Black Ceremonies (15 page)

Danziger was grappled to the ground. There was no trace of the professor in the man who lowered his face towards him. Madness shone in his eyes; the mouth came closer to Danziger’s throat. His teeth were fangs, and he could smell the foulness of the possessed man’s breath.

The student screamed as he felt searing pain in his body – nails grown sharp and long, ripping and tearing through his bloody red robe and lacerating his chest.

Danziger locked a hand in a stranglehold around Greydin’s throat, and squeezed. And squeezed. His other hand scrabbled for the knife.

And then it was in his hand, and again and again he stabbed, plunging the blade into the professor’s back.

The professor howled, and the student managed to throw his tutor off. Greydin landed with a crash in a pile of splintering crates.

Gasping for breath, Danziger realised that incredibly Greydin was rising. The student got to his feet, and ran up the stairs. He told himself he was not running away but luring Greydin away from Michelle.

Behind him he could hear the professor in pursuit, could almost feel the maniac’s breath on the back of his neck. He reached the top of the steps and the door, he turned the handle, but the door was stuck and refused to open.

He clawed frantically at the door, then remembered Professor Greydin had locked it. The student threw himself at the door in a desperate attempt to force it open. Then Greydin was upon him; the professor had launched himself up the last few steps.

For a brief moment, the two men struggled at the top of the flight, then they fell, hurtling down the staircase.

Falling together, Danziger screamed in agony, as five sharp points tore through his robe and skin, piercing and ripping the flesh of his stomach. He hit the stone floor first; Greydin fell atop him and was cushioned from the impact.

The possessed man reared above the stunned student. For the first time since performing the spell, Professor Greydin spoke, or rather growled, “Not Greydin. Not professor. Am Karkasoz.” And then he made a sound that might have been laughter. “Am hungry!”

Groggily, Danziger tried to evade the next attack. He was unsuccessful, shrieking in agony as Greydin lashed at his face, sharp claws tearing at his eyes.

Yelling, Danziger flailed blindly with the dagger, stabbing frenziedly.

It was the screaming that made him stop. Danziger realised that there was someone else screaming. Someone other than himself – Michelle.

He pushed Greydin’s unmoving body off and slowly rose.

“Michelle? It’s all right. It’s all over.”

“Keep away.” He was unaware that Michelle cowered on the floor, trembling, frightened. She did not know where she was, or what had happened to her. “Just stay away from me.”

Guided by the sound of her voice, Danziger staggered blindly towards her.

His robe so tattered he was virtually naked, bloodstained and bruised, face ruined, flaps of skin hanging loose, Danziger was a hideous and terrifying apparition.

Michelle was backing away from him. “You’re insane; keep away from me.” She was sobbing. “You’ve killed Professor Mellman and Professor Greydin. And God only knows what you’ve done to me.”

“No, that was Greydin. I saved you.”

“You’re a liar and a murderer!” she shouted. “I saw you kill Greydin.”

“The ritual worked,” Danziger tried to explain to an uncomprehending Michelle. “Greydin wasn’t mad. He summoned the demon; only it possessed him. He must have meant it to possess you, but it didn’t, it took his body instead. I wonder why.”

He had a sudden realisation, remembered something Professor Greydin had said about why Michelle was a vital requirement for the ritual. Danziger laughed wildly – Michelle was not a virgin. But apparently, Professor Greydin had been.

“Bastard!” Celine Dupont slapped George Petit’s cheek, spun on her heel and with head held high she walked from the room.

Petit stood, naked, red-faced and fuming, watching her depart.

From where she lay – also nude – upon Petit’s four-poster bed, Anne Evard had observed Celine’s arrival, shocked outrage at the other woman’s presence, and her angry departure, with mounting amusement. As the door slammed closed behind the girl, Anne was unable to hold back her laughter any longer. Much to Petit’s annoyance.

“Shut up!” Petit snapped, without turning to look at her. “Bitch!” he added, although it was unclear to which woman he referred. Perhaps it was both.

Celine was furious. She had received a note inviting her to a romantic assignation at Petit’s house. She had not anticipated finding Petit sharing his bed with that brazen whore, nor that she was expected to join them. Her fury was at Petit; the older, more-experienced woman, and at her own self. ‘Foolish girl’, Petit had called her. Anne Evard had described her as an ‘Unsophisticated child’. Celine knew Petit‘s reputation as a womanizer. Yet she had been so flattered by his interest. How could she have been so stupid? She should never have accepted the invitation.

And now here she was, walking home, all alone. Celine shivered, pulled her shawl tighter and hurried on. Although the night was chill, it was more than the weather that caused her to shudder.

A lunatic was terrorising Paris, attacking young women. Pretty young women like Celine Dupont.

There were footsteps behind her, Celine paused, looked around. She could see no one on the street.

“Who’s there?” Celine called. “George, is it you?” she said, hoping Petit had followed. Had come to beg her forgiveness.

There was no response to her query.

“Stupid!” She berated herself for thinking like a romantic, lovesick girl again.

Celine turned back at another noise from somewhere further along the road. She peered into the shadows. Was there someone lurking? She gave a cry as a large rat emerged from a pile of garbage and scurried across the street into another.

Again she heard the footsteps coming from behind. They were definitely getting closer.

She heard a voice call out. “Where are you?” It was male, but harsh, not the cultured tone she would recognise as being George’s. Spotting Celine, the man hailed her. “Mademoiselle, wait!”

Celine turned to see a man approaching. Poorly dressed, he was clearly searching for someone or something, looking from side to side; every now and then he would stoop and stare intently into the gloom.

“Have you seen him?”

Celine shook her head. “I have seen no one.”

“My rat. I must find him.”

“Oh. I see.” Celine was on the brink of giggling, but his next comment killed her sudden amusement.

“My family will starve if I do not.”

“Black, was he?” She held her hands slightly apart. “About so big?”

The man nodded.

“He went that way.” She pointed to where the rat had run.

Without a word of thanks the man hurried to where she had indicated, went to his knees and started tossing aside bits of trash, desperately searching for the rodent.

Celine shuddered and started walking again. Perhaps there was someone who wanted to buy the rat – though she could not think why – and the man intended to buy food for his family with the money he would get for the creature. The alternative was too horrible to think of. She considered herself fortunate that it had not occurred to the man to rob her.

She walked even quicker now, frequently glancing over her shoulder, in case the rat-catcher gave up on his search and came after easier pickings. Increasing her pace, Celine almost ran into the man who stepped from out of the dark into her path. Judging by the fine clothes that he wore the fellow was evidently a gentleman of some means.

“Oh, monsieur, you startled me.”

Anton Jacques smiled. “Well, now. What have we here?”

From his tone, and the predatory look in his eye, Celine knew she should run, but the man’s reactions were quicker, and he grabbed her before she could do so.

“Get off me!” The girl struggled, tried to scratch at his face.

“A pretty thing.” He thrust her roughly up against a wall.

Celine groaned.

“I like pretty things.” He punched her in the stomach, and she bent double in pain. “Like to hurt them.” Jacques pulled her up straight again by her blonde hair. “Like to fuck ’em too!” He pressed himself against the terrified girl, a hand finding its way inside her dress and squeezing a breast; his mouth planting a slobbering kiss upon her unwilling lips.

“Get off her!” Much to his consternation, Jacques found himself pulled from the girl.

“How dare you?” he snarled angrily at the newcomer who had dared to intervene. “She’s mine!”

His tone cooled as he got a better look at the man who had come to Celine’s rescue. He did not seem concerned by Jacques’s aggressive manner. This was a man who had clearly lived a hard life and was no stranger to violence. A wiry individual that could have been handsome once, but now his features were ugly and menacing. His nose had obviously been broken at some time in the past and his mouth was missing several teeth. Like his face, his clothes had seen better days. His body odour was unpleasant and his breath smelt strongly of alcohol.

Jacques already found himself stepping away from the man. It was the smell, he told himself.

“Leave her alone.” It was said calmly.

“Piss off, you filthy tramp!” Jacques weighed up his chances. He was younger, healthier, than the girl’s rescuer, but ultimately he was a bully who targeted women and weaklings. The man who advanced towards him threateningly was clearly a different matter altogether.

Besides, the man had allowed Jacques a glimpse of the knife he had concealed under his jacket.

Jacques kept backing away. He glanced to his left; there was an alley there that ultimately would take him to an inn he sometimes frequented. A drink was what he needed. “Keep her!” Jacques snapped, as he stepped into the alleyway. Calling out, “A dirty whore for a filthy tramp!” as he dashed away.

The man returned to where Celine Dupont remained cowering against the wall.

“He is gone.” He held out a hand, which eventually she took, and he pulled the trembling girl to her feet. “He won’t be bothering you again.”

“Thank you,” she gasped. Crying, Celine rubbed her eyes, wiped the tears from her face.

She did not notice him take out his knife, which he held behind his back now.

With his left hand he touched her cheek. “Forgive me.”

She frowned, feeling apprehensive. “Forgive you, monsieur? Why should I need to forgive you when you just saved me?”

He smiled at her without baring his teeth. It was meant to be a reassuring smile. “No man will try to rape you again.”

“Pardon?”

“It is for your own good,” he muttered, suddenly pushing her against the wall and slashing at her with the knife she had not seen. Celine screamed, her arms coming up in front of her face in a defensive move, but it was no defence. Grabbing her wrists, he yanked her arms out of the way. Wielding his blade with a savage ferocity, the madman slashed again and again. Repeating over and over the words, “Forgive me; it is for your own good,” as he cut her face.

He left her crying and bleeding on the cobbles.

Someone found her shortly after and she was taken to the nearest hospital.

‘Lucky to be alive’, they said. The girl would not have agreed with them.

The knifeman could have easily killed the young woman, yet instead he’d settled for destroying her good looks. However, this was no mercy for Mademoiselle Dupont. The poor girl wished she were dead when she finally saw the ruined visage that stared back at her from the mirror that had been kept from her for so long. She attempted to commit suicide, was unsuccessful and was eventually committed to an asylum.

The attack on Marie Monmarte was even more horrific.

It was the day her fiancé – Lieutenant Pierre Costain, an officer in the French cavalry – was due to arrive home in Paris on leave. Marie was eagerly awaiting his return and when there was a knock upon her door, instead of waiting for her maid to attend to it, she rushed to open it herself.

Her face was lit up with a radiant smile in anticipation of seeing her beloved and despite her disappointment at finding instead a stranger upon the doorstep, such was her good mood that the smile did not depart.

“Oh! I was expecting someone else.”

“Forgive me, mademoiselle.” Even though the stranger was dirty and dishevelled Marie’s smile still remained in place.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry; it is for your own good.”

Before she could ask what was, the madman threw acid in her face. The attack left her screaming in agony, scarred and blinded. And Marie Monmarte never smiled again from that moment forward. She would have been unable to do so, even if she had ever felt any happiness in her life again.

Such was the damage caused to her countenance that some said it was a blessing that her eyes had been destroyed and she was unable to look upon her own reflection.

Marie never saw her fiancé again, nor, indeed, did he see her. When Lieutenant Costain should have been knocking upon Marie’s door, he was, in fact, in the arms of another woman.

The lieutenant had already been contemplating ending their engagement, and when word reached him of the acid attack and the effect it had had upon his intended’s beautiful features, he did so. Yet, not even once would Lieutenant Costain visit Marie, instead choosing to end their relationship by means of a letter, which, of course, had to be read to the poor girl.

Whether it was cowardice or callousness that played a part in his refusal to break the news to Marie in person is unknown. Certainly, Lieutenant Costain subsequently showed exceptional bravery in his military career when leading a cavalry charge against the Prussians. A charge that saw the French force suffer heavy casualties when it came under fire from the Prussian artillery’s 6-pounder Krupp guns. The lieutenant was seriously wounded by the shrapnel from an exploding shell: his body and face being struck by zinc balls. Miraculously, he survived, but he was severely disfigured and blind in one eye.

Fortunately, for Paris’s most noted beauties, the maniac who perpetrated these appalling acts was caught soon after the attack upon Mademoiselle Monmarte. Although it was when attempting another attack that he was apprehended, the target of his latest assault was not one of the city’s many attractive women, nor even a native of Paris.

An artist, Luigi Strombolli was – as his name suggested – an Italian, originally from Naples.

The maniac’s name was Jean Theroux. When he had learned that the celebrated painter was in Paris, Theroux knew he had to act.

Theroux had first encountered Strombolli some years before on Martinique. In those days, Theroux had been a sailor, ship’s captain, no less, and the artist had been unknown outside of the Caribbean island that was part of the French colonial empire. Now, Theroux was living hand to mouth, barely keeping out of the gutter, whilst the artist was at the height of his popularity and was welcome at the most fashionable parties.

Renowned for his brilliant paintings, Strombolli was very skilled in another field, but society was unaware of this other artistic talent.

It was known, however, that Strombolli was in Paris seeking new models. And a new wife.

Only Theroux knew the ultimate fate that awaited those women. He believed he had good reason for carrying out these heinous attacks. He believed he was saving the women’s lives by destroying their beauty.

As he spent the night brooding and drinking in the dosshouse, Jean Theroux had had a revelation and decided upon a new tactic. Rather than target any woman who might potentially capture the artist’s interest, Theroux would strike directly at the man himself.

The party that was being held at the Rocheteau mansion in the
Faubourg Saint-Germain
district had been thrown in Strombolli’s honour. Normally, in his current state Theroux would have been unable to gain admission. He had neglected his appearance for far too long, but in preparation for his reunion with the artist he had made good use of the public baths, not only to get clean, but also to steal some decent clothes.

It was a pleasant evening and many of the guests were outside on the terrace. Strombolli was at the heart of a clamouring throng. Beautiful women seeking the artist’s attention. Unseen, Theroux approached from behind. He could have struck, the artist unaware of who his attacker was. But Theroux did not intend to kill. Theroux wanted him to suffer, as he had.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Strombolli.”

“Yes?” Strombolli turned and frowned. There was something familiar about the man who had addressed him.

“It is true, is it not, that you are in Paris seeking a new wife?”