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Etienne sat in the dark on his living room couch and stared at the dust on the coffee table. Like everything else in the house, it was dusty from his long absence. The dust was fascinating and peaceful - in that the only information it conveyed was that it had not been disturbed for a very long time. It didn’t tell him tales of unconscionable things he did in his absence. The dust didn’t give him searching looks. Silent questions, whether it was really him behind those new blue eyes and that new face with its crooked nose. The dust didn’t look at him with old pain made fresh by his return. It simply rested on the surface of the coffee table and waited.

They had spoken on the phone; he and his wife. She was his ex-wife now. The memory of the call didn’t hurt anymore, or at least not as much. There was just an emptiness that pervaded everything. Done was done. It didn’t matter to her that it wasn’t the real him that had done those things; she had moved on. Of course she had. “Why wouldn’t she?” he asked the dust, but received no reply.

He had called Vel after the phone went dead with Elizabeth and he thought he had calmed enough to speak to another person. Perhaps it was the sound of raw pain in his voice or because she was really his friend, but she had come right over. He needed her. He needed his friend desperately. She was a buoy of familiarity in a sea of nightmare and pain. She said she knew it was really him on the phone, but was convinced when she saw him, recognizing him even with this new face.

Vel had held him while the tears came and the world had stopped spinning for a few short moments in her arms. The solid reality of her arms around his neck grounded him in that spot, calming the madness of this awful homecoming and helped him bear it.

Lisa had come to see him soon after. She had just appeared in the living room stepping from the shadows, as was her way, and holding the staff sword he had given her so long ago. She still had it after everything. It was a hard meeting, but not as bad as the phone call with Elizabeth. This was healing. He had not lost the love of his adopted daughter after all. He had not lost everything. They had talked on the couch and cried together and renewed their bond. She was happy to have him home again.

Now she was gone and he was alone again in his old apartment staring at the dust. Etienne looked down at the ruined tweed suit he wore. The green wool was black from his bloody tears and the once pale salmon shirt was dark scarlet now. His hands smoothed over his thighs absently and found lumps in the pockets. He recalled there being keys there. Perhaps there was more. Thrusting his hands in the front pockets of the trousers he found a ring with three keys. Its broken, plastic fob read “I *heart* chih…” Who knew what it had read before its untimely accident.

The keys looked like a car key, a house key and a key to a business perhaps. The other pocket had a few crumpled bills, some change and a receipt for cigarettes. Perhaps the other pockets would give him more clues about this new host. If what he suspected was true and his prior host had overcome his spirit forcing him into a sleeplike state in his own subconscious it would be helpful to know what kind of person this new host had been.

A search of the jacket pockets revealed a pack of Gitanes with only one missing and a zippo lighter so worn the engraved image was unrecognizable. Arching an eyebrow in approval of the man’s taste in cigarettes, he removed one from the pack and put it to his lips. The zippo flicked open with that signature sound only a zippo makes its flame chasing shadows from their accustomed places and sending them scurrying about the darkened room. The cigarette’s tip glowed like iron in a smith’s forge as he pulled on it then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room and across the dusty coffee table. The exhalation was a sacrament, the smoke a prayer, the dust a silent witness. This was better.

Surely, there were more clues to be found. In his back right pocket he found the man’s wallet. Where bills should be there were countless scraps of paper. Receipts, lists, notes, postage stamps, business cards and a worn guitar pick crowded together in buttock shaped sedimentary layers. In the separate card slots there was a health club membership card that looked as if it had rarely left its slot, a pet store value card, a worn debit card and a driver’s license. It was time to find out who he was dealing with.

Pulling the ID card from its clear plastic sleeve, he saw the same face Vel had shown him on her cell phone. “Francois Bertrand.” he read aloud, scrutinizing the image carefully. How fascinating to think he had an entirely new face. Each time before, he had somehow reshaped the body of his host to duplicate his prior form. This time was different, yet he was not sure why. He dropped the wallet and driver’s license with mounting apprehension and tore up the sleeves of his shirt and jacket. “No. No! This cannot be!” horror brought his gorge rising to the back of his throat. They were gone. His tattoos were gone to the last. He tore the shirt and jacket from his torso in panic and revulsion searching for those treasured mementos of his life. Each had marked a rite of passage in his long spiritual journey.

He stood in the middle of the room bare to the waist. The heels of his hands ground into his eye sockets, teeth clenched. It seemed each moment brought a new loss. He needed to center. He needed to find peace; collect himself. He let his arms fall to his sides slowly then opened his eyes and looked for his cigarette. It might be wise to find it before he caught the house on fire. There to the right it smoldered on the carpet just under the couch. Shaking his head, he knelt and retrieved the cigarette then replaced it between his lips as he stood and faced the kitchen. Etienne drew hard on the cigarette, watching the tip glow then exhaled a dense cloud of smoke into the room. “Risible.” He said with a shrug and took another drag on the cigarette. It was all ridiculous and so exhausting.

Ashes fell heedless to the rug as he snatched the cigarette from his mouth and stretched his arms wide. Stripping as he went, he stalked to the bathroom through the dark house. He flipped the light switch on his way to the tub, but stopped in midstride when nothing happened. His face screwed up in annoyance as he turned to transfix the switch with a glare. After several attempts the light did not turn on. “Merde!” He cursed aloud then stalked to the hall and tried the switch there. Still no luck. He tried more switches then checked the breaker panel. Nothing was tripped. The power was simply off.

It made perfect sense when he thought about it. He had been gone for months and Elizabeth was unlikely to have paid the bills since she had left him. With a heavy sigh he crushed out the cigarette butt in the pot of a withered houseplant and returned to the bathroom. He pulled a towel from the metal towel rack on the wall and turned the water tap, but nothing happened. “Foutre moi!” he spat at the tap then spun about and stormed from the bathroom taking the stairs of the spiral staircase two at a time. He could at least put on fresh clothing. Etienne moved through the darkened library to his bedroom. On the dresser lay a note and the rings he had given Elizabeth. He closed his large, blue eyes tightly and took a breath before he took the letter and opened it.


Dear Etienne,
You have left me for the third time since we have been married. You have left our family once again. I can no longer endure this from thee. I can no longer make excuses for your actions when you are to be one of the two role models in this family.
You have cause my heart so much more pain than any man before you. I did not love Geffrey as you know and I certainly did not love Reynold and each time you die, you take a piece of me with you to the realms. You take a piece of this family with you to the realms.
I saw your memories and I saw that you did not fight back once last night after you attained a new bounty upon your head. Have I, or this family failed thee in some way? Do you wish to no longer be here, in this family or in the city? What have I or they done to deserve such a thing?

I will not be home when you decide to return. I have left and taken many of my belongings, for I do not know when I will return. If I will return. I am going to a place where I am surrounded by beauty, but feel nothing. I no longer feel your love for me or this family anymore and until you prove otherwise, I see no reason to be here anymore. My first priority is, and always has been the well being of this house. For this family.
No matter what, I will always love thee, but I cannot bear this pain anymore.
Elisabeth

His hands crumpled the paper violently as an inarticulate cry of rage hissed past his clenched teeth. “Maudit sois-tu!” he rasped out, but honestly couldn’t say who he was damning. Elisabeth? Was it the wraith that possessed him and ruined his life? Perhaps it was himself he was damning for not being strong enough to resist its invasion. The rage fled as quickly as it had come. He had stopped just short of shredding the paper. Now he smoothed it carefully and replaced it on the dresser beside the rings. The sapphires and diamonds sparkled from the moonlight shining in through the glass balcony doors and the sight of those all too familiar rings lying so bare on the dresser brought the lump back to his throat. Why had he come to the bedroom? He couldn’t think of the reason. “Ah, oui, fresh clothing.” He looked in the dresser and removed clean underwear and socks then chose a dark wool suit from the closet. He laid these out on the bed then chose a set of sweats and put them on. His clothes were looser on this new body. Digging in the bottom of the closet he fished out a pair of worn Rockports and was pleasantly surprised when they fit.

He needed a shower, but wanted a nice long soak in a tub of hot water. The soak could wait until tomorrow night. Surely he could reestablish his utilities by then. For now he would go borrow Lisa’s shower. He couldn’t walk around like a blood-caked nightmare when the utility men arrived. Pulling an empty gym bag from the closet he packed the clothes and left the empty apartment.

After a good shower he would return and rebuild his life starting with the unquestioning dust.

Etienne sat at his desk, his scruffy chin cradled in his hand while his index finger tapped out a staccato rhythm on his cheek. A driver’s license lay on the scarred, leather blotter before him.

Francois Bertrand
327 Willow Creek Lane
Harper Rock, Ontario

The keys lay next to the ID, the inscription “I *heart* Chih…” face up. These artifacts seemed to accuse him of both familiarity and murder. It had happened again. He had returned from Shadow and destroyed another life.

Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Pause. The rhythm of his finger was steady like the heart that once beat in his chest. Yet, there it was. That was the point. This was not his chest or at least had not been two weeks ago. The no longer pumping mass of tissue in his chest belonged to another man who’s face stared back at him with a goofy smile and crooked nose. He was used to having a crooked nose, but this one bent to the left instead of to the right. Etienne wondered if Francois’s brother had broken his nose like Gaston had broken his. That was what brothers were for, right?

His new heart constricted in pain at the thought of Gaston and the memories of his family in France. His brother had not heard from him in almost a year and was likely worried sick or even more likely just assumed he was being a self-absorbed, elitist asshole who didn’t care enough about his family to call them. Didn’t that sound familiar? Elizabeth had said something so very similar to him so many times recently. What was it she had said? “If you truly cared as much for me and this family as you do yourself you would have returned from wherever you were much sooner! You would not have taken the actions that put you there!” She hadn’t listened to a word of what he thought had happened or how he felt about the situation. Perhaps he simply asked for more than she could give.

It seemed a variation on the same old theme. “If you truly cared about your family you would stay and help Gaston with the vineyard.” Merci papa. “If you truly cared for me you would take me with you to Paris. We can live together while you go to University. Don’t you love me?” Merci Sabine. “If you truly cared for your position with this Universitie you would not go to Iraq. The Army does not need an officer who will shirk his responsibilities as you are doing now.” Merci Professeur Martin. All those voices echoed in his mind with the same accusing questions. None of them had listened to him.

He had tried to reason with his father telling him that he had no talent for agriculture whereas Gaston had two green thumbs and the vines seemed to perk up when he was near them. It would be easier for Gaston to run the family business if he did not have his little brother drinking the stock and fighting with him constantly as they always had.

Then there was pretty Sabine. Their affair had been brief and physical. She was a farm girl who hated everything about the city and anything that would require her to think. She was convinced she loved him and wanted to be his wife. He had told her she was just in love with the idea of being in love, with the fantasy. Sabine did not believe him even when he told her he did not love her. Etienne had to leave to prove it to her, yet she still asked his parents and brother about him even after she married Claude Beauchene from a neighboring farm. Claude could give her what she most wanted, but he would never be Etienne.

The Army had come to the Universitie looking for educated men to recruit for the next generation of officers. “France needs you, Professeur Thibodeaux!” the recruiter’s speech had been knowledgeable, eloquent, and particularly moving for a young scholar who lived in the tales of mythological heroes and ancient religious morality plays. Etienne had accepted the recruiter’s offer immediately. Professeur Martin did not understand that it was his duty to serve his country. France needed him!

Etienne proved himself an excellent strategist and officer. He was assigned to lead a BFST unit and was sent to Iraq to subvert the Iraqi forces any way possible. He excelled at his missions in his four years there, but the experience changed him. Etienne learned a sobering truth. France didn’t need him. French industry needed lucrative oil contracts.

Now these two items accused him of not caring with their cold, implacable motionlessness. The face of Francois Bertrand stupidly smiling at him could not be ignored. Like he had done before, he must repay the debt for this life taken. He stood and swiped the keys and ID off the table and into his coat pocket. It was time to discover who Francois Bertrand was.

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327 Willow Creek lane was a modest house from the outside. It was a typical harper Rock two–story with a two car driveway and over grown conifers in the yard. A pile of newspapers lay on the welcome mat allowing only part of the W to peek through the mound and multiple rolled up sale papers were affixed to the door knob with rubber bands. Etienne looked around then dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with his foot. He fished the keys from his coat pocket and tried the first one on the door. Too small. Wait. That one had a number on it like a locker key or something. The second key opened the door. He pushed the door open against a mass of mail piled on the other side that had been deposited through the mail slot.

“Merde!” he cried and jumped back as he was assaulted by vicious snarling and barking from near his feet. Etienne kept the door between himself and the animal as he looked down to see it was a tiny Chihuahua of perhaps 2 kilos if it were soaking wet. It snapped and snarled at him, but quickly appeared to run out of gas and began to whine. The poor thing looked half starved. “Aww, ma saucisse peu!” he crouched down and extended his hand to the tiny dog fingers down so that it could sniff him. Its brown eyes, huge for its little round head, regarded him distrustfully as it growled. The Chihuahua had the courage to sniff him then whined quizzically as if unsure of what he smelled. The dog vibrated and ran around in small circles then barked at him, growled again, then ran off into another room. A moment later it came back and stopped halfway into the room and barked again. It looked at him for a moment then growled and left the same way it had come.

“Do you want me to follow you?” Etienne called out to the dog. He was answered by a sharp bark from the next room. He came in the rest of the way and closed the front door behind him then, following the sound, he went into the next room to find a kitchen and the Chihuahua standing next to an empty bowl and an empty water dish. “You poor little man. Let’s see what we can find for you, oui?” A brief search of the kitchen rewarded him with a bag of high end, small breed dog food and told him that Francois Bertrand had no concept of what real food was or how to prepare it. His dog ate better than he had. The cabinets were stocked with boxes of crackers, cookies, dry cereal, cans of soup, sardines, ravioli and other things that required only the minimal skills necessary to either push a button or heat it up in a pan.

Etienne the connoisseur, was aghast. The man was a Phillistine! Clucking his tongue he poured a ration of food into the dog’s bowl then filled the other bowl with water. The dog just sat looking up at him and drooling. “Well, go ahead, idiote, eat.” The dog twitched as if it was about to move then sat back down wagging it’s tail. It looked up at him and whined as if waiting for him to do something. “I said eat, idiote dog!” what was wrong with this animal? “Manger, chien stupide!” at this the dog attacked its food with gusto. “Donc, vous parlez français, mon petit ami!”

While the dog ate, taking a piece of food from the bowl and moving a few feet away to eat it, Etienne explored the house. There were framed pictures of Francois with various people Etienne did not know. One person in particular was in most of the pictures with him. She was a very attractive woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. His girlfriend, Etienne concluded. Judging by the décor and condition of the house it was obvious that no woman of that quality lived here. There were books, though, books on the tables, on the chairs, on the unmade bed. At least the man was educated. Various framed diplomas graced the wall above the mantle in the living room. Two of note: One being from a Universitie in France and another from Canada. He was well educated, it seemed, with advanced degrees in chemistry and science.

Etienne sat down heavily in the worn leather chair near the fireplace and lit a cigarette. This was a well educated man who would be missed. “Arf!” came a sharp bark from the vicinity of his feet followed by a whine. He patted his thigh and the dog jumped up into his lap and curled up like he had done it a thousand times before. “And…now I have a dog. What is your name, mon petit ami?” there was a leather collar around the dog’s neck with a brass name plate. “Napoleon. Napoleon?” Etienne laughed and scratched the dog behind its big ears. “A vampire with a Chihuahua. How ridiculous!”