“I will find Malone,” he told her.

“You are an officer of the law. You must do what you feel you must”

“And I will speak with your grandfather.”

“Then you must get the proper papers, because as I told you, he is old and ill, and I will not willingly let you in.”

Javet sighed, shaking his head. At last he started for his car.

Tara did the same.

She waited for him to turn on his ignition, and start down the drive before gunning her own motor and following him out to the road.

As she drove, she tried to tell herself that Brent must have read the entire article. He would know that the police were looking for him, that they were after him. He wouldn’t be walking around the village or sitting casually at the cafe. As she drove, she felt the same sense of a deepening dread that had seized her before.

It was real. What they were saying was real.

Her dream ...

Was somehow real. She had never really left the chateau ...

And yet, she was certain that the place she had gone to was out there, somewhere.

Somewhere near.

* * *

Sleep ... deep sleep was so wonderful. Ann felt the comfort of her bed, and the sweetness of real rest But even as she lay, certain that sleep without dreams was wonderful and healing, she felt the incursion into her realm of soft floating clouds and security.

Her eye movement was rapid, and though she couldn’t wake up, she was aware that she remained in a nether region. And she was equally aware that it had been entered.

Ann . . .

She heard her name, and he was calling to her.

Ann . . . you know that you are mine.

Her mind fought the words whispered so tersely within it

You are mine, and you will let me in. You will open the doors for me, and I will be with you. You know that’s what you want, what you crave, what you need.

No...

Shadows filled her sleep. Great sweeping wings, like those of a giant blackbird, hovering over her, folding around her. Encasing her ...

There was a staggering heat within the caress of shadows. She twisted and turned, and knew that she was surrounded.

No...

It occurred to Paul that he was making a serious mistake, trusting in a stranger. He might well be following the same path that Yvette had taken, and yet, it was all that he could do. He loved Yvette.

Loved her more than he did himself, more than his own life, no matter how callously she had played with his feelings.

And so he went with the man, and he found himself answering questions, talking about those men Yvette met at the cafe.

“She is not a bad girl,” he said, defensive lest anyone think that she should deserve a sad fate due to her promiscuity. “You must understand, there are many who live here who travel into Paris to work, there are families here, so many who have come since the city is so large, and space so very dear. But there are those who have been bom here as well, and those who wish to escape, and maybe they haven’t the education for a fine job in Paris, and they have known so little other than the countryside, and the growing fields and the livestock, and they ... they simply want more. That is Yvette, she wants to fly above our little village, and she hasn’t the wings to do so, and so ... and so ...” The man was looking at him, watching him, and he couldn’t tell if a small smile curved the fellow’s lips, if he was amused, or if he was merely understanding what Paul was trying to say.

“Yvette has sought to fly by catching on to the coattails of others ... of other men,” he said, finishing lamely.

A hand fell gently on his arm.

“We will find Yvette,” he was told softly.

They kept driving. Very far. Paul had grown up here, run in the fields as a child, sought out every little place of mystery, but he was unfamiliar with the trails that they traveled through now. The car drove over grass and roots, and circled through trees and more.

At last they came to a halt.

They entered what must have once been a place of riches and great charm. Still, a certain alluring ambience remained. Darkness and shadow, however, seemed to abound, as if the inhabitants shunned daylight and the sun.

“Come, Paul, we need to know what you know. Everything there is to know about your Yvette, and her

... friends.”

At the doorway, he felt a strange hesitance. Then he entered within. And he met those waiting to greet him.

Tara drove to the village. Though she didn’t expect to see Brent, she parked near the cafe, found a table, and ordered cafe au lait.

She picked up another newspaper, and spread it before her. She wasn’t really reading; she was trying to appear as if she was not watching everything that was going on around her.

But there wasn’t much going on.

The cafe was quiet. The waiters were whispering among themselves, and when she ordered her second cup, the man who served her spilled some of the hot liquid. He apologized, and she quickly assured him it was nothing. When he smiled ruefully, she wondered if she couldn’t get him to talk.

“I’ve noticed ... you all seem a bit distant today,” she said, encouraging him to talk.

He was about twenty-five, slim, with something of a buzz cut that was becoming to him, since he had a fine face and deep, dark eyes.

He hesitated, then indicated her newspaper. “Such things simply don’t happen here.” He leaned closer, mopping up the spilled coffee. “One of our girls has disappeared now. Monsieur Francois, the owner, went into the morgue in the city to identify the corpse, but it isn’t Yvette. At least, she is not the body that was discovered. But... we are a small village. It’s unnerving to have people disappear, to have bodies found. It was one thing when it was the man at the dig. We could all believe that he was killed because someone wanted the riches from the corpse. But now ... there are others who are gone—and there is the one corpse that has been discovered. We have not seen this kind of trouble here in ... in hundreds of years! So naturally, we are afraid. But,” he added quickly, “you don’t need to be afraid here. We are at the cafe, on the street, in broad daylight, and the police station is right down the street.” He was trying to reassure her after saying for more than anyone dependent upon tourist francs should have said. But he hadn’t frightened Tara, certainly not any more than she was already. He had, however, said something she was anxious to pursue.

“You’ve not had this kind of trouble—in hundreds of years?”

“Well, there is a lot of legend here, you know. Back in the days of the Sun King, there were all manner of things going on. I’m not a great student of history, so I’m not all that up on the particular events that occurred. But of course, you know, the body that was stolen from the dig was that of Louisa de Montcrasset She was a mistress of Louis. She had the king wrapped around her little finger, so they say, and she was able to practice great atrocities because the king was so infatuated that he refused to believe ill of her. They say, though, that she kidnapped poor young people—men and women, she was not particular—and used them in strange rites. She bathed in blood, drank blood, lived in blood, so they say, in the belief that it would help keep her young and desirable forever, and add to her amazing hypnotism over others. But at one point, the king could no longer be fooled, but he would not allow her to be humiliated before the people. She was the daughter of a great knight who had fought long and hard for France, and also, no matter what she had done, the king could not completely rid himself of his love for her. He refused to see her, however, after proof was brought against her. Proof of her misdeeds, as well as proof that she had been cuckolding the king with another man. He was not so protective of her lover— it’s said that he ordered his men to burst in upon the fellow, stab him to death in his bed, and have his body cut to pieces and cast into the Seine. The king was helped in all these discoveries, forced to see the evil and death perpetrated on the people, by a strange sect composed of a group of religious men who had gathered together for the sole purpose of bringing down Louisa and her evil companion.

But even at the end, the king would not agree to Louisa coming before the public, or having her beauty destroyed. By his command, she was buried and sealed into her coffin, and then the terror that had raged in Paris and the village came to an end.”

“I’ve heard the legend of Louisa de Montcrasset,” Tara said, “but I hadn’t heard that she’d had a lover other than the king, or that he had been killed when she was buried.”

“You won’t find any of it in the history books,” the young man told her. “It is all local legend—but of course, we know that it’s mainly true, since her coffin was discovered. Or, should I say, at least it’s true that she existed. If, indeed, she was the corpse in the tomb. Hard to be certain, now that she has disappeared.”

“Ah, well,” Tara murmured.

“Would you like another coffee?” the young man asked.

“No, no, thank you,” she said. “Just the check, please.”

He brought the check, and she put the appropriate number of francs on the tray. As she did so, she felt a presence near her, and she looked up.

“Miss Adair, how are you?”

Inspector Trusseau was standing there. She definitely didn’t want to get into a conversation with him.

She had gained nothing at the cafe, and it suddenly occurred to her that there was something she should be doing— something practical.

She should get Jacques out of the house.

“Inspector, hello, how are you?” she said, standing quickly.

“Well, thank you. And you?”

“Quite well.”

She stood there for a moment, feeling awkward as she stared at him.

“I believe we’ll be visiting you quite soon,” Trusseau said. He was a smooth, tall, and attractive man. He didn’t fit the mold of a forensics expert, but then again, perhaps he was excellent at his work. He had a handsome appearance and apparently the social graces that might get him what he wanted when brash authority might fail.

“Yes, I understand Inspector Javet wants to speak with my grandfather.” Trusseau nodded. “I’m afraid Javet is convinced that your grandfather knows something about the murder in the crypt.”