Realm of Shadows
Page 8
She had said that she was of French descent. Not through anyone named Adair.
And yet...
He stopped, turning back, aware that she was still banging against the doors and screaming above him.
There was a cell phone in her purse.
She was probably realizing just about now that she didn’t have it.
He turned back quickly, dug into the purse once again. He quickly hit the buttons on the cell phone, memorizing the last number she had dialed. He scanned the contents of the purse again, but there was nothing that gave an address in or around Paris.
She had come from New York City. That morning.
Still, she spoke French decently enough, with a few hesitations and an atrocious accent. But she had a good comprehension of the language.
Then, digging in her wallet, he found a half-ripped luggage tag. It gave an address on the Upper East Side of New York City. It also listed an address in the village here, in this little place on the outskirts of Paris.
He narrowed his eyes. Wondering.
He thought he knew the place.
From long ago, but...
He rose, and started down the corridor again. He had to reach the woman. One way or another—even if someone reached the door to the main church before he did.
There was no way out of it. She had to be hunted down. Stopped.
But not until he knew what she had been after in the crypt.
The man arrived at the cafe just after dusk.
Fashionably, casually dressed, self-assured and aware of his assets, he sat sometimes aloof, and sometimes offering a smile for the one female server at the cafe. He was not the type of man who invited casual conversation, and yet he was not averse to talking to strangers when the occasion warranted, nor was he particularly severe. When he chose, he gave that smile, and when he chose, he engaged in discourse about the weather, travel, and the beauty of the country when autumn approached.
As evening came, he sensed a strange disturbance in the air around him, and he felt a knot of tension building within him.
That evening, he waited.
He had waited before, and he would wait again.
The girl came by his table, asking if he would like more coffee. He drank it black, a large cup, like many Americans. But his French carried no accent. If he were not a Frenchman since birth, he had long ago mastered the language with all the smooth fluidity of a native Parisian.
“Monsieur, another coffee?” the girl asked.
His eyes lingered upon her for a moment. She was young, slim, wide-eyed and pretty. He smiled in return, and saw the way that his smile touched her face—she was flattered, she felt instantly close, and warmed.
“Another coffee, certainly... Yvette, is that what your tag says?”
“Yes, I am Yvette,” she answered. Her words had taken on a slightly breathy quality. Ah, the young ones! So easily drawn to the attractive and powerful. Admittedly bored from his constant vigil, he felt the urge to play.
“Yvette .. . always, one of my favorite names,” he said softly. “Can you sit a minute?” She glanced over her shoulder nervously, looking for her boss. Indecision touched her large, deep brown eyes. Ah, but the lure was greater.
She sat.
“How late do you work?” he asked.
“Midnight, monsieur.”
“Ah, but tell me, how old are you?” he queried.
“Old enough,” she assured him. “Nearly twenty-one.”
“Wonderful,” he told her. She had placed her hands upon the table—perhaps ready to push against it and jump up should her employer appear. He brushed her fingers with his own and leaned closer, just a little tete-a-tete, something the few other customers lingering about the cafe would not notice. She shivered at his touch. Her eyes came to his. She seemed to be fighting to speak. “Your name, Monsieur?” she managed at last.
He crooked a finger toward her, beckoning her to lean in, toward him. She did so, a pretty fall of brown hair covering her face, and his.
Yet even as he played, he felt a sudden jolt rip through his body. He pulled back, leaving the girl as she had been, mesmerized. He stood, and looked around.
Then cursed himself. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
He threw francs upon the table, lifted the girl’s chin, and muttered a quick thanks to her, and a promise that he would see her later. He knew, even in anger, that he wanted the friendship of this place, across from the church ...
And near the police station.
He hurried across the street, still cursing himself, and wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
The rugged American digger was behind her before she ever even realized it.
She hadn’t heard him come up the steps, hadn’t had the least idea that he was there until he came directly behind her and spoke.
“If you stand aside, I can try to break it.”
She screamed, jumping away from him, clearing a space.
The glance he gave her seemed disdainful. “We’ve got to get out of here through this door. Someone at the cafe down the street should have heard you by now. Of course, they’re always playing loud music.” Tara kept her distance from him, feeling her tension running the entire length of her body. Every cell of her flesh seemed attuned to danger.
The night lights left on in the church were dim, but offered far more illumination than the trickles of light down below that had done little more than turn blackness into murk. He was moderately tall, probably about six-one, and though he appeared wiry and well-muscled, he was no sumo wrestler. Yet there was something about him. She could almost feel the heat of his energy, the tension in his muscles. She had a feeling the man could snap a neck with the flick of his wrist. There was an underlying sense of sleek and steadfast power to his least movement. It created a complete contrast of emotion within her. The first, to get away, to keep her distance. The second, to come closer, to stand behind the bastion he somehow seemed to offer. To trust in the strange, compelling urge to come closer.
She remembered the scream she had heard. Her mistrust of everything and everyone within the crypt.
She was staring at him, she realized. Almost hypnotized by the yellow-gold color of his eyes. They were hazel, simply hazel. She had watched him work in the crypt, heedless of her appearance there, or annoyed by it, one or the other, and still, she was fighting the strange urge to trust in him implicitly.
Fight it? Hell, yes, she possessed the logic to do so, and she was furious that she had stood so long, staring, and yet, she thought, in truth, probably only seconds had gone by.
Then he moved.
And so suddenly that she was startled into jumping again as he slammed a shoulder against the door.
Once again, his strange, near-yellow eyes fell upon her. To her surprise, the door shuddered as he did so, the wood sounding as if it was about to give.
Then she remembered that she had been ruing the loss of her phone just as he arrived. He slammed against the doors again.
They might be hundreds of years old, even in the “new” church, but they were heavy, solid, and strong.
“My—my phone is back there.”
“Your phone?”
“In my purse. A cell phone. I—dropped it back there somewhere.”
“Do you want to go back there for it?” he queried.
She felt whatever blood had been left in her face drain from it at his words.
She moistened her lips.“What happened back there? What was going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked, pausing a moment and rubbing his shoulder. He leaned against the door as he did so, studying her with a direct gaze.
Strange sensations swept through her. Fear, for one. Because he was part of this. Because he had raced after her. Because she had seen his eyes in the crypt.
Fear.
Again, she wanted to run. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. The ridiculous truth. That she had promised she would find out everything. That her grandfather thought he was part of the “Alliance.” That she had been told to find out exactly what and whom they had been looking for, to bring back names, dates, anything she could discover. To try to listen when the professor and the workers talked, to make sure they were not yet close to an important discovery.
Fear ...
And yet, he was leaning against the door, keeping his distance, trying to help her escape, the same as he was doing himself.
And there was something about his appearance ...
Classic looks that were somehow rugged as well. An all-American appeal with a touch of European sophistication. Something very basic about him seemed to demand trust... and to compel her to move forward. Her mind warned her to keep a good distance. She stepped closer anyway.
He was wearing a denim work shirt, the sleeves rolled up, hinting of solid muscle in the biceps above.
He was covered in dust, and still, somehow, his appearance was essentially neat and businesslike. And he appeared calm and stalwart in the face of...
“What happened back there?” she demanded. She had stepped forward again. She was just inches away from him. His jaw was square, his eyes direct. Cheekbones high and somewhat broad. There was a hint of five o’clock shadow on his jaw.
He didn’t reply, but slammed a shoulder against the doors once again. To her amazement, there was a loud cracking sound that time, followed by a snap.
The door opened.
“I’ve got to get the police,” he said flatly. “Perhaps you should go.” Those yellow eyes were on her, as if he knew ...
That she didn’t want to explain her grandfather’s strange demands, especially in light of...
She shook her head determinedly. “I need to know what happened.”
“What the hell do you think happened?” he asked impatiently. “Jean-Luc is dead.” She stepped back again, and he let out an oath of impatience. “Obviously, I didn’t do it. I was chasing after you when we both heard the scream.”
“Then ...” She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t make another word follow the single syllable she had uttered.
“Someone broke in. Of course. This is a dig. Someone out there knew that there must have been—something—in the tomb. The coffin in empty. I don’t know what was in it because Jean-Luc opened it when I ran after you. Now Jean-Luc is dead, and I’m going to the police. Now, are you coming with me, or are you going home? Are you going to tell the police why you were running around at a closed architectural site? Wait! Never mind—don’t answer yet. I’m not staying in this place any longer.
And yet...
He stopped, turning back, aware that she was still banging against the doors and screaming above him.
There was a cell phone in her purse.
She was probably realizing just about now that she didn’t have it.
He turned back quickly, dug into the purse once again. He quickly hit the buttons on the cell phone, memorizing the last number she had dialed. He scanned the contents of the purse again, but there was nothing that gave an address in or around Paris.
She had come from New York City. That morning.
Still, she spoke French decently enough, with a few hesitations and an atrocious accent. But she had a good comprehension of the language.
Then, digging in her wallet, he found a half-ripped luggage tag. It gave an address on the Upper East Side of New York City. It also listed an address in the village here, in this little place on the outskirts of Paris.
He narrowed his eyes. Wondering.
He thought he knew the place.
From long ago, but...
He rose, and started down the corridor again. He had to reach the woman. One way or another—even if someone reached the door to the main church before he did.
There was no way out of it. She had to be hunted down. Stopped.
But not until he knew what she had been after in the crypt.
The man arrived at the cafe just after dusk.
Fashionably, casually dressed, self-assured and aware of his assets, he sat sometimes aloof, and sometimes offering a smile for the one female server at the cafe. He was not the type of man who invited casual conversation, and yet he was not averse to talking to strangers when the occasion warranted, nor was he particularly severe. When he chose, he gave that smile, and when he chose, he engaged in discourse about the weather, travel, and the beauty of the country when autumn approached.
As evening came, he sensed a strange disturbance in the air around him, and he felt a knot of tension building within him.
That evening, he waited.
He had waited before, and he would wait again.
The girl came by his table, asking if he would like more coffee. He drank it black, a large cup, like many Americans. But his French carried no accent. If he were not a Frenchman since birth, he had long ago mastered the language with all the smooth fluidity of a native Parisian.
“Monsieur, another coffee?” the girl asked.
His eyes lingered upon her for a moment. She was young, slim, wide-eyed and pretty. He smiled in return, and saw the way that his smile touched her face—she was flattered, she felt instantly close, and warmed.
“Another coffee, certainly... Yvette, is that what your tag says?”
“Yes, I am Yvette,” she answered. Her words had taken on a slightly breathy quality. Ah, the young ones! So easily drawn to the attractive and powerful. Admittedly bored from his constant vigil, he felt the urge to play.
“Yvette .. . always, one of my favorite names,” he said softly. “Can you sit a minute?” She glanced over her shoulder nervously, looking for her boss. Indecision touched her large, deep brown eyes. Ah, but the lure was greater.
She sat.
“How late do you work?” he asked.
“Midnight, monsieur.”
“Ah, but tell me, how old are you?” he queried.
“Old enough,” she assured him. “Nearly twenty-one.”
“Wonderful,” he told her. She had placed her hands upon the table—perhaps ready to push against it and jump up should her employer appear. He brushed her fingers with his own and leaned closer, just a little tete-a-tete, something the few other customers lingering about the cafe would not notice. She shivered at his touch. Her eyes came to his. She seemed to be fighting to speak. “Your name, Monsieur?” she managed at last.
He crooked a finger toward her, beckoning her to lean in, toward him. She did so, a pretty fall of brown hair covering her face, and his.
Yet even as he played, he felt a sudden jolt rip through his body. He pulled back, leaving the girl as she had been, mesmerized. He stood, and looked around.
Then cursed himself. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.
He threw francs upon the table, lifted the girl’s chin, and muttered a quick thanks to her, and a promise that he would see her later. He knew, even in anger, that he wanted the friendship of this place, across from the church ...
And near the police station.
He hurried across the street, still cursing himself, and wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
The rugged American digger was behind her before she ever even realized it.
She hadn’t heard him come up the steps, hadn’t had the least idea that he was there until he came directly behind her and spoke.
“If you stand aside, I can try to break it.”
She screamed, jumping away from him, clearing a space.
The glance he gave her seemed disdainful. “We’ve got to get out of here through this door. Someone at the cafe down the street should have heard you by now. Of course, they’re always playing loud music.” Tara kept her distance from him, feeling her tension running the entire length of her body. Every cell of her flesh seemed attuned to danger.
The night lights left on in the church were dim, but offered far more illumination than the trickles of light down below that had done little more than turn blackness into murk. He was moderately tall, probably about six-one, and though he appeared wiry and well-muscled, he was no sumo wrestler. Yet there was something about him. She could almost feel the heat of his energy, the tension in his muscles. She had a feeling the man could snap a neck with the flick of his wrist. There was an underlying sense of sleek and steadfast power to his least movement. It created a complete contrast of emotion within her. The first, to get away, to keep her distance. The second, to come closer, to stand behind the bastion he somehow seemed to offer. To trust in the strange, compelling urge to come closer.
She remembered the scream she had heard. Her mistrust of everything and everyone within the crypt.
She was staring at him, she realized. Almost hypnotized by the yellow-gold color of his eyes. They were hazel, simply hazel. She had watched him work in the crypt, heedless of her appearance there, or annoyed by it, one or the other, and still, she was fighting the strange urge to trust in him implicitly.
Fight it? Hell, yes, she possessed the logic to do so, and she was furious that she had stood so long, staring, and yet, she thought, in truth, probably only seconds had gone by.
Then he moved.
And so suddenly that she was startled into jumping again as he slammed a shoulder against the door.
Once again, his strange, near-yellow eyes fell upon her. To her surprise, the door shuddered as he did so, the wood sounding as if it was about to give.
Then she remembered that she had been ruing the loss of her phone just as he arrived. He slammed against the doors again.
They might be hundreds of years old, even in the “new” church, but they were heavy, solid, and strong.
“My—my phone is back there.”
“Your phone?”
“In my purse. A cell phone. I—dropped it back there somewhere.”
“Do you want to go back there for it?” he queried.
She felt whatever blood had been left in her face drain from it at his words.
She moistened her lips.“What happened back there? What was going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked, pausing a moment and rubbing his shoulder. He leaned against the door as he did so, studying her with a direct gaze.
Strange sensations swept through her. Fear, for one. Because he was part of this. Because he had raced after her. Because she had seen his eyes in the crypt.
Fear.
Again, she wanted to run. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. The ridiculous truth. That she had promised she would find out everything. That her grandfather thought he was part of the “Alliance.” That she had been told to find out exactly what and whom they had been looking for, to bring back names, dates, anything she could discover. To try to listen when the professor and the workers talked, to make sure they were not yet close to an important discovery.
Fear ...
And yet, he was leaning against the door, keeping his distance, trying to help her escape, the same as he was doing himself.
And there was something about his appearance ...
Classic looks that were somehow rugged as well. An all-American appeal with a touch of European sophistication. Something very basic about him seemed to demand trust... and to compel her to move forward. Her mind warned her to keep a good distance. She stepped closer anyway.
He was wearing a denim work shirt, the sleeves rolled up, hinting of solid muscle in the biceps above.
He was covered in dust, and still, somehow, his appearance was essentially neat and businesslike. And he appeared calm and stalwart in the face of...
“What happened back there?” she demanded. She had stepped forward again. She was just inches away from him. His jaw was square, his eyes direct. Cheekbones high and somewhat broad. There was a hint of five o’clock shadow on his jaw.
He didn’t reply, but slammed a shoulder against the doors once again. To her amazement, there was a loud cracking sound that time, followed by a snap.
The door opened.
“I’ve got to get the police,” he said flatly. “Perhaps you should go.” Those yellow eyes were on her, as if he knew ...
That she didn’t want to explain her grandfather’s strange demands, especially in light of...
She shook her head determinedly. “I need to know what happened.”
“What the hell do you think happened?” he asked impatiently. “Jean-Luc is dead.” She stepped back again, and he let out an oath of impatience. “Obviously, I didn’t do it. I was chasing after you when we both heard the scream.”
“Then ...” She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t make another word follow the single syllable she had uttered.
“Someone broke in. Of course. This is a dig. Someone out there knew that there must have been—something—in the tomb. The coffin in empty. I don’t know what was in it because Jean-Luc opened it when I ran after you. Now Jean-Luc is dead, and I’m going to the police. Now, are you coming with me, or are you going home? Are you going to tell the police why you were running around at a closed architectural site? Wait! Never mind—don’t answer yet. I’m not staying in this place any longer.
