When they release the profligate priest known as Eustache Blanchet, he is hurled from his prison into the street. He has a sickly look to him and an edict of exile over his head. Anyone caught aiding him, feeding him, even speaking to him, will be excommunicated. Men and women both, hurl rotten fruit at him and chase him from Nantes. I follow as he runs from his reputation, to hide himself in anonymity as I have done a score of times. He travels eastward on foot, no doubt for the succor of Italy. At the trial he told his tale of being dispatched for Florence in search of alchemists and black magicians; it is reasonable to return, though this time, he will be destitute.
After dark on the third day, I watch him skulk into a small, derelict barn just outside of Cholet. He climbs into the tiny loft and makes himself a bed. In silence, I creep in, and as he sleeps, I unfurl my displeasure from the rafters. He stirs, restless though he has been walking for days, and eventually, his eyes open in the darkness, and wander upward. Perhaps he looks for God.
He finds me.
“Eustache,” I murmur.
In a flurry of movement, he scampers backward. I know that something is not right, as soon as my feet touch the mouldering timber. The floor gives with a violent crack, and both of us fall from on high. I feel the flesh being rent as the giant splinter drags up my side. Pain burns through sinew as I land in a tumble. Blanchett is the worse for it. As I fight to breathe, spittle dropping from my open mouth, he sobs. I know at a glance, that his leg is broken.
Hand clutching my side, I stare down at him. The demon is kept at bay with promises of a speedy gratification. I beg it for one sweet moment, of at least some equity, some justice.
Eyes glazed with suffering, the man stares up at the bloodless tear in my flesh. His lets out a cry, as I flex my claws and leer at him.
“Demon…monster!”
“Barron will do.”
What little color was in his face, leaves it completely. “No…this is not—”
“Lie to me, Eustache. Tell me you had nothing to do with any of it. Tell me you didn’t know what happened to all those tiny babes. You left his service for a reason. What more is there to lose?”
“I am hurt…oh, I am dying. Please…”
“You are a man of God… a fine conquest for me. Will you serve me instead, as you did Gilles de Rais?”
He whimpers unintelligibly. I shuffle closer to him, the agony almost unbearable, and shift some debris. It is worse than I thought; a piece of wood has gone through his thigh, and blood is flowing freely.
What a waste.
“Will you…serve the Devil…Man of God?”
“Yes, yes…but please help me!”
And so I do. First to his maker, and then to my stomach.
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