The Devil's Bed E-Book

Doug Lamoreux

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

What awaits Brandy in The Devil's Bed?

While touring an old castle in France, Brandy Petracus finds an old Templar Knight graveyard. Long forgotten by the world, this ancient cemetery is known to the locals as The Devil's Bed, and its occupants do not rest in peace.

Soon, Brandy finds herself the leader of an eclectic group of tourists, under attack by something that craves their blood. Flashbacks to 14th century Paris tell Brandy's story of commitment and sacrifice, as she is forced to hole up in the ancient chapel and fight for survival.

Leseprobe

The Devil's Bed

Doug Lamoreux

Copyright (C) 2011 Doug Lamoreux

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This is a work of fiction. All events and characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Jenny

without whom nothing matters

To Jack, the Sac, and AC,

whose efforts allowed the dead to walk.

I - The Legend of The Dead

One

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” the tour guide said, “we pass through the centerpiece of the most terrifying legend in all of France and one of the world's most horrifying stories.”

Brandy had been waiting for this for over an hour. And, as it had been a long time coming, she intended to enjoy it.

As for the others in the group, the guide's speech was having its effect. With the mood established by the remnants of the ruined castle, looming behind him and above them, and the additional gloom cast by the forlorn chapel on the opposite side of the courtyard, they were of a mind to be horrified.

“From this spot,” he continued, “the Templar knights set out on horseback. Rich and greedy for more, bloodthirsty, hated and feared. They raided the countryside, stealing, murdering, then returned with their captives. Oui, the Templar's sacrificed virgins to the Lord of the Flies, here, at the insanely named Château de la liberté. Castle Freedom; the castle of death.”

Finally, Brandy thought, finally some death!

Her elation was because they were well into the tour and, until that point, the guide's schtick had all the horror flourishes yet sadly lacked emotion. His flat delivery was spoiling the show. Brandy was neither weird nor ghoulish. She recognized hopping from one European graveyard to another was not the vacation most would choose. But they weren't writing a Master's degree thesis entitled 'Burial Practices Around the World and What They Mean to Life' and she was. So, despite the gorgeous autumn weather in the green, rock-strewn hills of the Languedoc-Roussillon region of the south of France, amid this group of tourists clothed in their own explosions of color, Brandy followed, notebook open, pen at the ready, eager to collect facts about… the dead.

Brandy Petracus was a compact brunette, easy on the eyes, and approachable when she wanted to be. Everywhere she went she carried her bag o' plenty (named by her fiancé), a massive purse made from an old carpetbag to which she'd added a duffle shoulder strap. In it she carried all of the accoutrement needed to exist on this hostile planet; food, First Aid and farding material. Oh, and her brain worked. More than once an intimidated male had called her 'a computer'. She could live with that.

Like a computer Brandy had been in 'sleep' mode throughout the bus trip from the village of Paradis, where she, her fiancé Ray and Ray's sister, Vicki, were staying, to the remnants of this 14th century site. She remained uninvolved throughout the cursory look at the grounds, the decaying out-buildings (a chapel kept up, a stable partially so, a guard house not so much), and the ruins of the castle.

Put away all fantasy notions. Neither white knight nor fair princess would be putting in an appearance. These were the ruins of a nine hundred-year-old fortress, subjected to two hundred years of battle, then abandoned. Seven centuries of exposure and vandalization followed. Not to mention bombardment. The chapel and stable had been occupied by the Germans during World War II and those few portions of the castle untouched by time, the elements, and ancient armies surrendered with the Nazis to several well-placed Allied cannon shells. What remained consisted of a western wall, the ground and first floor of the keep, the ground floor entrance to the main hall… and a descending staircase barred by a NE PAS ENTRER sign (DO NOT ENTER, Brandy imagined) leading to a spoken of, but unseen, dungeon.

The tour guide, Felix Bussey, droned on. In his mid-twenties, pale and blonde, Felix was so obviously uninterested in his own patter it defied logic he kept his job. His desire to be elsewhere was palpable. His only displays of interest came with repeated glances at a startling red-head on the fringe of the group.

And what a group. Besides the red-head, there were two tall Nordic men who looked sorry they'd come, and several Asians having the time of their lives. There was a French-speaking coterie led by a stick of a woman intent on proving her education, at least, was well-rounded. She conducted her own tour in spite of Felix. An Irish couple trailed the group; she annoyed with him, he with everything. When Felix said something he doubted, the Irishman muttered “Fek.” When he did, his wife jabbed his ribs and barked “Language!” There was a Don Juan look-alike who'd apparently taken the tour a thousand times. And Brandy's future sister-in-law, Vicki.

Brandy hung in, watching the stick lady lecture, watching the Irish pair spar, watching the tour guide watch the red-head. The exercise offered its amusements but was wearing thin. If the tour guide didn't get to the morbid stuff soon, she feared she would have a fit.

Felix droned on as he led the group down the stairs. “The Templars introduced the 'keep' to French military architecture.” They spilled into an open area that once had been the foyer and he moved on to the differences between a castle and a Château. Then amused himself by pointing out the Château de la liberté was in fact neither. It was a Stronghold. Pen poised, with nothing to write, Brandy bit her lip not to scream.

Victoria Kramer was not having a good time. While the tour wasn't all Brandy had hoped for she at least had moments of excitement. Vicki languished. Brandy's insistence they remain at the front of the pack hadn't made it any easier. The stunning blonde was failing to hide her creeping boredom. It was not the vacation Vicki imagined when she'd first heard Brandy's sales pitch. The local hotel was clean and modern. But it was hardly the Château of which she'd dreamed.

And having a room across from Brandy and Ray didn't help. She and Brandy had been friends a long time. She'd introduced her brother, encouraged their relationship, and was looking forward to a best friend as a sister-in-law. But suddenly Brandy and Ray were fighting and, while it was none of her business, it made life uncomfortable.

Vicki's greatest fear was winding up a third wheel. And that's exactly what happened. She'd been feeling superfluous throughout and here she was, tagging along again, on Brandy's death tour. Meanwhile Ray, the jerk, was off doing whatever younger brothers did when no one was looking.

Life wasn't fair. She was an attractive, single woman at a castle in the south of France… and did she have a knight to save her? She had Brandy taking dictation from the endlessly droning tour guide.

“During the reconquering of Europe, many castles were built to protect the villages of France from the Muslim Moors and Christian Castilians. Military Orders, particularly the Templar Knights, defended the Kingdom.”

Felix led them out the arched doorway and into the courtyard. Vicki was swept along without enthusiasm.

Across the space stood a forlorn chapel and its shadowed bell tower. A stable leaned in the grass off the courtyard to the left and their tour bus sagged in the grass to the right. Further to the right, unseen beyond the wall, was the dry moat and drawbridge they'd crossed coming in. Vicki longed to cross it again – going out.

Out… to a hot bath in a comfortable hotel room (even if it wasn't a Château), in the village of Paradis, in the valley below this crappy old castle. Somewhere, outside of her head, the tour guide was still talking.

“This is where they lived. And this is where the terror began…”

Two

As advertised, the tour finally got around to the blood and black magic. When 'virginal sacrifices' came up, despite the cool of the day, the glowering red-head began a slow burn. Brandy decided she was either an angry virgin or she knew Felix personally.

Either way, Brandy's patience was eventually rewarded. Felix got round to the gore and Brandy came out of 'sleep' mode. She lifted her notebook, poked her ill-fitting reading glasses back on her too-short-by-a-smidge nose, and began scribbling. Soon she found herself whispering to Vicki, “Isn't this fascinating?”

“Fascinating. I always said virginity was overrated.”

“What… oh, virginal sacrifices… I get it.” Brandy said. “I agree. The Halloween stuff is silly. I was hoping for more historic details, the executions, burials.”

“Yeah, Bran.” Vicki shook her head. “That's what I meant.”

Brandy ignored the sarcasm and returned to her notes. Meanwhile, Vicki sighed, yawned, and drifted toward the back of the group.

Felix droned on. “It was upon this spot where the Templar's reign of terror came to a terrible but well deserved end.”

Vicki wondered what she'd done to deserve this. Unable to pin-point the sin, she dropped the query and began to mentally list the dozen places she'd rather be. She came up with eight then realized, sadly, each had the same thing in common – you could smoke. The whole damned United States had stopped smoking. But she was at Castle Freedom. Viva la France. Surely this mausoleum had a corner into which she could duck?

It was then Vicki felt a cheek against her flaxen hair, lips brushing her ear and, in a whisper she heard, “You appear nearly as bored as I, mon cher.”

She turned, taking in the olive skinned speaker; the man Brandy had whispered looked like Don Juan. (“Don't look!”). Vicki looked now and saw brown-black eyes, a thin mustache, amazingly white teeth, in an expensive blue suit. “Excuse me?” She was buying time to catch her breath, though she hadn't realized she was breathless.

“Forgive my rudeness. I merely said you appear as bored as I. My English is…” He waffled his hand fluttering manicured nails. “If I caused offense…?”

“Not at all. And you're right, I am bored. When you've seen one medieval castle…” She hesitated and he laughed. Relieved, Vicki joined him.

“Loup,” he said, introducing himself.

“Victoria. My friends call me Vicki.”

Loup Wimund took her offered hand. “Let's be friends, Vicki.”

“It was here, messieurs et mesdames,” Felix thundered, with an animation unseen until now, “that Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order, and seven of his Temple knights were burned to death for their transgressions against God. For consorting with the Devil. From this spot, Francois de Raiis, head of Castle Freedom, as the flames ate away his body, shouted his curse of vengeance.”

Brandy scribbled with relish.

Felix clasped his hands behind him as if he were bound. He stared menacingly into the crowd with insane eyes and screamed, “You who murder us… know this. We shall not die! We shall return from the dead to exact our revenge upon you!”

A nervous giggle from the crowd, a “Fek!”, one of the French women gasped aloud. The stick lady, with strategically aimed elbows, made her way to the frightened women's side offering comfort.

“Revenge,” Felix continued mercilessly, “upon you… and your children…”

The woman appeared near fainting. The others were, in their turns, unmoved, delighted, getting jabbed, and glowering.

“… and your children's children!”

Loup whispered in Vicki's ear. “And your children's, children's, children?”

“And their kids,” she whispered back.

Both laughed. It was lost on neither that their lips were nearly touching.

Felix, monotone again, gestured. “If you will all… turn.” They did – to take in the gloomy chapel across the courtyard. “We continue. The Templars were renown for their signature round chapels.”

It was an odd segue. The edifice looked like every chapel Brandy had ever seen; river stone, brick, mortar like the castle, scant windows (a few shuttered, most boarded over), three steps to the heavy front door, a bell tower, rising fifty or sixty feet into the air, looking 'added on' to the north (their left) corner. And, seen earlier, a balcony on the outer north wall. But it wasn't round and, being Brandy, she said so.

“The original chapel was,” Felix explained, “but it, and its replacement, were destroyed. Finally a more traditional, less expensive chapel was erected. And added to over the years.”

Felix led them in and out so quickly they might as well not have gone. Brandy's disappointment was nearing anger. Felix moved on – oblivious. He led an arc into the grass on the chapel's south side. “Your tour continues off the beaten trail or, if you will, off the courtyard onto the trail.”

Lagging, Loup extended his hand. Vicki weighed the consequences of grasping it. What the hell. It was her vacation too. She took hold; surprised to find it rougher and delighted to find it stronger than she'd imagined. Hand-in-hand, Vicki and Loup followed after the tour.

“Here rest the old dead of Castle Freedom and the countryside.”

The small cemetery, south of the chapel, looked much like any graveyard; stone markers, teetering and weathered, some newer, polished marble and granite. It was, admittedly, spooky.

“The old dead?” The fainter asked. The stick lady was still at her side.

Felix nodded solemnly. “This is unused for some time. Today's dead are buried in the village cemetery.”

“These graves are abandoned?” Brandy asked, pen poised.

“There are no longer burials here. It is still tended by our caretaker.”

“And the Templars? Are the Templars buried here?

“There are several knights buried here, oui,” Felix said. “But not, I think, the ones you mean. You are referring to the knights of the curse? The executed knights? Their graves are further on.” He pointed toward a dark timber across a field to the east. “That is our destination… If you dare?”

Amused, he started away. The tourists followed warily.

They crossed the field of tall grasses, wild flower plants (with little in the way of flowers) and jutting boulders by a well-worn cart path. It sloped gradually down from the chapel for a hundred yards, inclined uphill for another hundred, and ended in a grassy berm before the timber. They mounted the berm and the burial place of the Templar knights came into view.

It was a tiny, ancient cemetery, untended, forgotten. Weeds and autumn-browned wild flowers grew as tall as the rusted wrought-iron fence surrounding it. A raised stone sarcophagus sat inside the gate and, on the far, slightly uphill side, a second sarcophagus made the plot symmetrical. Bookended between the two were six other graves, at ground level, covered with heavy stone lids. Eight forlorn, overgrown tombs in all.

Felix raised his hands to silence the nervous murmurs in the group. “Because of their crimes they could not, of course, be buried in the chapel cemetery. It is here, in unhallowed ground, where the Templar knights are interred. Whether or not they rest…?” He shrugged.

“The ankh crosses engraved upon their tombs, Egyptian symbols of enduring life, signify the black gods to whom they paid homage. And, for those of you literate in Latin and French, the writings etched on their stones tell of their sins.”

The tourists lined the fence leaning to see, and craning their necks to read, the graves. Seven of the lids were as described, chiseled inscriptions, coptic crosses, and the names and date (all the same) of death. Strangely, the eighth, the sarcophagus at the end of the plot, was devoid of these markings. A name and matching date of death decorated the lid but nothing more.

Felix was relieved. The tourists had what they'd come for and, other than getting them back, his day was over. Then the dark-haired American girl began asking questions. And, grande Dieu, they were the real thing. Felix fielded several then, realizing he was in over his head, attempted to cut her short and move the group along.

Brandy balked. “Wait a minute. You're leaving? Can't I go in?”

“Go in?”

“Yes. I'd like to see the graves up close. Make some rubbings of the inscriptions?” She rifled her monstrous purse looking for chalk and paper as evidence of intent.

“No, no, no, no.” Felix waved the idea away. This was all he needed, somebody who really gave a damn about this stupid tour. He didn't have enough troubles. Fournier's standing orders regarding tourists was 'get them in and get them out'. “It is not allowed.”

“This is why I came. To see the burial site. I can't go in for just a few minutes?”

“Mother of God,” Felix exclaimed in mock terror. “No!”

Rule one in dealing with trouble makers was to use the colorful, somewhat colorized, Templar legend. With that in mind, he followed his horrified look by crossing himself, spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. “It is an accursed place.”

The Irishman muttered “Fek!” His wife barked “Language!” The poor guy got his ribs jabbed again, but Brandy was on his side.

“I don't believe in curses,” Brandy said. “And I'd really like to see the graves.”

Felix sank inside. 'No' was a perfectly good answer. Why wouldn't she take it? The American left him no choice. If bogus curses would not move her, perhaps a bogus law would. “I'm sorry. It is protected. Historical. No one is allowed.”

Brandy looked at the supposedly protected, completely unkempt, graveyard and knew he'd lied. And, as the tour guide began to herd the others away, knew also there was nothing she could do about it. Angry and cheated, but resigned, she fell in and headed back. In her disappointment, Brandy failed to notice Vicki and her new companion lagging behind.

As the group sank over the berm and out of sight, Vicki leaned against the iron fence smiling at Loup. “When I was a kid, we lived beside a cemetery. My brother and I grew up using it as our playground.”

Loup leapt the fence and landed in the tall grass inside the cemetery.

“What are you doing?”

“Being a kid.” He held his hands out in invitation. “Let's play.”

Three

Vicki looked after the tour but saw only the berm and a sky collecting angry clouds in the west. They were alone. And being alone with the dark Frenchman was, she had to admit, exciting. She giggled to vent her nerves and allowed Loup to help her over the fence. Safely inside the graveyard, Loup kissed her - and she let him. Then she pushed him away and wandered toward the graves.

“I'll never forget that cemetery,” she said. “One night, we'd gone to see a vampire movie…”

“Ah, vous aimez des vampires? Très intéressant!”

God, that's so sexy… “Whatever you said.” Her smile faded, replaced with a shiver at the childhood memory. “Maybe it was because I was a kid. I sat there, terrified, with my sweater over my head. Then we had to walk eight blocks and through that cemetery to get home. I thought I'd die”

“You do not believe in the, eh, living dead, do you?”

“I have enough trouble with the living… living.”

Loup's eyes shined as a subtle change occurred in them. What she had taken for concern suddenly registered as amusement. He bellowed a laugh.

Strangely unsettled, Vicki turned away. The nearby raised tomb came into view and just then the Templars seemed as good a diversion as any. She pointed to the sarcophagus lid where the inscription was bisected by a crack running across its stone face. “What does it say?”

Loup followed her gaze. “Francois de Raiis. Died – 18 March, 1314. Murderer.”

“Nice epitaph.”

“There's more,” he said, reading on, “Heretic. Idolator. Witch.”

Vicki bit her lip. Loup saw her discomfort and smiled. “Oh, mon cher, he was not what you would call a… bad fellow.”

Vicki looked a question at the handsome stranger.

“He allowed me the top of his tomb to deflower my first maiden.”

“Really.” Vicki was aghast. “How romantic.”

Loup changed. There was no physical transformation, but she couldn't help but feel something menacing had overtaken him. His child-like giddiness disappeared. His handsome good looks seemed suddenly frightening. The mouth that had so tenderly kissed her was now framed in thin lines. His nostrils flared. His eyebrows were lightning bolts, his ears pointed, and the deep black pools of his eyes were suddenly tunnels leading - Vicki didn't know where.

“Romance?” He grunted. “She was a pig, eighteen to my fifteen. But couple a fat whore with a curious youth, add a stolen bottle of vodka… Heaven.”

Vicki wordlessly turned to leave. Loup grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm getting out of here.”

“Mais amour, we are at the gates of heaven.”

“You've got to be kidding me?”

“I could not be more serious.” Loup pulled her to him. He pressed his mouth against hers so fiercely it hurt and forced his pointed tongue between her lips.

Vicki pushed him away. “Jesus, we just met.”

“And what a delicious meeting it has been.”

Loup jerked her to him, so suddenly a muscle pulled in her neck. Vicki pushed back but he was having none of it. “I am not kidding,” he said through clenched teeth. She pushed again and Loup shook her. “I am not kidding!”

Vicki slapped him hard across the face and Loup's eye reddened. He viciously returned the slap. Vicki fell back against the sarcophagus striking her head with a boney thud. Loup threw her legs apart and ripped her blouse. Crying, her consciousness slipping, Vicki stopped fighting.

The adult skull, twenty-two puzzle-like bones joined by rigid sutures, was a marvelously designed container. Directly beneath lay the protective membrane duramater (tough mother). Together, they could take one hell of a wallop. But when Vicki's skull slammed against the stone they cracked and tore; the puzzle pieces scrambled.

As suddenly as he'd begun the violence Loup stopped. His eyes widened as a deep red pool grew on the lid of the sarcophagus beneath the girl's head.

“Damn it. Damn!”

He climbed off, staring at his handiwork, and cursed. A smear of her blood marred his hand; the bitch. He wiped it on her blouse. He straightened his suit and looked around, suddenly afraid. Then he ran… leaving Vicki alone.

The battleship gray bus sagged in a fading patch of shade inside and just up the curved drive from the castle's gate and just at the edge of the stone courtyard. White muslin banners with Tour de Terreur splashed in red (and Marcel Fournier Tour's Ltd in smaller black) were tied from windows on each side.

The red-head, brooding as the approaching storm clouds, climbed aboard first and took her place, right of the aisle, behind the door. She eyed the driver's seat like a falcon watching a rabbit hole.

Outside, Felix stroked the air urging the others to board quickly. “Messieurs et Mesdames. Everyone, please.”

Seemingly from nowhere Loup joined the group in line. The tour guide grimaced to see his reddened eye but Loup trumped Felix's look with one of his own; smarmy self-importance. He paused at the door, whispered, “Don't say a damn word,” to Felix, then boarded the bus. He found a seat alone at the back.

Brandy, note pad and glasses stored in her bag o' plenty, scanned the courtyard for her friend. Vicki was nowhere to be seen and, as the others funneled past, she grew concerned.

The Irishman bought her some time, holding up the line to ask, “Do ye' have tours at night?”

Felix looked sharply up from his clip board. “Ce qui?”

“Ye' know… tour's after dark. T'would tink yer speech would be more effective in the dark.”

“No sane man will have anything to do with Castle Freedom after nightfall.”

“Ye'd tink t'would be a gold mine.”

“Tell me, monsieur, what can a dead man buy with gold?”

The Irishman ran his hand through his carrot hair. “Fek.”

Jab. “Language!”

Felix stared the Irish couple past with terror stricken eyes - and grinned once they were aboard. His smile vanished when he saw Brandy loitering.

“Please. There is no time to waste.” He interrupted her attempt to speak and gently pushed her up the stairs. Brandy had no choice but to board. Felix took the wheel, fired the engine and shifted the gears.

“Hold on,” she shouted. “Stop!”

Felix hit the brakes.

“My friend isn't on the bus!” Brandy said. “My sister-in-law, she isn't here.”

Felix looked to the others, in their places with worn out faces. He looked outside the bus and saw what he always saw after a tour; the castle caretaker, Anibal Socrates, waiting for their departure. He looked past Brandy to the scowling red-head and assured her, with plaintive eyes, he wanted none of the American girl's trouble. Out of places to look, Felix returned his gaze to Brandy and shrugged helplessly.

“That's it? You can't just leave her.”

The tour guide sighed and reached to open the door.

“Felix!”

The rear view mirror displayed Loup storming the aisle. Another uninvited swimmer, Felix thought, pissing in his pool. Loup wore a hateful frown, but then, Loup always did. An argument ensued that, for those who spoke French, went:

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Her companion isn't on the bus.”

“It is not our problem. We cannot wait.”

“But we…”

“Her companion is not our problem!”

The red-haired girl chimed in only to be ignored. Loup ordered Felix to drive the bus.

“Who are you anyway?” Brandy demanded. When Don Juan ignored her too, she said, “Fine. Let me off. I'll find her myself.”

“I said let's go!” Loup repeated. “If you want your goddamned job, drive!”

Felix set the vehicle in motion nearly knocking Brandy and Loup off their feet. Grinding the gears, revving the engine, he stuttered the bus to the castle gate, under the arch and over the drawbridge.

Following on foot, the caretaker closed the gate as the bus disappeared down the road. He secured the chain, grateful they were gone. The sky to the west was growing dark. If the ache in his knee and the pains in his feet were indicators, and they were, a storm was on the way.

He'd been in the midst of a long overdue job. And poor Zorion, his faithful mule, was still harnessed to the cart waiting. Socrates needed to finish. He took a last look at the sky. A storm was surely brewing.

Aboard the bus, Brandy was fuming. She'd expected the return to the village to be a return to 'sleep' mode. Instead, she was wide awake and kicking herself for failing Vicki. And she was enraged at Felix and creepy Don Juan, whoever he was. How dare they? How dare they?

God, she wished Ray had been here. Why wasn't he? He'd come to France but hadn't come along on the tour. All the benefits, none of the bull. Where was he when his sister needed him? Where was he when she needed him? As she sank back into the bus seat, Brandy found herself growing very angry with her fiancé, Ray Kramer.

Four

Brandy would be pissed. Ray ogled the myriad designs covering the walls of the little shop fully aware that, if she knew he was there, man, Brandy would be pissed.

'There' was Art dans le Movement a tiny, obvious tattoo parlor (garish lighting, graffiti paint job) with no logical reason to exist in the quaint French village of Paradis. So, when he left Chambon, the immense village park, where he'd killed off a ham and pastrami on rye, a bag of chips, and an hour, and after passing a cobbler's shoppe, a cheese shoppe and a bakery, the last thing on earth Ray expected to find was a tattoo parlor. Maybe it was fate.

The place was decorated with the expected wall to wall tats and, unexpectedly, an amazing collection of bleached animal skulls. Rats, cats, dogs, birds. The artist had personality.

“That's bad!”

Ray, a monstrous 'biker' of a man, turned and again saw what he'd expected, a heavily tattooed and pierced shop artist standing in a back room doorway. What was unexpected was the British accent - thick as cut-comb honey.

“The tats! Bloody hell, they're baaaaad! I like, mate.”

“You're English?”

“You mean British? Nah.” He saw Ray's confusion. “Believe it or not, mate, I'm French, actually.”

Ray bit his tongue. Six weeks of Anger Management and still his first thought was, 'Is this guy fucking with me?' If he was French he was keeping it a secret from his voice. It thought he was British.

The artist laughed nasally then raised his hands, signaling for peace. “Honest to God, I'm not mocking you. I was born here, three blocks away. But I was raised in the UK. A political brat. My father was in the Foreign Service, diplomatic messenger, ambassador to Her Majesty, a member of the EP. Misspent my youth in Nottingham and the rest in London. Came home last year to open shop.” He stepped forward to shake. “Jerome Rousseau,” he said. “Despite this bloody accent… I'm pure Frog.”

He laughed again and this time Ray joined in.

“You've got a bit of an accent yourself. Americain, n'est-ce pas?, as the locals would ask.”

Ray nodded. “Red, white and blue. Ray Kramer. By Wyoming, out of Illinois.”

“Wyoming? A cowboy?”

“Yeah, with a steel horse. Hog rider.”

“Fucking-A, mate. I like bikes. I also like tats, if you don't mind my getting back to business.”

“I don't mind.” Ray examined his own left arm without enthusiasm. His muscular bicep sported an inky hooded executioner, ax in hand, before a shadowed castle with a bat flitting past a faded yellow moon. “I'm getting tired of them.”

Ray considered Jerome but, beneath the art, there was little to see. Five-six maybe, emaciated, with an ice blue complexion. His bald head resembled a bag of doorknobs, his teeth a sagging fence, with silver, gold and amalgam pickets. Over-sized, blue plastic glasses. But that was the canvas. To compare himself was silly. Ray could snap Jerome like a dried twig. To compare their body art was the reverse. Ray's didn't hold a candle.

The word 'psycho' ran, in crimson, from ear to ear across Jerome's throat as if it had been slit. Inky barbed wire encircled each wrist. Letters marred his fingers but he fidgeted so Ray couldn't read them. Beneath his fishnet tank top, a werewolf howled on his right breast, a demon screamed on his left, and an undetermined creature from hell jumped a Harley through a flaming hoop across his back. Those were just the big tats. Around them ships sailed, cars raced, animals pounced, weapons fired, blood spurted and skulls, lots of skulls, grinned as one tableau ran into another across Jerome's body. To say nothing of the piercings.

“I'm thinking of getting away from the spooky stuff,” Ray said, scanning the walls. “I don't know. Maybe an animal…”

Jerome clicked the metal stud in his tongue. He closed his eyes - even his lids had tats – and got an idea. “I could cover that with a buffalo or a bear. Either would kick ass.”

Distracted by thoughts of a bison on his bicep, Ray didn't see Fournier's gray battleship pull up at the Bus Stop across the street.

Brandy marked time waiting for the others to disembark. It took a moment and she suffered Don Juan's glare as he passed but, excepting Felix and the red-head, the bus finally emptied. Brandy shouldered her bag and headed for the front. Felix saw her in his mirror and sank visibly. She knew the feeling.

“Please, you've got to help me.”

“There is nothing I can do, mademoiselle. If your friend chose not to ride back with the bus… We are not responsible.”

“You are,” Brandy said. “Vicki's never been to France before. There's no reason for her to stay at the castle. Why would she do that?”

“She is your friend. I have met many strange women.”

“C'est comme ça,” the red-head chimed in angrily. “What women?”

“Ça n'a pas d'importance,” Felix told her. Then, in horror, added, “No, no, no. No women. That is not my meaning. I have met no women!”

“Vicki isn't strange,” Brandy cried, trying to reclaim the driver's attention. “I don't appreciate what you're implying.”

“I imply nothing. I am sorry, please. Do not appreciate it… from the sidewalk.” Felix rose from his seat, giving Brandy no choice but to back down the stairs and off the bus, then closed the door in her face.

Brandy scowled through the bus door window. Inside, the red-haired girl barked at Felix. He raised his hands in surrender and climbed back into his seat. The girl kept talking. Brandy kept staring. He ignored both and pulled away from the curb.

Jerome's suggestion had settled and Ray, despite knowing better, found himself studying a wall of tattoos. He pointed to an eye-catching bison. “How much?”

Jerome twisted his lips in thought. “I'd have to have five hundred.”

Ray sank. The vision of a new tat faded, replaced by one of Brandy beating him to death with her carpet bag. He'd promised not to add any without their talking first (like he was a kid). It wasn't the art; she was cool with his body. It was the money. Ray looked the shop over again. “You do any bartering?”

The tattoo artist felt a sale slipping away. He had limited interests which were, pretty much, on display. Still… what the hell. “I'm into skulls.”

Ray smiled a wide 'I'm getting me a new tat smile'. “Well,” he said. “My brother's a taxidermist and I don't see a bear skull here.”

Jerome's own grin burst from the riot of ink and metal that comprised his face. “Bloke,” he said, “I'd do that fucker for a bear skull!”

Ray could not have been happier – until he looked out the window to see Brandy standing alone across the street. “Balls!” Ray hurried for the door assuring Jerome, over his shoulder, he'd be back.

The others tourists had returned to their lives; disinterested, happy as clams, sour as lemons, dishing verbal abuse, or returning physical abuse as was their lot. Brandy, opposite her nature, simply stood at the Bus Stop across from a tattoo parlor (good thing Ray wasn't here!) and down the street from the Fournier Tour office (where the heck was Ray?). It was, she guessed, near sundown but hard to tell as clouds churning a storm in the west cast a gloom over the village.

A gloom settled over Brandy as well. Where was Vicki? And where, in the name of heaven, was Ray?

She and Vicki were best friends before Ray entered the picture. That Ray and Vicki were siblings only made things more fun. Her relationship with Vicki's little brother had begun with lust and moved to love. And a six month engagement left them, where, Brandy wondered? Their most frequently exchanged emotion now was anger. Hers, more than his? She didn't know that either. Why had she asked Ray with them to Europe when she was so angry with him? Why was she so angry with him?

“Hey, baby, you look lost.”

Brandy was startled to find Ray beside her. “Where were you when I needed you?”

Ray glanced at the tattoo parlor, then quickly back. “I just got here.”

Brandy threw her bag. Ray grunted as he caught it and complained, as he often did, that no one carried a purse anymore let alone her monstrous tote.

“I don't care what other people do,” Brandy said, uncharacteristically riled. “I don't care what they think. And I certainly don't care what they think of me.”

A blind man could see her mood - and Ray wasn't blind. “What's that matter? Didn't you two…” He stopped, looked around and, feeling stupid, wondered if he wasn't blind after all. “Where's Vicki?”

“I'm not sure.”

“What do you mean you're not sure?”

“She wasn't on the bus. Somehow… we left her back at the castle.”

“Left her at the castle? What are you talking about?”

“I don't know, Ray. She didn't get on the bus.”

“Where the hell's my sister?”

Brandy's eyebrows arched over her reddening face. “Look, Ray. You're not going to yell at me like some nasty biker skank.” She snatched her bag away from him. “I was busy doing what I went to the castle to do. We got separated during the tour, lost track of one another. When we were leaving, she wasn't anywhere around. The driver wouldn't hold the bus. Said it wasn't their responsibility.” Brandy took a deep breath. “I don't know where Vicki is.”

Five

Vicki stirred slowly, holding the blood-matted hair at the back of her head. “Oh, God,” she whispered, saliva running from the corner of her mouth. She was groggy; her head swimming laps. She wiped her tears, her hands filthy with dirt and blood, making matters worse. She felt horribly sick and fought not to retch. Between bouts of dizziness, she climbed down and took in her surroundings.

She'd been lying on a tomb! She stared through cloudy eyes at the gray stone splashed with what looked like blood. Hers? Vicki had no memory of what had happened there, no clue what she was doing in a cemetery.

She staggered to the wrought-iron fence, grabbed it for balance and vomited. She was glad she'd skipped breakfast. The returning coffee was disgusting enough. Then it dawned, she remembered skipping breakfast! She'd had a cup of terrible coffee. European coffee was abominable, that she remembered. But was it a recent memory? She hadn't had a decent cup since leaving America. Yes; they'd left America, Brandy, Ray and her. Now they were in France. And the coffee was terrible.

Ray hadn't wanted to go. No, he hadn't! “That's fine,” Brandy yelled across the room. No, across the hall, to another room. “I'll get more done without you grumbling.”

Brandy had been with her. But where was Brandy?

Vicki lifted her head and everything rolled. Dear God, where was Brandy? What, in the name of heaven, was she doing in a graveyard? She followed the fence to an old gate, only to find it too encrusted to budge. Despite her head and stomach, she had no choice but to climb (fall) over the fence to freedom. Rising, Vicki stumbled away.

The pool of blood she'd left behind mothered streaming rivulets, propelled by gravity… and maybe something darker, that flowed past the ankh symbol carved in the tomb's lid and into the large crack in the stone.

It seeped inside the sarcophagus and, building there, dripped onto the mummified skull of the Templar knight lying interred. One slow, thick drop at a time as it oozed through the fissure. A drop on the void once covered by a nose. A drop that struck the taut papery skin of the cheek and ran away into the depths of the grave. A drop on the toothy grin. Another. Another. Vicki's blood eked through the teeth, fell into the black pit of a mouth, landed on the dried tongue…

The blood dripped.

People would be amazed to know the time and work required to care for a ruin. Anibal Socrates, the caretaker at Castle Freedom, had been meaning to get at the big stones buried at the edge of the courtyard for years. Today had been the day. The stones were out, piled on his cart and, after securing the gate behind the last tour of the day, ready to be hauled away. In reward for his effort his back was killing him.

Socrates had always been a powerful man, a rich baritone, a bull, with a great mustache that arrived well ahead of him. But the years, the work and the disappointments had taken their toll. He was still boisterous but the joy was gone, still large but more gross than grandiose. His mustache had gone gray and his fleshy nose now led the way.

His power was gone. Thank God Socrates still had his mule.

Zorion, a thousand pounds of might, was stronger, more patient, sure-footed, durable in the sun, less sensitive to the rain, more intelligent and ate less than any horse. He could carry 400 pounds for fifteen miles without resting. With his long ears and short mane the mule looked like his donkey father, but had the height, body and neck of his horse mother. And, despite his gray sire, Zorion had the wild coat, black, bay and sorrel islands on a sea of gray mule hide, of his Appaloosa dam.

Socrates led his loaded mule cart past the castle's out-buildings. The wood and wire wheels shrieked on the courtyard; a noise to which Socrates was accustomed. Then came a series of new sounds, the rumble as the piled stones fell, the snap of the rear gate, thuds as the rocks hit the ground. Socrates hollered, tugging Zorion's reins, and the cart came to a stop. He stared in disbelief, swore in Portuguese, and sighed deeply.

Then followed a ballet of despair:

Socrates rounded his cart, hiked his trousers and bent over the largest rock.

Sixty yards behind him, wounded and disoriented, Vicki staggered into the courtyard. She fell to the ground and weakly called for help.

The caretaker lifted the stone with a grunt - hearing nothing but the crack of his joints. He maneuvered the rock onto his cart with a thud, the scratch of stone on wood, and his own labored exhalation.

Daylight was fading. With the coming storm the wind, too, was picking up. Socrates groaned. He bent over a second stone, grunted, thumped and scraped it aboard with the others. Then again. And again.

Vicki struggled to rise; her head throbbing, her vision blurred. Was she actually seeing a man? And a horse and cart? “Help.” Darkness swallowed her.

The caretaker clicked his tongue, snapped the reins and Zorion started forward. The wheels grumbled from the grass, shrieked on the courtyard, and grumbled back onto the grass. His cargo rumbled, shifted, but stayed aboard. Socrates still had the stable to muck. Poor Zorion deserved that after his hard day's work. He'd need to be quick or he'd be doing it in the pitch; certainly he'd be caught in the rain. Still his mule deserved that at least.

Socrates had named him Zorion; meaning Full of Joy. “You give me joy,” Socrates said as he led mule and cart away. “I give you nothing but misery. If only there were something I could do for you.”

Off the courtyard, sixty yards away, Vicki Kramer lay unconscious and unseen.

In the fading light, with growing frustration, Brandy rapped on the door of Fournier's Tour Shop. Again she received no answer. She shook the knob, also not for the first time, and found it still locked. She looked up to find Ray, done with his assignment of peering through the dark windows, staring with a smile she wanted to erase with an emery board.

Then he made it worse. “You push elevator buttons that are already lit, don't you?”

Brandy shifted her huge shoulder bag, ignored the question, and asked one herself. “Did you see anything?”

“I didn't see a bus, if that's what you're asking.”

The witty banter might have gone on forever but Ray went suddenly tense. His smile vanished; then returned cut completely from whole cloth.

“What's the matter?”

“There's somebody watching us. Don't look around. At the corner of the building, behind me. Keep talking. In your normal voice. Ask me something.”

“Eh, shouldn't they be here, yet?” Uh, too loud and stilted. “I… I don't understand where they could have gone. The tour just ended, you know. Where could he have gone?”

Ray was no better. He returned to the windows with his hands cupped around his eyes. That seemed goofy to Brandy. The approaching storm featured neither sun nor glare. (Nonchalance was harder than it looked). Staring through the glass, Ray moved sideways down the building.

“Would they take the bus to get something to eat?”

“This isn't New York, Brandy,” Ray said as he reached the suspect corner. “He probably drives the freaking bus home.” He reached around. Something squealed! He jerked it to the sidewalk and stared into the ink and chrome face of Jerome Rousseau.

“Easy, mate,” Jerome yipped, hands up on either side of Ray's beefy arms. “I'm a hemophiliac!”

Even at dusk the tattoo artist was a sight. Seeing it for the first time, Brandy couldn't help but ogle. “What are you doing spying on us?”

“Spying?” Jerome was deeply offended. “Spying?”

“Men only repeat themselves when they're thinking up a lie,” Brandy declared. Both men stared. She ignored Ray's and defied Jerome's. “Well?”

“I don't lie. And I was not spying. I came to help you.”

Ray let him go. “Help us how?”

“To warn you.” Jerome started fidgeting. “Look, it's not my business, indeed, but trust me, you don't want to be caught here.”

“We're just looking for the bus driver.”

“You're not going to find him here, love, not at this time of the day. And you don't want to be here either.”

“I'm not big on puzzles,” Ray said. “We have business with Fournier.”

“You don't know anything about Fournier's business. And, if you're smart, you don't want to. Marcel Fournier's a bad chap.”

“What do you mean?” Brandy asked, stepping in to cool Ray's rising temperature. Not that she blamed him. The little weasel's twitching was getting to her too. Why was the guy so jumpy?

“Just a friendly warning,” Jerome told Ray, then added, “Because I want your business.”

Brandy saw the 'Oh, Christ!' in Ray's eyes.

Ray tried to cover. He knew Jerome's next sentence and tried to wave it off. The artist didn't get the drift. “Did you still want that tattoo?”

Winter came early. Brandy looked a question at Jerome then stared daggers at Ray. Jerome saw it and retreated, squeaking, “I was… I'll just… eh, later, mate.”

When he was gone, Ray turned to Brandy. “Look, baby, I…”

She held up a finger and Ray shut his mouth. “I'm going to change the subject now.”

'Okay,' he mouthed without speaking.

“Do you think we should go to the police?” Seeing his confusion, she barked, “Focus, Ray. Your sister's missing, the car rental is closed and we can't find the bus driver. Now… do you think we should go to the police?”

Ray sighed. “I hate cops.”

Six

Inquiring on the street Brandy and Ray collected a good many smiles, a few grunts, several blank looks and, eventually, directions to the police station located on a poorly lit side street. With the sun already gone the building was almost invisible. Orange slits stole out beneath drawn blinds in windows twinning the entrance. A frosted globe layered with dead bugs glowed from the stoop ceiling beside a sign reading: Gendarmerie Départementale. Little about the place inspired confidence.

“Are you ready?”

Looking as faded as the building, Ray shook his head sullenly. “I hate cops.”

“Think of the novelty,” Brandy said, leading him up the steps. “How often do you go into a police station through the front door?”

They'd barely cleared the threshold when both were paralyzed by a shout from a small office within. “Stay there!”

On the far side of a counter, through a doorway, stood a middle-aged man holding a weapon. To Ray, it was a .40 caliber SIG. To Brandy, it was a GUN! He had it pressed against his own temple. “Do not come closer,” he shouted, in English, with a heavy French accent. “Or I will blow my head off.”

Ray grabbed Brandy. Whether from instinct or testosterone she didn't know, but she didn't like it. With an armed madman loose Brandy preferred control over her own movements. She yanked herself free.

In the office, the gunman suddenly lowered the weapon – and laughed. “So… I told this Américain idiot, 'Go ahead, monsieur. Shoot. You will solve my problem and improve your looks.' ”

A chorus of laughter betrayed others in the room. The gunman relished their admiration, until he saw the couple in the reception area. He frowned and tossed the gun into a basket on the desk. He wagged his head.

One of the listeners, younger, dark too, but less threatening, stepped from the room with a smile. “Puis-je vous aider?”

His blue uniform was pressed and polished; pant cuffs tucked into black military boots. A badge was embroidered on his left breast and his name, Petit, embroidered on his right. A blue ball cap and white leather gun belt completed his accoutrement.

When their only response was to stare like deer caught in his headlights, Petit repeated his question in English. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, my, uh,” Ray stumbled, recovering. “My sister is missing.”

Petit smiled. “Américains?”

“Yes,” Ray said, “we're visiting from the States. My sister is missing.”

Petit's smile disappeared, replaced by sober concern or, at least, its professional equivalent. “Her name?”

“Vicki. Victoria. Victoria Kramer.”

“She was last seen where?”

“At the castle,” Brandy said. “With me. We toured Castle Freedom this afternoon, but she didn't come back on the bus.”

“This afternoon?” Petit looked at his watch. “The afternoon tour could not have been back for - thirty minutes.”

“Right. But she wasn't on the bus.”

Two others abandoned the office and disappeared through the outer door. Then the gunman stepped out to study Brandy and Ray over Petit's shoulder. Only then was Brandy certain he was one of them.

His medals suggested heroism, his brass doo-dads rank. They were pinned onto, and he was squeezed into, a threadbare uniform matching Petit's. While he plainly commanded, the buttons over his gut appeared insubordinately ready to go AWOL. His thick black hair had a shock of white just left of center and his chin had a day's growth of beard. He addressed Petit with a voice that sounded like a load of gravel being dumped.

To experience the moment as Brandy did:

“Quel est le problème?”

“Américains. Leur soeur était sur le tour de Marcel Fournier avec celui-ci et n'est pas revenue sur le bus.”

“Le dernier tour?”

“Oui, Colonel.”

Through the babble, Brandy detected a word. The brass, ribbons and humorless attitude apparently made the unkempt guy a Colonel.

He stepped to the counter and made it official. “I am Colonel Mael Blanc,” he said. “In charge of this Department, eh, this Region, for the Gendarmerie. Your sister, she has been to the village before? To the Lozere Department? To southern France?”

Brandy met all three questions with one on-going shake of her head. “No. And she's Ray's sister.”

The Colonel nodded curtly and turned to Ray. “You are?”

“Raymond Kramer. This is my fiancé, Brandy Petracus. No, none of us have been here before. We've never been to Europe.”

“Married?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Your sister… she is married or accompanied by a gentleman?”

“No. She's single and she came along with the two of us.”

“I'm writing a thesis about burial practices around the world.”

“Charming,” Blanc said dismissively. “Your sister is not missing. No tourist who has gone unseen for…” He too looked at his watch. “An hour? Is missing. Perhaps she will walk back from the castle.”

“My sister tried to rent a golf cart at a mini putt.”

Blanc furled his brow looking, with his white streak of hair, like an angry dog. “I am sure that was clever, monsieur. But the meaning I do not know.” And apparently didn't care because he turned from Ray to Brandy. “She was with you?”

“Yes. We were taking the castle tour.”

“She did not return on the bus?”

“No.” She seemed to falter, then decisively repeated, “No.”

Her hesitation only sharpened his tone. “When did you last see her?”

“I'm not certain. I was listening to the tour. I was taking notes, formulating my paper in my head. I don't remember when or where I saw her last.”

“Did she meet or talk to anyone else?”

“I don't know. Just those in the tour.”

“We have a single woman, her first time in Paradis?”

“Her first time in France.”

“And, most likely, less interested in Fournier's tourist trap than yourself?”