CHAPTER EIGHT
RUE ST. JERSEY
Had I still been Mortal, I would have been draped over the nearest chair, hoping death would find me before I had to work another night at this place. As it was, my head was throbbing, and not for the same reason the majority of the Rue St. Jersey’s patrons could claim.
The place had vibrated with music and been sucked dry of every drop of alcohol a little before five in the morning. When Tracy had told me we work until the alcohol runs dry, she’d meant it. Had I been asked to guess how long it would take to run out—after viewing the lines of kegs and rows of bottles we’d opened with—I would have said one month, maybe two. But alas, the Rue St. Jersey’s customers were thirsty and their pockets had been full.
“Ninety-one, ninety-two,” Tracy mumbled, sitting with legs spread on the counter with the tip jar’s contents blanketing her lower half.
“Almost one hundred dollars?” I asked. “That’s pretty good.” I finished wiping down the sink and tossed the rag to the side. Fifty dollars a piece, plus whatever hourly rate Mikey was paying me . . . not bad.
Tracy held up a finger while she counted two more bills. “Eight hundred and ninety-four.” She shoveled the money to the side. “Pretty good. I think the customers like the new girl.”
“Wait,” I said, gripping the counter. “Did you just say eight hundred and ninety-four Euros?” I felt my mouth drop open.
She nodded and lit the cigarette dangling between her lips. “That’s four hundred and forty-six, no . . . forty-seven a piece.” A smile curled up one side of her mouth. “And my eighth-grade teacher said I’d never amount to anything if it had anything to do with math.” She began counting out the bills into two separate piles. “Adding cash is completely different than adding beans.”
I still couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. If this was any indicator of the kind of money I’d be making on a nightly basis, I’d only have to subject myself to four or five nights a month in this place. My first stroke of luck in awhile.
“Closed so early?” Mikey erupted from the hall, motioning with both arms to the empty room.
“Sorry, bub,” Tracy replied, not looking up from the stashes of cash. “Looks like you’re going to need to up your booze order with the new girl in town. Didn’t have a moment of peace from the time I got here. Ran out a couple hours earlier than usual.”
“Shouldn’t there be three piles?” Mikey asked, leaning against the bar. “Don’t I get a share of that?”
Tracy humphed. “Do you see an ice skating rink anywhere around here?”
“You expecting an answer?” Mikey asked, righting a barstool with the tip of his shoe.
“Yes,” she snapped.
“No, then.”
“Exactly. Since hell hasn’t frozen over yet . . .”
Mikey snorted. “You’ve always had a way with words, Trace.”
“Bite me.”
“How is he?” I asked, diverting my attention to lifting another overturned stool. The passing of hours and the image of Tony’s face twisted in pain had shifted my anger to remorse.
“I ain’t seen anything like it,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “His hand looked like it was stuffed with pea gravel on the x-ray—every bone busted. They admitted him, not quite sure what to do yet.”
I felt sick. I’d turned the boy’s hand to pea gravel—as Mikey had so graphically described—all because he’d copped a feel.
Was no one safe around me? Would I have to sequester myself to a remote corner on the edge of the Milky Way?
“Don’t worry, you won’t get in any trouble,” Mikey said, mistaking the look on my face. “There’s no way Tony was going to confess to a girl busting him up. He told ‘em he punched a wall . . .”
He was covering for me; I somehow felt worse. “I’d like to cover his medical bills,” I said, knowing it was an inadequate gesture, but not knowing what else I could offer. So what if I had to work a few more nights this month?
Mikey waved his hand dismissively. “Already taken care of. Besides, I would have paid twice as much to see Tony get his butt whooped by a girl.”
“Here’s your share, California,” Tracy said, shoving the roll in my hand. “Go blow it all in one spot.”
“She will.”
“Always do,” Tracy snarled at Mikey, retrieving a trench coat from behind the bar. She slipped on the jacket before sliding off the leather pants and stowing them in a cupboard. She slid back into the four inch clear platforms and cinched the belt of her jacket.
“Time to head to your other night job?” Mikey asked as Tracy passed him, ramming jewel-crusted sunglasses over her eyes.
“You couldn’t afford me.”
“I couldn’t afford the bills from the therapy I’d need after.”
From the jesting in their voices, I would have guessed they were joking, but knowing Tracy had on a scarf of fabric covering her boobs and a pair of underwear—hopefully—under her jacket, I wondered if she really did have another night job. They didn’t call it the red light district for nothing.
“Good job tonight,” Mikey said, tilting his head at me. “I’ll see you tonight. Be here at seven.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, eager to escape from the stagnant air.
“Hayward,” Mikey called out as I was entering the hallway. “Who is he?”
I tensed, calling back, “Who’s who?”
“The boy that broke your heart.”
More tensing. “Excuse me?”
“You got the look of a girl who’s had her heart sliced out of her chest. Is that who you were looking for earlier?”
“No,” I lied. “There’s no one.”
I licked the envelope, puckering at the flavor, and wrote Appartement F on the front before slipping it under the manager’s door, hoping four hundred and forty-seven Euros would buy me a couple more days until I could come up with the rest of the rent. I tip-toed down the hall, knowing Pierre—the fattest, baldest Frenchman in the country—was likely still dozing from the painkillers he liked to double-up on before going to bed . . . but then again, this was me we were talking about and UnLucky should have been my surname. I quickened my pace, checking over my shoulder to make sure the door didn’t open.
I hurried up the staircase, leaping over the fifth and sixth steps which were rotten away—from the looks of it, it had been decades ago—ignoring the wall running along the staircase decorated with packages of prophylactics thumb-tacked, nailed, stapled, and taped to it. My neighbors might have been shady and not passed a background check if one was required to live here, but at least they were generous and condoned safe sex.
I opened my door, never having worried about locking it because—let’s face it—I didn’t have anything worth stealing and I could hold my own if an intruder was crazy enough to enter a place like this looking for something valuable.
The door creaked, groaned, then screamed open. I wanted to curse at it for making such a racket, but I knew it would be the last audible response I’d be given for awhile, at least until my shift started tonight. I could feel the memories avalanching their way back into my mind, the noise, smells, and distractions of the Rue St. Jersey no longer present. I bee-lined for the air-mattress in the corner, hoping I’d be able to find sleep before the memories took me to a point where sleep was not attainable. I closed my eyes and began to hum, hoping it would occupy my mind just enough.
I shrugged out of my jacket, letting it fall to the floor.
“Enjoying the night life Paris has to offer?”
I spun around, striking a defensive stance.
A shadow stepped out of the darkness in the bathroom. “Miss Dawson.” He stepped into the light casting dawn into my room and bowed his head. I recognized him immediately. Hector—a council member serving with Charles, a country back and a lifetime ago. William told me he’d once been a great gladiator back in the Roman times and had he not been in the modern single-button suit, he looked just as I’d imagi
ned a gladiator would. Short, stocky, cleft-chin, and eyes that had partaken in countless deaths.
“How did you find me? Why are you here?” I whispered, my panic making my voice come out in gasps. My thoughts took a dark turn. “Is William alright?”
He crossed his arms, resting his back on the wall behind him. “Charles found you, I simply got on the plane and cab to get here,” he said, eyeing my apartment like he wished he could have been anywhere but “here.” “I’m here to remind you of something,” he continued, counting off my questions on his fingers, before staring through me. “And I believe you lost your privilege of knowing how William is the day you walked away.”
His words penetrated my shell of anesthesia, stabbing my heart with a blunt knife. He was right, though. I’d lost the right to say his name aloud—let alone know how he was doing—the day I’d brought him a within a foot of death.
“Charles knows where I am?” I asked, looking out the window. I should have known he would, with his ability to locate any Immortal in the world, but the hate I’d seen in his eyes in the clearing had said he never cared to see me again, let alone keep tabs on me.
“Of course he does,” Hector answered. “Do you really think a Chancellor would let an Immortal who was capable of what you are—alone in the world—off his radar?”
It didn’t seem like he expected an answer from me, so I asked another question “What are you here to remind me of?”
There could be about a hundred things I suppose, but I wasn’t sure which one was the most offensive in their eyes at this juncture.
“You made quite a scene at that lovely place you are gainfully employed at.” He smiled, although it was not meant to be friendly.
“You heard about that already?” Twelve hours hadn’t passed yet. William had been right when he said Immortals were everywhere.
“Did you really assume we wouldn’t? Or that we’d do nothing?”
To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about it yet.
He continued as my silence dragged on, perhaps not interested in my responses or excuses “May I remind you that being on your own is a luxury we’ve turned a blind eye on? After everything that happened”—his eyes held the reminders of the past—“we felt it would be best for you to be on your own, but after your public display of bone-crushing strength”—he smiled, this one for real—“we felt the need to intervene.”
“It appears the Council’s idea of intervening is breaking into a woman’s apartment and scaring the dickens out of her.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Consider your message delivered,” I said, trying not to think about the home he’d be returning to. “I know the importance of our anonymity. It won’t happen again.”
He studied me until he looked convinced. “One more thing. You’ll have to complete your strength training, as well as go through talent training.”
“How’s that going to happen when the Alliance I’m a member of is half a world away? Are you expecting me to move back?” I wasn’t trying to be difficult; I just didn’t understand.
“And leave all this?” His voice was sarcastic as his eyes circled my apartment.
I crossed my arms and smirked in response.
“No need to change your present address. Given your strength instructor just so happens to be a Teleporter, Patrick will be able to complete both phases of your training without causing too much inconvenience to either of you.”
Obviously he hadn’t heard about Patrick’s and my last conversation and how he’d said he never wanted to see me again. I don’t think Patrick could have been any more inconvenienced had he been blindfolded and had his arms tied behind his back for the rest of eternity.
“Our Alliance tends to be more laid-back and had you been any other Immortal on your own, we wouldn’t have insisted the training be completed. But given your powerful gift, we feel that training is of the highest priority.”
I cleared my throat, wanting to ask if there’d been any retaliation from John’s Alliance due to a member of ours—namely, ME—killing one of theirs. “When will I be starting back up?” I asked, trying to distract myself.
“Approximately one week,” he answered, looking chagrined. “Since Patrick is still not aware of this recent development, it may take a little coaxing and time before he’s ready to play teacher to you again.”
So Hector was aware of the biting words Patrick and I’d exchanged.
“But a week at the latest.” He pushed off the wall and headed towards the door.
“I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble for everyone,” I whispered, not sure why I was apologizing to him—someone I’d never spoken with before—just needing to apologize to someone. “I’m trying to be better—to not make such a mess of things.”
He stopped in the doorway, not turning back to me. “A good friend of mine once told me that trying was the opposite of doing. He told me this when faced with an impossible mission. One that would consume decades of his life, one that would set him against his family and friends, and one that would likely never result in his desired outcome.”
I looked off to the side, letting his words absorb.
“This friend, as if fighting fate itself, somehow managed to achieve his mission.” He turned his head back and I could feel his eyes penetrating into me. “Don’t try to be a better Immortal, be a better Immortal.”
I cleared my throat and nodded, knowing he was right. Trying was just that: trying. I’d had my share of trying—with little success—it was time to do. “Whatever happened to your friend?”
“You should know,” he said, when my eyes met his. “The friend I speak of is William.”
I wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d just named Marcus Aurelius. Of course the impossible mission should have rung a chime—the shunning of family and friends, a decades-long search—but hearing Hector speak with such respect of William and knowing I was the one responsible for upending his happy ending made me want to ignite that deadly power on myself.
“Could you tell them hello for me?” I couldn’t imagine how ridiculous it would sound to the Haywards to hear Hector’s message of hello from me, but not having the strength to relay anything else, this would have to do.
Lifting the collar of his suit, Hector turned his head away from me. “With everything that’s happened, I really don’t think that would be a good idea. For your sake . . . for their sake, try to forget them.”
I exhaled through my nose. “‘Try?’” I quoted back to him. “Don’t you mean, ‘forget about them?’”
“Patrick was right.” I heard the amusement in his voice as he started down the stairs. “You are a quick learner.”
CHAPTER NINE
OLD FRIEND
“I’ll take a cosmo,” the geek-meets-chic guy leaning across the bar ordered, yelling above the music that was raging somehow louder than last night. It was Friday and Mikey had warned me the weekends were busy, but we must have a different meaning for the term “busy.” Mine was a steady flow of customers ordering drinks, adding to my apartment rent. His was bodies sardined to bursting, stacked on top of the shoulders of whoever was willing to oblige.
“Mikey,” I shouted over at him. “What’s a cosmo?”
He thrust the shot glasses at a couple of customers, snatching up their money, and marched over. He stared down the man I was helping. “You want a drink that’s more fruit than liquor, you get the hell out of my bar.”
My mouth dropped.
“We got whiskey, we got vodka,” Mikey snapped, counting off on his fingers. “We got tequila and we got beer.” He lunged at the guy who was adjusting his expensive-looking glasses that I doubted had a prescription in the lenses and laughed. “Now, sissy-boy, pick your poison.”
“I’ll just have some water,” glasses boy replied, his voice cracking.
The look that broke out on Mikey’s face made it seem he was experiencing a coronary. “Get the hell out of my bar. You’re a disgrace to
the male species.”
To my surprise, “sissy-boy” turned and left, not another word or a single protest.
Despite his vulgarity, shallowness, and the fact he was a couple sandwiches short of a picnic, I wished I could take command of my life and tell all the annoyances to bug off like Mikey did.
Mikey turned to me, his face a tomb of grave. “Listen here, California. I know you’re new here, but don’t riddle me with any more questions about what we serve.” He stared me in the eyes. “Whiskey, vodka, tequila, beer.” He pushed off the bar and pointed at a row of girls in boobilicious tops. “Capiche?”
No room for confusion—I liked that. “Capiche,” I answered as he made his way to the beer taps.
I heard Mikey curse something in Italian and found him covered in a froth-like substance. “Hey California, the keg blew,” he said, reaching for a dishtowel to wipe his face. “Go roll me out another one?”
“I’ll be back in a jiff.” I ducked under the bar and shoved through the crowd, no measure of politeness possible if I wanted to get to the storage room in the next week.
I felt like a pin-ball being slapped, bounced, and thrown through the crowd, but was making steady progress. It would have been so much easier to use the strength I knew I possessed to cut through the crowd, but having promised Hector last night I would be a better Immortal (no more measly trying), I suffered through.
I had a few more bodies to shuffle through before I could get into Mikey’s liquor cache—as impressive as an exhibit at the Smithsonian—when a man swerved in front of me without warning, causing me to run smack into him.
“Excuse me,” I said, dodging to the right of him.
He lunged right with me, blocking my path again. “You’re anything but excused.” He eyed me in a way that made my skin crawl. He wasn’t a large man—I probably could have held my own against him when Mortal—but there was a cockiness in his eyes that was intimidating and a confidence in his stance that gave him his power.
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