Jane Vows Vengeance

with what she was? She was searching for Crispin’s Needle because she’d been told it might restore her soul to her, but what if she’d never had a soul to begin with? What if she really was just a body kept alive by an accident of biology? She didn’t even know if she believed in God, and if she couldn’t believe that much, then how could she believe that a relic might make her human again?

She thought about Daniel as a boy, surrounded by death and evil. Yet still he’d believed that God would send someone to save him. And whom did he send? Jane thought. Me. Not an angel. Me. And she had saved him, as well as many others. Maybe God had something to do with it, maybe not. She had her doubts.

But if you are up there, and you can hear me, she thought, I could use a little help.

Chapter 18

Monday: Paris

“You’d think that we’d be safe from St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in Paris,” Lucy said as she and Jane exited the Metro and made their way through a crowd of revelers wearing green.

“When it comes to needing an excuse to drink beer, everyone is Irish,” Jane joked.

She looked at the piece of paper in her hand, glanced at the plaque on the nearest house, and headed north, away from the raucous celebration.

“That’s better,” Lucy said as the noise died down and they found themselves in a quiet street of old homes that, while still beautiful, had their grandest days behind them.

Extricating themselves from the rest of the group had been relatively easy, although it had required some lying on Jane’s part. The others were taking a day trip outside of the city to see what Enid assured them was the most exquisite little winery in the Champagne region, with a visit to the cathedral at Reims on the return. Jane had invented a weekend literary festival to which she and Lucy were to go in order to connect with some French publishers. She’d made it sound very boring (which in all likelihood it would have been, had it been real), and although both Walter and Ben were disappointed that the ladies wouldn’t be joining them, the promise of a dinner out that evening lessened the blow.

Another check of the map the front desk clerk at the hotel had given to her caused Jane to make a left turn onto Rue des Roses Cent-Feuilles. Halfway down, another street intersected this one. Inscribed on a tablet and affixed to the wall of the first house whose front faced the new street was Rue des Violettes.

“This is it,” Jane said. “We need to find number thirty-seven.”

Not two minutes later Jane and Lucy were looking up at the windows of what had once been the home of Eloise Babineaux. Constructed in the Second Empire style, the house was lovely, a four-story brick lady of a certain age who, like many of her kind, had managed to retain an air of sophistication despite the inevitable effects of time. The glass in her windows was clear and bright, her lines elegant, and her mansard roof charmingly patinaed. Here and there the faces of stonework ladies looked down upon those coming to visit.

According to Clare Marlowe, the current owner of the house was one Ninon Grosvenor. That’s all Jane knew about the woman as she rang the bell and waited for someone to answer.

The woman who opened the door was tall, thin, and absolutely stunning. Her skin was deep brown, her eyes golden brown, and her hair fell in thick dreadlocks halfway down her back. She was dressed in a simple red shift, and the nails of her bare feet were painted the same color. She was young, and when she spoke her voice was rich and smooth.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Appointment?” Jane said. “No, we don’t. We were hoping to speak to Ninon Grosvenor. Clare Marlowe sent us. Well, she didn’t send us so much as she just gave us the address.”

The young woman cocked her head. “And what business do you have with Ninon?” she asked.

Jane suddenly found herself at a loss for words. She hadn’t really thought this far ahead. She’d assumed that she would just tell Ninon Grosvenor why she was there when she met her, but now it all sounded so strange that she wondered how she could ever have thought she could do that. But the young woman was waiting for an answer.

“It’s about the stained-glass window in the chapel,” she said, deciding that it was best to be direct. “The one with the heart being pierced by a needle.”

She expected the young woman to say something, but all she did was raise one eyebrow.

“I—we think we understand what the window represents,” Jane continued “And we think we might have some information about it.”

The young woman looked at Jane for some time, then at Lucy. “Information?” she said. “What kind of information?”

Jane hesitated. “That’s a little difficult to explain,” she said. “It’s a bit complicated, and I’m afraid it all sounds slightly silly, but we think that—perhaps—the window is a clue to solving a great mystery.”

“A mystery?” said the young woman. “What kind of mystery?”

Jane looked at Lucy, unsure if what to say next.

“Vampires,” Lucy said. “It’s about vampires. We think the window is a clue to finding something that might be able to help a vampire get her—or his—soul back.”

Jane held her breath. She couldn’t believe Lucy had just blurted out everything. Now, surely, the young woman would think them completely mad and tell them to go away. Then they might never discover if the secret to finding Crispin’s Needle was in Eloise Babineaux’s house.

“You should have said so in the first place,” the young woman said, holding the door open. “Come in.”

Jane entered quickly before the woman could change her mind. Lucy followed. When they were inside, the woman said, “I am Ninon Grosvenor. Welcome to my house. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier, but you cannot be too careful.”

“That’s true,” Lucy said. “One of my mother’s neighbors was robbed by men pretending to be with the electric company.”

Ninon laughed. “Oh, I’m not worried about burglars,” she said. “It’s reporters I am always on the lookout for.”

“Reporters?” Jane said. “Why would reporters be bothering you?”

Ninon looked at her. “You don’t know who I am?” she asked.

Jane, embarrassed, said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I probably should, shouldn’t I? You do look familiar. Are you a singer?”

Ninon laughed again. “No,” she said. “I thought perhaps Clare would have told you. I am a courtesan.”

“Courtesan?” Lucy said. “Didn’t they go out of fashion, like, a hundred years ago?”

Ninon shook her head. “They just started calling us hookers,” she said. “But of course that’s not what we were then and not what I am now. Come with me.”

She led them up a sweeping staircase to the next floor, where they entered a beautifully appointed sitting room. It was decorated in modern furnishings that somehow blended perfectly with the age of the house. Ninon indicated a Charlotte Perriand sofa upholstered in pink leather.

“Please,” she said. “Sit.”

Ninon herself sat down in an unusual armchair that looked very much like a hollowed-out football floating in the air. It too was upholstered in leather, although it was red.

“Is that a Fasanello?” Lucy asked, admiring it.

Ninon nodded. “My aunt was a collector of modern furniture,” she said, running her fingers over the chair’s curved arm. “I inherited it along with this house.”

“Eloise Babineaux was your aunt?” Jane asked.

Ninon shook her head. “My aunt’s name was Isobel Marchand,” she said. “Eloise Babineaux was our relative going back many generations. Although this house did belong to Eloise at one time.”

“Clare said that Eloise was a courtesan,” Lucy said.