“To protect my mother.” If my father heard how easily I revealed my past, he would be ashamed.
Then again, the trauma to my face, the trauma of losing my mother, losing my fiancé, losing my life—those emotional things weren’t important to the Valois. My mission was important. Méchant was important. It was all that could be important.
“What did you—”
I cut her off. I had to. “You ask a lot of questions for a woman who insists she’s only interested in architecture.”
There was no point to this conversation—no point in her knowing more about what happened to me. I was nothing more than a ghost in this world, existing in my purgatory of purpose. And knowing more about my past wouldn’t bring me back to life.
She hummed again, and I wondered if she knew how often she did it. She hummed while she worked, she hummed between thoughts, and sometimes, like now, she hummed as an answer.
My mother used to hum like that—always worship hymns, of course—but that was the last time I felt this kind of unintentional soothing.
She licked her lips, and I wondered if Esme would taste like a hum, too—warm and welcoming with enough notes that would leave me wanting more.
“I’m interested in mysteries. Mysteries and secrets, Monsieur Gargouille, and you have them both in spades.”
“Don’t you?” I returned, stepping out from behind the column as I watched her sashay around jotting down notes and biting on the cap of her pen.
I hissed as her mouth released the pen and she turned and caught sight of me.
“I know the secret shame that comes from being stared at and mocked,” she said. “I know they say you’re supposed to be strong and not pay attention to the narrow-minded and bigoted individuals who would spew such things. But deep down, I know the shame that hides and the frustration that springs forward knowing there is nothing you can do about it.”
She had no idea about shame.
She had no idea that burned into my face was forever the reminder that I’d been the reason my mother had died. Forever the reason that my mother had betrayed me and, in her moment of redemption, my lie was the one that got her killed.
She had no idea I wasn’t hiding from the world.
I was hiding from myself.
“Forgive me, madame, but being stared at because your tits are the kind a man can only dream of holding, and your lips are the kind of temptation it’s impossible not to picture wrapped around a swollen cock is not quite the same as being stared at because you look like a monster.”
I grunted as those very lips parted in the perfect ‘o’ of shock and, more than the callousness of my words, I regretted letting on that I was dreaming of her tits at night and imagining her lips protruding around my length.
The chill of surprise vanished a moment later and was replaced with explosive indignation.
“You think I was talking about this?” Her hands waved down the length of her jumper that clung to each voluptuous curve before falling into flowing wide-legged pants. She laughed bitterly, and I realized there was a second mistake in saying what I had.
She walked toward me, her head tipped high and her gaze shooting at me like emerald-tipped arrows. My jaw tightened, preparing for battle, the cathedral morphing into a colosseum.
She stopped in front of me, close enough for the tension to feel like a rubber band about to snap. I looked down at her, unmoving. Unflinching. Unwilling to back down.
This was my church.
This was my life.
She didn’t belong in either of them.
Her lips peeled up at the corners like she was unwrapping the saccharine-sweet center of her smile. “You think I’m talking about desire?”
My nerves slammed out against the cage of my skin as her palm pressed flat against my chest over my heart.
“Monsieur Gargouille, I’m not talking about how much you want me.”
I growled, about to argue her all-too-true assumption when her pointed nails curled into my chest and dragged five streaks of lightning down over my chest, crossing onto the ridges of my abdomen.
“I don’t need scars to feel like an outsider. I have no name. No family. I study famous landmarks with the expertise of an engineer and the face of a foreigner.” The words seethed through white teeth. “I don’t get looks of disgust but of distrust. Of hatred. I get pulled aside at almost every airport security. My person searched. My things checked. I get stared at because my skin is olive and I tie my hair back with scarves.”
My body felt like it had been brutally checked with the reality of her words.
I knew.
Paris alone was rife with immigrants from Africa and the Middle East, many searching for refuge, most regarded with suspicion.
“Do you know why I had those letters with me?” The tips of her nails pressed through my shirt into my skin. “Because I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had the police called on me while I was working, because some stranger or another thought I was setting up a bomb.” She laughed bitterly. “So, I’ve learned to keep proof of who I am and what I do with me at all times.”
Her fingers squeezed into the fabric, serving to pull me ever so slightly closer to her and her mesmerizing wrath.
“Do you know why I work when the cathedral is closed?” she asked with a pain in her eyes that I wanted to eviscerate more than anything. More than Hubert. More than Méchant. More than my scars.
“Of course, it is easier without the crowds of people. But, according to the Ministry of Culture—culture, mind you—it’s also better to not provoke public concern with the sight of an Arab-looking woman with her hair tied back in a scarf, setting up electronics in the middle of their most famed Catholic church.”
Fuck.
There was a rage inside me that I hadn’t known I was capable of.
“I know what it’s like to be judged… punished… for what I am. In America, they call it bigotry. Do you know what the French word is for that, Monsieur Gargouille?”
My jaw hardened because I did. “Laïcité.”
Secularism. Stringent secularism.
In fact, the idea of secularism as she knew it coming from the United States would only scratch the surface of what the word truly meant and what it meant to the people of France. The separation of church and state in France toed the extreme, banning all overt religious activities and symbols in public under the guise of neutrality.
And it was no secret that the laïcité in France was carving circles around minorities and shaping them into stigmatizing stereotypes.
“A beautiful word for such ugly actions.” She smirked. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask me to take off my scarf.”
It wasn’t a typical devout covering by any means as her hair hung freely from the back, but in today’s world, sometimes fear was enough reason to justify the irrational.
“So, no, Monsieur Gargouille, my body is only the tip of the iceberg, relegating me to the stereotype of some highly exotic and sexualized fantasy, erased only for the more damning image of a possible terrorist to be painted.” Her smile turned sad. “But isn’t that what you think of me, too? Why you watch me?”
I jolted. Every muscle—every cell—underneath my skin revolted against the thought of being placed within the group who condemned her based on nothing except her appearance.
But I couldn’t argue that it wasn’t true.
It was what I thought, but it had nothing to do with how she looked or what she wore. It had everything to do with a man intent on destroying this country for his own purposes. And destroying me.
“I think you have secrets, madame.” My hand cinched around her wrist as she tried to let her hand fall. Even though her nails were sharp into my skin, I’d rather have their pain than their absence. “Now, they may be the kind every woman has, but until I know that for certain, I will do what I have to in order to make sure nothing happens to this place.”
She opened her mouth to no doubt level me with some sharp reply but th
e sound of a cell phone echoing through the church distracted us both.
“Shit,” she mumbled.
This time, I released her hand as it pulled away from me and she went to answer the call.
I wanted to tell her that I didn’t believe she meant any harm, but I knew I’d been easily fooled by one of Méchant’s women before.
I wanted to tell her to never be ashamed of who she was or what she wore. To never be ashamed of being a light in a world where, in order for no one to stand out, everyone needed to be kept in the dark. Even as I stayed hypocritically in the shadows.
My face reflected the feelings that tore my body in opposite directions. The beautiful and the ugly. The light and the dark. The desire for her and the necessity of restraint. Two sides of the same coin.
And I wanted to tell her… Fuck, did I want to tell her. I wanted to tell her that purpose was a poor companion in life, and that, for the first time in years, even though she knew practically nothing about me, she’d managed to make me feel not so alone even though that’s all I could ever be.
And all of that want meant I needed to get out of here.
“Yes. Are you kidding me? How did you find that out? How did you manage that?” My footsteps toward the nearest passage froze. “Of course, I’ll be right there. This is huge.”
I melted my back against the column, knowing she’d look for me as soon as she hung up.
The chimes of her jewelry allowed me to stay hidden all the while knowing where and how she moved. The rush of the jingles and rustle of her bag as she gathered her things. The softening of the melody of her movement as she moved away from me toward the door that creaked with the weight of centuries of use.
She was leaving.
And she was leaving me with a choice.
Swearing under my breath, I glanced down the nave and saw she’d left all her equipment set up. She’d never left it out in the open like this without being present.
And just like that, my senses were on high alert.
Who had called her?
What was so important that she had to leave without packing up the rest of her things.
Just like that, the certainty I felt that perhaps I had made a mistake in my judgment of her evaporated like water on a hot stove, spitting and popping with distrust and deceit.
Cursing violently into the silence, I made for the front door to follow her.
Without my hat or jacket.
Without the collar to help hide my face.
And without the helpful blanket of darkness since the sun was just setting.
The feel of the sun—of the clear visibility on my scars made them burn when I slipped from the cathedral’s haven and followed the vibrant colors and golden chimes of the gypsy who was, at every turn of truth, becoming more and more a mystery.
Quinton
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it hadn’t been for her impromptu departure and rapid steps to take her onto to the very tip of the Île-de-Paris.
Watching from several paces behind, I saw her turn into the Square du Vert Galant, glancing over her shoulder as she did.
As though she knew I’d followed her.
Part of me reasoned that I shouldn’t, but if wherever she was headed had something to do with Méchant then it was my duty to follow.
Though the steady thrum of heat in my blood whispered that I followed her because, at that moment, I was simply unwilling to let her go.
She was like a string—one that I’d tugged on and began to unravel and now I couldn’t stop myself from pulling, unveiling more of her secrets, and more of her life. I wanted it all.
I paused at the entrance to the park, watching as she scanned the space that was clearly unfamiliar to her before spotting whomever she was looking for.
It only took a second for me to recognize the man who came up from the steps along the side of the park that lead right down to the river as the front man who’d played guitar in her little band of street musicians. Because of his size and appearance, he was hard to forget even though he’d been hard to focus on for a moment when in Esme’s presence.
My body tightened as he drew her in for a hug and kissed her cheek for that split second that was too damn long.
Irrationally, it felt like my heart was beating the word ‘mine’ against the cage of my chest.
I watched him speak to her, naturally bending his head down close to hers.
I should leave.
The thought burned through my brain. Obviously, this wasn’t anything of importance. Obviously, it was just a meeting with maybe her lover or, at the very least, her bandmate. Regardless, it was none of my business and should have none of my interest.
Forcing myself to turn away from them, the feeling of jealousy an unfamiliar beast I needed to control, I stopped when their attention was interrupted by two approaching men; two other musicians, I assumed.
I looked back to Esme. I wanted nothing more than to stand and wait and listen. Nothing more than to watch the magic that happened when she lost herself in her music.
It was a strange thing to want something like that—anything like that—for myself.
And it was one more reason why I shouldn’t be there.
But because I lingered, wanting things that were outside the scope of what my life would support, I saw what I had missed before.
I saw the reason I’d vaguely recognized the man from my father’s office the other day.
Malik Nekkez.
He was one of the other performers.
My hand tightened on the tree branch that concealed where I stood, thoughts and questions rushing across my mind like a stampede.
What was he doing in their group?
Did he suspect Esme like I did?
Did the Valois?
I pieced together the critical facts. Mainly, that he’d been a part of their ensemble before I’d approached Henri and before he’d been instructed to investigate Hubert.
And that meant there was some other reason he played with them. Some other reason I wasn’t aware of.
And that reason was the legitimate life raft my brain held on to as I sunk closer to the tree, determined to stay and see what I could find out.
Malik looked around, as though he knew someone was watching them. But I was too practiced at staying concealed and he was too distracted with keeping his cover that his searching eyes reluctantly disappeared.
They had their instruments with them, but it was odd that they made no move to get them out or prepare for any kind of performance.
They could be meeting someone else.
Perhaps they could be one of Méchant’s numerous cells of people used to incite unrest.
My mind fought violently against the thought Esme could be part of such a group.
But then I had to remind myself of how she’d spoken earlier and the look of bitter despair in her eyes when she spoke about the disrespect shown to the religious and cultural minorities here.
I followed their gaze as the larger one pointed to the entrance of the park just as a rush of children swarmed through the gate.
The next few minutes passed in a blur as I tried to determine where the children had come from. They were clearly underprivileged, judging by the state of their clothes. I guessed from some sort of orphanage or shelter given that most schools or daycares would be closed now and children at home with their families.
Being here, now, it was safe to assume these children didn’t have families.
And the look in Esme’s eyes as she bent and greeted the miniature crowd confirmed it.
It was the look of recognition—of seeing pieces of yourself in someone else.
I watched as one of the little girls reached out and grabbed one of the charms at her wrist, pulling it toward her for examination. I wished I could hear her as she seemed to explain the meaning behind each of her bangles.
That was the problem with Esme St. Claire.
I wanted to know all of her secrets.
&nbs
p; Both the ones I had a right to and the ones I didn’t.
Dangerously, I slid farther out from behind the tree, watching with a tightness in my chest I had no desire to explain as Esme unclasped the bracelet from her wrist and gave it to the little girl, having to wrap it twice around the child’s wrist so it would fit.
But she didn’t stop there.
She unhooked two more and gave them, without thinking twice, to the two other girls crowded around her, laughing and smiling at their squeals of delight as she put them on their wrists.
Entranced by her warmth and generosity, I wondered how I could both see the passion of her heart yet doubt its motives in the same moment.
I wondered what it would feel like if that passion were bestowed on me.
She made me wonder, and it made me forget my purpose. Watching her, I missed the rest of the men set up their instruments until one of them handed Esme her violin, breaking the conversation she was having with her avid audience.
She focused for a moment on her bandmates, but it wasn’t long until the familiar lively beat of their music rained down on the square, and the crowd of children, supervised by three suited women, began to laugh and dance with each other.
Soon enough, more people drew up from along the banks of the river and into the park from the streets of the Île so I left my post by the tree and slipped inconspicuously into the crowd.
Like the other night, my presence went almost unnoticed in favor of Esme and the way she played.
Unlike the other night, the larger man, Algerian if I had to make a guess, played closer to her, as though he were trying to mark his territory—a sight that mangled my focus and sent possessiveness slipping like the sweetest poison through my blood.
In the same way I’d come to claim Notre Dame, my body surged to claim Esme as mine.
As ma dame.
My lady.
It started as rough whispers and covered laughs, but soon the conversation of the men in front of me forced my attention away from the gypsy goddess where it wanted to linger.
The sky had begun to dim slightly even though it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes that had passed. The crowd who’d gathered around the periphery of the children had thinned, leaving me at the very distant edge of it.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 12