Seduction Page 29

  “Something like that,” Peter said. “Anyway, I’ll need my passport.”

  “Okay,” I said dubiously.

  As we entered the city again, Peter turned down the car’s air conditioning, which made things really quiet. “So how’d you find out about Belmondo?” he asked quietly. “You seemed to really be into him.”

  I sighed. “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “I’ve got time.”

  He was asking me about stuff I didn’t want to think about anymore, but Peter deserved an answer. “Okay,” I said. “It started with a book I found. An autobiography, sort of. He was an alchemist, like you.”

  I told him about Jean-Loup’s story and all the coincidences I’d found that linked it to the house on the Rue des mes Perdues. “There’s even a link to Whitfield, because Henry Shaw—”

  “Who?”

  “Your ancestor,” I said. “He was an alchemist too, but he wasn’t the creep that everyone in Whitfield thinks he was. He didn’t turn his wife and children over to the witch hunters. He protected them, even though it meant never seeing his family again. You’re probably one of his descendants. That’s how you came by your gift.”

  “Oh,” Peter said. “That’s interesting.”

  “Not nearly as interesting as the fact that Henry’s still around. He goes by another name these days.”

  Peter blinked. “Not—”

  I nodded. “Jeremiah. He’s been part of this coven since the fourteen hundreds. And it was founded a long time before that. In the Middle Ages they started doing the spell that keeps them young, but they didn’t begin trading all their magic for long life until Sophie took over. Which is how I first got interested in what they were doing.”

  I was talking fast now, eager to share everything that had been on my mind. I explained Marie-Therèse’s fear of her birthday and being sent away, and Fabienne’s discovery of the old paintings of Sophie and Joelle. “These witches live a long time, but not forever. That was why Marie-Therèse was so scared. She thought she was going to be sent to a retirement home to live out the rest of her life, but that was only half-true. She was taken to the Poplars—against her will, probably—but she lasted only a few hours before Drago sucked the life out of her.” I didn’t explain that he’d left enough life in Marie-Therèse for me to feast on her last breath. That was just too revolting. “It’s how he killed Joelle, too.”

  “Drago?” Peter asked. “I thought you said Belmondo killed Joelle.”

  “He did. Belmondo and Drago are the same . . . thing.”

  “Then he’s part of the coven too?”

  That was a question I really couldn’t answer. “I don’t know what he is, exactly,” I said, feeling a chill crawling up my spine. “And I don’t want to find out.”

  We drove in silence for a while. Finally Peter said, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “But I’m kind of glad that you found out about Jeremiah. He’s been pretty good to me.”

  I looked over at him, alarmed. “You’re not tempted to stay because of what I’ve told you, are you?”

  “No. The opposite. I can’t sign on for all the baggage around this place, Harvard or no.”

  “You don’t need Shaw Enterprises to get to Harvard,” I said.

  “Maybe not. But I’ll miss Jeremiah all the same.”

  “He might still let you work for the company,” I suggested.

  He shrugged. “I’ll ask him about it when I return the check he gave me.” We were approaching the house. Peter gestured toward it with his chin. “You don’t have to go inside,” he said.

  “That’s okay.” Peter was probably right about my being safe here. Belmondo would be looking for me at his apartment, where he could kill me quickly and privately, not in a house filled with people. That was what my mind told me. But the cold sensation inching up the back of my neck was warning me about a different outcome.

  That’s just fear, I told myself. Childish, unreasonable boogeyman fear. Nothing more.

  “I’d like to see Fabienne, anyway,” I said, trying to dispel the feeling that was making the hair on the back of my arms stand on end.

  In truth, I felt bad about having left without seeing Fabby. When Azrael said it was too late for any of the witches in the Enclave, he hadn’t meant her. She wasn’t an initiate. And unlike the others, she had a great talent for real witchcraft. There was still a chance I might talk her into coming to Whitfield with me.

  We pulled up to the back entrance of the abbey. Peter turned off the car, then squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. If anything happens, I’ll take care of you.”

  If you can, I thought. I loved Peter, but I sensed the Darkness coalescing around me like a cloud. It knew me, where to find me, how to hurt me. And I knew what It could do. I’d watched too many people die when It came near.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to make myself believe it.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FORTY-EIGHT

  All the lights were on in the Abbey of Lost Souls, even though it was well after three a.m. Loud music spilled into the street.

  “Party time,” Peter said as we entered the courtyard and walked up through the kitchen. “What a surprise.”

  It was a lot louder inside. By the time we reached the living room, the music was too loud to talk over. Peter gestured upstairs to Jeremiah’s room, although I couldn’t imagine how the old man would be able to sleep through the din.

  I pointed toward the library. It was always the quietest room in the house. Peter nodded, meaning that he would meet me there. As I walked toward it, I passed Sophie, who was draped over some guy who looked like a male model, but she ignored me.

  Good. I wasn’t going to miss any of these people. Except Fabienne. She was probably asleep by now, but I couldn’t just walk out on her without a word. If she wanted to leave, this might be her last chance. I turned and went back the way I’d come, through the living room and up the stairs to her room.

  She didn’t answer my knock, but her door wasn’t locked, so I walked in. She was asleep. I knelt beside her bed. “Fabienne,” I whispered, shaking her gently.

  “What?” she asked groggily. “What is it, Katy?”

  “I need to tell you something. About Belmondo.”

  “Belmondo?” She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What about him?”

  I hesitated. “He’s not the good guy you think he is.” I sat on the bed beside her and took both her hands in mine. “He’s dangerous. He killed Marie-Therèse, Fabby. He killed Joelle.”

  “Oh, Dieu—”

  “And I think he’s coming after me. That’s why I have to leave.”

  “What? You’re leaving? Now?” Her thin arms were trembling. “But where . . . where are you going?”

  “Back to Whitfield. With Peter. You can come with us too, if you want, but there’s no time to think about it. You’ve got to decide now.”

  “Now?” She smacked her lips sleepily as she scanned the room.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “But the Initiation—”

  “Yes. If you leave this place, you’ll be giving up your place in the Enclave. In Whitfield, your life won’t be any longer than anyone else’s.”

  She frowned. “But my other talents?”

  “Those will be developed beyond your wildest dreams, if Aunt Agnes has anything to do with it,” I said. “But you’ll mostly be a normal person, with a normal life span. You have to understand that.” There was a long silence. “It’s a hard choice.”

  She took one deep breath, then threw off her covers. “Not really,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” She grabbed my shoulders and hugged me. “This is going to be the greatest adventure of my life.”

  “There isn’t time to pack much,” I said. “I’m meeting Peter in the library as soon as he talks to Jeremiah.”

  Fabby looked around, put on a T-shirt, jeans, a hoodie, and a pair of sne
akers. Then she took a small photograph out of a dresser drawer and stuck that in her pocket. “Guess that’s it,” she said.

  She followed me downstairs to the library. Sophie never noticed either of us.

  “Peter will be here in a minute,” I said, lighting the oil lamps in the room. They illuminated the glass-fronted bookcases that lined three walls and shed a soft light on the well-worn furniture. In the future, I thought, when Paris and the Abbey of Lost Souls have become no more than a memory, this is the place I will remember most fondly.

  Fabby looked over the books. “Some of these are so old,” she noticed. “Some aren’t even printed. This one . . .” She fell silent as she put the book back on the shelf. “Katy,” she whispered, gazing toward the doorway.

  Belmondo was standing there. He was looking at me.

  Don’t panic, I told myself. Fabienne looked uncertainly from Belmondo to me.

  “You ran away from me,” he said. His eyes were filled with sadness.

  “I left the keys to your apartment with the doorman,” I said.

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” He walked over to me purposefully and put both hands on my shoulders. “After all I’ve done for you?”

  “Get away from me.” I brushed his hands away.

  “I see,” he said coldly. “This is apparently how Americans show gratitude.”

  “I found Joelle’s earring.” I forced myself to look into his eyes. “I know what you did to her.”

  He frowned, puzzled, his anger gone, replaced by a kind of hurt innocence. “But that was for you,” he said. “I did it out of love for you.”

  I took a step backward. “What are you talking about?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “Joelle was your enemy. She led you into the sewers and left you there. Why, if it hadn’t been for that old fool—”

  “What have you done with him?” I demanded.

  “With Azrael? What do you care?” Then he smiled, beautifully, hopefully. “But of course you care. Your heart is as strong as your magic.” He wound his fingers around my arm. “How could I not love you?”

  His grip was so tight that I was afraid the bones would snap. I wanted to say something to make him stop, but all my vocal cords could manage was a whimper.

  “Leave her alone!” Fabienne shouted, smashing Belmondo across his back with a book. Without even glancing at her, he grabbed her with his other hand and threw her across the room. She crashed against one of the oil lamps.

  Then, with a scream, she saw that her shirt was on fire.

  “Fabby!” I croaked, but Belmondo wouldn’t let me move. Instead, he grabbed me around my neck. “Let me taste your magic again,” he whispered, bringing my face close to his. “You know you already belong to me.”

  He lifted me off the ground. I couldn’t breathe. I could feel my heart beating in my throat as I lowered my eyes in shame. I had done this. I had given in to a madman, and now his madness was directed at me.

  As I was losing consciousness, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Someone was rushing into the room to help Fabienne. I tried to focus, but everything was going dark.

  Belmondo started to inhale, his mouth moving closer to mine, his lips looking as if they were about to kiss me. I remembered my first kiss with him. It had felt as if all the magic in the world were flooding into me.

  It didn’t feel that way now. In fact, what he was doing seemed like the farthest thing from kissing. I could almost see the stream of air—of life—he was pulling out of me. I felt myself growing weaker as he held me even more tightly, his eyes half-closed in pleasure.

  He blinked once, slowly, and his mouth curved into a slow smile. “Darling, you are delicious!” he whispered.

  “And you’re a dirtbag,” Peter said, pulling off his belt and looping it around Belmondo’s neck with a slap. “Get away from her!” he spat as he yanked Belmondo backward. Suddenly released, I fell to the floor as Belmondo struggled with the makeshift noose.

  For a moment I couldn’t move. My mind was swimming as I wavered between consciousness and oblivion, but I tried to will myself awake so I could help Peter.

  He’d taken Belmondo by surprise, but it didn’t take long for the man to overpower the boy. Belmondo snatched the belt out of Peter’s hand and slashed it across Peter’s face like a whip. A huge red welt was beginning to form on Peter’s cheek, and his eye was swelling as he came after Belmondo.

  “Just how stupid are you?” Belmondo taunted as he threw Peter into one of the remaining bookcases. Broken glass flew everywhere.

  “Peter,” I said groggily, crawling over to him.

  Fabienne stopped me, pulling me upright. I saw that my hands were bleeding. Pieces of glass were sticking out of my palms. Fabby looked just as bad. She had cuts all over her hands and face, and her shirt, streaked with char marks, was half burned off her body.

  “We need . . . help,” I managed. I saw Fabby’s eyes flicker toward the doorway, where some of the party guests had gathered. I held out my hand to them, but to my amazement, they went on drinking and laughing. Some of them were taking bets on who was going to win the fight. I lurched out of Fabienne’s grip, but before I could get to Peter, Belmondo kicked him in the stomach.

  Then he pointed to me. “I’ll come back for you later,” he said, then strode out of the room.

  “Peter!” I whispered, throwing myself on him. He pushed me aside and, crunching through the broken glass, staggered out the doorway after Belmondo. “Don’t go!” I tried to shout, but my throat was so raw and damaged that all that came out was a croak. “You can’t beat him, don’t you understand? He’s the Darkness! The . . .”

  “Come on,” Fabby said. She tried to put her arms around me, but I wriggled out of her grasp.

  “I have to stop him,” I rasped. Then I saw that the bottoms of the heavy draperies were on fire, probably from the broken oil lamp. “Put that out,” I said, pushing Fabby toward the flames. “Hurry, before . . .”

  I wasn’t thinking straight. Before what? I no longer knew. All I was aware of was that Peter had gone after someone who could—and would—kill him without a second thought.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FORTY-NINE

  I staggered down the hallway to the kitchen, which led to the courtyard outside. It was empty. A part of me wanted to stay there, leaning against the cool stone of the building while the river air washed over me. But then I heard Peter shouting over the tinny sounds of the music. His voice was coming from the basement.

  I made my way to the door, which was ajar, and tumbled down the first few steps before pulling myself erect.

  Think, I told myself. Don’t give up. Whatever Belmondo had taken from me when he’d been stealing my breath had left me disconnected, feeling as if I’d just awakened from a deep sleep. But I couldn’t afford to stumble around, not down here in the dark. More than anything, I wanted to call out to Peter to make sure he was all right, but I couldn’t risk being caught by Belmondo. Not if I was going to be of any use at all.

  Some distance away, I spotted a shaft of light and trotted toward it. It turned out to be the skylight at the center of the room for the full-moon ritual I’d spied on from the kitchen. I sighed with relief as I got my bearings, grateful that at least part of my brain was still operational.

  In the dim illumination of the skylight, I was able to see a candle in an old-fashioned pewter holder and some matches. I lit it and moved to the far side of the shaft of light, listening.

  It was nearly impossible to hear anything besides the music and laughter from the party upstairs. Still, I knew that Belmondo and Peter had to be here somewhere. The house—and therefore the basement—was big, but not so big that two six-foot-tall males could disappear in it.

  I began to walk in a circle around the light from the skylight, looking for some sign. In the direction opposite the way I’d come was a set of stone steps. I recognized them as the secret passageway leading upstairs. But I didn’t think
Belmondo would want to be back at the party. I was sure that he was planning something else, and he was leading Peter straight to it.

  Then, a short distance from the steps, I saw something: a passageway made of earth and arched stones. Yes, I thought. This is the place. I didn’t know how I could be so sure, but every instinct in my body told me they’d gone in there.

  I followed as fast as I could, my way lit only by the flickering light of my candle, down what seemed like an endless corridor inclining steadily down, down, until my ears popped, and down still farther, sloping steeply then, so steeply that I could scarcely stay upright. I sheltered the fragile candle flame with my hand. If I were to fall then, I knew, I would be blind as well as lost.

  When the pathway became so steep that my feet were skidding out from under me, I sat down and scooted along the slick mud veneer on my backside until I reached . . .

  Bones. With a swift intake of breath, I stopped and cast the candle’s light around me. Bones were everywhere, small bones and fragments at first, scattered like litter at a garbage dump. But farther ahead I could see that they were more plentiful and larger. Some even lay in the configuration of bodies. Headless ones.

  I stood up slowly and walked, hearing the crunch of bones beneath my feet, until at last I saw a pile of skulls grinning up at me.

  I knew where I was then. I’d fallen into this repository of ancient bones before, on the day I’d met Azrael. . . .

  Azrael! He said that he’d “hobbled into” the ritual chamber, which meant there must be some kind of passageway between the Abbaye des mes Perdues and Azrael’s cave. That had to be where Belmondo was headed, with Peter following behind him like a lamb going to slaughter. Frantically, I tried to remember which direction I’d gone that day to reach the place. I spun this way and that, trying to get a fix on where I was. Had the skulls been on my right or my left? Coming or going? I couldn’t remember. Overhead, the arched ceiling branched into three directions. Three paths now, instead of one.