The darkness of the Saint-Eustache catacombs seemed to curdle as Faust slowly turned his head.
Behind him, the shadows had solidified into a nightmare of French legend: the Tarasque.
It was a monstrous contradiction of biology—a heavy, low-slung body armored like a prehistoric turtle, supported by six thick, reptilian legs with claws that could rend oak like paper. Its head was a terrifying fusion of a lion's snarl and a crocodile's snout.
Just as the Ars Goetia had warned, the creature possessed a sense of smell that could track a single drop of sweat through a hurricane. But as Faust stared, his doctor's eyes noticed something through the terror: the beast's eye sockets were raw, weeping craters of red.
Someone had blinded it.
Faust stood as still as the stone buildings around him.
He wasn't wearing his tricorne hat, so the bells were silent for now, but the crimson velvet suit felt like a death trap.
Slowly, his hand crept toward the small of his back, reaching for the cold, reassuring grip of his American revolver.
'Next time,' he hissed mentally, 'I'm asking Wunder for a plain black cloak. This fool's finery is going to be my shroud.'
Suddenly, the silence shattered.
To the left, a stray cat—drawn perhaps by the scent of the blood—knocked a glass bottle into a pile of refuse.
Faust flinched.
The slight movement was enough.
The silver bells sewn into his sleeves gave a sharp, crystalline jingle that echoed through the stone hall.
The Tarasque's head snapped toward him, its nostrils flared, tasting the air.
It hissed, a sound like a furnace door opening.
Then, as if deciding the cat was a more immediate nuisance, it pivoted with surprising speed.
Faust caught a glimpse of a deep, jagged cut across its ridged back and left leg—fresh wounds from a heavy blade.
The beast lunged into the darkness where the cat had vanished, its heavy footfalls fading into a distant, guttural roar.
A minute passed that felt like an eternity.
Faust exhaled, his "multiple heartbeats" finally slowing to a frantic gallop.
He didn't wait for a second chance.
With a grimace of pure annoyance, he began to strip.
He tore off the bell-laden crimson jacket and the mismatched trousers, leaving them in a heap of silent velvet on the blood-stained floor.
He stood in the gloom, stripped down to his basic underwear.
The sight was a jarring contrast to the "Mephisto" the world knew: broad, powerful shoulders, a muscular build honed by years of travel, and the pale, circular patches protecting his nipples from the constant friction of the heavy velvet—a practical, if slightly ridiculous, secret of the trade.
He grabbed the "Ars Goetia," its iron-bound weight cold against his skin, and shoved it into the large, single pocket of his under-tunic.
He followed it with the silver Tarot box, offering a silent, shamed apology to Don-Fran's wife for the total lack of dignity in his current state.
"A Duke of the realm, a Doctor of Leiden, standing in a slaughterhouse in his small-clothes," he thought bitterly. "If my father could see me now."
Faust turned to find the exit, but the air suddenly grew heavy.
A low, rhythmic thrumming—not a hiss, but a deep, vibrating growl—shook the stones beneath his bare feet.
He froze.
Emerging from the shadows of the main archway was another Tarasque.
This one was larger, its shell more jagged, its build broader and more lethal.
It was the male.
Unlike the first beast, its face was unmarked.
Two glowing, reptilian eyes, yellow as sulfur and sharp as a hunter's blade, were locked onto him.
There was no sniffing, no confusion.
This creature saw the man.
The male Tarasque didn't roar.
It simply lowered its head, its massive claws digging into the cobblestones, and stared Mephisto dead in the eye.