The rotting cabbage leaves mixed with the sour stench of fermenting horse manure assaulted her nose.
Vivian staggered back two steps, her back slamming into the damp brick wall, sending a sharp pain up her spine.
“Three Sous? A little stray like you, only good at lying, dares to ask for three Copper Sous?”
The Butcher in front of her, his face full of vicious fat, waved a boning knife in his hand, flecks of spit flying as he barked.
The watching vagrants burst into jeering laughter, none believing that a young girl dressed like a circus clown could walk away with a single coin from here.
Vivian wiped a drop of lard from her cheek.
She looked down at her current body—delicate bones, fair slender fingers, a rough wool vest altered down to fit, a grey skirt pulled high at the waist.
Just three days ago, she had still been a male university history student, balding from worry over three million in debt. Now she stood as a one-sixty-five Parisian orphan, forced to wear a tight chest binder to survive.
She felt no nostalgia for that overworked former life, and never wanted to see another dissertation on “The Impact of Napoleon’s Hemorrhoids on the Battle of Waterloo.”
The only problem was, this body was far too weak.
“Sir, I caught the thief who stole your sausage. As agreed, three Copper Sous.” Vivian’s voice was clear, still tinged with a softness she hadn’t adapted to.
“Thief? That was a rat! You call pointing at a rat hole a thief?” The Butcher stepped closer, the boning knife nearly touching her nose.
“Look!” Suddenly, Vivian pointed at the Butcher’s feet. “A rat!”
The Butcher instinctively glanced down.
Vivian seized the blood-filled iron bucket beside her and, using every ounce of her strength, hurled its contents.
“Whoosh!”
The bloody water drenched the Butcher’s head and face. Vivian raised her booted foot and kicked hard at his knee.
A howl of pain, and two hundred pounds of flab crashed to the ground.
Vivian fished three Copper Sous out of the greasy apron pocket. That was her due.
“Consulting fee, sir.”
She spun and ran, nimbly darting into the tangled alleys as the Butcher’s hysterical curses echoed behind her.
Ten minutes later, Vivian leaned, panting, against a gas lamp post by the Seine Riverside.
Her lungs burned. This body had awful stamina. Out of habit, she reached for a cigarette in her pocket, but only found the rough cloth of her skirt.
Damn it, forgot she was wearing a skirt now.
She adjusted the deerstalker hat she’d scavenged from the flea market—a purchase meant to make her look like a proper Detective, though it made her look a bit like a child playing dress-up.
Across the river, the unfinished Eiffel Tower loomed like a steel monster in the mist. At the street corner, the Figaro Boy waved a copy of the Figaro Newspaper, shouting the latest news about the World’s Fair.
This was that wondrous era—steam, steel, art, and strange rumors lurking in the shadows.
Vivian slipped the three hard-earned coins into her bosom. It was only enough for half a loaf of black bread. She needed a bigger case.
She pulled a wrinkled flyer from her coat. It read: [Saint-Michel Street No. 14, something strange has happened. Generous reward.]
She’d ripped it off a wall an hour ago.
Usually, such vague notices meant swindlers or lunatics. But for someone who didn’t even have dinner lined up, she had to take a look.
Saint-Michel Street No. 14 was a typical neoclassical building, its exterior covered in withered ivy.
Someone was already at the door.
It was a young man in a black long coat, holding a thick book, frowning at the brass lion’s head knocker on the door.
Vivian cleared her throat, lowering her voice to sound more mature. “Excuse me, sir. If you’re too afraid to knock, you might as well leave it to a professional.”
The man turned. His face was unnaturally pale.
“Professional?” His eyes swept Vivian up and down, pausing on her ill-fitting deerstalker and mud-spattered skirt.
“The circus out of business? Do they need you to moonlight during work hours?”
Sharp-tongued and arrogant. Vivian instantly labeled him in her mind.
“I am a Detective.” Vivian straightened up, though she only reached his chest. “The sign says they’re looking for a solver, not a haughty Long-necked Giraffe.”
The man raised his brows, apparently surprised by her retort.
“Cicero,” he replied coolly, stepping aside. “Go ahead, Miss Detective. If you think you can handle what’s inside.”
Vivian ignored his mockery and rapped the knocker.
The door opened almost instantly.
A pale-faced Maid opened the door. She froze at the sight of Vivian, a flash of disappointment in her eyes.
“Only… one young lady?”
“And this Long-necked Giraffe, too.” Vivian gestured at Cicero behind her.
The Maid, too flustered to argue, ushered them both in.
The house was dark, heavy curtains drawn tight. The air was thick with a sickly-sweet metallic scent.
“Lady is upstairs… she…” The Maid, trembling, pointed to the stairs. “That room… the wall is eating people.”
The wall eating people?
Classic case of hysteria, Vivian thought. Most likely an optical illusion or some kind of mold-induced hallucination.
She led the way up the creaking stairs, Cicero following, never closing his book.
The second-floor master bedroom door was ajar. Vivian pushed it open. The room was unlit, only a sliver of pale light filtering in through the curtains.
On the big bed in the center, a richly dressed Lady cowered in the corner, her eyes glued to the opposite wall.
A huge oil painting hung on that wall, depicting a family of three.
“Don’t look! Don’t look!” the Lady screamed.
Vivian squinted. The painting looked normal—nineteenth-century portrait style, nothing remarkable.
“Madam, it’s just a painting.” Vivian approached, hoping to soothe the client and show some professional flair.
“Human fears are often rooted in—”
“In ignorance,” Cicero cut in from behind.
He stood at the doorway, voice cold as frost. “If you’re only after a few francs’ bounty, I suggest you leave now. This isn’t a playhouse case for little girls.”
Vivian shot him a glare. To prove it was only a painting, she reached out and touched the frame.
The instant her fingertip made contact, a slick, slimy sensation shot up her nerves.
Before she could react, the dignified, smiling man in the painting suddenly blinked.
Then, all three figures in the portrait turned their heads in unison. Their eyes—once painted—became disturbingly real, bloodshot orbs, staring directly at Vivian.
The wallpaper around the frame began to writhe, as if countless insects crawled beneath the surface.
“What the hell…” Vivian jerked her hand back, heart pounding.
The painting suddenly opened a “mouth”—the once-smooth canvas splitting down the center to reveal jagged teeth.
An immense suction force burst forth, pulling vases and chairs towards that gaping maw.
Vivian felt her body grow light, dragged towards the painting by the monstrous force. Her skirt billowed, her deerstalker hat flying off.
“Help… help me!” The Lady on the bed was already lifted into the air, half her body drawn into the painting.
“Damn it!”
Vivian gritted her teeth, let go with one hand, pulled a rusty pair of scissors from her waist, and stabbed hard into the tongue-like canvas.
“Splurt.”
Black fluid gushed out as the monster in the painting wailed like a crying infant, the suction growing even stronger.
“How crude.” Cicero sighed.
He didn’t rush to help, but calmly flipped open his thick book, slender fingers pressing a page of yellowed paper.
“Basement Register of Notre-Dame, page 147.” His voice was soft, yet somehow cut through the piercing shrieks.
“Recorder’s Rebuttal: No evil spirit named ‘Gourmand’ exists here. That is the Greedy One’s delusion, a falsehood piled upon lies.” As he finished, an invisible ripple swept the room.
The raging painting seemed frozen. The real eyeballs reverted to dried paint, the torn mouth closed, leaving an ugly gash on the canvas.
The suction vanished. Vivian collapsed to the floor, gasping, staring wide-eyed at the now-peaceful wall.
“What… was that?” She looked up at Cicero.
Cicero closed his book, gazing down at the bedraggled Vivian, a mocking smile on his lips.
“Trash of history. What’s the matter, scared stiff, Miss Detective?”
Vivian stood, dusting off her skirt. Her legs still trembled, but her gaze was clear again. She stared at Cicero’s book, mind racing.
Just now, it was as if… when this man denied the monster’s existence with something, the monster truly disappeared.
“Was that an archive you just read from?” Vivian asked.
“Good ears.” Cicero straightened his collar. “Now, take your curiosity elsewhere. I’m taking over from here.”
“Says who?” Vivian retorted, picking up her scissors and pointing at the painting.
“The monster stopped, but look at the corner. The paint is still bleeding. Your rambling didn’t kill it entirely.”
Cicero narrowed his eyes.
Indeed, in the corner of the frame, black liquid continued to ooze.
“It’s not done feeding.” Vivian stared at the black blood, a sudden thought flashing through her mind.
“This family of three in the painting—why is the Lady’s necklace missing? I’ve seen a sketch of this painting, in a sketchbook at the Louvre. The Lady should be wearing a Ruby Necklace.”
Cicero’s expression finally changed. He looked at Vivian, serious now. “You have a photographic memory?”
“I just have a good memory.” Vivian gestured at the Lady, still cowering on the bed.
“And this Lady here happens to be wearing that very necklace.”
The painting shuddered again, more violently than before.
This time, Cicero offered no sarcasm. He quickly flipped through his book, his speech rapid. “Logical correction: Greed is not an entity. Restoration is termination.”
He turned to Vivian. “Throw the necklace to it!”
Vivian didn’t hesitate. She lunged at the still-shaking Lady.
“No! It’s mine!” The Lady clutched her neck.
Vivian slapped her hand away, ripped off the cold Ruby Necklace, and hurled it at the painting.
The moment the necklace touched the canvas, it sank in like a pebble into water. A sigh of satisfaction echoed through the room.
The painting stopped moving. It rapidly withered, turning to ashen dust that drifted to the floor.
The oppressive air vanished. Vivian collapsed onto the carpet, feeling as if her bones had turned to jelly.
A pale hand appeared before her. Cicero, holding a spotless handkerchief.
Vivian didn’t take it, eyeing him warily. “Whose credit is this? How do we split the reward?”
Cicero’s hand hung in the air for a moment, then he gave a brief, cold laugh.
“I don’t need money.” He put away the handkerchief. “But I’m a little curious about the brain that remembers third-rate artists’ sketchbooks.”
He bent down, his deep eyes locking with Vivian’s.
“If you’re interested, come to my office by Notre-Dame at nine tomorrow morning. I think you could use a job that’s not quite so deadly.”
With that, he turned and strode off, his black coat sweeping a sharp arc behind him.
Vivian watched his retreating back, then surveyed the wrecked room.
Notre-Dame?
Sounds like a conman’s den. But if he really doesn’t need money…
Vivian touched her empty stomach. No harm in checking it out. Worst case, she’d just wasted the trip.
Just then, she felt something heavy in her pocket.
Reaching in, her face paled.
The Ruby Necklace from earlier was in her pocket? The once-bright rubies were now an eerie pitch black.
A faint whisper brushed her ear:
“I want to eat more…”