Apostazia: AOD prequal(Reimagined timeline)
N.B: Before the new chapter starts,I want to clarify something.
The character William Dahl that will be mentioned or present from now on in the story, is actually taken from one of @ClaireRaids Fics I read once; an AOD sequal.I was so fascinated with the way she wrote him and asked if I can insert him and include him within the timeline I made, and she didn't mind.
So Claire if ever see this; Thank you for letting me borrow your charcater,and for inspiring me you an the other AOD fanfic writers.
And now; Chp.3. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 3: “ Scarlet lights, Smoke and Silk."
“The only truth down here is what people are afraid to say out loud.”
Location: Paris -11th District.
Time: September 14th, 1997 – 10:46 p.m.
FILE REF: A03 – Informant Contact (Unsecured)
CRS Officer: Raphael Marcarelli
Bouchard’s Old Clubhouse/ Saint Marc – Paris
The Serpent Rouge was less of a nightclub and more of a breathing organism .Raphael pushed through the sheer curtain, leaving behind the line of overdressed tourists and wrongfully confident men.
The smell of bad decisions , smoke, bodies, noise, and illegal bargains was fused into something thick and humid.
A large man with dark skin,tattooed arm wearing a gold watch and rings, in a brown tank top;Anton. He was built like a slab of meat with a crooked nose and one cauliflower ear. peeled himself off the wall near the bar.
Anton grunted. “Alain's pet. Follow me.”
Raphael trailed him through the red haze of the lounge. Dancers spun under lights shaped like flames, the scent of absinthe and redolence was sharp in the air.
Halfway through the main corridor, Anton stopped and jabbed a thumb toward a hallway guarded by a stone-faced doorman.
“That’s where Bouchard is.”
“ The Password. ”Anton said ,then whispered something in Raphael’s ear.
Raphael nodded and stepped forward.
The doorman, dressed in black, shades, chains,raised a hand.
“That’s not an invitation.”he said gruffly.”You’ll need more than just that .”
Raphael pulled his badge halfway from his coat.
“That’s a mistake,” the man said. “We don’t like tourists who flash credentials.”
The standoff thickened,the doorman stepped in close. Raphael didn’t flinch ,but his fingers twitched near his jacket.
“Messieurs,” a voice interrupted ;deep , raspy, smooth as silk and dipped in champagne.
Léo Dominique, in a crisp black shirt unbuttoned at the collar,stood with a one hand in his pants pocket. He’d spotted the tension from the second floor.
He walked towards Raphael as if bumping into an old friend at a coffee shop, not a sleazy Parisian underworld haunt. “Didn’t expect to see you here.Marcarelli.”
“Chief Dominique?!” Raphael said, half-surprized half-suspicious.
“Always on duty,” Léo replied. “Depending who’s watching.”
The doorman shifted, suddenly more respectful.
“He with you?” he asked .
“For tonight,” Léo smiled, stepping between them. “A pal of mine; good instincts, occasionally bad timing.Let him through.”
The doorman paused for a while scanning Raphael, then stepped aside.
“Merci,” Léo said. Then, to Raphael, quieter: “You should buy me a drink sometime.”
“Only if I survive this.”, Raphael smiled.
“Then I’ll take a rain check.”
Léo walked through another field full of what seemed like another class of crowd different from the previous he encountered.
“Through the velvet curtain,” Léo said . “Talk to Pierre;the barman. Give him 100 francs and he’ll take you to Bouchard . Bon chance.” he smiled faintly.
A slender man with sleeves rolled high and a pencil-thin beard looked up from behind the bar as Raphael approached and threw him a silver coin with a carving of Andre Malraux in one of the sides. Pierre caught the piece,checked it in a split of a second, then tossed it into his vest. His hands were fast ; drying glasses, pouring, refilling ,but his eyes were sharper.
“You're the one looking for The Boss?”
Raphael gave a small nod.
Pierre smirked, gesturing for him to follow.
“You’ve got the walk of someone who hasn’t decided if he’s in trouble or looking for it.”
They slipped past the back of the bar, down a narrow hallway lined with framed photos of boxers , burlesque dancers and nude portraits of women;decades of sins in sepia tone.
“First time at the Serpent Rouge?” Pierre asked casually.
“First time in the Parisian Ghetto this deep after dark.”
“Relax. You’re not the only man here looking for something lost.”
And that meant many things.
“What makes you think I’ve lost something?”Raphael asked.
“You’ve got that ‘half-drawn gun and no map’ look,” Pierre said with a wink. “Trust me ; I pour drinks for the type.”
Raphael chuckled despite himself.
“You talk like a noir novelist?”
“Only when the police show up without warrants.”
They reached a brass-plated door at the end of the hall. Pierre knocked six times, then opened it after the seventh.As if he rehearsed it's beat, which he probably did.
“He’s in there, possibly waiting.”
“Don’t thank me,” Pierre said, stepping away. “Just don’t get shot in there. It ruins the vibe.”
The room beyond the hallway was cooler, darker, quieter ; filled with the scent of old cigars and polished leather. Louis Bouchard sat at the back, glass in hand,radio beside him on the side table , his eyes like wet knives watching Raphael approach.
“You’re not who I expected,” Bouchard said.
“Sit, but don’t lie; I get bored easily.”
“I heard you might know something about a young woman; Albino,possibly linked to recent… unrest.”
“I was given the name Maude Holtzmün.”Raphael continued.
“That one has more names than I’ve got bank accounts,” he muttered as finished his glass.
“What do you call her?” Raphael asked.
“I don’t,” Bouchard replied with drowsy eyes, putting his glass down .“Never met her, but I’ve heard things. Enough to stay the hell out of her way.”
He leaned back in his chair, pulling out a bottle of Whisky and re-filled his glass.
“Girls these days got all sorts of names. ” Bouchard muttered. “ …..Last month she was Claire Issoux. A year before that, I heard a “renner “ from Zurich calling her Annessa. Maybe it’s three different ladies. Or maybe she just likes playing dress-up with passports.”
“A Renner....?” Raphael murmured.”Does this guy work for traffickers?”
“I don’t think anyone knows who he works for,” Bouchard muttered.“ He talks like a Monk. He could be a mercenary , maybe he is in the AGENCY.”
Raphael’s heart skipped a beat.
“Yes , there’s no other ‘AGENCY' besides that one.” Bouchard said, doing the quote gesture with both hands. “ I’ve seen men losing their sh*** after crossing him. “
Then he frowned . “He keeps showing up when she's near.”
A more serious look appeared on the officer's face.
“What did you hear about her?”
Bouchard snorted then grabbed his glass .
“Myths, stories. One said she led a renegade group through Prague and left a burning house full of corpses in Cologne. Another said she slit an interpol agent’s throat in Madrid.”
“And you believe any of that?”
He sipped his drink, smiled .
“You tell me, officer. Do you really believe a girl that age ; what? fifteen? pulled off everything you’ve heard? Killed grown men? burned cells? survived hits? or is it possible there’s more than one girl, and the confusion is exactly what is she after?”
Then Bouchard leaned forward.
“Or do you think maybe someone’s telling you what you’re meant to believe? ”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t,” Bouchard said, then gave Raphael a subtle glance and opened a chain wallet was lying besides him the sofa. He slid a matte-black card across the table. The card was minimal, but expensive ;a single name in embossed gold: Janice Boudout. Beneath it ;a spiralling symbol: a silver gilded iris draped over the curve of a feminine silhouette. No address. No number.Just a label:'Le Domain D'or.'
“Ring any bells?” Bouchard said after he noticed the look on Raphael’s face and the stiffness of his body language when he saw the name on the card.
Bouchard exhaled then leaned back on the arm chair.
“I think you should talk to someone who profits from girls like that. Janice. She runs a certain kind of establishment; something high-class,very clean on the surface ,very legal on papers. But she knows who gets trafficked, and who disappears because they’re dangerous.”
Raphael pocketed the card. Stood.
“She works with people like Dahl; a black market financier. Arms and flesh.He deals in loyalty, and girls like that , the mysterious ones ;they’re expensive property. And Janice might know why men like him are suddenly hunting little girls in golden shoes…… I wouldn’t be shocked if he had her;or even has her.”
“Dahl........" Raphael murmured like he wanted Bouchard to say more.
Bouchard didn’t elaborate. Just raised his glass.
“Careful, officer. This isn’t the kind of hunt you walk away from unchanged.”
“ Why are you helping me?”
Bouchard gave a chilling smile.
“Because someone out there wants this supposed girl found. Someone else wants her buried? and maybe another wants her safe. That kind of tension makes my business very, very uncomfortable. I’m helping myself.”
Suddenly the earpiece Sveta gave Raphael started beeping and flickering a faint blue light beneath his jacket ,which caught Bouchard's attention as Raphael turned to leave.
“Also,” Bouchard added “Next time you see your Interpol handler;ask them why they’re so interested in this girl, and not the hundred others trafficked this year.”
“Maybe you won’t. Just don’t fall for the first name you hear,girls like her; they change names like other people change clothes. And every version of her is another lie meant to throw you off.”
“Then I’ll learn to read lies better.”
The young officer left the room.following Bouchard’s breadcrumb to Janice .
As soon as Raphael got out from the VIP; music hit him like a wave ;synth bass vibrating through the soles of his boots, bodies moving like shadows, too close, too fast. Heat, perfume, cigarette smoke;all of it clung to the air, disorienting. The atmosphere felt heavier now, warped somehow, like the club itself had shifted in his absence.
Raphael stepped down into the crowd, but something stopped him cold ;a sensation like pressure against his chest. A pause in the rhythm, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand up before you even know why.
He glanced left ; just dancers. Right ; just neon blur and sweat-slick silhouettes. No one was looking, no one obvious, at least.
But the feeling didn’t pass.
His hand brushed instinctively against his coat; not for the gun , not yet but for certainty. Something in the noise wasn't noise, something behind the rhythm wasn't music. There was a presence ;familiar and wrong,like a whisper remembered in a dream.
A man passed him, shoulder bumping hard into his.
He turned; nothing, no face he could track, no glance held too long.
Maybe it was a trick of the light, maybe the Serpent Rouge was built for this kind of paranoia.
But then from the balcony, above the writhing red mass, he spotted a silhouette ;arms crossed, cigarette in his fingers.
Chief Léo was watching him, not the dancers.
Their eyes met for a brief moment. Léo raised an eyebrow, then lifted his cigarrette ; casual, half-mocking.
It wasn’t him. Léo had been upstairs the whole time.
Raphael turned back toward the dance floor, and for half a second, he swore he saw someone;a blur in the crowd , standing still when everyone else moved.
But then the strobe hit, the lights cut, and when they returned… they were gone.
He stood there, frozen, sweat prickling along his collar.
There was no proof, no name, no face;just a presence pressing on the edge of his awareness, coiled and patient ; like something waiting to make a move he hadn’t yet earned.
And then… the music swallowed him again.
He rushed out with quicker steps through a back door , and finally stepped into the smoke-thick street again, thoughts tangled, jacket heavy with sweat and something else. A smear of red light followed him like blood on glass.
Behind him, Léo leaned on the balcony rail of the roof; smoking, still watching, silent, ill-at-ease.
Raphael kept walking towards a quiet corner near Saint-Marc. Static clicks in his earpiece, followed by her voice crisp, calm, unbothered.
Raphael doesn’t answer right away. He stopped in front of a cigarette vending machine and got the most expensive box, not sure what he’s doing .He lit one, again, and now it’s getting on his nerves because of the outweighed reason.
“Is everything okay?” Sveta asked over the earpiece.
“Sorry . I was in a crowded place.That’s why it took a while for me to answer.” He responded .
“And that is Bouchard club.”
Raphael took an aggressive drag from the cigarette and continued:
” So…It seems that your call didn’t happen out of concern . ”
Sveta went quiet for a second then started talking.
“We did some digging. Your mysterious stray; the man with the scar , has a name.”
“Vence Runner;former French Foreign Legion. Discharged quietly after a… situation in Algeria. Your hunch was right; he’s the so-called Demon Hunter.”
“And he’s working for Gunderson?”
“Unofficially. But yes. He’s been seen crossing paths with Gunderson’s private security in Cádiz and Naples. Blacklisted/Off-grid, no official paystubs. He moves like a hitman, never leaves messes behind.”
“Vence Runner, huh.” (dryly)
“You think it’s fake?” She said
“I think it’s… convenient. I also think he has more to him than being just a conjurer .”
“Don’t engage with him. If he makes any contact ,extract. You’re not cleared for direct confrontation.”
“Too late for that .” He said vaguely.
“You’re not being careful. Marcherelli ” Sveta said in a wary tone
“You’re not being honest.”
Silence hums on the line. Not hostile ; just observing.
Then Sveta’s voice again, smoother this time.
“ Did Bouchard provide anything useful?”
“He gave a contact; escort service . Janice Boudout.”Raphael replayed .
Then he threw the cigarette away and watched the spark vanish in the gutter.
"You knew damn well what kind of business you were getting me into.”
“That was quick;How impressive.”
“Is that so?”Raphael mocked.
“I didn't expect Louis Bouchard to even talk ,but apparently you’re diplomatic by nature.”
“Be careful with Janice by the way. I’ve heard he doesn’t answer to men, or laws ,or truths. That’s why she survived this long.” Sveta said.
“Thanks for the motivation Madame Sveta.”He said sarcastically.
“No problem,” she said. “Report back after the meeting.”
The line clicks off. Raphael put back the earpiece into his jacket, then kept walking.
Raphael’s Apartment, Paris Time: September 16 th, 1997 / 7:17 a.m.
The flat was cluttered,messy ; dossiers , coffee mugs, two open duffels, and a coat tossed over a chair. Raphael hunched over a suitcase with some folded clothes in his hand,jaw locked,shirtless,hair damp and a towel thrown over his shoulder .
Alain leaned against the kitchen counter, chewing on a pen cap, eyeing his captain with suspicion.
“So let me get this straight… to find this mystery girl, we now have to schedule an appointment with… an escort service?”
“And the woman in charge is the daughter of Captain George Boudout. The officer who was killed in the special escort cortege between Toulouse and Narbonne in 1993?”
“Exactly.” Raphael said folding his boxers and putting them in the case.
“You’re about to pretend to be one of Boudout’s daughter clients?”
“And you’re doing this, why, again?”
“Because Bouchard said there’s no way to get her attention but this.”
“You're not even shaved.”
Raphael looked up from his bags.
“You think I should shave?”he said, wearing his shirt.
“I think you should ‘not’ look like a man investigating a child abduction case when she opens the door.”
They pulled up Janice’s listing ; discreet, buried deep in the contact listings under a luxury events page. No pictures. Just a simple name, a number, and a cryptic message:
“For the outré and the unforgettable. Clients pre-screened.”
A pause,then a sultry, businesslike voice answered.
“Hey……. I’d like to schedule… a conversation.”
“Not really. I’m right on time.”
“Well, Mon Cher, I only meet new clients after dusk. It keeps things civilized. Tomorrow night, 9 p.m. I’ll text the address.”
“Can I see you in the morning instead?”
“It’s important…….can’t wait.”
“You’re either a cop or a lunatic.”
Another silence. Then, a low laugh.
“You’ve got 40 minutes, come clean,wear less clothing.”
She hung up. Raphael handed the phone over to his assistant.
Alain was frozen, phone still in one hand.
“Tell me this isn’t how you’re handling undercover work from now on.”
“We are going to be arrested.”
Raphael sprayed a Nuxe deodorant over himself in a rushed sweep, shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his keys, heading for the door before he could change his mind.
“If I’m not back in two hours.”
“I delete your browser history. I know.”
Escort service: Passy /16th arrondissement
Timing: September 17th -08:20 a.m
There were no signs on the gate, no lights,no buzzers; just a brass lion knocker on an unmarked house door.
Raphael fixed his form and took only one deep breath before knocking.
The door opened partway. A woman in pearls and black silk looked him over slowly, like a tailor measuring for a suit. She didn’t smile.
“You’re all covered up; not what I asked you.”
“I’m not here for a service.”
“Everyone says that at first.”
She then opened the door the rest of the way.
Inside, the hallways were clean and silent.smell of wood mixed with fragrance, silk drapes,old oil paintings. No mirrors,not a single reflective surface.Bookshelves lined the walls,velvet armchairs,music played somewhere was low jazz, vinyl crackling . It was the kind of house that held more secrets than furniture.
Janice Boudout looked like someone who had been beautiful once , and knew exactly how much of it she still had left. Her blond hair was pinned back, robe cinched tight,red lipstick, lined blue eyes taking him in with unflinching ease.
She lit the candles one by one, their scent curling through the room. With a flick of her wrist, her hair fell loose ; and she began to brush it, slow and unbothered.
Without a word, Raphael pulled a slim box of chocolate truffles from his back pocket and offered it to the blonde woman in front of him.
“Take it……… I’m not saying it twice.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
Janice blinked, then took the gift with slow, unsure fingers; uncertain whether to thank him or just smile.
“Bouchard told me about you.”
Then he pulled a folded photo from his inner coat pocket ;the same grainy image of the light haired girl Sveta had given him.
That made her pause.She glanced at the photo. Her brow arched ; not surprise, not concern. Recognition, maybe, or just an old trick she knew how to play.
“So, you really the tall flic.” Janice said as she put the gift box away, then brought a bottle of wine and two narrow glasses.
“And you are looking for her….”
Janice opened the bottle of wine then paused.
“You think you’re the only one asking questions about her? The girl you’re chasing ; she’s more than just a ‘ghost story.’ She's someone the wrong men are very interested in. and that means I don’t like her being near any of my girls. “
“You know who she is, then.” Raphael said.
“I know she stole something from a man who doesn’t like being stolen from. And I know she’s trying to find someone… someone she’s not even sure is alive…..and I wasn’t very impressed with the latest man who came for her. ”She nattered.
“Let me guess who that is; a ‘ Renner’ with a scar on his left eye.”
Janice didn’t answer, she didn’t confirm or deny.; just met his gaze, all tense and sharp edges.
“She wasn’t built for the kind of work I offer, not quite innocent either . Kept to herself, scared the other girls half to death;not by what she did ,she barely spoke. But by how she looked at people.” Janice said as she poured wine into two narrow glasses.
“She needed somewhere to disappear for a while.” she continued as she passed the glass to him.
“And she is running from?” ” Raphael said, taking the glass but not drinking.
Janice lit a cigarette with a long black lighter, took a slow drag and smiled sarcastically.
“The same thing we all are ;fathers, ghosts, men with money and long arms……and Mercs apparently." She said, giving Raphael a humorless glance .
“But let me make something clear. I don’t work with minors,not knowingly. That two timing jerk Bouchard talks too much. What happened... wasn’t how it looked. ”
She paused. took another drag ,a short one.
“She called herself Claire Issoux. Said she was seventeen turning eighteen,but her eyes told a different story;she wasn’t looking for clients. She was looking for someone.”
“Someone , not something.”
“No, that was long ago;she found it , stole it to bait someone ... .and I think he is that guy ”Janice paused then continued “The type with scar under his eye. He is after her now.”
“ Do you think he is the one she’s looking for?”
“I doubt he is her target, but he wants what she stole. This is what he implemented when he came for her.”
Janice flicked ash into a silver bowl shaped like a swan,then walked to the fireplace mantel. Pulled out a tiny golden locket from a drawer and tossed it to Raphael.
“She forgot this in her room.” she said. “Said it was all she had of a memory that may not be real.. open it.”
An old paper dart.He uncoverd it; there were childish doodles with different colors on it ,of what looked like a couple; men and woman and above them a moon and a sun. Raphael flipped it to find only three words
“Did you ask her what this meant?” Raphael asked.
“As I said ;she didn’t talk much, but when she did... It was always about her childhood, blurred memories.She said she doesn't recall her mother much, but moments with her father are more vivid and …….”
“Someone with golden hair ;maybe a childhood friend.”Janice said “I think that was the main reason why she came to me in the first place…..she thought a certain client could help her.”
“ Who's the client?”Raphael said
“ William Dahl; She asked questions about him. ”
“The human trafficking lord.”
“That’s right. And when I told her to stay away from him ;she vanished,just like that. I doubt she listened. “
A moment silence filled the place for a slow minute, then the officer's voice cut through it.
“And who was the father?”
“She never said directly, but whatever he was into,it wasn’t ordinary;something about Lux... something.” She waved a hand. “Latin, dramatic; the kind of name that makes cult hunters go quiet…….”
“Did she give any names? Something useful.”
“If I knew, you think I would still be alive?”
She gave him a long look.
Raphael turned to leave, hand on the door.
“Go to Italy ……Milan.” Janice finally said. “I heard from a source that Dahl has contacts there. You might find traces, or corpses of legionnaires and occultists .”
“If he hasn’t found you yet, he will.”
“I suppose he already did.” Raphael said as he opened the door.
“One last thing,” Janice stopped him, voice dropping. “When you meet the girl , if you meet her ; don’t ask her who she is. Just watch what she does. Her name won’t tell you anything,but her eyes might.”
Raphael gave her a side look.
“Names only matter when someone’s around to remember them…I’ll leave that to you.”
She studied him; not in flirtation, not in mockery; in assessment. And maybe, at that moment, approval.
Raphael extended his hand hesitantly .
“You know ;I always looked up to your father.”
That caught her off guard , just a flicker. Her eyes softened before her mask returned.
“He seemed scary, but was an incarnation for justice and safety. Gave his all to preserve security in his village.”
Janice gave a quick pat on the officer's shoulder with a sincere look, then pulled her hand.
“Then don’t embarrass him,” she said, gripping his hand. “Go be the kind of cop he would’ve trusted if he had amongst his men.”
“And thank you,” he added, voice low. “You told me more in ten minutes than Interpol has in days.”
“That’s because I’m not being paid to lie to you.”
Janice then disappeared into the velvet-draped corridor without another word.
Raphael got out and closed the door behind him ,but the Jazz music from the house still followed behind him like a whisper through the walls .
He stood in the doorway for a beat longer, then pulled his jacket tighter and slipped the small earpiece from his pocket, got out, clicked it on with two fingers then wore it on his ear.
A faint hum, then a voice on the other end, cold and composed:
He stepped out into the rain-soaked street, and leaned against a rain-slick wall.
“Did she confirm the girl’s location?”
“No. But she confirmed she exists, that she’s using multiple aliases, and she’s being hunted… also she’s hunting someone, not something."
“She also mentioned a man named Dahl, just like Bouchard did. He is that nasty sort you spoke of before. Used to fund private mercenary factories.Now he funds something much older,more secret. Word is, he’s tied to the girl.”
“Did you assume anything about his location?”
“Probably somewhere warm;somewhere armored, but I know someone who can help. In Milan;someone knows more than I in these matters. I’ll be going to Italy in four days.”
Silence from the other end. Just static. Then:
“Continue digging, avoid compromising exposure.And if you ever find the girl; do not approach her directly until instructed.”
“Understood,” Raphael said , but the line in his jaw said otherwise.
He clicked off the earpiece and slipped it back into his pocket.
His reflection caught in a fogged pane beside the door , gaunt, wind-burnt, something forming in the eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago.
The air, now cooler , heavier; unusual for the summer season. The wind had picked up, and with it, the sense that whatever was waiting on the horizon… was starting to stir.
He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
To be continued................................
Guess who's making an appearance next chapter 😊
Field Memo – R. Marcarelli /Private Record/
"This isn’t just a trafficker or a rogue. The girl’s a key ,but the lock is buried ,and someone’s making sure it stays that way."
