Chapter 31
Two hours later, we’ve returned to the blue salon. I’m eating again to fill my stomach, convinced bread will diminish the effects of alcohol. Or at least prevent a hangover. I’m not drunk—not exactly—but my movements are sluggish, and I’ve stifled more than one yawn.
The partygoers have started to thin out, with Dora and Chantal posted at the doors to bid farewells. Noah and I sit with Luci, André, and another two couples. Most of the people remaining are either family or their personal guests.
When Noah breaks from conversation, I give him a small nudge. “Should we go?”
“You can’t leave yet,” Luci says. She must have overheard me. “The fun part is just getting started.”
“The fun part?” I glance around the table, and it’s clear the others all know what’s coming next.
“You’ll see.” Luci dances in her seat, clearly excited. “Ah-ah.” She points at Noah when he opens his mouth to explain.
He tosses up his hands and sits back, just as Dora enters the salon. She wheels herself over to us. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed yourselves,” she says, paying special attention to me. Her manners confirm I’m the last of the true guests. Everyone else here is friend or family.
“Everything was wonderful,” I say. “Thank you again.”
She speaks to the others in French before patting my hand and rolling back from the table. “You young people have a good time and be safe. I’m afraid I must excuse myself from the next portion of the evening’s revelries.”
It’s as if everyone here is speaking in code, intentionally spiking curiosity. I let a young man in black remove my plate, barely paying attention.
What’s the big secret, and why is it planned for so late at night?
Dora exits the room, passing Lyam as he enters with Ric, his date trailing behind. The red-haired woman sways on her feet but manages to stay upright.
Noah stands when Lyam comes over to our table. “It’s time?”
“It’s time,” Lyam says with a grin. “All right. Everyone up.”
“Okay, what are we doing?” I ask Noah, but he only puts a finger to his mouth.
We all follow Lyam through the corridors, twisting and turning until we end up in a game room. A bar lines one wall, liquor bottles backlit and glowing against dark wood. There’s a pool table with crimson felt, a dart board, various playing tables, and a sitting area with sofas.
Lyam holds a black bag, then he lifts his arm and gives the bag a shake.
Something rattles inside. “A long-standing tradition at La Danse des Monstres is the final and most exciting part of the event.” He scans the room, brown eyes lingering on each of us, the dramatic pause meant to heighten suspense.
“It’s time,” he finally says, “for the dark hunt.”
A cold pit opens up in the bottom of my gut, a pit that absorbs what little enthusiasm I’d started to build.
The dark hunt? My mind conjures terrible images.
What kind of games do these people play?
I shuffle my feet and glance at Noah. He doesn’t look worried, so I breathe deep and try to keep an open mind.
Lyam reaches into the bag and pulls something out, keeping it tight in his palm so none of us can see. Then he makes his way from person to person, allowing each to slip a hand into the bag.
When he comes to me, I do the same. Flat, round objects rest inside the silk. Cool, hard, and rough. Like stone. I take mine and keep it curled in my palm.
When the last person takes their turn, Lyam tosses the bag aside. “For those of you who are new to the La Danse des Monstres, let me explain the rules. We will all look at our stones at the same time. Not yet, Luci,” he teases his cousin.
“Your stone will be either white or black. If it’s white, you are a victim. If it’s black, well, let’s just say you’ll be doing the hunting.” His laugh is a sadistic rumble, and now I turn to Noah in surprise.
“So, my costume doesn’t make a difference?”
“Not for the game.”
“We will have two winners,” Lyam continues. “The monster who catches the most victims, and the last victim standing. The one who survives.”
“A final girl,” Luci calls, sending me a look when she uses the American term.
I try to return her enthusiasm, but the reference doesn’t make me feel better.
“Or we might have a final boy,” André says, giving Luci a playful elbow. “Because I’m going home the winner this year.”
From across the room, Ric groans. “Can we get on with it?” He and his date lean against the pool table. His arm hooks around her neck, and her hand rests on his stomach, just above his belt.
Their body language reeks of foreplay and sends sticky shivers over my skin. Thoroughly revolted, I refocus on Lyam.
“Right,” he says, extending his hand, fingers up. “Everyone, on three. Ready?”
The rest of us lift our arms.
“One, two, three!”
I uncurl my fingers and stare at my stone. It’s white.
“Oh, bad luck.” Noah winks and holds up a black disc between two fingers.
Around the room, people squeal or laugh, several hurrying from the room.
“What’s happening?” I ask. “What do I do?”
Noah doesn’t answer, but André grabs my hand. “Come on,” he says, dragging me through the room.
Our path takes us by the pool table. Ric looks far too pleased with the lottery, and as I pass, he leans forward. “You better start running.”
Out in the corridor, I lift my dress as I zigzag through the mansion with André. The click-clack of heels has me glancing back to find Luci right behind us. “This way,” she says, passing us and turning into an empty room. The three of us race through, ending up in a rear hallway.
“Where are we going?” I ask, slowing and pulling my hand from André’s.
“We only have a minute’s head start, and like I said, I plan to win.” He nods to Luci who’s several paces ahead of us. She leads us into a ridiculously large kitchen and down a short passage to a white metal door.
When she punches a button, I draw back. “We are going up, right?”
“No,” André answers. “The house might be more comfortable, but the ones who hide inside are the first ones found.”
“Other people ran upstairs.”
André lifts his huge shoulders. “Maybe they don’t want to get their clothes dirty. Or maybe they’re too scared.”
“Scared of what?” I ask, but the doors have opened and he’s already pulling me into the tiny elevator.
Luci taps a button to close the doors. She and André look at each other, laughing between frantic breaths.
I want to share their excitement, but I’m more concerned with the drop in my stomach. The elevator is going down. Far down.
I twist my hands together, hoping we’re headed to a basement or wine cellar. But when the door opens, light spills from the cab into a dark tunnel. The first thing I see is a wall of skulls.
A hundred hollow sockets stare at us, black holes where eyes used to be. “What are those doing here?”
“It’s the catacombs,” André says, giving me a look as if I shouldn’t have to ask.
“I know, but skulls? Here? Beneath a house?”
Luci steps out for a moment, and a single light turns on, its dome creating a sickly, yellow illumination. “Legally,” she says, “the owners of a residence have the right to access the property below, including the famous catacombs. But you’ll never see this section on a commercialized tour.”
André chuckles. “Especially when the property is one like Maison Marteau.”
“Great,” I say, peering out in both directions. Spaced ten or fifteen feet apart, more lights cast the tunnel in an eerie glow.
Luci leads us to the right, walking with confidence in the gravel, despite her high heels.
As we move deeper underground, a strange smell assaults my nose. I don’t want to think about the source of the musty scent or how long it’s been down here.
As we creep through the shadows, Luci stops on occasion, looking one way and then the other way before deciding where to go. At one point, we come face-to-face with a large headstone. Situated on a mound of dirt, the tablet sits in front of a wall of femurs, French text engraved on the stone.
I make out the words “combat” and “éternité” with a date inscribed below. Some kind of memorial.
Luci and André stop and speak rapidly in French. As they plot our next move, I wander toward a side tunnel.
Luci grabs my arm. “Not that way.” Her eyes are wide, almost afraid. “Please, stay close. The tunnels flood when we have too much rain.”
I think of the girl found down here years before. A child, lost and alone in the cold, damp, dark. Is it possible she drowned? Or developed hypothermia? Trapped in an endless maze filled with bones.
A cold shudder shakes my body.
What a horrible way to die.
A scraping sound echoes in the tunnel behind us.
“Shh,” Luci hisses, guiding us to a small alcove. “Wait here.”
“Where are you…” I trail off, because she’s already gone.
André peeks around the corner, concerned with being caught and losing the game. After a few minutes of silence from the tunnels, I cross my arms and lean against the wall.
I catch myself at the last second, jerking upright. I don’t want to touch whatever corpse residue may have accumulated over time.
“I’m surprised the family takes the joke this far.”
André turns his head but stays in position by the door. “What do you mean?”
“The monsters’ dance is about making light of the gossip. Odd, but acceptable.” I pause and consider my next words. “But playing a game like this? In the place a child got lost and died? I don’t know.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s a bit too morbid for me.”
He stands straight, studies my face for a moment. “Yes, but the dance and the hunt began before . . . before what happened to the girl. It’s a terrible thing, but life goes on, oui?”
“That’s true.” I try to sound agreeable. He and Luci obviously enjoy the tradition. I give a little laugh. “But the vampire rumors. How wild is that?”
André bobs his head. “Where Maison Marteau is concerned? Not so much.”
“What? André, don’t tell me you believe in vampires.” I tilt my head, encouraging him to keep talking.
“No.” He looks over his shoulder and walks closer. “But one of them thought he was. Grégoire Marteau, the man who built the mansion.”
I nod in the dark, and André spills.
“It’s not really a secret, but that man was fou.” André drops his voice to a whisper. “Bat. Shit. Crazy.”
He looks back again, as if afraid someone will sneak up and catch us talking about the revered Grégoire Marteau.
“The family pretends. They want people to think they don’t care.
Because if they can laugh off their history, so will everyone else.
But trust me, it’s a sore subject. A dark family secret. ”
André pauses and licks his lips.
“What’s the secret?” My muscles are rigid as I lean forward.
“He had Renfield Syndrome,” André says.
“Renfield.” I roll the name on my tongue, the taste familiar. “Isn’t that Dracula’s helper?”
“Yes. He was enthralled by the vampire and developed a craving for blood. Grégoire Marteau liked to drink blood, too.” André rolls his eyes. “He thought it would give him powers or something. Make him immortal.”
“That is . . . different,” I say, landing on a neutral description.
“But listen, don’t bring it up to the family. Not even Lyam or Luci.”
“Of course,” I mutter, rubbing the chill bumps on my arms.
André returns to his post, watching the tunnel. Then we hear Luci call his name. Her whisper-shout carries a long way in the empty tunnel.
“Merde. She’s going to give us away.” André hurries outside to find Luci, leaving me alone to consider this new information.
Renfield Syndrome. I read about it once, when a friend auditioned for the movie inspired by the Renfield character.
The disease is also known as clinical vampirism and involves an obsession with drinking blood.
Sometimes, people with the syndrome suffer delusions of immortality or superhuman abilities.
A strange illness and one I can see inspiring gossip. The route from Renfield to vampire is a short, straight line. It’s a logical explanation, and much better than the horrors I’d had in mind.
But as I stare out at the yellowed-tinted light, a question remains. It scrapes around the back of my brain.
Where did Grégoire Marteau get the blood?