Analiese Rising

by Brenda Drake

  “How about money. Do you have any on you?”

  He gives me a long stare before my question registers, then searches his pockets. Counting the coins in his hand, he says, “Three, four, um…about six euros.”

  “I have forty-three,” I say.

  “Not enough for a hotel,” he says. “We could stay up all night and go to the museum in the morning.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. See all the places my parents went to on their honeymoon.” I half-laugh. “Sort of like walking in their footsteps. Reenact the photos I have of them. Never thought I’d be going like this.”

  I grip the wheel tight. The bumpy road has a lot of curves, and it makes me nervous.

  “It’s going to get cold at night,” he warns.

  I bite my lip, thinking. “Maybe there’s a thrift shop. We can get some thick jackets on the cheap.”

  I make it to a better paved road that actually has directional signs. I’m heading the right way. That’s the only positive thing of the night.

  …

  At a thrift shop in Paris, we buy a distressed leather jacket for me and a black dress coat for Marek for five euros each, along with one-euro scarves. We head into the labyrinth of Paris streets. The buildings are tall, and their facades are an eclectic blend of medieval, Revolutionary period, and Haussmann-style architecture. We hike backstreets, hidden passages, and arcades.

  There are plaques on the walls honoring fighters during World War II and other famous people, and we make a game out of spotting them. Street art is everywhere.

  We keep moving.

  Stay warm. Awake.

  Alert.

  “It’s going to be a tough night,” he says. “I’m sorry. I really screwed us. Once we get the clue in the morning, we’ll go to the embassy. Get emergency passports.”

  “We’re underage. They’ll contact our parents.”

  I’m trying to stay awake, trying to keep warm, wrapping the yellow scarf around my neck twice. It’s not at all the French way, but I’m not going for fashion.

  I lag behind. Marek slows his steps.

  A mischievous grin curls the corner of his full lips, making my heart take a few skips. “How many strides would it take to cross this road? I bet four.”

  He’s trying to distract me so I won’t think about the cold or my tired legs.

  “It depends. Who’s crossing the street?”

  “I’ll cross.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Are you taking short, average, or long strides?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. I need all the variables to make an educated guess.”

  He adjusts his bargain jacket. “Okay, then, long ones.”

  I study him with newfound interest. His playful side is cute, and I hold back a smirk, but the amusement in my voice gives me away. “So your guess is still four?”

  “Yep.”

  “My guess is five, then.”

  He backs up against the building and makes his first stride. “One,” he calls.

  Poor guy’s going lose.

  “Two.”

  I’m not sure it’s fair. While we were talking, a couple trying to avoid people lined outside a red door crossed the street, and I measured their gaits in my head.

  He reaches the other building. “Five.”

  When he ambles over, he exaggerates a pouting face. I meet him with a broad smile on mine. “You’re good,” he says.

  I glance around the street. “I wonder what time it is.”

  He stops and reads the sign beside the red door.

  “Come on,” he says. “It’s playing Rio Grande with John Wayne. Special price for those under twenty-six.”

  I back out of the way to let an older couple enter the theater. The sign says the movie starts at ten thirty.

  Shaking my head, I start to walk away. “No. We can’t waste our money.”

  He steps in front of me. “We’re tired. The movie is a few hours long. We can get some sleep and get warm. And it’s not much. A few euros each.”

  “I could close my eyes for a bit.”

  “Great.” He yanks open the door and waits for me to pass before following.

  It’s a small theater with red walls and cushy chairs. We grab a spot in the back, and I’m asleep before the opening credits finish.

  “Excusez-moi,” a woman’s soft voice wakes me.

  “What?” I glance around, dazed, not sure where I am.

  “Oh, you’re American.” The woman’s really put together. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a tight bun. She wears a tight white dress shirt, black pants, and spiked heels. “The movie is over.”

  Over? We’ve been sleeping for almost two hours.

  Marek is still out beside me, so I shake his arm, startling him awake.

  He looks around, eyes half open. “Huh?”

  “Time to go.” I stand and side-shuffle down the row.

  The woman watches Marek stumble after me before her eyes go to me. “It’s you,” she says. “I saw you would come and you are here.”

  Marek grasps my hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  I don’t move. “You know me?”

  “Mel,” a man with a lot of muscles and hardly any hair calls.

  The woman turns to face him. “Oui?”

  He says something in French to her.

  “They found us?” The look exchanged between Mel and the man makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. “And English, please. I’ve only had four French lessons so far.”

  The man continues in English, “Attacked the celebration. Thankfully, you were detained, or they would’ve killed you.”

  “Go,” Mel tells him. “Warn Clio and Erato. I’ll get the others. And remember, no phones.”

  The man nods and darts out of the auditorium.

  Mel’s eyes snap in our direction.

  “It’s not safe here,” she says. “We must go, or you’ll meet a great tragedy. They can’t know you are in Paris. Follow me.”

  Great tragedy. Who talks that way?

  When we don’t follow, she spins around and narrows her eyes on us. “Did you not understand me?”

  I whisper, “I think we should go with her.”

  A poster on the wall halts me. It’s of a muse in a flowing white dress, her brown hair is curled tight around her head, and she’s wearing a wreath of vines and grapes. She holds a knife in one hand and a tragic mask in the other.

  “I’m not going to harm you,” Mel says, pulling at her face and dropping to her knees. “They’re here. It’s too late.”

  I pound down the steps and wrap an arm around her back. “Let me help you up.”

  We stand together. Marek joins us, holding Mel’s other side.

  “Where do we go?”

  “The back room.” Her face is distorted, resembling the tragedy mask on the poster.

  Marek and I help Mel to the back room.

  “Are you Melpomene, muse of tragedy?”

  “You know your mythology,” she says and nods to shelving that displays books and old film canisters. “Move it.”

  I get on one side, and Marek takes the other. It’s a heavy bookcase, but we’re able to push it enough away from the wall to get behind it.

  Melpomene snatches up a crystal bottle from the desk, dumps golden liquid from it into a tumbler, and drinks it down. Her face relaxes, and she straightens.

  “We go out this door.” Melpomene wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “It leads to an alley.”

  “No,” I snap. “Not until you tell us who we’re running from.”

  “Who we’re running from?” she repeats and laughs. “They’re after me. You two were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And about that, how did you happen upon my theater? It’s on an ob
scure road.”

  “We were just walking by,” Marek says.

  Just before I say, “We got lost.”

  “The Fates.” She smiles. “As they say, they are on our side. They helped you by providing a place to sleep and me by providing a delay so I wouldn’t be at that celebration. Now go.”

  I step through the crude hole in the wall and into a narrow tunnel and move down it as quickly as I can. Marek and Melpomene shuffle behind me.

  “Who’s after you?” I ask over my shoulder.

  She doesn’t answer right away. I’m not sure if it’s for a dramatic effect. We are in a theater, after all.

  “The Keres,” she finally answers. “They’re spirits of violent death. Craving blood, they feast on evil mortals’ dead bodies after their souls depart. Keres can’t touch humans while they’re alive, but they can tear gods and goddesses, muses, Keepers, to pieces.”

  Now I wish I hadn’t asked.

  “Why do they want to kill you?” Marek asks. He grasps my arm and keeps a hold of it.

  “Did you not hear her, Marek? Keepers. They attack Keepers.”

  “I heard.”

  “The Keres are the daughters of Nyx,” she adds. “My sisters and I refused to be the muses for her son, Moros. Such a spoiled and gloomy deity. He’s the god of impending doom. That was thousands of years ago. She holds a grudge.”

  This has to be one of the longest tunnels ever. My meds were in my jacket, so I’m going solo on the panic thing. I try to breathe, but the air is thick with mortar dust. I just need to get out.

  I need to get out.

  I move faster, sliding my feet together, apart, together, apart—

  The walls muffle a screeching sound coming from the theater. It’s not one, but many of them—high and low pitched.

  Fear punches my gut and chokes my throat. I can’t move, clinging to the wall as if it’s the only thing that can save me.

  The screeches are deafening now. Closer. Too Close.

  I need to get out!

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ahead of me, there’s a golden light. A streetlamp. We’re almost out.

  Scratching noises come from the other side of the wall. Like nails trying to dig through the brick.

  I trip over an uneven cobblestone and land on my hands and knees. The pain doesn’t register. I don’t care. I’m out.

  Marek exits after me.

  I push myself up and wipe my hands on my pants. We weren’t in a tunnel. It’s just a space between two buildings.

  Melpomene steps out and stands beside Marek. “You don’t have to be afraid. They want me, not you.”

  Darkness blankets the road between the golden blooms of light coming from the street lamps. Shadows seep from the gap we just exited. Their shapes are almost human, gray as the mortar between the bricks, not entirely lost in the night. They move toward us like rolling fog. I can’t count how many there are. Their bodies merge and detach from one another. Six, maybe eight.

  “Okay, now would be a good time to run,” Marek says.

  Melpomene turns her head in his direction. “It’s too late for that. They’ll catch me before I step off the curb.”

  One launches with two right after it, flying for Melpomene. Without thinking, I step in front of her, hands out, palms aimed at them.

  “No!” I yell.

  The Keres instantly recoil from me, slipping away through the gap between the buildings.

  “They’re gone.” Marek places his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  With wide eyes, Melpomene takes a few steps toward the gap. “You’re a descendant of a death god.”

  Did my hands do that? I inspect my palms. They’re ordinary, nothing abnormal about them. Or was it my voice? My command. Those things were afraid of me as much as I was of them. Is it some sort of power? Or just some ability I have, like rolling my tongue or wiggling my ears. What am I suppose to do with this?

  Melpomene takes my hands in hers. “I have to warn my sisters that the Keres found us. ”

  “The nine muses,” I say quietly, lowering my gaze to the ground, my mind still processing thoughts.

  “Yes.” She drops one of my hands and lifts my chin with her finger. “Being a demigod is not a bad thing. Be proud of who you are.”

  Her hand drops away from me.

  “But a death god?” My eyes go to Marek. The shadows hide his eyes, and they seem to be a darker brown than their normal lighter color, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. “So I’m evil and scary. Like omens and curses, fire and brimstone, and all that stuff.”

  “It’s not at all like that,” she says. “Death gods are respected. They’re not as you see in movies. Not all of them are evil or menacing. Some are gentle and caring, guiding us to our final spiritual place. We only fear death because we don’t know what lies beyond life.”

  Marek steps into the light, and I can see his eyes now. He’s not afraid of me, he’s concerned and something more. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that. I mean the something-more part—of course Dad and Dalton have been worried about me before. It makes me both nervous and excited. “You’re nothing like fire and brimstone,” he says with that something more in his voice.

  “Now, listen.” Melpomene pulls my attention back to her. “You need to get as far away from me as possible. I’m Tragedy, after all. No telling what else will happen if you stick with me.” She heads down the street, her spiky heels stabbing the cobblestones, and says over her shoulder, “Keep moving until you get to your hotel or wherever you’re staying. The Keres, the little gnats, will spread the news about you like a disease.”

  She disappears into the shadows, the click-clack of her heels fading into the night.

  I take off in the other direction. My Vans pound hard against the cobblestones. Marek is panting behind me.

  “Ana, slow down!” he yells.

  Only when I go around a corner do I cease running. I grab my side and catch my breath.

  Marek eases to a stop beside me, breathing heavily. “I thought you were ditching me.”

  “I couldn’t stay there,” I say. “Not with those things around.”

  Marek checks the time on the GPS screen. “We need to keep moving. It’s a little after one. The Louvre doesn’t open until nine.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to keep walking. See Paris. Maybe get coffee when a café opens. Try to get our minds off what just happened.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I shiver. “It’s so cold.”

  We walk. Sometimes there’s a bench, and we sit. My face and hands are like ice. My head is throbbing, so are my feet. I need coffee. Or better, a bed.

  The quaint backstreets of Montmartre are quiet at almost three in the morning. We reach the square, and I stand on one of the corners. Streetlamps line the block, giving little light, but I recognize the buildings.

  “Right here,” I say. “This square is filled with artists displaying their work during the day. My parents took a photograph in this exact spot.”

  Marek ambles over and pretends he’s holding up a camera. “Say cheese.”

  It takes a second for what he’s doing to register, but when it does, I’m suddenly warm inside, and I flash him a smile.

  He clicks the pretend camera.

  We make our way up the hill toward Sacré-Cœur Basilica. Its spotlighted facade calls to us. The white stone chapel with its three considerable arches in front, dome roofs, and bell tower overlooks Paris. The city is a black sea at night with beacons of light spreading across its surface. The Eiffel Tower is hidden behind buildings and trees.

  I sit on a step. “In one photo, my mother sits here alone. I bet my father took it.”

  Marek raises his hands and takes another
fake picture. His nose is red from the cold. “How are you holding up?” he asks.

  The wind brushes my hair away from my face, and a chill slips down my back. “I’m numb. Can’t feel my toes.”

  “We could ride the Metro. Get warm.” He pulls the collar of his coat up and tucks his scarf inside.

  “No. We need to eat.”

  “You’re tough,” he says.

  “We have to budget.” I skip down a few steps. “Tomorrow, after we’re done at the Louvre, we’ll go to the embassy, then I’ll call my grandparents. Have them wire money.”

  “Come on.” He grasps my hand and leads me to the side of the chapel.

  The wind bites at my skin. I stuff my free hand into my pocket and stare through some trees, and I can barely make out the Eiffel Tower in the dark. Only a few lights and its silhouette can be seen at this time of the morning.

  Marek’s still holding my hand, and we lace fingers. It’s more intimate this way than how he’s held it before.

  “I bet it’s beautiful during the day,” I say, turning away, uncurling my fingers from his, but he keeps hold of my hand and tugs me back to him.

  His expression is serious. He steps closer. “I’m going to kiss you in five seconds, Analiese. If you don’t want me to, then say so and I won’t.”

  I count to five in my head, One thousand and one, one thousand and two … Each number raises the anticipation another notch.

  Without saying a word, his eyes speak novels. He needs me, just as I do him.

  One thousand and five.

  If I fall, he will catch me. And I’ll do the same for him.

  I must count faster than he does.

  I could be crouched in a corner, a panic attack disabling me, and he wouldn’t leave me. He’d let me know I wasn’t alone.

  Then it happens. Marek brushes away the hair tossed around my face by the wind, and his parted lips finally meet mine. I close my eyes, savoring the softness of his mouth. He doesn’t taste of anything. Maybe night air. His arms wrap around me, and I grasp his scarf, pressing into him, not wanting this to end. I smell the city on him and a hint of mothballs from the old coat he’s wearing. The kiss deepens, causing heat to spread from our lips through my body. My fingertips and toes tingle.

  I’m not cold anymore.