Seduction

by Molly Cochran

  I have come to rescue her. It is a humanitarian service I render, one of several. I have brought a great number of these poor girls to a place of safety, where their extrasensory abilities will be appreciated, if only by their mirrors, since the witches at the abbey use their gifts solely to maintain their beauty and youth. One might say they literally live for fashion, the dears. And despite their wasted lives, they live nearly in perpetuity. Or they think they will. I have made a point of seeing to it that they do not overstay their welcome in this overpopulated world.

  Still, they love me for my help to them. To be truthful, they would love any man with a well-cut frock coat and connections to the theater.

  Ah, there she is. My God, her dress is covered with pink bows! There are bows along the gigantic hooped hem of her skirt, around her hips, on her shoulders, and decorating her bodice. Bows are even in her hair, which is coiled into tubes that resemble sausages dangling from her head.

  Yes, without my intervention, this one would surely go to the gallows.

  She is flirting with me, too young to realize how boring she is. She’ll be right at home in the abbey.

  We dance. She is nimble and lithe, and smiles prettily at me behind her fan. I suppose she imagines that she has some sort of power over me. Amusing.

  “We are near the door,” I whisper into her ear, and she blushes so deeply that you’d think I’d just made an indecent proposal to her. Beneath her perfume, I sense a faint odor of fear. The lovely if bovine Helène probably has never defied her parents before this. No doubt she feels as if she’s betraying her family.

  I wonder why the gift of magic is so often given to the undeserving.

  “Come with me,” I say, forcing her to look into my eyes. “Now.”

  She swallows. She wants me. She allows me to lead her through the doorway into the corridor, past the footmen and into the night.

  “My coat!” she exclaims, but I wave away her objection.

  “We can’t go back.”

  “But . . .” She looks back at the festive lights of the palace. I push her forward.

  • • •

  At the entrance to the abbey, I speak with the officious harridan who believes she is in charge of the place. She tries to take the girl inside, but I prevent her.

  “What do you have for me?” I ask. The woman’s eyes do not meet my gaze. I take her arm, roughly. “You said someone was dying.”

  “She . . . she recovered.” The woman tries to pull away from me. “Please, Monsieur le Duc, for the sake of the girl . . .”

  I shove the “abbess” away from me, and she falls to the floor. With the same motion, I clasp Helène’s arm and drag her away from the abbey’s door.

  “Monsieur—” she begins, but I force her around the corner of the building. Before she can become frightened, I press her against the stone wall of the abbey and kiss her full on her lips.

  At first her eyes are open. She is like a deer in the moonlight, trying to decide whether or not to run. But I touch the tip of her tongue with my own, and she emits a little gasp. It is only a moment, but that is all it takes to make her abandon her natural caution. She kisses me back with wanton passion, her eyes closed now, her breath coming fast. She thrusts her breasts at me; she explores my mouth with her own. She touches my face as if I were an honorable lover. Such pretense!

  “My wicked darling,” I murmur, and she smiles through swollen lips. Boldly she pulls my head toward hers, and that is when I do it.

  I press her wrists against the wall as I begin to pull her life out of her through her willing, loving mouth.

  As the breath rushes out of her, she begins to struggle. The dainty wrists push feebly against my hands. Her eyes fly open. She wants to speak, but cannot. The pink ribbons in her hair tremble and quiver like petals in the wind. Then she makes a sound like a rabbit caught in a trap, a rasping cry that wants desperately to grow into a scream but fails because with every second, the life is rushing out of her. Into me. I feel myself expanding as she falls nearer to death.

  It is always delicious, even with cowen, but with witches the feeling is particularly satisfying. It makes no difference if they are young and beautiful or ancient, with hobbled feet and rotten teeth, although the more magic they possess, the better the harvest. At the last, when I take that magic, the sensation is magnificent.

  Tears spring to Helène’s eyes. Poor creature, I would comfort her if I could. I would tell her that the pain will soon end, that it would be better for her not to spend her final moments in a frenzy of terror, but I doubt if anything I said would make much difference at this point.

  This is the moment when all the masks come off, both the disguise of the demure and obedient daughter and the silly pretense of the sensuous, worldly woman. All that’s left is her naked, animal fear as she expels her last breath.

  My masks are gone as well. As her soul flies into my mouth and her body crumbles to ash before me, I feel my leathern wings stir. I grow enormous, filling the sky. Passersby look up, uneasy, ignorant, their arms instinctively wrapped around themselves as if trying to hold on to their own souls, and in the lightless night they see my face and shiver, and hurry on, denying to themselves that they’d seen anything at all.

  They always deny what they know to be true, because as anyone who has seen me clearly in those last few precious moments of their lives would attest, the sight is too terrible to remember.

  And I . . .

  I am simply here.

  With you, Katy, now and always.

  Forever.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FORTY-SIX

  With a shiver, I jumped up and threw the book on the floor as if it were on fire.

  How did he—it, that is, IT—know my name?

  My name!

  I felt myself shaking. How? How? But a part of me already knew the answer to that question.

  How could It not know me?

  That chapter had been written by the Darkness itself, and even though I’d never met Drago, I was well acquainted with the Entity that possessed him. I had seen It in Its true form. And much as I’d tried to tell myself that it wasn’t true, that that was then, this was now, as much as I’d wanted to believe Azrael when he’d said my soul was pure, I knew it was just a matter of time before the snake I’d fought in the Meadow would find me again.

  Because the Darkness is patient. It waits. It knows. And It never forgets.

  It hadn’t forgotten me.

  I stumbled into the kitchen, trying to think, and poured myself a glass of water. But my hands were shaking so hard that the liquid sloshed over the side of the glass. I was looking for a paper towel to clean up the mess when the phone rang, scaring me out of my wits. Forgetting that it wasn’t my home, I automatically lunged to pick up the receiver, but before I could hit the “talk” button, I slipped on the spilled water on the floor.

  I skidded across the kitchen on the heels of my sneakers until I ran into a tall chrome garbage can, at which point I fell over backward, letting go of the phone in my hand. Still ringing insistently, it went flying along the marble countertop, finally crashing into a glass jar filled with coffee that exploded into a thousand pieces while its contents spewed over everything like a black cloud.

  The phone was still ringing. “Oh, shut up!” I shrieked. Wiping coffee grounds off my face with my sleeve, I resigned myself to a massive cleanup.

  Great, I thought. Just what I wanted to do at three in the morning after having the snot scared out of me.

  And the phone kept on ringing.

  I must have misread the last line of the book, I reasoned while I tore off some paper towels. That was the only explanation that made sense. I mean, sure, I’d been spooked by the Darkness in the past, but that didn’t mean It had decided to include me in Its memoirs. I was just punchy with fatigue and still reeling from the events of my day.

  “Shut up!” I screamed at the still-ringing phone.

  I swept the shards of glass
into a dustpan as the phone finally fell silent. “Thank God,” I mumbled. Quiet at last.

  And then I saw it, facedown in the corner under a pile of spilled coffee grounds: a green earring.

  I squinted at it for a moment. What was it doing there, tossed in a corner of the kitchen like a discarded gum wrapper? I reached for it, but the moment I touched it, I nearly slammed against the wall, so powerful were its vibrations.

  A woman, knowing she was going to die. In a desperate move to reveal her killer, she throws the earring into the corner as her life is leached out of her. She gasps as she slides down the wall toward the floor, where this monster will finish feeding on her. But before she closes her eyes for the last time, she catches a glimpse of herself in the shiny metal of the toaster.

  So old, she thinks. He has taken my youth. She marvels, horrified, at the wrinkled, aged creature she has become. One emerald earring dangles against her wizened neck. Her once-beautiful features transform into ropy strands that resemble an abandoned hornet’s nest. And she thinks, at the last: My face! What has he done to my face?

  Joelle’s face, I realized numbly. The murdered woman in my vision had been Joelle. I remembered the earring on the body on the Rue Déschamps. The one in my hand was its match.

  The body in the alley had been hers.

  While the sounds of Joelle’s final agony reverberated through my mind, the phone made a clicking sound as the message light flashed and I heard Belmondo’s voice being recorded.

  “Katy,” he said in that teasing, smiling way he had that made my insides turn to jelly. “I know you’re still awake.”

  My breath came in a swift whoosh as I reached for the phone. Belmondo! Belmondo would know what to do. He always knew.

  But something was wrong, I could feel it. My hand seemed to stop of its own volition before it reached the receiver.

  Joelle’s face, reflected in the toaster as she sinks to her knees. So old, so old . . .

  “Katy?”

  And behind her lifeless face is the reflection of the monster who killed her, his lips still tasting Joelle’s last breath, curved now into a charming smile, his eyes full of seduction and promise, the author of the last chapter . . .

  “Katarine,” he whispered.

  Belmondo.

  The earring dropped out of my hand.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FORTY-SEVEN

  “I imagine you’ve read my essay by now,” the voice in the phone message said. “So you know who I am. Or was, rather. That was before I met you, Katy.”

  Drago, I thought, suddenly understanding more than I wanted to know. Drago and Belmondo are the same person.

  “I really don’t think you ought to be alone. Perhaps I should come by.” My heart stopped. “To protect you.”

  I scrambled to my feet.

  “For the record, you misunderstood my visit to Marie-Therèse,” he went on in his smooth, caring voice. “She was glad to see me.”

  “Oh, God,” I moaned. “God, no.”

  “I’ll be there soon, my darling,” he said before the phone clicked into silence again.

  My legs rubbery with fear, I stumbled into the bedroom, where I’d put my things away and threw everything that fit into my suitcase, all the while chattering to myself to keep from screaming:

  There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, oh please let me get home, please, please . . .

  I swallowed down the nausea that was rising in my throat as I closed the suitcase and swung it off the bed while slipping into my shoes.

  Peter hadn’t killed Marie-Therèse. The “young one” had been Belmondo. It had been Belmondo all along.

  There’s no place like home, there’s—

  Two feet before I reached the front door, the bell rang.

  The song dried up and came out a pathetic whimper. Quickly, I glanced toward the window. Twelve stories to the street. Jumping was not an option.

  The bell rang again. I closed my eyes and thought hard. In light of my recent reassessment of Belmondo, I doubted that he’d been telling the truth when he said I had the only key to the apartment, so ringing the doorbell was probably just a formality. Still, I could use that. I could start screaming as soon as I opened the door. At this time of night, someone would notice, and maybe call the police.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but—I looked back at the window—it was all I could come up with at the moment. Taking a deep breath and hoping fervently that it wasn’t my last, I opened the door and prepared for my swan song.

  “Katy.”

  I choked on my own spittle. “Peter,” I said, ridiculously relieved.

  We stood facing each other for what seemed like an awfully long time. When we finally spoke, it was at the same time.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “He killed Marie-Therèse,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” I said. I threw my arms around him. The suitcase thumped on his back. I felt a flood of pain and fear flow out of him into me. But over everything was love. Peter’s love for me.

  “I never should have doubted you,” I said.

  “About what?” he asked as I rested my face against his chest. “Hey.” He pulled away from me, then pointed to my suitcase. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, shoving him backward. “And you’re going with me. Hurry.”

  We ran for the stairs—I didn’t trust the elevator—and hustled down the twelve stories to the ground floor. The doorman nodded as Peter and I streaked past.

  “I . . . have . . . a car,” Peter panted as we hit the street.

  “Where?”

  “Here.” He threw my suitcase into the backseat of a Peugeot.

  “Hurry, Peter,” I urged. “Please.”

  To his credit, Peter never questioned why I was so frantic to get out of there, and so bossy about it. He just got in and burned rubber.

  “Where to?” he asked when we got on the highway.

  “Anywhere.” I looked out the back. It didn’t look like anyone was following us. “The airport,” I amended.

  “What?” He looked over at me. “You’re leaving the country? Now?”

  “I have to. We both have to, Peter, believe me.”

  “But I can’t just—”

  “Look out!” He’d been so engrossed in our conversation that he’d drifted into the next lane. The car beside us blared its horn, and Peter yanked the wheel of the Peugeot.

  “Wait a second.” He pulled off at a rest area and stopped by an overlook. “You need to tell me what’s going on, Katy,” he said.

  I hung my head. “Belmondo,” I said. It was hard for me even to say his name.

  “What’d he do?” Two red dots appeared on Peter’s cheeks. “Tell me, did he—”

  “He killed Joelle,” I said. “I found her earring.”

  “What?” I don’t think he’d been thinking along those lines at all. “Then the mummy on the street . . .”

  I nodded. “He killed her in his apartment. He killed Marie-Therèse, too. And I think I was going to be next.” My voice cracked. “When the doorbell rang, I thought it was him. But it was you.” I pressed my lips together trying not to cry with happiness.

  “When I got back to the house, Sophie said you’d been there to get your things.” He looked down at his hands, avoiding my eyes. “And that Bel—he was going to look after you.” I guessed Peter didn’t want to say his name either. “I figured you were done with me.”

  “Then why did you come?” I asked.

  He looked into my eyes. “If you’re breaking up with me, I want to hear it from your own mouth,” he said.

  I felt so ashamed. I hadn’t been nearly as loyal. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, not daring to look at him. “For everything. I’ve been acting like a skank.”

  Peter swallowed. “Me too,” he said. Gently he touched my hair. “I got greedy. They were offering so much . . .”

  “I know.�
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  “So maybe I deserved to lose you to a handsome creep.”

  “You didn’t lose me,” I whispered.

  He took my hand. “Good,” he said, “because I can’t.” His hands were shaking. “That’s what I needed to tell you. I can live without Harvard and Shaw Enterprises and just about everything else.” His voice cracked. “But I can’t live without you.”

  “Oh, Peter.” It was all I could think of to say.

  “We’ll make it through this.” He’d said it before, but now I believed him.

  “We will,” I said.

  As he drove, I tried to memorize Peter’s profile: the sensitive nose, the soft gray eyes, the honey-colored hair that blew gently in the wind from his open window.

  How did I get so lucky? I wondered. The best friend anyone could have was on my side. Always.

  We passed under a sign for Orly Airport. “Do you really want to leave Paris?” Peter asked.

  “Totally.”

  “Even cooking school?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It can’t hold a candle to Hattie’s.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll go with you.” He veered off the nearest exit ramp and got back on the highway going the other direction.

  “Hey, what are you doing? We were headed for the airport.”

  “I have to go back to the house first.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said incredulously. “Belmondo’s after me, Peter.”

  “It’ll just take a minute. Jeremiah gave me a check. It was part of the package he was offering. I’ll have to give it back to him before I go.”

  “Couldn’t you mail it?”

  “Relax, Katy. Belmondo isn’t going to look for you there. He just took you away from that place.”

  “Well . . .” He might be right. Belmondo knew that I would never count on the witches at the abbey to protect me against him or anything else. “So he won’t think I’ve gone back to the house because I’d be crazy to?”