Irene had been tracking it through the Montmartre cemetery. Psoglavs were not partial about their human meat, dead or alive would do. Her letter indicated that she knew where it would be and was setting a trap. Julian planned to find the cemetery, walk through it and find the deaths within three months of the date of Irene’s letter, and then try and locate any surviving family members to talk to them about strange occurrences around the time of the burials.
The sun was setting by the time he reached Montmartre. The white-domed Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur was above him and Paris lay below. He walked up steep gray stone streets lined with pastel-colored houses. Cafés with red awnings were filled with people despite the cold and he heard buoyant music through the gleaming glass windows.
Julian found the tree-lined cemetery and at first was daunted by its size. After he stepped through the gates, however, he saw signs for different avenues and so began to search for the one from Irene’s letter. Finally, he found the Chemin Troyon. He strolled along, gloved hands in his pockets, and examined the engravings for dates of death around April 1960.
It was slow-going; there were rows and rows of graves. There were simple tombstones, monumental graves, and family mausoleums. Some of the monuments were beautiful and some were ghoulish, covered in moss and water stains. Many of Paris’s most famous citizens were buried in this cemetery and a few tourists circled around, taking pictures and exclaiming. There were also many stray cats. Julian meticulously paced until, finally, he ran out of sufficient daylight to read the inscriptions and had to stop.
As he left the cemetery gates, it started to snow. The white flakes caught the street lamp lights and swirled in eddies around him. A few passersby opened their umbrellas and Julian slowed his steps. The cobblestones were becoming slippery. He decided to return to the hotel and start his internet search. He had four names with potential.
THE next morning, Julian dragged himself out of bed with a groan. The time difference from California had caught up with him and his head felt fuzzy. He tried to remember where he’d left his search last night and grabbed his notes, arranging the pillows to sit upright. He scratched his morning whiskers and wondered if he should grow a beard. He was in Europe in winter, not sunny and warm in San Diego. If not now, when?
The four names he’d pulled from the graves last night had yielded two possibilities for supernatural activity. The first man, Louis Dubois, had died in March 1960. An internet search of his name revealed an old news article that stated the grieving family was angry at the city’s failure to lock the gate to the cemetery at night, allowing vandals to sneak in and desecrate several fresh graves. M Dubois’ family appeared to still live in Paris and he’d found a posh address in the 16th arrondissement that might belong to M Dubois’ daughter.
The second grave, that of Simone Vianney, had also been disturbed by the vandals mentioned in the news article. Mme Vianney’s family, however, praised the city’s response and especially the services of an unnamed city employee who “went beyond the call of duty to aid our family during this troubling incident.” Or something like that. Google’s translation services probably shouldn’t be relied on totally.
However, when he’d searched for the Vianney name to find any living relatives, he’d only found one possibility. A priest at the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés might be Mme Vianney’s brother, though he was probably quite elderly, if he was still alive at all.
He would start with the priest, Julian decided. The church was open to the public during the day and he was likely to find someone who would speak to him and help him find the man.
Julian got up, ignored his razor, showered, dressed, and walked out into the morning light. There was a little restaurant right beside his hotel, so he swung in for a café Americain, which ended up being pretty similar to an espresso. It was delicious. He was in a busy section of the city, with office buildings, restaurants, and lots of people in business clothes and fashionable coats. He didn’t quite fit in with his jeans, warm coat, and hiking shoes. He scanned for information about the church on his phone and decided to take the metro there.
When he arrived at the Saint-Germain-des-Prés metro stop, he could see the church’s copper roof presiding over the neighborhood. He paused to admire the tall Gothic tower before crossing the street. Inside the church, however, he could see evidence of grime on the walls, in the opulent paintings, and in the arched stained-glass windows. It was obviously timeworn and in need of restoration. Still, the tall marble columns and the mosaic tile floors were beautiful.
As he looked around, a priest in a black, ankle-length cassock walked up to him with a welcoming smile. Julian asked if he spoke English and at the priest’s nod, if he could speak to Père Vianney. The priest gestured to the last row of pews in the nave and walked away. Julian sat and waited. After a few minutes, the same priest returned and Julian followed him through a side door and down a hallway of offices. The priest knocked on a door near the end and they entered at the murmured welcome.
Seated behind an old, scarred desk was a thin, smiling priest with a wrinkled face and kind brown eyes. He pointed to the chair opposite him and the other priest closed the door as he left.
“What can I
