Excerpt of Shadow Ritual by Eric Giacometti, Jacques Ravenne

Sophie Dawes scurried across the large room, stumbling
more than once because only the outside lights
illuminated the space. She gasped each time she hit
something. Fear constricted her blood vessels.

The library entrance was just over there. Maybe, just
maybe she could escape. She turned the handle, using all
her strength. In vain. The elaborately carved wooden door
remained shut. Exhausted from her sprint, Sophie
collapsed on the floor.

She heard soft footsteps coming toward her. The person
was moving along the fresco-covered wall. Sophie could
hear the din of the party in the ground-floor reception
room. She took a deep breath and crept toward a window.

“It’s no use.” The voice was firm, definitive.?

Paralyzed by fear, Sophie looked up slowly. In front of
her stood a young blonde woman wearing a strange smile.
She was holding a telescopic baton with a metal tip.

The voice rang out again. “Where are the documents?”
“What documents? I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Please, let me go,” Sophie pleaded.?

“Don’t act stupid,” the woman said, using her baton to
slowly lift Sophie’s skirt. “What you found is none of
your business. You are just an archivist. I only need to
know where the papers are.”

A wave of panic ran through Sophie. She felt stripped
naked.

“You were hired as an archivist a year ago, right after
your thesis at the Sorbonne. That was quite a
presentation you made. The jury really liked it, although
you looked a little stiff in your brand-new suit. Let’s
see, what else can I tell you? Oh yes, you were supposed
to go to Jerusalem tomorrow.”

“That can’t be,” Sophie moaned. You can’t...”

“But it is. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me
anything? I can go on. Your thesis director found you
that job. He has many friends, or should I say brothers?”

Sophie tried to get up, but the baton came down on her.
She cried out in pain and clutched her shoulder.

“Quiet, or I’ll break your other shoulder blade.”

“Please.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” Sophie cried out. “I don’t know
anything.”

The woman’s voice became more sinister. “You shouldn’t
lie,” she whispered. “Perhaps I have not made myself
entirely clear.”

She swung the black ebony instrument in the air and
brought it down on Sophie’s neck. Sophie lost all the
feeling in her legs.

The voice was singsong now. “You cannot move anymore, but
you can still talk. This is your last chance.”

Sophie Dawes knew that the final blow would be fatal if
she kept silent. She would die right here. Although she
was just above a room filled with more than a hundred
guests, no one would take notice, and no one would help.

“At the Hilton. My room, number 326. Please don’t hurt
me,” she said, staring into her torturer’s almond-shaped
eyes. They were keen and distant. Sophie had fallen for
this woman at the party. She had introduced herself as
Helen and told Sophie that she was studying for an
advanced degree in art history. They had talked with
passion about Renaissance painters. Sophie thought she
was graceful and exciting. She couldn’t resist when the
beautiful blonde suggested that they go someplace quiet,
far from the crowd, to explore the frescos.

The two women had slipped upstairs as the uninterested
security guards looked on. The nightmare had begun as
soon as Helen closed the door behind them. The blonde had
pulled her close as if to kiss her. Then Sophie saw the
small black instrument, felt the electric shock, and fell
to the floor. The woman then lifted her onto a sofa.

Sophie had come to quickly. She kicked her attacker in
the ribs and ran toward the library.

Now Sophie had lost. She prayed that her attacker would
just leave. It wasn’t fair. She was only twenty-eight.
Helen smiled. Her expression looked affectionate, and
Sophie felt relief.

“Thank you. Your death will be quicker.”?The angel of
death kissed Sophie gently on the forehead and swung the
baton.?Sophie heard it coming and lifted a hand to shield
her face. Her fingers broke under the blow. She
collapsed, her eyebrow split open. Her blood flowing onto
the polished floor.

Below her, a quartet was playing selections from an
opera. The sounds of the party rose through the
floorboards and slipped along the ancient walls, filling
the private chambers and gilded sitting rooms.

Sophie recognized the Donizetti aria, “Una furtive
lagrima,” just as she understood the full significance of
the three blows: one to the shoulder, one to the neck,
and one to the forehead.