Floats the Dark Shadow
By Yves Fey
By Yves Fey
Young American painter Theodora Faraday struggles to become an artist in Belle Époque Paris. She’s tasted the champagne of success, illustrating poems for the Revenants, a group of poets led by her adored cousin, Averill.
When children she knows vanish mysteriously, Theo confronts Inspecteur Michel Devaux who suspects the Revenants are involved. Theo refuses to believe the killer could be a friend—could be the man she loves. Classic detection and occult revelation lead Michel and Theo through the dark underbelly of Paris, from catacombs to asylums, to the obscene ritual of a Black Mass.
Following the maze of clues they discover the murderer believes he is the reincarnation of the most evil serial killer in the history of France—Gilles de Rais. Once Joan of Arc’s lieutenant, after her death he plunged into an orgy of evil. The Church burned him at the stake for heresy, sorcery, and the depraved murder of hundreds of peasant children.
Whether deranged mind or demonic passion incite him, the killer must be found before he strikes again.
✧ Excerpt ✧
Invitation to the Catacombs – Floats the Dark Shadow:
Turning around, Theo found Averill still leaning in her open doorway, artfully insouciant, a wicked little smile hovering about the corners of his lips. “I have an invitation for you.”
“An invitation?” she prompted.
He sauntered over. “To the Gates of Hell…and beyond.”
A riddle. La Barrière d’Enfer. Theo knew Hell’s Gate was what they called the old southern toll gate out of Paris. And beyond? The guillotine had once stood nearby, but no longer. Then, beneath? “The catacombs.”
“Exactement.”
Theo smiled, feeling a shiver race along her spine—apprehension, but anticipation too. Wandering through a labyrinth of ancient bones wasn’t her first choice for an evening out in Paris, yet Averill made the darkness alluring. Life was more vivid when contrasted with death. Theo had been promising to go to the catacombs ever since Averill said he was writing a poem about them. To illustrate it she would need to see the beauty in their desolation, as he did.
“Casimir is playing his violin in a midnight concert tomorrow—at midnight on April 1st. We are all invited.”
Casimir Estarlian, baron de la Veillée sur Oise, was Averill’s oldest and closest friend among the Revenants, the group of poets—and one California artist—who’d joined together last year after the performance of Oscar Wilde’s Salomé. Their magazine, Le Revenant, had created quite a stir in the literary world. “A revenant is a ghost that is not only visible but tactile,” Averill had explained to her that night. “Sometimes even a corpse risen from the grave. A ghost that feeds upon emotion. Upon desire.” Averill had written four poems, all highly praised. Theo had illustrated them for him in the intricately twisted style he favored. Those illustrations had won her praise as well.
“A midnight concert in the catacombs?” She tilted her head, considering. “How can I resist?”
Averill smiled with such boyish delight that this time her answering smile was unforced. He had challenged her. She had accepted. It would be an adventure, and however forbidding the territory, she would be with him.
“It will be unique.” He looked at her intently, frowning slightly now.
“What?”
Reaching out, Averill smoothed back a strand of wet hair sticking to her cheek. Then he broke off a cherry blossom from the branch she’d put inside her jacket and tucked it behind her ear. He nodded toward the easel. “You should do a self-portrait—The Bedraggled Amazon.”
Theo sputtered with laughter, amused and embarrassed. The Revenants had dubbed her their Amazone blonde. She was skilled with horses and weapons. Her nickname was masculine, and she often wore trousers instead of skirts. That choice was daring. Illegal. They applauded her for it, their bold American. But sometimes she felt she was permitted her brashness because she was from California, a name they pronounced with the same exotic savor as Trinidad or Madagascar. She was something not quite tame. At times, Theo felt more like a mascot than a person. But never with Averill. “Beware the bedraggled Amazon doesn’t skewer you for the insult.”
“The Amazon is far too merciful to inflict pain.” Even in shadow, his blue eyes had a luminous glow she knew her own did not possess. “Theo,” he said hesitantly, “I must apologize. I promised to pose.”
“Yes?”
“There were arguments at home…exams for which to study….”
“Or not?” Theo hated the acid in her tone.
“Or not.” Averill shrugged elaborately but did not look away. “Sometimes I am tempted to fail again just to aggravate my father.”
Theo did not look away either, though she was sorry for her cut. “But you are succeeding. For yourself.”
“Yes. The new school of psychology fascinates me—almost as much as a new poem.” He smiled ironically. “I was distracted this past week, but that is not why I avoided posing.”
“Then why?”
He hesitated. “I think I fear what you will see if you paint me.”
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Yves Fey has MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Oregon, and a BA in Pictorial Arts from UCLA. Yves began drawing as soon as she could hold a crayon and writing at twelve.
She’s been a tie dye artist, go-go dancer, creator of ceramic beasties, writing teacher, illustrator, and has won prizes for her chocolate desserts. Her current obsession is creating perfumes inspired by her Parisian characters.
Yves lives in Albany with her mystery writer husband and their cats, Charlotte and Emily, the Flying Bronte Sisters.
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