Seduction (16 page)

Peter arrived a few minutes before five. As soon as I saw him, I ran into his arms and he twirled me around and kissed me so hard it took my breath away. Some of the people at the other tables applauded, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to see him.

“How long has it been?” he whispered.

“You know the answer,” I whispered back. For a moment, I could only stand there and look at him, at his honey-blond hair, his gray eyes, the soft lips that were red from pressing against mine. “Too long,” I breathed into his ear.

And then he kissed me again, and it was as if nothing in the world existed except the two of us. That is, until we were interrupted by a waiter clearing his throat.

“
Vous voulez?
” he inquired, smoothing the white cloth draped over his arm.

Once we’d gotten over our initial flush of passion and managed to stop staring into each other’s eyes, we sat down and
ordered two
limonades
, otherwise known as lemon sodas.

It was funny, but after such a prolonged PDA, neither of us seemed to know what to say. I think that even though we both wanted to forget about the other night, it was hard to pretend it never happened, although we were both giving it our best effort.

“So we’re all good now?” I asked in a small voice.

He looked at me for a moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You thought I’d stood you up, so you—”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said quickly.

“Okay. I was just jealous.”

“There was no reason for that.”

He looked away, his jaw clenched.

“Maybe you could have told me you were going to Brussels,” I said.

“Look, I . . .” He closed his eyes, which had practically been flashing sparks, and took a deep breath. “You’re right. I will next time.”

Then all was quiet. We were all right. I could feel the muscles in my neck loosening with relief. “So what are you doing for Jeremiah these days?” I asked, eager to bring the conversation back to neutral ground.

“All kinds of strange things.” He sighed. “Right now I’ve got to arrange for a truck to come pick up an old lady’s belongings. You know her, Marie something.”

“Marie-Therèse? What do you mean, pick up her belongings?”

“On her birthday, she’s going to leave the house. I’m supposed to help her move out.”

“What?”
Maybe that’s why she felt so scared when I touched her hand,
I thought. “She never mentioned leaving.”

“No? That’s weird.”

“She’s being kicked out on her birthday?”

“I guess. There’s a country house or something, staffed with servants. Jeremiah says it’s kind of a reward.”

“So why is it so secret, then?”

“I don’t know. These people have a lot of secrets.” He paid the bill. “They call themselves ‘the Enclave.’ ”

“Enclave?” My mind was racing. “That’s like a special group or something, right?”

“Right. I think they’re witches.”

I clucked. Sometimes Peter was just dense. “Of course they are. That’s not what they’re trying to hide. It’s something else.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know. They don’t confide in me.” Understatement of the year.

“Yeah, I heard about the thing with Joelle and the sewer. You could have been lost down there forever.”

“That’s what I mean. It makes no sense that they hate me so much. I’m no threat to them. Plus, I’m in school all day and have to study recipes at night.”
And read a handwritten book in antique French,
I might have added.

“Maybe they just don’t like Americans,” Peter said.

“They like you,” I countered. “A lot. Especially Sophie.”

Peter smiled. “Who’s acting jealous now?”

I swallowed. That hit close to home. “I’m not jealous,” I lied. “She’s way too old for you.”

“Maybe. But her daughter isn’t.” He pretended to shoot me with his index finger.

“What?” I almost jumped out of my seat.

“Relax, Katy. It was just talk.”

“About Fabienne? What was she saying?”

“Oh, dumb things. How Fabby’s so beautiful and how can I help but fall in love with her, blah, blah.”

I stood up. “Are you kidding me?” I shouted.

He laughed out loud. “Hey, that’s Sophie talking, not me.” He stood up and took me in his arms. I was shaking all over. “Ooh,” he said, grinning. “You
are
jealous. Payback.” I pinched his arm. He laughed. “Come on, let’s walk,” he said. “I like how the sun looks on your hair.”

We walked along the Seine, holding hands and angling our faces up to the warm, late afternoon sun until we reached the Rue des Âmes Perdues.

“Oh, shoot, I have to do something,” I said, suddenly remembering why I was carrying a container of
coquille St. Jacques
.

When I was at Azrael’s house—er, cave—I noticed that he had no refrigerator and no stove, except for the little brazier that heated the place. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he didn’t have much food, and that in order to get any, he’d have to go outside the tunnels and then walk a long way to get anything to eat. Of course, he’d said he didn’t want to see me again, but so what. Food was more important than good manners.

“I can’t go in the house just yet,” I said. “I have an errand.”

“What is it?”

“Er . . .” I wanted to tell Peter, but I’d promised Azrael I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about him.

“I can go with you,” he offered.

“No. That is—”

“Don’t tell me you have secrets too?” Peter winced.

“No,” I said. “Well, not exactly.” I waved my container of scallops. “I just need to deliver some food.”

“Can’t it wait?” He looked stricken. “I’ve got to oversee a shipment of computers at the Gare du Nord at eight o’clock.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” I promised. “Maybe less.”

He sighed. “Okay,” he said, his shoulders slumping in resignation. “I need a shower anyway.”

“I’ll make you dinner before you go,” I said.

He walked away. I waved to his back.

CHAPTER

•

TWENTY

Fortunately, the exit Azrael showed me was nearby. I just had to zigzag through a few narrow streets to reach the ruins that led into the
carrières
. It wasn’t a problem scrambling over a few fallen building blocks and finding my way to the building’s former coal chute. I walked down six crumbling stone steps, then turned right to find a “door” just like the one I’d entered miles away when I’d first come with Joelle: a tall stone slab nearly covering a vine-covered opening that looked extremely unwelcoming. Then I slipped through the narrow portal into almost total darkness.

This time I had a more efficient pocket light to replace my defunct oinking pig. I kept the beam trained on the ground, though, because I didn’t want Azrael to see me. He’d said he didn’t want me hanging around, but I just couldn’t let the old man go hungry. Not when I was going to one of the best cooking schools in the world.

“Azrael?” I called softly when I neared the glowing
candlelight of his living area. “I brought you some food. I won’t stay.”

I peeked inside. He wasn’t there.

“Azrael?”

Interesting. Just where did you go when you lived in a cave? Out for a stroll among the bats? Or was he communing with the spirits of the headless dead people down the way?

I set the food container on the table near his cookstove and was walking out when I started to worry. What if the wound I’d inflicted on him had festered? What if he’d fallen someplace?

No, he was probably just going to the bathroom in one of his cavelets, I told myself. After all, he had a place where he kept lemons. Wouldn’t he have a toilet somewhere?

I almost left again, but couldn’t. If he was hurt, he didn’t have anyone else. I’d wait for him.

I sat down in one of the beautiful chairs and pulled a candle closer to me. Then I took out Jean-Loup’s story—or as much of it as I’d been able to put in order—and opened it to the next chapter. I’d stash it under my chef’s coat when Azrael arrived.

1184

Veronique

Jean-Loup may never have seen Veronique again if it hadn’t been for the accident, and only then because it left him close to death.

Jean-Loup had been melting some low-quality gold for use as dinnerware in the house of a provincial nobleman when the Pont au Change suffered one of its not-infrequent “adjustments.” Perhaps the bridge had been struck by the oversized mast of a ship, or the stonework itself might have crumbled somewhere along its length. All the city’s engineers agreed that the end-to-end buildings erected on the bridge would eventually topple the whole structure, spilling every goldsmith in Paris into the Seine, but it was the guild, not the engineers, who held the power on the Pont au Change. It had served as the center of the goldworking industry for a hundred years, and not one smith would leave it until all the others had.

The destruction was already beginning. It was not unusual for a house on the bridge to lose a door or a window. Occasionally a whole building would crumble into the river, taking with it a fortune in gold and silver. But more often—as was the case on the day of Jean-Loup’s accident—there was nothing but a slight tremor that caused the old house with its ground-floor shop to sway.

The movement was small, even negligible, except that Jean-Loup was carrying an iron vessel filled to the brim with molten gold.

The first drops on his hand caused him to jerk his arms upward, pouring the rest of the gold onto his arms, chest, and neck. The pain was so excruciating that he could not even scream, but only gasp as he saw the skin on his arm sizzle.

Fortunately, his assistant Thibault had watched the whole scene and started running toward Jean-Loup as soon as those first fiery liquid drops were spilled. With one motion, the sturdy young man lifted his employer into his arms and headed out the door.

For Jean-Loup, the pain was almost more than he could bear. He felt his mind shutting down even as he watched with eerie dispassion as the flesh fell off his arms like rotten meat, leaving the white bones beneath exposed.

• • •

He was given something to drink that sent him into a deep sleep for a time. But when he awoke, the agony of his burns returned. “Where am I?” he croaked, blinking as he looked around at the stone walls with their flickering candles. Each small flame seemed to melt into the others as the horrible pain blossomed into life again.

“Shh,” a woman said gently. “You’re in my house.”

Her voice sounded familiar. He sought her face, although it proved to be too difficult for him to focus. After a time, however, she bent over him and he could smell the scent of lavender on her clothes. Then he eased his eyes open and looked into her perfect face.

“It’s you,” he said.

She covered his eyes with her long, slender hands. “Do not trouble yourself by talking,” she said. “Just rest, Monsieur de Villeneuve.”

“I’m dying.”

“Not at all. You’ve been drugged, that’s all. Poppies, to dull the pain.” She gave him another drink.

“Poppies . . .” So that was why he felt so disconnected, almost as if he were caught between the land of the living and the realm of the dead.

His eyes filled with tears. He knew he was about to cross over into death, but that was not why he wept. He was not afraid of death. But he felt such desire for the woman who sat beside him that he almost could not bear her closeness to him. He longed to hold her, to kiss her violet eyes and full lips, to touch her sweet skin, to breathe in her scent like perfume. But that was not to be, he knew. Instead, her face would be the last vision he would see in this life.

“What is it?” Veronique asked, so gently that he could hardly hear her. “Are you in pain?”

“I love you,” he whispered.

He felt her stiffen, but he would not apologize for speaking the words that filled his heart. “I love you,” he repeated, and tried to squeeze her hand before losing consciousness again.

• • •

Jean-Loup did not know how much time had passed before he awoke again, but he did feel better. Much better. With a sigh of relief, he realized he was not about to die.

Warm hands clasped his. Warm, with long fingers scented with lavender. “Thank you,” he said, and the hands folded around his own. The poppy juice he’d been given was strong and he wanted to sleep again, but first he had to remain awake long enough to see Veronique once more.

“Please . . . ,” he rasped, his throat parched. “I must—” His eyes opened, sticky and crusted. “Your hair,” he said, unable to disguise his shock.

Veronique’s beautiful dark hair had turned snow white.

She smiled sweetly. “Do not be troubled,” she said. Then she slid silently onto the floor, unconscious.

Jean-Loup leaped out of bed. “Help!” he shouted, only tangentially aware that his right arm, once little more than bare bone, had filled out with flesh and the skin was nearly healed. “Someone, please come at once!”