features. “I am.”

For a moment, Dutilleaux seemed at a loss. Then he smiled and said, “Professor Étienne-Gaspard Robert. Welcome to our festivities.”

Michel recognized Robert’s name. The man was Belgian by birth but had recently moved to France to pursue a career in art. He was also reputed to be a professor of physics.

“Not festivities,” Robert stated. “This is merely a parlor show.” He turned to the audience. “What you’re seeing is an illusion. A play of light and shadow. Less substantial than an early-morning fog.”

“Are you so sure, my friend?” Dutilleaux asked in a calm voice. “Perhaps you’d like to be the first to go through the gateway.”

Michel stared at the professor.

“There is no gateway there.” The people nearest Robert stepped back as though afraid of being struck down by any forces that chose to punish him for sacrilege. Robert sneered at the audience. “Superstitious fools. You’re letting this bag of wind with a handful of tricks sway your good judgment.” He locked eyes with Dutilleaux. “Permit me passage, then, charlatan. Show these sheep your power. Or be cursed for your fakery.”

Boldly, Robert strode forward.

An eerie hiss came from within the mystical doorway. Michel tried to remind himself that everything he was witnessing was a trick, but the mood Dutilleaux had established held him firmly in place.

Before the Belgian professor reached Dutilleaux, a garish figure with a horribly white face darted out of the doorway. The figure raised a long-bladed knife in one hand.

Robert stepped back with a curse.

But the figure wasn’t hunting him. The phantom turned on Dutilleaux. The knife flashed down and the flames went out.

Men and women cried and screamed as they stood in the meager pool of light provided by the lantern. None of them were close to where Dutilleaux had stood.

Trembling, Michel scooped up the lantern and carried it toward Robert and Dutilleaux. The light crept across the stone floor with him.

Robert stood against the nearby wall, obviously fearing for his very life. “That thing was here. I felt it. By God, it was real.”

Michel turned the lantern toward Dutilleaux and found the man stretched out on the stone cavern’s floor. Several skulls and bones littered the ground around him.

And the large knife the phantom had carried stuck out of the phantasmagorist’s chest. Dutilleaux’s face was already pale white in death.