by A W Hartoin
“Hey!” yelled Chuck.
I whipped open the door and pulled him out before shutting it again.
“Thanks. You’re so kind.”
“Oh my god,” I said. “The Girls are going to kill me. This apartment was intact.”
“Calm down,” said Chuck. “It’s not that bad.”
I poked him in the bulging pec. “Telling people to calm down doesn’t change anything. Don’t say calm down!” My voice went all squeaky.
“Okay. Don’t calm down.”
“Don’t get smug with me.”
“I’m not smug. I’m calm.”
“Well, don’t do that either. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Chuck took me by the shoulders and gave me a tiny shake. “The Girls don’t have to know. We’ll clean it.”
I blew out a breath. “That’s true as long as Monsieur Barre doesn’t find out we’re—”
A sharp rap echoed down the hall.
Damn and double damn.
I pushed Chuck and Aaron back in the kitchen amid loud protests. “I’ll handle this.”
“I can do it,” said Chuck.
“Quiet. You’re shirtless.”
“That might help,” he said.
I booted him through the door. “It’s not going to help.”
Luckily, I was fully dressed and wearing black and grey. Any soot would be concealed. I straightened my top and glanced in the hall mirror. Even with yellowish glass and peeling silver backing, I looked okay, not good, just okay. I tucked in several loose strands of hair as the rapping got louder and more insistent, and then I opened the door. As I feared, Monsieur Barre stood there, his face all puckered up like a dried apple. He held a fire extinguisher like he was ready to club somebody with it.
“Hi, Monsieur Barre,” I said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
He leaned to the side and peered around me. “Madam Leibovitz heard an explosion.”
“Oh that. We were…playing a game.”
What the what. Game. Crap.
He frowned at me. “A game where something explodes? What game is this? I insist on knowing.”
No. No. Not the insisting.
I tipped my chin down and batted my eyelashes. I’m not proud of it, but I was desperate. “It’s just an American thing. We’re weird, you know. Noisy. Always doing stuff.”
“Mademoiselle Watts, you are charming as always, but I insist on coming in.” Monsieur Barre’s tone said that I wasn’t charming and never had been. Maybe I should’ve sent out shirtless Chuck.
“There’s nothing to see.” I blocked him as he attempted to dart around me.
“There is something to smell,” he said. “Perhaps a gas leak.”
“I think it’s fine.”
Monsieur Barre waved his hand in front of his nose. “Shall I call your godmothers?”
I did more batting. It was reflexive. “Whatever for?”
“Mademoiselle.” He gave me a withering look and I slumped. I looked pathetic, I have no doubt. Oddly, pathetic worked. He patted my shoulder. “Let us see the damage.”
I let him push past me to the kitchen, where Chuck remained shirtless, causing Monsieur Barre’s eyebrows to hit his three hairs. Aaron looked worse than I remembered. Some of his hair was burnt to a crisp and his hairline was now an inch farther back. Now that the smoke had cleared, the kitchen smelled like burnt hair.
“You used the range,” said Monsieur Barre, glaring at me.
“Well, not me personally, but it was used or turned on, I guess,” I said.
He surveyed the kitchen with a critical eye. I’m not sure he had any other kind, to be honest. “This is not a disaster,” he said at length.
“No?” I asked hopefully.
“No.” He turned to Aaron. “This is a disaster. You must have salve for your burns and your hair must be shaved.”
Shaved? Mom’s totally going to notice that.
Chuck looked closer at Aaron’s head. “I don’t think he’s really burned. More like singed.”
Monsieur Barre gave Chuck a glance that made him clamp his mouth shut. “You will dress and you”—he gestured to Aaron—“will come with me.”
“I need to cook,” said Aaron.
“You may cook on my range. It doesn’t blow up or set my apartment on fire,” said Monsieur Barre. “He may stay in my guest room. You two are on your own. The cleaning staff will arrive promptly at seven tomorrow morning. Have your dinner elsewhere.”
Aaron trotted out of the kitchen like an obedient dog and Monsieur Barre followed, telling him he really needed a stylist. I think he meant clothes. Good luck with that. I’d never seen a new shirt on Aaron. He had the well-worn look down pat.
The front door closed with a thump and a clink and I turned to Chuck. “So it’s only us tonight.”
I was pleased. He wasn’t. Chuck looked like I might pounce on him.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He took a step back. What the hell?
“Alright. I’m taking your nothing to dinner and then to the Eiffel. Got it?” I flounced out of the room with him trailing me.
“Why are you mad?” he asked
“I’m not mad. Why would I be mad? De-soot yourself and let’s go.”
He did and we went without anymore questions about why I was mad. Smart man.
The dinner I assumed would be Paris romantic wasn’t. We had crepes while walking to the Eiffel. Not that that can’t be romantic, moonlight stroll and all that, but with us it wasn’t romantic in the least. Chuck didn’t want to talk or hold hands or do anything else with me. I ate my crepe and practiced my patience.
By the time we reached the top tier some two hours later, it had worn so thin I could see through it. We stood at the railing, gazing at the City of Light and saying not a thing about it. The only good part about the whole thing was that we weren’t followed. I didn’t see the suits and I was looking since I wasn’t looking at Chuck. It’s easy to check for tails when you haven’t got anything else to do.
“Are you done?” he asked after a grand five minutes.
Patience is a virtue.
“I’m so done,” I said.
“What does that mean?” He took my arm and pulled me close. Not too close, I noticed.
“It means let’s get in the elevator line.”
“What’s wrong?”
I yanked my arm out of his grasp.
Patience nil. Virtue gone.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Let’s have it.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. This is the Eiffel, romance central. Something is wrong,” I said.
Chuck turned away and stared off in the direction of Sacre Coeur, but not really seeing it. “It’s not you.”
I leaned against the guard rail as a gentle breeze ruffled my hair and tickled my neck. “That’s what people say right before they dump you.”
He jerked his gaze to me, his smooth forehead furrowed. “I’m not dumping you.”
“What are you doing?” My voice sounded harder than I intended.
“I’m getting used to us.” His long fingers wrapped around my bicep and squeezed. He could’ve hugged me, but he kept his distance. It could be my imagination, but it seemed to be getting worse since we arrived in Paris.
“You’re not thinking that I’m not what you expected me to be?” I asked in a whisper.
“God no.” He stepped closer and the smell of him enveloped me. I don’t know when he had beer, but there it was, beer with wintergreen gum and a hint of ancient soot.
“I miss you,” I said.
“I’m right here.”
“Are you?”
Chuck bent over me and I thought for a second that the spell was broken and he’d kiss me. Instead, he kissed my forehead and gave me the quickest of hugs. His heart pounded away. I had a feeling. This wasn’t excitement or, God forbid, passion. This was fear, intense and unrelenting. Patience couldn’t change that.
>
Chapter Eighteen
I slept in Elias’s bed, or more accurately, in the pit in the center of Elias’s bed. The pit was more comfortable than it looked, kind of like a hammock.
I fell asleep as soon as I slipped into the hole and dreamt vivid dreams of New Orleans, of black cats and my ancestors in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. It was the first time I’d dreamt of the city and my grandparents’ house without waking up screaming. Richard Costilla had always shown up before, charging up the stairs, blade in hand. But not that time. I was safe in Elias’s bed in the beloved city of Paris.
Aaron woke me up by standing at the foot of my bed and staring at me. I was so bleary that at first I thought it was Elias, thinking I was the woman he loved.
“Don’t do that,” I said after screeching and cussing.
“Huh?”
“I thought you were Elias. He’s supposed to haunt the apartment.”
“Why?”
“How should I know?” That’s when I noticed his hair. It was still there and that wasn’t a good thing. His hairline had moved back another couple of inches, leaving an angry red stripe like a headband over his forehead. The rest of his hair stuck up but not like it normally did. It almost seemed like it was styled but that couldn’t be. “How come you didn’t shave your head?”
“Cold.”
“It’s summer.”
He shrugged and watched me struggle to get out of the hole. I flailed my arms. “Help.”
Aaron hauled me out and stared at the wall, saying, “We got to go.”
“Where?” I asked, cracking my back and stretching.
“Class.”
“We can’t go to class. Chances are the suits are on to that.”
Aaron closed the bedroom door. “We’ll go the back way.”
“There’s a back way?”
“I don’t know.”
I rubbed my forehead. “You’re giving me a headache and I’ve only been awake for five minutes. That’s just wrong.”
“You got to go to Angela’s,” he said.
“I know, but I don’t think Chuck will let us go alone to Guy’s. We’ll have to Fike him.”
My door rattled and Chuck shouted through the wood. “Are you guys in there? Are you okay?”
“See what I mean?” I whispered.
“We’re fine, worrywart.” I opened the door to reveal Chuck looking ready to pounce.
“What are you doing in here?” He scanned the room, looking for intruders, I suppose.
Aaron and I watched as Chuck stalked around, every muscle in his lean body taut. “You think I wouldn’t know if there was somebody in here?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Would you?”
I crossed my arms. “Don’t talk to me like my father. Yes, I’d know. Aaron and I lost two tails yesterday and I kicked the crap out of one of them. I’m not a complete moron.”
Chuck did a slight shake and refocused on me. “Sorry. Yesterday shook me.”
“Why?” I asked. “It’s not like this kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me all the time.”
“I’m not usually around.”
“That makes it different?”
“Hell, yeah.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with that. If Chuck got the idea that he had to protect me every minute of every day, we were going to have a problem, a big problem. And this whole together thing wasn’t going to work out.
Lacking anything to say, I shooed them out of Elias’s room. “I have to get dressed.”
Ten minutes later, I emerged in another of Madam Ziegler’s outfits, a plum-colored dress cut on the bias and a pair of heels she claimed were comfortable. I wouldn’t know until it was too late and I had blisters the size of quarters. Madam Ziegler had allowed me three purses and three hats, a twenties-style cloche, a beret, and a brimmed hat straight out of Casablanca. I know the hats sounded like they were over-the-top and they were, especially the beret. Is anything more trite than a beret in Paris? I don’t think so.
Madam Ziegler swore that I absolutely had to have the Casablanca hat to go with the three-piece suit that she insisted was perfect for me. Since she managed to produce a vest that fit my breasts, I agreed to it. I still wasn’t sold on the beret, but at least it had the right shape. I put on the cloche instead and it did its job by making me look like a twenties movie star instead of Marilyn. It was kind of amazing. Madam Z was a genius.
I walked into the kitchen and found Chuck and Aaron sitting at the butcher block table on delicate cane-bottomed chairs not designed for their size or weight. A coffee carafe sat between them and they held little eggshell cups with roses and vines on them.
Chuck shot a hawk-eyed glare at me. “What time are your classes?”
I did an affected yawn. “I don’t know. Aaron doesn’t tell me these things.”
“I’m going.”
“What for? You have a burning desire to roll pastry?”
“I have a burning desire to keep you from getting killed,” he said with a glare.
I helped myself to his coffee, a fabulous fruity blend, and said sweetly, “Why are you mad?”
“You’re going to try and Fike me. It’s not happening.”
It is so happening, bub. You haven’t got a clue.
A loud knock echoed through the apartment and Chuck jumped to his feet. “Don’t move.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Paranoid. It’s not them. The suits aren’t the type to knock politely,” I said.
Chuck grimaced at me, but he knew I was right. He stalked to the front door and whipped it open. Monsieur Barre stood there, holding another carafe. He walked in without being invited, followed by two ladies, introduced as Madam Ulliel and Madam Gabin.
I leaned on the hall wall and did a finger wave. “Bonjour.”
“Wait,” said Chuck, putting his hand up. “Who are these women?”
“The cleaners I spoke of. I presume the kitchen is as it was,” said Monsieur Barre.
“Absolutely filthy,” I said. “This way, ladies.”
I showed them the kitchen and after some tsking about the coating of black soot, the ladies shooed us out and we went to the living room. Chuck scowled at me and I rolled my eyes. I drank three more teeny cups of coffee before applying a coating of Guerlain lipstick that Madam Ziegler said went with my dress. The color was Insolence, which seemed appropriate. Monsieur Barre took note of the atmosphere, his dark eyes flitting back and forth between me and Chuck.
“Don’t even think about it, beautiful,” said Chuck.
I turned up my nose at him. “Ready, Aaron.”
“I’m ready,” said Chuck.
“You don’t need to follow me around,” I said. “I’m a big girl or haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve noticed that you can get into trouble at the drop of a hat.”
“And out of trouble just as fast.” I spun around. “Where’s my purse?”
“Which one?” asked Chuck. “You bought three.”
My hands went to my hips. “Bought is a strong word. Madam Ziegler said I had to have them.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“I can’t wait to see you try it.”
As if on cue, another knock echoed through the apartment. This time, it had a distinct female sharpness to it. Madam Ziegler.
Monsieur Barre went to let in the fashion horde and I headed for the bedroom with Chuck’s voice ringing in my ears. “I can handle Madam Ziegler.”
“Yeah, right,” I called over my shoulder.
My purses were on the dresser beside an ancient shaving kit and a framed photo of the Bled family circa 1880. They were arranged on the front gallery of Prie Dieu, the family seat. Most of the faces were familiar, even if I didn’t know their names. The Bled face, with its high cheekbones and narrow mouth, were strongly in evidence.
I chose the boho bag in black and stuffed my few belongings in it. My Novak phone had to be dug out of the depths of Elias’s bed, the one place Chuck was guaranteed n
ot to look.
Aaron appeared at the door. “Now?”
I smiled. “Oh, yeah.”
We headed back into the living room where we found Chuck standing in the middle, surrounded by the horde. They ran their manicured hands over every inch of him and his protests went unheeded. The French was flying fast and thick. I only caught a few words. Handsome, sad, dirty, and fit. They were going to fix Chuck and fix him good.
I turned to head for the front door and Chuck’s long arm snaked out and snagged me. “Not so fast.”
He attempted to turn me away and failed. Not a surprise since he had three people tape measuring him. One tape was around his neck. I ended up facing the outside wall with its band of ceiling-high windows and the black wrought iron balconies beyond. Someone had thrown back the curtains in an attempt to put some light on the subject so, for the first time since I’d been in the apartment, the view was unobstructed. What I saw sitting on the middle balcony froze me in my tracks. Peering in through the wavy glass was a cat and not just any cat, a skinny black cat with startling green eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut.
No. Not here. Nope. Can’t happen.
I raised my lids the smallest amount possible and he was still there, Blackie, from my grandmother’s house in New Orleans. Actually, my mother called him Blackie. I don’t think he really had a name. The cat had come with the house purchased in the 1800s. He wasn’t always around. The cat showed up in times of tragedy or great danger. When I’d been in New Orleans on a case, he’d straight up saved my life. He may have been a supernatural presence, but his claws were very real.
“Mercy,” whispered Chuck. “What are you doing?”
I swallowed and looked up at his puzzled face and then at everyone else’s. The hubbub had stopped and the room was silent.
“Nothing.” I glanced back at the window and Blackie was gone. This couldn’t be a good sign. “I got a little light-headed for a minute.”
“Then you’re not going at all,” he said. “You should rest.”
“That’s a hard pass.” I peeled his fingers off my arm and slipped around him. He tried to follow, but was completely caught up in tape measures.
Monsieur Barre intervened. “Monsieur Watts, this will only take a short time and the transformation will be remarkable.”