As 1900 approaches, Paris reigns supreme—her streets teeming with criminals and courtesans, painters and poets. Aristocrats and anarchists war by day, then frolic by night in racy cabarets. Scientist and spiritualists mingle at society ladies’ salons. And the ancient shadow of Satanism falls on modern times…
Young American painter Theodora Faraday struggles to discover her identity as an artist in vibrant Belle Epoque 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 clashes with Inspecteur Michel Devaux, who suspects the Revenants are involved.Theo refuses to believe the killer could be a friend—could be someone she loves.
Classic detections and occult revelation lead Michel and Theo through the dark underbelly of Paris.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.Whether deranged mind or demonic passion incite him, the killer must be found before he strikes again.
Excerpt
Chapter One:
Gilles unlocked the scorched oak door and raised his lantern, illuminating the staircase that coiled down to the dungeons of the chateau. Underneath the smell of ashes, of damp stone and lantern oil, he inhaled traces of other odors. Mold, urine, and feces. Clotted gore. Fear. The fetid bouquet blossomed in his nostrils. Repugnance entwined with anticipation.
In his ancient castle, opulent perfumes would have dizzied his senses. The wine rich scent of hippocras would have spilled from a goblet set with jewels, mingling with the crushed almond aroma of honeyed marzipan. Luscious red roses would have shed petals bright as virgin’s blood on pure white linen. Over all, plumes of incense would have drifted, saturating the night with a scent at once sacred and lasciviously profane.
But that was another place.
Another century.
Another life.
And there was a pleasing austerity in these simpler smells. A perverse purity.
Gilles closed the door and descended the winding staircase, his leather soles scuffing on the limestone. No other sound—but the mortal odors intensified with each step. When he reached the bottom, the stench clogged his nostrils. The lantern cast a sickly light on the stone walls surrounding him. A barred gate stood ajar. He saw nothing but his own flickering shadow. He heard nothing. No, there, a faint noise, like a breath caught. A sob. He moved forward quickly, stepping through the iron gateway into a large chamber.
In the center of the room the boy hung from the rafters. Ropes bound him tightly and an iron hook and chain held him suspended. He revolved slowly in the air, not struggling, silent but for his weeping. His eyes were swollen, and runnels of tears slid down his cheeks to drip off his chin. Letting out a cry of outrage, Gilles rushed forward. He set aside the lantern and lifted the boy down.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered as he tugged at the knot on the ropes. They came loose in his hands and he tossed them aside. The child threw his arms around him, weeping more fiercely with relief. Gilles drew him into his arms, comforting him. “What is your name, boy?”
“Denis,” he choked out, fighting to stifle his sobs. Though old enough to grasp at manly courage, the boy clung to him. His chilled limbs felt deliciously fragile.
Gilles held him for a moment, then drew back to look into his eyes. Gently he stroked the sweat-soaked fringe of hair plastered to Denis’ forehead. “Who did this to you?”
The boy clutched him more tightly, tears and snot smearing Gilles’ velvet-clad shoulder. “A man in Paris promised me a job as a stable boy,” he blurted. “He said we would ask my mother—but then he covered my face with a rag. He brought me to this awful place. He dragged me down to this wine cellar!”
“Dungeon,” Gilles murmured, but too low for Denis to hear. From what he knew of the boy, he had expected more imagination.
Denis looked over to where a thin trail of smoke drifted over pieces of charred wood. “He lit a fire—I thought he would burn me.”
“Terrible!”
“He put it out when he left. I thought I would freeze!” The boy’s gaze darted around the walls. “He will come back.”
“I will take you somewhere else,” Gilles promised him, bringing another spasm of sobs from Denis. He stood, taking up the lantern with one hand, beckoning with the other.
“Back to Paris?” Bright with hope, he looked up at Gilles.
“Come now, you must be brave.” Gilles smiled a little. “St. Denis was brave, wasn’t he?” Swallowing back a sob, the boy made a small choking sound. Was he imagining his martyred namesake carrying his head through the streets of Paris? Was he imagining his own head severed from his body? Lovely.
Denis frowned. “I know you sir, don’t I?”
“Do you? Yes, I believe you do.”
Denis looked confused. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, wiped his nose on his sleeve. He rubbed his sore arms, shivering with the winter cold as he glanced anxiously at the barred doorway. Gilles clasped the boy’s shoulder protectively, stroking it to warm him. “There’s another way.” He hurried him across the chamber to another iron gate, opened it, urged Denis into the passage beyond. “Through here.”
“You know this place, sir?” Denis asked.
“I own it.” When he felt the boy tense, Gilles shook his head and frowned in concern. “There were rumors about my stable master. At first I did not believe them, but finally I came to investigate.” A few feet, and they stopped at another door, strapped with decayed leather and studded with iron. Gilles reached up and took the key from the lintel.
“He told me I would work in a beautiful chateau.” Denis’ voice was hesitant. Tears still glistened on his cheeks. “But this place is in ruins.”
“So it is.” Gilles unlocked the door. It opened into darkness lit only by the lantern light falling across the threshold. The odor of fleshy rot enveloped Gilles as he stepped through, coaxing Denis to follow. Would he resist? That might be amusing. But no…the boy crossed over. Gilles’ heart gave a lovely shudder, as if struck like a bell. He locked the door behind them, then led the way to the center of the chamber. Lifting the lantern high, he smiled.
When the boy saw the others, he began to scream.
"Floats the Dark Shadow" by Yves Fey is a very skilful and impressive historic novel, set in Paris. It is clearly well researched and gives a very authentic feel of the city ( I have been) - not just in terms of architecture and clothes but in every aspect of the epoch: politics, transport, police work etc etc. The book describes the place and time very much like I would imagine them to have been and it certainly managed to raise my awareness of the times and its living conditions.
Thrown into the plot of a murder investigation are themes like occultism, tarot cards and black magic, discussions of the Oscar Wilde trial and most pressing for the female lead character, Theo, that of personal trust and belief.
There are a few dark themes, like that of the serial child murder, that of course belong into the times and the context of a crime story, but which I found a little disturbing. I still did enjoy the book, there was tension all the way through to the end
Book Four in Belinda Lawrence mystery series. Confirming the Professor was murdered proves to be a challenge and, gradually, as they get to know those associated with the Manor House, Belinda and Hazel discover another murder and an intricate web of
