Seduction (20 page)

La Rue des Âmes Perdues, I thought. Veronique and her ersatz nuns had settled in the same street where I lived. Was that just a coincidence? How would Azrael—or whoever had written the book—know about it?

Calm down,
I told myself. Paris was a very old city. The street, with its peculiar name, had probably been around since the Middle Ages. For the first time in maybe a year, I wished I could communicate with my father the medievalist. He might know something about the street, or the “abbey” that the phony nuns—who’d really been witches—had established. I supposed I could call him—the post office had public phones that people could make long-distance calls from—but that would entail explaining more than I wanted to talk about. Or I could e-mail him from an Internet café, I supposed . . .

No, I decided I’d feel less uncomfortable being in the dark than I would talking with Dad.

I checked my watch. 8:45. Quickly, I unfolded Peter’s note
saying he’d be back at nine and I wrote on the back of it:
Meet me in the kitchen!
Then I stuck the note in my door next to the knob, since he would probably come to my room looking for me.

I figured I’d make him something to eat. It might make up for my being so late after visiting Azrael. Plus, he’d missed the dinner I’d cooked for Sophie’s dinner party.

In the kitchen I found some sausage, kale, onions, tomatoes, and garlic, plus some marinated artichoke hearts and black olives—all the ingredients I’d need for a terrific pasta dish. I cooked the sausage, made the sauce, added some kale, salt, and crushed red pepper, and put some cavatelli on to boil. Then I put together a green salad with the vinaigrette dressing I used to make at Hattie’s and waited.

9:15. The pasta was ready.

9:20. I set the kitchen table.

9:30. The cavatelli was congealed and inedible. I threw it away and put a new pot of water on the stove.

9:40. The water boiled. I looked out the kitchen door into the courtyard to see if Peter had come back. He hadn’t.

9:50. I put the rest of the cavatelli into the pot.

9:57. I drained the pasta and waited. The simmering sauce was turning brown. The salad greens were wilting.

10:01. The front door opened.

“Down here!” I shouted, nearly jumping with joy.

I was arranging everything on plates when I heard footsteps rushing down the stairs toward the kitchen.

“Hurry up!” I sang. “I made you some . . .”

Belmondo leaned his head into the doorway.

“. . . dinner,” I finished.

“What a nice surprise,” he said, holding out a nosegay of violets and rosebuds. “These are for you. And these.” He produced a box of perfect, small, bloodred strawberries that must have cost more than the flowers. In cooking school, strawberries like those were used only as garnishes on the most elaborate desserts.

I could only stand there blinking stupidly at him for a moment while all the things I could say shot through my head:
Actually, dude, this isn’t for you. I started cooking this meal an hour ago for Peter, who was supposed to be back by now, although he’s almost never here, so I guess I’ll just throw it all away and hurt your feelings in the process.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the bouquet and sticking it into a glass of water. “Please sit down.”

• • •

It was a wonderful dinner. Belmondo found some stubby candles to put on the white enamel kitchen table, then tuned the radio to a station that played scratchy recordings of Edith Piaf and Charles Aznavour. He opened a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, and explained the things that made it taste peppery. While we ate, the scent of flowers mingled with the aromas of the food and wine, and Belmondo must have told me a dozen times how much he loved my cooking.

“They teach you well at the Clef d’Or,” he said.

I could picture Chef Durant wanting to hang himself at a comment like that. “This isn’t one of the school’s recipes,” I said, almost laughing. “It’s just something I threw together. We used to do a lot of that at Hattie’s, where I used to work, so that we wouldn’t waste food.”

“It seems that this woman—Hattie?—is your real teacher.”

I nodded. “I think you’re right. I must have insulted her by coming here to study,” I said. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”

“No, no,” he whispered, touching my face with the tips of his fingers. “Please don’t say that. Because I am so happy that you are in Paris.”

“I am too,” I whispered, feeling myself blushing.

“You are nothing like the others,” he said, tracing a heart on my hand with his finger.

“Really?”

He laughed. “And you know it perfectly well.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “These silly women, they use all their magic for only one thing.”

“What’s that?”

He blew a puff of air out from between his lips. “Foolishness,” he said. “A waste. But you . . .” His eyes narrowed into lazy slits. “You keep your power within you. You glow with magic.”

We looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. I could hear my breath going in and out and my heart thumping in my chest and my blood pounding in my ears, and all the while Belmondo was touching my cheek across the rustic wooden table while his beautiful face shimmered in the candlelight.

“But we’ve forgotten the strawberries,” Belmondo said as he selected one from the box and held it next to my lips until I bit it off the stem. The flavor was so intense that I was afraid I might drool. “You eat beautifully,” he said, his eyes locked into mine.

I picked up another strawberry and held it out, tentatively.

“Take off the stem,” he said in a way that made my breath quicken. I did as he asked, although my hand was shaking
slightly as I held it out across the table. He took my hand and brought it to his lips. Then, as the ripe berry disappeared, he covered the tips of two of my fingers with his mouth. I gave an involuntary gasp.

“
Katarine
,” he said slowly, languorously, as the fingers of his free hand traced the outline of my lips. I felt something like a moan rise out of my throat.

“Now let me taste your magic,” he said.

“What?”

“Just a bit. On your tongue.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I felt my tongue moving between my teeth. Belmondo’s lips pouted, as if he were going to kiss me from afar. I closed my eyes.

“Katy?” A jarring sound. I looked up.

“Oh, God,” I said. It was Peter.

“What are you doing with him?”

“We were having dinner,” Belmondo said, withdrawing his hand from my face. He picked up his wine glass and sipped from it.

Peter looked at my own glass. “Were you drinking?”

“Not really,” I stammered. “I was just—”

“You do not have to answer to him,” Belmondo said, smiling. “This is not your father.”

“No, but you could be,” Peter said, staring pointedly at Belmondo.

Belmondo cleared his throat. “Perhaps I ought to go,” he said, sliding off his chair.

“Right,” Peter said. “Before you get arrested.”

“Peter!” I began, but Belmondo held up a hand and raised his chin. “Your friend is right, chèrie,” he said. “It is not
seemly that we should be together so late at night.”

“But we didn’t do anything!” I shrilled, although I knew that was only technically true. I hadn’t physically done very much with Belmondo, but in my heart, I’d done everything.

Belmondo held his finger to his lips. Then he smiled and bowed slightly before leaving through the courtyard exit.

I was left with a lot of weird feelings, none of them good. When I was finally able to speak, what came out was a raspy explosion of anger, shame, and outrage. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” I repeated.

“You don’t have to,” Peter said. “That’s up to
him
.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the door.

“Well, if you’d come back in time, none of this would have happened.”

“Getting the shipment through customs was more complicated than we’d thought,” Peter said. “That doesn’t change what was going on here.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You can call me anything you want,” Peter said. “But I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

“He wasn’t hurting me.”

“He’d better not.”

“Oh, stop it,” I said. “Who’s acting like Mom now?” I took the dirty dishes to the sink and ran hot water into the basin. I was too angry to use magic this time. Besides, I liked the feel of soap and water whenever I felt confused or guilty or ashamed or furious or, as was the case at this moment, all of the above.

“Anyway, you had Fabienne to keep you company,” I said.

“What?”

His reaction was one of such pure surprise that I instantly
doubted what I’d thought had been fact. “Didn’t you?”

“Fabienne? Why would I be with her while I’m working?”

“Oh. I mean . . . ,” I blathered. “It’s just that her mother . . . that is, Sophie . . .” Finally I shut up and devoted myself to dishwashing. Note to self: Never, NEVER believe Sophie de la Soubise. About anything.

Without another word between us, Peter collected the glasses and utensils off the table and scraped the garbage into the bin. We’d done this routine at Hattie’s so many times that it was as automatic as breathing.

Then, while I was washing the dishes, he stuck his hands into the water and held mine. “I can’t compete against someone like Belmondo,” he said.

That made me feel terrible, but I knew I’d feel even worse if I just kissed him and acted like everything was fine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said finally.

“I wasn’t with Fabienne.”

“I know.”

He let go of my hand. Then, avoiding eye contact with each other, we went back to washing the dishes while the candles guttered and accordion music played in the background.

CHAPTER

•

TWENTY-FOUR

When I finally got back to my room, it was nearly two a.m., but after all the drama in the kitchen, I couldn’t sleep. Fortunately, Azrael’s manuscript was still on my bed, waiting for me.

A.D. 1207

The Doctor

Within the year, Veronique gave birth to a son, Drago, and the couple’s happiness was complete.

The boy did not inherit his father’s gift for alchemy, but he did excel as a scholar, enrolling at the University of Paris when he was only twelve years old and graduating at twenty-two as a doctor of medicine.

When one of the women from the abbey, a healer who went by the name of Sister Clément, sent them a message that Béatrice was dying, Drago asked if he could accompany his parents to see their old friend.

“Perhaps I’ll be able to help,” he offered.

Veronique and Jean-Loup doubted very much if anyone could do more for Sister Béatrice than Veronique, but as magical people themselves, they understood that anything was possible. It was for this reason that they never worried that their son had so far evinced no magical ability. It would come, they were sure. It was just a question of when this talent, whatever it was, would manifest.

“Very well,” Veronique decided at last. “You may come. Béatrice may want a real physician.”

But of course she did not. Nor did she accept Veronique’s special ministrations. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Béatrice said, throwing back her head and chuckling. “Just how long do you think I want to live?”

It was then that Drago forced himself between the two women. “May I examine you?” he interrupted.

Veronique was shocked at the intrusion, but Béatrice waved away her objections. “As you are Veronique’s son, I will submit,” Sister Béatrice said. “So long as you don’t take off my clothes.” That was meant as a joke, since no physician would ever look at a female patient’s naked body.

“Good. Just have a seat here,” Drago said, positioning the old woman in front of him. “Relax, please, madame. Be calm . . .”

“Drago has a good manner about him,” Veronique whispered to her husband. “His voice is so reassuring and pleasant that I nearly fell asleep myself. For a moment I actually thought—”

“What is he doing?” Jean-Loup shouted, pushing past her to his son, who was hovering over Béatrice like a lover. “Drago!”

The young man looked up with a dazed expression, his lips pursed as he inhaled deeply with a wet noise that was almost obscene. Beneath him, Sister Béatrice—or what was left of her—lay in a heap of rags and leathery skin, as desiccated as a frog that had been lying dead in the road for a summer.

“What have you done?” Jean-Loup whispered, aghast.

“She was about to die anyway,” Drago answered innocently. “I’ve done her a favor.”

Jean-Loup could only gape in horror at the sight.

“Everyone has a life force, Father.” Drago leaned forward, eager to explain. “I’ve found that I can take that life force into myself, especially when my subjects are too weak to hold on to it themselves.”

Jean-Loup regarded him with increasing alarm, but Drago, in his excitement, hardly seemed to notice.