Chapter 17

Pierre stood before the altar of Collégiale Notre-Dame. Outside, heavy clouds blanketed the sky, casting a muted, sombre atmosphere within the cathedral. The steady patter of raindrops beat against the stained-glass windows. Pierre considered himself a pious man, but outside of regular mass and the holidays and festivals, he did not frequent churches. Yet in the past month in Dole, he’d found himself returning more frequently to this cathedral. Something about it called to him, awoke a need that had long been stirring within his breast.

‘Father Ignace, how do you fare?’

The priest’s black cassock all but swallowed the dim light, his face in shadow. ‘Blessings to you, my son.’

They stood together in quiet contemplation, Pierre all too aware of the priest’s presence. He’d had a dream last night, the same dream he’d had many times before. He was in that basement with Eva, the witch of St Maximin. Only this time he was alone. She was bound as she had been when he first saw her, chains connecting the manacles at her wrists and ankles. In the dream she whispered to him, saying words he could not hear. As he got closer, he felt invisible hands stroking his body. He looked down and saw that he was naked and aroused. She pleaded with him in an unfamiliar language, yet the message was clear. Come to me, touch me . He knew that touching her would be the death of his soul, for she was the personification of evil. He’d wrenched away from her and woke up. His arousal had been almost painful, but he offered himself no relief. Memories of the dream had kept him awake into the early hours, frightened by how close he had come to sheathing himself in darkness.

How could he say such things to a priest, to a celibate man of God? Twice he opened his mouth and then closed it again.

‘Is there something you wish to share, my son?’

‘I am ashamed, Father,’ Pierre admitted. ‘A witch haunts my dreams, tempting me to fornicate with her. I fear that I am not strong enough to keep resisting, that I will succumb.’

‘You see this witch only in your dreams? She is not here, in this town?’

‘No, she is not here. I witnessed her execution in Cologne, and before that her imprisonment. Only two times I saw her, and on both of those occasions my body reacted to the sight of hers in a way that should be reserved only for the marriage bed. I would confess my sins, Father, and be absolved.’

Pierre waited for Father Ignace to offer penance or punishment, but the only sound was the rain drumming against the windows. He would accept anything only to be rid of this scourge.

‘I cannot hear your confession,’ the priest uttered in a sonorous tone. ‘For this is not your sin. You are a victim of the witch. It is she that causes this reaction in your body. You are not responsible for your reaction.’

‘How can I be rid of this, Father?’ Pierre asked, desperate.

The priest leaned forward, bringing his face out of the shadow, catching the light from a nearby candle. He gripped Pierre’s wrist, his eyes aglow. ‘You must take control. Assert your dominance, for you are the master. Only then will you know peace.’

Pierre thought about the priest’s words. The next time he had this dream, he would put this advice into practice. And if dominance was the solution, could it also be applied to the investigation? He had been stymied at every opportunity when it came to the hunt for the werewolf.

‘Is there anything else troubling you?’ Father Ignace asked.

‘Only my frustration. Capitaine Vasseur shows me no respect. If I did not seek him out daily, then I would know nothing about the crimes of the werewolf. I am angry, Father, and for that I am ashamed.’

‘The shame is not yours but theirs. Only the weak refuse to hunt what stalks in their midst.’

‘It is worse, Father. When I speak of the scourge of werewolfery and sorcery, they laugh at me. The gendarmes and the people of this town pay more heed to their foolish superstitions than they do this creature of the Devil.’

‘You must redouble your efforts. You must convince them of the nature of this beast. For it will only grow in power so long as its existence is questioned.’

‘Those who have witnessed the crimes are the ones questioning its existence, not I.’

Father Ignace fixed his sharp gaze on Pierre, his eyes glowing red in the light from the candle. ‘Tell me of these witnesses.’

‘They are simple, their eyes open and yet blind. They look at the wounds inflicted on a young girl and see nothing not of this world.’

The priest paused before responding. ‘Then you must ask yourself, what can you do?’

‘But how can I—’

A cry erupted from outside the cathedral. A cry of murder. Glancing only briefly at Father Ignace, Pierre hurried outside to find that a small crowd had gathered around a sole man.

‘There’s been another attack,’ the man said, panting. ‘Two boys this time.’

Pierre tried to move closer to the man to hear what he had to say.

The man looked at the people surrounding him. Realising he had drawn a crowd, he increased the volume of his voice, gesturing widely with his arms. ‘One of them survived!’

Pierre finally elbowed his way through to the man. ‘Where?’ he demanded.

‘What? Who are you?’

Dominance , Pierre reminded himself. ‘I represent the law and I ask where did this happen?

‘Yesterday at Gredisans, the vineyard, about a league from here. But you will find nothing there. They’ve cleared away what remained of the boy. Don’t know how they’ll identify him, not from what’s left behind.’

‘Did you see it?’ asked a woman with a ghoulish look in her eye.

‘Nay, but I heard all about it from the labourer who found him. The boy’s legs and belly were ripped to pieces, most of it gone, eaten.’

‘What of the second boy?’ Father Ignace’s presence caused the crowd to go suddenly silent.

‘A witness,’ said the man. ‘Saw the whole thing. Or most of it. Came running home, screaming murder.’

‘The boy’s name?’ Father Ignace put a hand on Pierre’s shoulder.

Pierre knocked on the door of the three-level house and then used a handkerchief to wipe his knuckles. Everything about this neighbourhood was filthy, least of all the urchins running about the street.

The woman who opened the door would have been pleasing to the eye if not for the redness of her face. Her sleeves were rolled almost to her shoulders, exposing equally florid skin. She used her arm to transfer some of the sweat from her forehead to her forearm.

‘Not another one!’ she said. ‘Be off with you. He’s got nothing to say to you. Leave now or I’ll ask Capitaine Vasseur to make you leave.’

‘Capitaine Vasseur is here?’ Pierre said, letting his annoyance show.

‘Yes, so be on your way.’

‘I am working with Capitaine Vasseur.’ In a relationship that seems entirely one-sided , Pierre thought. ‘Step aside.’

She took in his fine clothing and the timbre of his voice but still obstructed the doorway. With a sigh, Pierre reached into his purse and retrieved a single sol, which he placed in her open hand. She put the coin between her teeth, and finding it did not bend at her bite, stepped aside to let him through. ‘Top of the stairs, monsieur, on the right.’

The house was small, but it was clean – very clean, in fact. Even Pierre could admit it had a comfortable feel, with worn-in furniture and the homely scent of bread and garlic in the air.

He found the room at the top of the stairs, as instructed. Capitaine Vasseur looked surprised to see him. He stood beside a bed on which a boy lay, his arm wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. The boy stared at Pierre with wide eyes.

The woman had followed him upstairs and now stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. ‘Pardon, Capitaine Vasseur, but this man said he knows you.’

Capitaine Vasseur sighed. ‘He does. Thank you, Madame Berger.’

‘I don’t know what Léo’s told you,’ she said, pointing at the boy. ‘But he disappeared along with his mother months ago. Thought that no-good man of hers had finally done them in. They used to rent a room from me. And then here he comes, charging in yesterday as if he owns the place. Insisting he stay the night. Someone’s been looking after him, judging by those fine clothes. He can go back there as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want trouble in my house.’

‘I work for my keep,’ Léo said, his voice small but serious.

‘Well, you don’t work here and best keep that smart tongue in your head if you know what’s good for you!’

‘Leave us now, Madame Berger,’ the capitaine said.

‘As you please.’ The woman left, closing the door behind her.

‘Léo?’ the capitaine said softly. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

As Léo looked between the two men, his lower lip began to tremble.

‘Don’t be afraid, boy,’ Pierre said. ‘Tell the truth. No further harm will come to you.’

Léo looked down at his wounded arm. ‘I should never have been there. I wish I’d listened to them.’

‘Listened to whom?’ Pierre asked.

Léo just shook his head.

Capitaine Vasseur tried again. ‘What did they say?’

‘They told me to stay home where it was safe. I thought I knew better. I didn’t. And now he’s dead. That other boy.’

‘Can you tell me what happened in the vineyard?’ Pierre said.

‘I shouldn’t have been there. I snuck out of the place where I’ve been staying.’

‘Was someone holding you there against your will?’ Capitaine Vasseur asked sharply.

Léo shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. I work there. It wasn’t my half-day, but I wanted to get out. Won’t be many more nice days before winter. I missed my friends. They all live around here in town, and I haven’t seen them in so long. But they weren’t allowed out.’

‘Aren’t you a little young to be working?’ Pierre asked.

Léo looked at Capitaine Vasseur, who nodded. ‘No, monsieur. I have ten years. That’s old enough to earn my keep. That’s what Maman said when she took me there.’

‘What about your father?’ Pierre asked.

‘He’s serving two years in prison this time. So, you see, I’ve got to bring in some coin.’

Capitaine Vasseur took over the interrogation once more. ‘What of the vineyard?’

‘I just started walking and found myself there. I heard something.’

‘What did you hear?’

Léo thought before answering. ‘It was a low sound – deep. Like the wind. Only it wasn’t the wind, because I didn’t feel it and the trees didn’t move. The birds weren’t singing either. At least, I think they weren’t. I don’t always hear right on account of my ear. One blow too many.’

‘What happened next?’ Pierre said, leaning in closer.

‘I smelled something, something wretched and foul. Like the butcher. I didn’t like it, so I ran. But then I fell. Hurt my wrist. That’s when I saw him.’

‘You found the body?’ Capitaine Vasseur asked.

Léo shook his head. ‘Louis wasn’t dead, capitaine. He was scared.’

‘This boy’s name was Louis? You were acquainted with him?’ Pierre asked.

‘Yes, monsieur. From the orphanage. Louis lived there with his sister. Or he did when I was last there. The last two times Papa was sent up and Maman had to go away for work, she left me there until she came back.’

‘You should make enquiries at the orphanage,’ Pierre said to Capitaine Vasseur.

The capitaine ignored him. ‘Léo, did Louis say what scared him?’

‘He didn’t want me to speak. He told me to keep quiet and pointed at the trees. There was something in there. Something big.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I thought it was a wolf and I said as much. But Louis said it was no wolf but the Devil himself coming for him. It was big and black, and it charged out of the trees. I ran. I heard screaming but I didn’t stop running. And when I looked back, it had him. The creature had him and it pulled him into the forest.’

Pierre scanned the boy’s face for signs of falsehood, but he seemed to be telling the truth. He seemed terrified at the words that were coming out of his own mouth.

‘Did the beast drag the boy into the forest?’ Pierre asked.

‘No, monsieur,’ Léo said. ‘It had arms. It carried him away.’