Seduction

by Molly Cochran

  There were more than a thousand miles of underground tunnels beneath the city. Jean-Loup felt as if he had walked every one of those miles. In some places the slow dripping of water in the passageways formed forests of stalactites; in others, he discovered underground lakes filled with pristine water still as glass. And still he walked. He walked until he found the end of the world, a small cavern where he could hear nothing, see nothing. Think nothing. Remember nothing.

  It was where he wanted to stay.

  And he would have, if he hadn’t been so hungry. After a long time—he had no idea how long—he began to walk again. Eventually the pathway began to slope slightly upward, climbing higher, until the ground grew damp and he could hear the sound of rushing water.

  Three days after he’d left Toujours, Jean-Loup found his way out of the underground maze to emerge from a sewer grate near the ruins of an ancient stone building. From there, he managed to stagger, starving, to the Abbey of Lost Souls, where a housemaid who mistook him for a beggar directed him to the kitchen.

  The cook was a kindly woman who took pity on the old man. “Here’s a basin,” she said, pouring water into a bowl. “Clean yourself up while I fix you a plate.”

  He thanked her, grateful to wash the grime off his hands and face. After he had eaten, he watched through the high window as a carriage came round the curved courtyard and a well-dressed man stepped out.

  “Henry,” Jean-Loup said, surprised. He headed for the door, but the cook stopped him.

  “Now, how would you even know a toff like Henry Shaw?” she teased.

  “I . . . I must speak with him,” the old man muttered. “Toujours . . . the Revolutionaries . . .”

  “Never mind them. Those what live here’ll have my head if they know I’ve been giving food away to strangers.” She waved a wooden spoon at him. “So you keep quiet about this, or I’ll turn you in to the militia myself, got that?”

  On the other side of the window, Henry was kissing Sophie de la Soubise on both cheeks in greeting.

  “The siren,” he said.

  “Is that what they’re calling her these days?” the cook said with a raucous laugh. She slapped Jean-Loup on his back. “Oh, it’s a new world, Gramps, make no mistake.” She dried some spoons with a rag. “Nothing’s the way it used to be.”

  Outside, Henry and Sophie entered the carriage and drove away. In the street beyond, a small boy screamed as he was dragged into the prison wagon along with his parents. Farther away, a row of prostitutes flirted with a group of self-appointed soldiers in dirty uniforms. Muskets sounded in the distance while intermittently, when the wind was right, the sound of the guillotine’s falling blade sliced through the air with its silvery song.

  “No,” he repeated numbly. “Nothing is the same.”

  He left the abbey with a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, a sack of candles, and some flint—items he’d purchased from the cook for a handful of gold nuggets he’d made from lead pie weights while she wasn’t looking.

  Then he walked back to the abandoned building where he had emerged from the tunnel.

  “I remember this,” he said in wonder, running his hand along the crumbling stone wall. It was the building where, six hundred years before, he had caught a zinc dénier that had changed his life forever.

  “Such a small thing,” he whispered as he lifted the sewer grate and lowered himself once again into the darkness and peace of the distant past.

  Jean-Loup had finally found his place in the world.

  • • •

  Azrael.

  I supposed I’d known for some time, without admitting it, who Jean-Loup was. What a strange and terrible life, I thought as I closed the last page with a heavy heart. I remembered what he had said, that there was no such thing as forever. Was that true?

  Was there nothing that wouldn’t be corroded or destroyed by time, even our own souls?

  CHAPTER

  •

  FORTY-THREE

  I sneaked into the abbey’s kitchen. I couldn’t risk going back to my room because I was pretty sure the life-sucking butler at the house in Vincennes had made good on his promise to call the witches of the Enclave, so Sophie and her friends would probably have a surprise welcome waiting for me if they found me. Fortunately, it was unlikely they’d venture into the kitchen for any reason, so I felt fairly safe while I worked on sewing the last pages of the book.

  It was after ten when I finally finished. Then I bound the pine with some glue I found in one of the pantry drawers. When I was done, the book looked as good as new, or at least as new as it looked when I’d first wrecked it. I stuck it in my backpack and let myself back out.

  I had to see Azrael, even if it meant waking him up. I needed an explanation about the events in the book I’d read. Even if parts of his account were fictitious, Azrael knew a lot about the Enclave, and it was important that I learned what he knew. The similarities between his story and my reality were just too close. And Joelle still hadn’t come home.

  • • •

  “Azrael?” I called into the darkness. In the distance, I saw the light from one dim candle. Maybe he was still awake. “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” came the grizzled old voice. He sounded confused, and for a moment I thought he’d been sleeping after all. But when I walked in, I saw that the old man had taken down the painting of Veronique from the wall and was standing in front of it with a palette of paints and a brush. He was painting the white streak in her hair.

  Obviously absorbed in his work, he blinked at me for a moment as if he didn’t recognize me.

  “Hi,” I said softly. “I apologize about the time.”

  Finally he smiled. “What? No chicken livers in aspic? No frog legs in browned butter?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I’m cut out for haute cuisine,” I said. It was true. I’d spent all the money I’d saved up for college to come here and cook food I wouldn’t even eat. But that was just one of many mistakes I’d made in the past couple of months, and probably the smallest of the lot. “I like what you’ve done to the painting,” I said, changing the subject.

  “You were my inspiration.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You stole my book,” he said, quite conversationally.

  My mouth went dry. “I . . . I’m really sorry about that,” I stammered. “That is, I didn’t really steal it. In fact, it’s right here.” I ran over to my bag and took out the book. “You see, I dropped it, and . . . and . . .”

  “Are you sorry to have read it?” He added a few more brushstrokes to the painting.

  I swallowed. “It’s always better to know the truth,” I said carefully. “That’s why I came tonight.”

  He sighed, a wheezing, whistling sound. “What do you wish to ask me?” He seemed so rickety, as if he were held together with chewing gum.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” He waved me away irritably. “Was that your question?”

  “No.” I laid the book down carefully. Then I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady. “Marie-Therèse died,” I said. “She’d been drained of whatever life she’d had left. And that skeevy butler . . .” I shuddered. “He tried to get me to take her last breath.” I looked up at him. “Like in your book.”

  “And did you?” he asked. “Take her last breath?”

  “Are you kidding? I slammed him with a table.”

  “Ah,” he said with a chuckle. “Good for you, Katy Ainsworth.”

  I put my head in my hands. “I don’t even know where to begin,” I said. “Peter’s going to be initiated into the coven.”

  “Peter . . .” He looked as if he were trying to place the name. “Ah, yes. He has decided to join that herd of idiots?”

  “They’re not just idiots, Azrael,” I said. “They’re the ones who killed Marie-Therèse. There’s something evil at the core of them. I can feel it. That’s how this coven is different from the one in your book. And Peter’s righ
t in the thick of it.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  “What, the Initiation? I wish I could.”

  “But Peter’s participation, perhaps?”

  I sighed. “I don’t think he’ll listen to me anymore,” I said. “Jeremiah’s promised him a free ride to the presidency of Shaw Enterprises. His future’s made. All he has to do is sell his soul. And I think he’s already done that.”

  “A familiar theme,” Azrael said. “Someone dangles a trinket in front of our eyes, and suddenly we are hypnotized. We walk toward evil willingly, without a thought, our eyes fixed only on the shiny object.”

  “Is that what happened to Henry?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Surely you’ve guessed who Henry has become.”

  “Jeremiah?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It’s a relatively new name. The first time I’d heard it was when you said that he’d asked about me.” His lips pressed together. “He was a good friend. I miss him.”

  “But he’s still here, in Paris. Don’t you ever see him?”

  “No,” Azrael said sadly. “We have not spoken for many years.”

  “I guess he was lured by Sophie. She was his shiny object.”

  “There are many sorts of temptations, little one. No one is immune to all of them.”

  “What about you?” I swallowed.

  “Me?” He looked amused. “I’m afraid I’m a bit old for most seductions. A slice of cream pie, perhaps, or a night’s sleep without having to walk to the bathroom may be the limit of my forbidden desires. Henry—Jeremiah—now supports the coven, you know.”

  “Yes. He’s grooming Peter.”

  “Ah. Your young man is an alchemist, then.”

  “That’s why they want him in the coven. Those witches need their gold.” I crooked my head, curious about something. “Do you still go to the rituals?”

  “To perpetuate my endless life? Alas, yes.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “It is not my idea to attend. I am made to hobble around like a penitent begging for another day in this cave. I occasionally see Henry at these events. I see his face and remember the boy he was, before . . .” He winced.

  “Before Drago,” I finished.

  “Yes,” he said bitterly.

  “At least your son hasn’t . . .” I cleared my throat.

  “Hasn’t killed me?” he rasped. The old man’s eyes narrowed. “My son, like Henry, no longer bothers much with me,” he said.

  “But he does bother with some people,” I went on doggedly. I had to. It was the reason I’d come here in the middle of the night. “Is Drago still here? Or has he taught someone else to . . . to . . .” I felt such disgust that I couldn’t even form the words. “Azrael, Marie-Therèse was drained. Nearly dessicated, and all but dead. And there was a mummy on the street—”

  “What?” The old man leaned heavily against the arm of a chair.

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.” Then, with a sudden sob, all my worst fears came pouring out of me. “When I found Marie-Therèse, she said that Peter had left her in that condition. Peter!” I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “He wasn’t a killer when he got here. Someone had to show him. And now . . .” I was shaking all over, and crying so hard that I was choking on my tears.

  “Shh.” Azrael put his arms around me and held me until I could bring my grief under control. “Do not think on this, child. There are things in this world that are not meant for the pure of heart to see.”

  Pure of heart. How wrong he was. “I’m not pure of heart,” I said miserably.

  “So you believe.”

  “Do you know what the Darkness is?”

  “I’ve heard of it.” He looked away, disinterested.

  “Well, I do know. I’ve seen the Darkness. I understand it. I’ve felt it in myself.”

  “But that is what makes you pure,” he said. “Purity does not mean sterility. Or perfection. It just means walking toward the light, one step at a time. That is how we defeat evil, whatever form it takes.”

  I felt myself trembling. “I think It wants me,” I said. “The butler at the Poplars said that the Master had saved Marie-Therèse’s last breath for me.” I took a deep breath. “I think the Master is the Darkness.”

  “And . . .” The old man’s smile quickly changed into an expression of pain.

  “Azrael?”

  He stumbled forward.

  “Oh, God,” I said, catching him in my arms. “Come sit down.” I eased him into a chair, wishing with all my heart that I had a cell phone. He’d collapsed before. I couldn’t ignore it this time. “I’m going to go for help,” I said. “Now, I know you don’t like hospitals, but—”

  “Quiet.” He put his hand over mine. “No, little cook. Again, it is not time.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, trying to keep the note of hysteria out of my voice.

  He was panting. “Because . . . I have always known . . . that I will choose . . . the hour of my death,” he said between breaths. “Be still.”

  I sank down beside him. If he didn’t want medical help, there wasn’t much I could do unless I went against his wishes and exposed his hideaway to the authorities. I didn’t think he’d want that, no matter how dire his situation.

  My Gram says old people think differently about death than young people. I never knew exactly what that meant, but while I sat with Azrael, I was beginning to see that he didn’t view dying as something terrible and weird.

  “Is it hard to be old?” I asked quietly.

  He smiled. “Not as hard as it is to be young,” he said.

  We sat together in silence, there on the floor, for a long time. Finally I spoke. I said what had been on my mind since I’d read the last words of his book. “There’s no such thing as forever.”

  He patted my hand. “One day you’ll be glad of that,” he said. “Now leave me. I need rest.”

  “But Peter . . . the Enclave . . .”

  He snorted. “Losing is always painful, but you cannot win every battle,” he said. “The Enclave has been doing what it does for a very long time. You will never reform it. Those people are too corrupt to listen.”

  Although there were a lot of things about the Abbey of Lost Souls that were more frightening and terrible than their treatment of their children, at that moment I couldn’t help but think about Fabienne. Her gift of astral projection, a gift much greater than mine, was never going to be developed because her mother wouldn’t allow it. But then, Fabby didn’t object to her sacrifice as much as I did. As wrong as it seemed to me, the Enclave was her world.

  “Believe me, Katy. It is too late for any of them.”

  I nodded, digging my fingernails into my palms.

  “But not for you,” Azrael said softly. “For you, perhaps there is such a thing as forever.”

  He inclined his head. His eyes were shining with unshed tears.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FORTY-FOUR

  It was after midnight now, but naturally, Sophie and her gang were still up. There was no doubt in my mind that the butler from the Poplars had called and filled them in on the details of our altercation, so this time I walked into the house prepared—no, eager—to confront whoever was assigned to punish me for finding out their ugly little secret. My telekinetic talent might not hold a candle to Peter’s gift for making gold, but it was still pretty useful in a fight. It’s hard to argue with a flying frying pan.

  But no one in the house said anything. They just kept chatting and acting like they didn’t see me come in. Okay, I thought. Being ignored is fine with me. But if any of them started anything, I was going to finish it.

  Before I went to my own room, I stopped to say good-bye to Fabby, but she wasn’t in. Neither was Peter. Well, that was nothing new. It took me less than ten minutes to gather up all my things—two chef’s jackets, my knife kit, one suitcase filled with clothes, and a paper bag with handles that held books and letters and whatever small things I’d picked up. My passport and other
ID, plus my plane ticket home and the small amount of cash I had, were all in my backpack.

  As I was lugging everything downstairs, Sophie called out, “Going somewhere, darling?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Anywhere you’re not.”

  She laughed. Strange about that laughter: What I’d once thought of as tinkling and feminine now sounded like a crude, ugly bray. I was going to force her out of my thoughts as soon as I left this house, and never allow her to enter them again. It was too bad that I’d missed Fabienne, though. She couldn’t help who her mother was. I just hoped she’d be able to find some sort of happiness in what promised to be a very long and boring life.

  “Ta-ta,” Sophie sang as I closed the heavy front door behind me.

  Good, I thought. I was out of there, at least. The problem now was where I was going to go next. I sat on the steps and checked my watch. 1:45. My old digs were out, unless I could impose on Hernan the drag queen to put me up for the night. That was two Metro transfers away, though, and I was already exhausted. I supposed I could stay in a hotel, at least until I decided what to do. Although that would eat up a lot of my money, it seemed like the best idea, given how late it was and the fact that I had school in the morning.

  “Can I help?”

  I looked up. “Belmondo?” No one seemed to be with him. “What are you doing here?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Someone from the house called me. She said you might be in trouble.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “And she asked you to help me?” I asked incredulously.

  He smiled. “No. She just found it amusing.”

  “That figures,” I said. “Well, I’m out of there now.”

  “So I see.” He took my suitcase. “Where to? My car’s just around the corner.”

  I swallowed. “Um . . .” I looked around as we walked. “Do you know of any cheap hotels around here?”

  “I can do better than that,” he said. “Get in.”

  “Er . . .”