Chapter Thirty-Three
Ahead of me, there’s a golden light. A streetlamp. We’re almost out.
Scratching noises come from the other side of the wall. Like nails trying to dig through the brick.
I trip over an uneven cobblestone and land on my hands and knees. The pain doesn’t register. I don’t care. I’m out.
Marek exits after me.
I push myself up and wipe my hands on my pants. We weren’t in a tunnel. It’s just a space between two buildings.
Melpomene steps out and stands beside Marek. “You don’t have to be afraid. They want me, not you.”
Darkness blankets the road between the golden blooms of light coming from the street lamps. Shadows seep from the gap we just exited. Their shapes are almost human, gray as the mortar between the bricks, not entirely lost in the night. They move toward us like rolling fog. I can’t count how many there are. Their bodies merge and detach from one another. Six, maybe eight.
“Okay, now would be a good time to run,” Marek says.
Melpomene turns her head in his direction. “It’s too late for that. They’ll catch me before I step off the curb.”
One launches with two right after it, flying for Melpomene. Without thinking, I step in front of her, hands out, palms aimed at them.
“No!” I yell.
The Keres instantly recoil from me, slipping away through the gap between the buildings.
“They’re gone.” Marek places his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” I say.
With wide eyes, Melpomene takes a few steps toward the gap. “You’re a descendant of a death god.”
Did my hands do that? I inspect my palms. They’re ordinary, nothing abnormal about them. Or was it my voice? My command. Those things were afraid of me as much as I was of them. Is it some sort of power? Or just some ability I have, like rolling my tongue or wiggling my ears. What am I suppose to do with this?
Melpomene takes my hands in hers. “I have to warn my sisters that the Keres found us. ”
“The nine muses,” I say quietly, lowering my gaze to the ground, my mind still processing thoughts.
“Yes.” She drops one of my hands and lifts my chin with her finger. “Being a demigod is not a bad thing. Be proud of who you are.”
Her hand drops away from me.
“But a death god?” My eyes go to Marek. The shadows hide his eyes, and they seem to be a darker brown than their normal lighter color, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. “So I’m evil and scary. Like omens and curses, fire and brimstone, and all that stuff.”
“It’s not at all like that,” she says. “Death gods are respected. They’re not as you see in movies. Not all of them are evil or menacing. Some are gentle and caring, guiding us to our final spiritual place. We only fear death because we don’t know what lies beyond life.”
Marek steps into the light, and I can see his eyes now. He’s not afraid of me, he’s concerned and something more. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that. I mean the something-more part—of course Dad and Dalton have been worried about me before. It makes me both nervous and excited. “You’re nothing like fire and brimstone,” he says with that something more in his voice.
“Now, listen.” Melpomene pulls my attention back to her. “You need to get as far away from me as possible. I’m Tragedy, after all. No telling what else will happen if you stick with me.” She heads down the street, her spiky heels stabbing the cobblestones, and says over her shoulder, “Keep moving until you get to your hotel or wherever you’re staying. The Keres, the little gnats, will spread the news about you like a disease.”
She disappears into the shadows, the click-clack of her heels fading into the night.
I take off in the other direction. My Vans pound hard against the cobblestones. Marek is panting behind me.
“Ana, slow down!” he yells.
Only when I go around a corner do I cease running. I grab my side and catch my breath.
Marek eases to a stop beside me, breathing heavily. “I thought you were ditching me.”
“I couldn’t stay there,” I say. “Not with those things around.”
Marek checks the time on the GPS screen. “We need to keep moving. It’s a little after one. The Louvre doesn’t open until nine.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to keep walking. See Paris. Maybe get coffee when a café opens. Try to get our minds off what just happened.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I shiver. “It’s so cold.”
We walk. Sometimes there’s a bench, and we sit. My face and hands are like ice. My head is throbbing, so are my feet. I need coffee. Or better, a bed.
The quaint backstreets of Montmartre are quiet at almost three in the morning. We reach the square, and I stand on one of the corners. Streetlamps line the block, giving little light, but I recognize the buildings.
“Right here,” I say. “This square is filled with artists displaying their work during the day. My parents took a photograph in this exact spot.”
Marek ambles over and pretends he’s holding up a camera. “Say cheese.”
It takes a second for what he’s doing to register, but when it does, I’m suddenly warm inside, and I flash him a smile.
He clicks the pretend camera.
We make our way up the hill toward Sacré-Cœur Basilica. Its spotlighted facade calls to us. The white stone chapel with its three considerable arches in front, dome roofs, and bell tower overlooks Paris. The city is a black sea at night with beacons of light spreading across its surface. The Eiffel Tower is hidden behind buildings and trees.
I sit on a step. “In one photo, my mother sits here alone. I bet my father took it.”
Marek raises his hands and takes another fake picture. His nose is red from the cold. “How are you holding up?” he asks.
The wind brushes my hair away from my face, and a chill slips down my back. “I’m numb. Can’t feel my toes.”
“We could ride the Metro. Get warm.” He pulls the collar of his coat up and tucks his scarf inside.
“No. We need to eat.”
“You’re tough,” he says.
“We have to budget.” I skip down a few steps. “Tomorrow, after we’re done at the Louvre, we’ll go to the embassy, then I’ll call my grandparents. Have them wire money.”
“Come on.” He grasps my hand and leads me to the side of the chapel.
The wind bites at my skin. I stuff my free hand into my pocket and stare through some trees, and I can barely make out the Eiffel Tower in the dark. Only a few lights and its silhouette can be seen at this time of the morning.
Marek’s still holding my hand, and we lace fingers. It’s more intimate this way than how he’s held it before.
“I bet it’s beautiful during the day,” I say, turning away, uncurling my fingers from his, but he keeps hold of my hand and tugs me back to him.
His expression is serious. He steps closer. “I’m going to kiss you in five seconds, Analiese. If you don’t want me to, then say so and I won’t.”
I count to five in my head, One thousand and one, one thousand and two … Each number raises the anticipation another notch.
Without saying a word, his eyes speak novels. He needs me, just as I do him.
If I fall, he will catch me. And I’ll do the same for him.
I must count faster than he does.
I could be crouched in a corner, a panic attack disabling me, and he wouldn’t leave me. He’d let me know I wasn’t alone.
Then it happens. Marek brushes away the hair tossed around my face by the wind, and his parted lips finally meet mine. I close my eyes, savoring the softness of his mouth. He doesn’t taste of anything. Maybe night air. His arms wrap around me, and I grasp his scarf, pressing into him, not wanting this to end. I smell the city on him and a hint of mothballs from the old coat he’s wearing. The kiss deepens, causing heat to spread from our lips through my body. My fingertips and toes tingle.
I’m not cold anymore.
Lost in his kiss, I’m not scared.
More importantly, he’s not, either.
It doesn’t matter who I am or what I can do, because he sees the real me, and he’s still kissing me.
My heart is like a thousand butterflies, and with each special moment spent with Marek, a few take flight. Before long, he’ll steal them all.
His mouth leaves mine, and he leans back to look into my eyes. The shadows just behind Marek shift, and I flinch.
“S-somethings there!” I sputtered.
“What?” He spins around, squinting into the darkness.
I stay perfectly still, waiting, listening. There’s no noise, no rustling of leaves, and no moving shadows. “It’s nothing,” I finally say. “I’m just on edge.”
“Well, just in case, let’s go.” He brushes my hair back again. “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
Because of me, our kiss ended too soon. I want more, but he’s right, we should go. We’re in the dark. Where those shadow things live.
Marek keeps his eyes on the foliage lining the walkway.
The steep, winding roads are silent. Almost deserted. At the bottom of the hill, we pass the famous Moulin Rouge cabaret.
I catch him sneaking a glance at me, and he busts me doing the same. It’s like we’re running around with a secret.
He laces his hand with mine, and we keep up a good pace, trying to stay warm, down Rue Montmartre, across Grands Boulevards, around Tour Saint-Jacques square, and over the Seine River to Notre Dame Cathedral.
Marek glances at the GPS again. “It’s almost four thirty.”
I want to collapse. But I shouldn’t be disappointed with the time. We’ve been trying to kill it since arriving in Paris after six the night before. Soon it will be twelve hours that we’ve been exploring Paris. Only two of it involved sleeping.
I yawn.
Which causes Marek to as well.
I pose for another fake photo in front of the medieval-looking cathedral in the place right at the edge of the street where my parents most likely had a passerby take theirs. Marek mimes clicking a camera.
He lowers his hands and gazes at me with that something-more look, and I have to glance away. I probably imagine it. He most likely just thinks I’m amusing or strange or both.
I think he’s both, but he’s also hot. Especially when one side of his lips lifts in a smile, and he directs it at me. Like he’s doing now.
Not staying long at Notre Dame, we cross the Seine, trekking along the river, heading for the Eiffel Tower. The river lapping against the banks matches the rhythm of our footsteps. The city lights and lamps lining the river reflect in its darkened waters. Each time my Vans hit the ground, pain shocks the soles of my feet, shaking my legs. My eyes droop, and my shoulders ache.
We don’t stop. Keep moving. Keep warm.
Another hour and another fake photograph in front of the Eiffel Tower. A thirty-minute walk to the Arc de Triomphe. I give up on taking pictures.
“Come on,” Marek urges, holding his pretend camera. “It’s the Arc.”
“I’m too tired.”
He lowers his arms. “I know. It’s almost six. Hopefully, a café will open soon.”
The Champs-Elysées goes on forever. I’m dragging my Vans across the pavement, and I don’t even care if they get ruined. The Arc de Triomphe grows smaller behind us, and the sky gets lighter.