The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle by Christopher Ward Page A

eyebrows resembled French accent marks. While she concentrated on her screen, I slipped past as quickly as possible, blocked from her sight by a huge vase of black roses. The sleek hallway was covered with black-and-white photos of every possible phase of the moon. Deep carpeting added to the funereal hush of the place. Expensive, tasteful, and slightly terrifying was the mood du jour . Passing offices with the doors shut and the throbbing glow of computer screens inside, I wandered for some time without seeing anyone until I turned a corner and almost walked into a pack of Shadows, all lighting up together. They sucked up the smoke like nutrition, and when they exhaled, it was a wonder they could see each other, never mind spot me.
    â€œOkay, it’s time,” muttered one, and they all seeped into the nearest set of doors.
    I followed at a distance down a stark blue-lit hallway as they joined others gathering in what looked like a science fiction laboratory, a room full of gleaming tubes, keyboards, and screens displaying charts and strange symbols. Dominating it all was a huge fish tank–like structure holding what appeared to be floating, spinning, sparkling drops of water, dancing like fireflies in the glassed-in space. A chubby scientist type, who looked like a Shadow in reverse with jet black rock star hair and a silver flowing lab coat, paced, hovered, and made adjustments as the group settled around a table. While the smoke and reek of this lot was disgusting enough, it made it easier to remain unnoticed in the hall. It was no surprise to me when the master of nasty ceremonies eased in through a side door and shook hands with the rock ’n’ roll doctor. The general coughing and clearing of raspy throats subsided as Fiat took command of the room.
    â€œ Mes amis , sons of the darkness ... ouiiiii ... yessss. The hour approaches when Paris will belong to the Shadows once more. When we will never again have to crawl back into the cracks, ashamed of what we are.”
    I noticed he said “what,” not “who.” Low coughing sounds of agreement rumbled through the room. He went on, “As the lights of the city have dimmed, so too will the hearts of all who cannot embrace the darkness. As you know, our plan calls for ‘lights out’ during the Bastille Day fireworks, when the city will have other preoccupations, but that is just the beginning. I would like to introduce you to a friend of the underground, the brilliant Dr. Etienne Brouillard.”
    More mucousy coughing and laughter like the hissing of leaking pipes greeted this announcement. The doctor, looking a bit sweaty and trying to appear dignified after this introduction, had the lights dimmed for his moment of glory and belched into his hand. I felt like I should be passing a “teacher is a pig” note to Penelope at this point.
    â€œWhat you see in this tank,” he gestured to the glowing, floating specks behind him, “are clouds. Very small, almost invisible, but clouds indeed. And very smart clouds, because they have been individually charged to be self-sustaining once released. They devour dark matter — cigarette smoke, automobile pollution, industrial fumes, political conversation....” at this point, he allowed himself a swinish smile, “and they grow and hover over the city, keeping it in a never-ending midnight.”
    The doctor looked very self-satisfied as bits of spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. He began speaking more rapidly. “We have seen how they have slowly darkened the city in recent weeks. At a signal from Monsieur Fiat, millions of them will be released through the sewer grates all over Paris.” He snorted audibly at this point, and his voice grew louder and higher pitched. “The clouds will cast a shadow over the city, a beautiful shadow that will never pass, one that ...”
    Fiat signalled to turn the lights up, cutting off the foaming doctor and