The Killing of Julien Jean - Team Secrets Decameron 2.0 Project

MAN OF MASKS By BelitAM

The bastard was dead.

Smoke veiled my sight of a glittering room. An improvement, truly - I'd never been to an uglier place. Wealth dripped like piss from every surface. Gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. The cost of the tableware alone'd be enough to feed a working family for a month.

The table was heavy with food. Most of it'd gone untouched, but the wine was disappearing by the bottle. I'd hardly drank a full glass since sitting down. A maid fluttered at my elbow, ready with a refill. I shook my head. The girl curtsied and hurried away. She was beautiful in the soft, innocent way some women had. Sheep for slaughter. I wondered how deep Bouvier had dug his rotten teeth into her before kicking the bucket.
I leant back in my chair. A slow perusal of the room revealed its occupants thoroughly preoccupied with their own debauched selves. If I'd been here for them, if it'd been that kind of mission, it would've been over with nary a struggle.

But it wasn't and I wasn't. Pity.

A soft cough drew my attention to the woman sitting on my left. Irene Grace. She glared at me over the red tip of her cigarette. Her eyes were those of a starved, maddened beast. A kindred spirit. I might have spared her, had I been sent here as a butcher rather than a spy.

"Enjoying yourself, Monsieur Prieur?"

"Quite," I lied. Grace gave me a thin smile and turned her attention back to the vaulted ceiling. She had been studying it off and on for most of the night. Perhaps she saw something there, something hidden in the shadows above us. Bouvier's corpse hung by its intestines amid the chandeliers.

What a pleasant image.

Vera's voice rumbled from across the room, rough with dark amusement. I focused on it instinctively; five years in the Service and four before that in the Army had made me finely attuned to danger. And this man - this man was dangerous. His words were tipped with poison. His gaze was sharp and unforgiving. I'd done my best not to meet his eyes all evening. The thought that'd he'd see, that he'd know was foolish but would not be dispelled.
The man seated next to Vera puffed up in affront at Vera's casual malice. I searched my mind for a name to attach to the face. Morris. Mousy man, too pretty and too naive for his own good. He'd been throwing Bouvier's empty chair mournful looks all evening. A jab or two from Vera's sharp tongue, and Morris had a new object of obsession. I took a sip of wine, washing down a disgusted snort. Those who sought destruction willingly were not to be pitied.

A sudden flurry of movement had me sitting up stiffly. The serving staff was bustling around the table, bearing trays laden with yet more alcohol. Absinthe. I accepted a glass, as it would've appeared strange if I did not. I had no desire to drink. I had no desire to be here at all and would've long returned to London, had it not been for that damned invitation. Addressed to Jacques Prieur, yes, but still too suspicious to ignore. Dead men didn't send letters. They didn't throw parties to celebrate their deaths, either.

Valentin launched into a story. Her secret, she said - and won't we share one of our own? Sharing wasn't the point, of course. The woman had nary a thought about the suffering of others. Valentin wanted to be heard. She wanted a stage, and an audience, and found it in us. I had no patience for her pathetic blubbering. The shocked faces around the table amused me deeply. How strange the rich were. How far removed from the real world, currently ravaged by war and poverty and not at all concerned with Belen Valentin's illicit relationships.

Vera's revelation was more troubling. Mostly for being insane, but also because it was clear the man believed every word that fell from his lips. Split souls and clocks that reversed time. Death through music. I called him absurd, yes, and when he finished his dramatic monologue I couldn't help myself - I laughed, loud and harsh and not at all gentleman-like.

Vera glared at me with the Devil's own eyes. "You think death funny, Monsieur Prieur?"

Perhaps it was Vera's eyes on me, or that false name in his voice. Suddenly I, too, felt like sharing.

"I do, Mr. Vera. Death is a constant companion, and one I've found quite pleasant."

Vera's fierce expression melted into something less violent, more curious. All eyes were on me. All except Irene's, who had not yet found what she sought in the ceiling. I smiled. The absinthe glinted in my glass, not yet tasted.

"You say you've taken lives. Plucked them out from living bodies, was it, Mr. Vera? Strung them into your lovely cello, to play for the gods." Jacques Prieur's carefully-composed persona was breaking with every word, but I couldn't stop. The words'd choke me if I tried to hold them back. "So very neat. No blood on your hands. No screams. You banished Bouvier, and so he's gone. Poof!" I clapped my hands. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet room. The maid - the pretty, soft thing - startled so badly she almost dropped her tray. Irene was looking at me now, too. There was recognition in her eyes. She'd seen the monster in me. The bloodlust born of war.

"Let me tell you how I killed JJ. Let me show you a different kind of death." My smile was my own this time. Claude Hatcher's, not Jacques Prieur's. The sudden shedding of skin had people shifting in their seats with unease.

"I brought him back to my hotel. I let him think he had me, as he thought he would. I invited him in. Offered him a glass of brandy and took one for myself. He drank and watched me and smiled his slick, greedy grin and I," excitement frizzled, made the words come faster and more passionate, "I smashed my brandy into his face, hard enough for the glass to carve its way in all the way to bone."
Someone gasped. The maid swayed in place gently, eyes wide in terror. I felt no remorse. She'd thank me, if she were smart enough to find a lesson rather than a nightmare in my words.

I continued. I knew I should stop now - that I'd already said too much - but it wasn't done yet. The JJ in my mind still watched me with that ugly, covetous grin. He had to go.

"Skin peels so easily. Mr. Vera, if you'd like something more substantial for your violin's strings, consider harvesting the bodies you discard. JJ screamed, of course. Tried to fight. I broke both his hands, then his left leg when he attempted escape. I cut his throat last, so he may die as he lived. Like a pig.

"This," I finished, "is how I killed Julien Bouvier." I toasted the room with the remainder of my wine.
Vera licked his lips. A considering light had entered his eyes. I held his gaze, unflinching. One predator to another.

Valentin cleared her throat. She launched into another story, this time about the sugar cubes she'd apparently procured from Europe. I watched her motion jerkily. The rest of the guests had decided, silently and unanimously, to pretend the last few minutes hadn't happened.

The pleasure won by the brief reenactment of my fantasies waned. These people, with their stories and wants and sins - what place did I have in their world? What did they in mine? A war had been fought and won and lost, and here they were, going on about their twisted lives like nothing had happened. Because nothing had happened for most of them, nothing outside their own banal intrigues. The money spent on this mission, the time and energy - for what? Even had Bouvier been trading stolen art, was that really on par with the many, many public needs going unmet in the war's aftermath?

The answer appeared to be yes. Because the men who funded the SIS, and the government, and the Crown itself were as interested in gilded paintings and sugar cubes from Europe as the people assembled in this tomb of a manor. The realization left me cold.

The sugar cubes were being distributed. They went in the absinthe, apparently. The maid avoided my eyes when she handed me my share. I had to clench my teeth, less I growl at her. How foolish people were, to prefer snakes that hide their poison to those who wear their marks proudly. Bouvier had certainly not lacked for sycophants.

The sugar dissolved into the absinthe with a low hiss. I brought the glass to my mouth, and - hesitated. My eyes went back to where Valentin sat. The woman was staring fixedly at her own glass. Her hands shook as they cradled it.
I took a small sip. Just a taste, enough to wet my tongue. The trace of metal sweetness had my lips curling into a grin.

Oh.

That's how it was.

I set my glass aside. Those around me drank, small sips turning into larger gulps. Their love for all things rich was about to pull them into their graves. A good man might have told them, helped them.

I lit up a new cigarette, inhaled.

I was not a good man.