'None has resisted me,none will resist me.
I shall be put asleep for a century,
but I will come back in all my glory.
Wait for me.
Fear me.'
- The Book of Torments
Prologue
Waiting. Motionless for more than a century.
Nobody suspected the threat. How could anyone have?
And he knew that his longing was coming to an end.
Unaware of the danger, the young man approached it. Holding it in his hands, he appreciated the fascinating engraving of the cover. Two interlaced snakes.
All was not played yet. He could have put it down and gone on with his life as he had always lived it, but destiny chose differently. With the tip of his fingers, he opened the leathered cover and read the first words. A furious hammering started in his head.
The Book of Torments had just seized its prey.
Nobody suspected the threat. How could anyone have?
And he knew that his longing was coming to an end.
Unaware of the danger, the young man approached it. Holding it in his hands, he appreciated the fascinating engraving of the cover. Two interlaced snakes.
All was not played yet. He could have put it down and gone on with his life as he had always lived it, but destiny chose differently. With the tip of his fingers, he opened the leathered cover and read the first words. A furious hammering started in his head.
The Book of Torments had just seized its prey.
Chapter 1.
April in Paris was beautiful. Fascinated by the beauty of the surroudings, David Sandborn strolled a few moments along the Seine and then walked past City Hall.
For sure, I enjoy New York, but there's no doubt, I love Paris.
His arrival a week earlier was the result of a long battle with Swain Wilcox, his editor. In addition to his nightmares, which recurrence was becoming alarming, came an inspiration blackout that paralyzed him. But Wilcox gave him no choice : it was Paris or a lobotomy.
With a nervous movement of his head, he replaced a lock of hair off his forehead and crossed Rivoli street, moving along with the packed crowd of the rue du Temple.
The writer was fascinated by the Marais, an astonishing collection of buildings erected over several centuries. But more than architecture, it was its unique wildlife - wired, active and laid-back - that left him spellbound. A pure wonder.
He crossed in front of Blancs-Manteaux street where he had rented an apartment for a few months and sat on a bench near a tree. Across the road, a small face chiseled above the portal was staring at him with a vaguely menacing look.
There's no better remedy than walking into an open air museum.
A tingling in his neck made him turn his head.
An old man, sitting on the sidewalk against the wall of a bank, was watching him carefully. The man, stocky, was wearing a rough friars dress. Leaning against his arm was a dog whose coat seemed the cross between a Dalmatian and a harlequin costume.
With a friendly smile, the old man waved at David.
Despite his natural distrust (let's keep cool - after all, France is the land of joie de vivre), David joined him and stroked the animal's head:
- Your dog is awesome. He would be a sure hit at a masquerade. Can I do something for you?
- I think, young man, that I just saved your life.
Well, after all, this guy is nuts.
As David was standing up, the man added:
- And if I were you, I'd stop for a few seconds the lady that will come out of the bank. She shouldn't cross the street.
The door of the bank opened at the same moment. A young woman in her twenties walked out briskly. Her delicate face was framed with thick ebony hair.
He gasped.
Her.
This direct and unwaveving gaze, this unique way of holding her head that showed energy barely contained... There was no doubt. She was the stranger who haunted his nightmares for years. She appeared so often in his dreams that he felt like meeting a longtime friend. How was this possible?
She moved two steps, negligently looked at David and stopped.
- I'm sorry, he mumbled... Would you know what time it is?
A metallic screech made them turn their head.
The front tire of a scooter had punctured. The driver, now fallen on the street, was lying on the path of the truck he had just passed. One hand on the pavement, he raised the other in vain, a few meters from the monster bearing down on him. The wheels of the truck crushed his motorcycle. In an ultimate reaction, the driver gave a sudden swerve to the right, narrowly missing the boy, and threw his vehicle on the sidewalk. Without slowing, he collided head-on with the bench where David was sitting a few minutes earlier, making it literally explode under the impact. Continuing his course, he crashed against the tree. Precisely where the young woman should have been standing before crossing the road.
His heart pounding, David rushed to the street. He stopped suddenly, turned towards the elderly sitting against the wall and froze. The old man and the dog with the harlequin coat had disappeared.
For sure, I enjoy New York, but there's no doubt, I love Paris.
His arrival a week earlier was the result of a long battle with Swain Wilcox, his editor. In addition to his nightmares, which recurrence was becoming alarming, came an inspiration blackout that paralyzed him. But Wilcox gave him no choice : it was Paris or a lobotomy.
With a nervous movement of his head, he replaced a lock of hair off his forehead and crossed Rivoli street, moving along with the packed crowd of the rue du Temple.
The writer was fascinated by the Marais, an astonishing collection of buildings erected over several centuries. But more than architecture, it was its unique wildlife - wired, active and laid-back - that left him spellbound. A pure wonder.
He crossed in front of Blancs-Manteaux street where he had rented an apartment for a few months and sat on a bench near a tree. Across the road, a small face chiseled above the portal was staring at him with a vaguely menacing look.
There's no better remedy than walking into an open air museum.
A tingling in his neck made him turn his head.
An old man, sitting on the sidewalk against the wall of a bank, was watching him carefully. The man, stocky, was wearing a rough friars dress. Leaning against his arm was a dog whose coat seemed the cross between a Dalmatian and a harlequin costume.
With a friendly smile, the old man waved at David.
Despite his natural distrust (let's keep cool - after all, France is the land of joie de vivre), David joined him and stroked the animal's head:
- Your dog is awesome. He would be a sure hit at a masquerade. Can I do something for you?
- I think, young man, that I just saved your life.
Well, after all, this guy is nuts.
As David was standing up, the man added:
- And if I were you, I'd stop for a few seconds the lady that will come out of the bank. She shouldn't cross the street.
The door of the bank opened at the same moment. A young woman in her twenties walked out briskly. Her delicate face was framed with thick ebony hair.
He gasped.
Her.
This direct and unwaveving gaze, this unique way of holding her head that showed energy barely contained... There was no doubt. She was the stranger who haunted his nightmares for years. She appeared so often in his dreams that he felt like meeting a longtime friend. How was this possible?
She moved two steps, negligently looked at David and stopped.
- I'm sorry, he mumbled... Would you know what time it is?
A metallic screech made them turn their head.
The front tire of a scooter had punctured. The driver, now fallen on the street, was lying on the path of the truck he had just passed. One hand on the pavement, he raised the other in vain, a few meters from the monster bearing down on him. The wheels of the truck crushed his motorcycle. In an ultimate reaction, the driver gave a sudden swerve to the right, narrowly missing the boy, and threw his vehicle on the sidewalk. Without slowing, he collided head-on with the bench where David was sitting a few minutes earlier, making it literally explode under the impact. Continuing his course, he crashed against the tree. Precisely where the young woman should have been standing before crossing the road.
His heart pounding, David rushed to the street. He stopped suddenly, turned towards the elderly sitting against the wall and froze. The old man and the dog with the harlequin coat had disappeared.
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