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world.
    Whatever wild and irresponsible imaginings were bred in the depths of the Latin Quarter, they seem to have affected M. Leroux more than most. His friends report that his already dark demeanor took on an even bleaker countenance in the weeks preceding his death and that he spoke endlessly and without bidding of his fear of sleep.
    In any event, whatever the cause, the world of art has lost a true master. In this of all cities, he will be mourned and he will be remembered.
     
    Personal Diary of Inspector François le Villard (translated)
    2 May 1933
     
    In the twenty-five years I have served as an inspector with La Sûreté Nationale, I have never seen the like of what I came upon in the Cour du Dragon last night. We were called to a small basement apartment in the Latin Quarter, within which we found a scene of such horror as any that heaven has ever bent above. A young girl—she couldn’t have been older than eighteen—was ripped apart as if by some beast, though what animal could render such carnage I cannot say.
    The press—scoundrels all—have revealed much of what the poor girl suffered and the indignities visited upon her by whatever devil even now walks the streets of Paris. These vultures pick at her bones. They have no respect for the living, and even less for the dead. My only comfort is that they have yet to draw a connection between the death of the artist Henri Leroux and that of the young woman whose identity remains a mystery. Are they somehow connected? Perhaps. I find it difficult to believe that such bizarre events could coincide both in date and location and have no common thread to bind them together. Was Leroux involved? Was he somehow complicit? What compelled him to throw himself from the Pont Des Arts? Could it have been guilt for such a heinous crime?
    It is impossible to yet know, though I hope that our investigation will illuminate the facts. For now, I am focusing my efforts on determining the origin of a phrase found carved into the skin of the murder victim, a piece of the crime scene that the press—despite the leaks within my department—has not yet brought to light.
    In the skin above her left breast, in the flesh that would have covered her heart—if it were still within her body—three words were inscribed. Il est ressuscité —he is risen! The words chilled me, this mockery of the true faith, this blasphemy. And the implication shook me to my core. Could it be that a Christian had done this thing? Or could it mean something else entirely, something darker, something far more sinister? Of what foul rising do these words speak? And what dark power did this poor girl die to resurrect, what black ritual did her sacrifice complete?
    I will have answers to these questions. I will find this girl’s murderer. That is my promise. That is my cause.
     

 

Chapter 8
     
    Journal of Henry Armitage
    July 23, 1933
     
    It was early this morning when Rachel and I boarded a flight bound for Berlin. It wasn’t long after we were in the air that she started to ask questions.
    “So,” she said, leaning forward, “this Erich Zann character, you think my father was right? You think he’s responsible for his disappearance?”
    I nodded. “He has to be. Other than to your father, the Incendium Maleficarum rarely calls to the innocent. Zann wanted what Carter had, and he was willing to do anything to get it. Like I said, where we find Zann, we find Carter. I’d bet my life on it.”
    Her eyes trailed to the window and the endless horizon. “That book. I always knew that it would come down to this. It’s hard to believe, really. One of the first memories I have, one of the first things I remember from my childhood, is seeing it on my father’s desk. The sun would hit it in the afternoon, and the gold lettering would shimmer. It was almost like a fire, the way it danced in the light. There was something about it, you know? Something that drew me even then. But I was afraid of it, too.