“How could we trust them? Stefan calling and asking do they know any wild mages isn’t much, but you want us to bring them into this? First of all, they could be on the other side. Second, it’s far more likely they are not. Meaning they are innocent bystanders who we’d be dragging into this and more people’s lives would be in danger. How is that a solution?”
“How is this a solution? What if someone comes to that door? What if it really is one of these mages? What if they freely give out their address because they’re interested in meeting anyone who might want to go looking for them? Say, to bump them off? Because they don’t fancy other casters poking around their territory?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know exactly why I saw this place, but that’s a little extreme. We’ll watch the door. We’ll try to talk to someone—”
“I don’t think you should.”
“Andrew—” I rubbed my temples with thumb and forefingers. I wanted to say, “Not you also.” Or, better, give a clear and sensible reason why we needed to push on here: something solid, impossible to argue against. Instead, face bowed, holding my head in my left hand, I just stood there, breathing hard and putting my arguing energy into not given up or just … running.
Long breath, swallow. I looked up and dropped my hand. “My scries led us here. I don’t have any other ideas. We can’t try to bring random people into this now to help. Short of that, do you have ideas? Any places we should be other than trying to speak to these mages?”
“What did they used to be like?”
I paused, looking back into his amber eyes this time. “They used to be … bat crap crazy. They experimented with alchemy and magical effects on humans and animals, both dead and alive. They were powerful, probably terrifying. But we don’t have many accounts. There was never a whole lot written about them that survived to modern times and I thought they were long gone. Clearly, they finally had the sense to go into hiding. That’s a good sign, really, as to their mental stability.”
He just looked at me, silent for a long time.
“We have to try,” I said, almost a whisper. “This is what we have right now, and we have to try. Unless, and until, we have something better. Normal casters can’t make reavers. I haven’t the faintest idea how it’s done. But there are reavers in the North of England and there are wild mages here. We have to try.”
Same, just looking at me, eyes hard and sad and grieving, until I had to turn away, walking again so he wouldn’t see my own eyes.
Chapter 32
We kept watch all day. We even compromised by getting a carryout late lunch/early dinner from a place two blocks away so we could stay vigilant. Two with me at the park, two to get the food. Nothing unusual happened even when we split up.
Isaac and Jason returned to us with several bags and an array of burgers, fries, soups, and other offerings like crawfish salad and duck breast on risotto from a local bistro.
Like everything when we’d all been together lately, we mostly ate in silence. It was good, but not like last night. My mouth being so dry didn’t help.
After the meal we tried the door again. Nothing.
No more sightings of anyone in or out. We walked around, watched, found a public bathroom, walked some more. The rain came and went in little drizzles and, though I had my coat on, I wished it wouldn’t. It made the bench unappealing and the wait even more depressing.
The others talked a bit among themselves about the food or Paris or the Cimetière des Chiens et Autres Animaux Domestiques—the proper name for the pet cemetery. It made things feel more normal. Also possibly the first time I’d heard Jason open his mouth since we’d left Ambleside. Zar was right. I couldn’t detect any hard feelings between the adopted brothers.
I didn’t mind space between Jason and myself, though. We needed it. I didn’t want Jason rushing up to apologize when he didn’t feel it. And I doubted he would feel it until he was reunited with Kage. I didn’t blame him for how he felt. Taking out his feelings on me in the way he had … that was another matter.
I texted Melanie, just to check in, not because I had anything to say. Then a note to Madison—everything all right?
One to Jed also, asking about Kage, telling him the address where we were tootling around—before remembering his temporary phone wasn’t even capable of getting online to look up any points of interest. I asked him to please be kind to the cats, thanked him for looking after Kage, then couldn’t think of anything else to say that was text-suitable.
Again … I should have thrown the ball. I was the one who had to be there for Jed—show him another way to be. No one else was running forward either to lead by example or encouragement.
Even if he got Isaac banished from the pack? Out of sheer fear and spite? But he hadn’t. Not yet. We only needed to talk: both needed to listen.
It was getting dark, the rain was changing to the real deal, concluding another unhappy day in a string of them. I’d meant to stay into the night, but I was losing hope, losing ambition, and no one else agreed.
I walked to the door for a final time, climbing the steps to 77 Rue du Raccourci to bang on the knocker while the others trailed to the sidewalk and steps with me.
I knocked.
No one answered.
“This is crazy.” I pulled up my hood. “It must be a magical feed. That’s probably all that made it register as seeming like there was a magic field at the door. This is way beyond regular warding. It’s a plant, a voicemail recording in case anyone calls. It was just too easy from the start. Only a front…” I banged on the knocker one more time. “It’s some run down building that’s probably been converted to a few apartments on the inside. We could stand out here and knock until we wear our knuckles out and it doesn’t matter. If they are in the city, they’re not in a dump like this. It certainly doesn’t go with their reputation.”
I started back down the stairs with the others.
Behind us, the door opened.
Chapter 33
A man with a long, scruffy, white beard yelled at us in French as he swung open the door. He brandished a boney finger in mine and Isaac’s faces, talking too fast and taking me too by surprise to follow.
“Pardon, s’il vous plait. I’m sorry,” I rushed in over his words. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. We only wanted to ask—”
Mid-rant he switched to English. “—all hours of the day and night, banging and crashing, can’t get any work done! If you knock on this door again I shall summon the police!”
“Really, we’re very sorry—” I tried.
“We only want to ask you about something,” Isaac said. “It won’t take—”
“Banging and pounding delinquents! Reprobates! You should be locked up! Disturbing an old man—” His hair was like a tangled nest of white wire. His face was very long—long pointed nose, probably a long pointed chin, though hidden. Even the bags under his eyes stretched out that face below shocking eyes like ice.
“Are you a wild mage?” I asked. It just … didn’t seem worth innuendo.
The old man stopped, mouth still open, one threatening hand raised, the other leaning into the inside of the door he held. He narrowed those light eyes and really looked around at us for the first time.
He said something in French. Then rephrased. “You shall come inside.”
He stepped back so we could see him properly, pulling the door wide. He wore a crimson tunic belted with a gold chain, billowy crimson trousers, and black boots. With the white beard it should have evoked Santa Clause. Yet … no. Many more chains, talismans and ornaments hung from his neck, wrists, and clothing, which included a black mantle across his shoulders. All of it appeared roughly as old as the man—worn, moth-chewed, fraying, stained, some of the ornaments broken and all of the fabric threadbare.
“No, really,” I said, prickles of something like dread skimming through my bones. “We won’t trouble you. We just have one question. We’re trying to find someone who—”
“Come i
nside.” He moved back more, his almost colorless eyes fixed on mine.
Shit.
I broke the gaze as fast as I could, glancing around the dimly lit foyer which seemed to be nothing but a musty room with an elaborately tiled floor, a passage leading back on the left side and a stairway leading up on the right. Not so much as a coatrack or doormat. Indeed, the colorful tiles were faded, chipped, and littered with debris from outside—years of grit, dirt, bits of leaves and needles, bits of paper and candy wrappers and cigarette butts all tracked in. The place smelled smoky as well, though not so much tobacco smoke. Something else that I couldn’t place. It wasn’t pot, or pipe smoke. It wasn’t a wood-burning stove. But it creeped me out just as much as the man’s command.
“We don’t mean anyone any harm,” Isaac said, hand on my shoulder, easing me back. “Can we just ask you about something and we’ll be on our way?”
“You can come inside.” The old man scowled. “Do you need another language? Come inside. Entre. Veniunt intus. Vkhodi vnutr. Andar aa jaie. Vieni dentro. Komm herein. What? Do you not understand? You shall come inside!”
“There’s someone in England who is practicing magic that seems like it might have come from wild mages,” I said, fast, heart hammering, taking a step back. Andrew’s hand was on my waist, guiding me backward down the stairs. “If we could just talk for a minute—”
“Yes. We shall talk. Inside.” He finally stopped shouting. Only fixed on us, eyes roving to each now. “We do not discuss such affairs on doorsteps. You shall come in and talk, or I shall alert the mundane police as to the array of nefarious activities you have been up to since you arrived in this city and started pounding on doors and interrupting innocent parties in the middle of the night. How many tourists get to see the inside of French holding cells? You’ll have plenty to share with all your digital friends. If only you had more than one phone call. If only they understood English a little better. If only you had a good French lawyer. If only you had a few weeks to kill trying to sort out the issues with them. If only you’d come inside in the first place like the polite guests you claim to be, bothering no one, spreading no harm, only wanting a word. If only. Why do the mundanes seek time travel when we can do it in our own minds—even them? Why all the desires unfulfilled by a simple lack of imagination?” He slapped the door viciously with a ringing sound that echoed through the empty hall and up the stairs. Holding onto it from behind, it stayed where it was. His hands were adorned in rings as much as his neck in ornaments.
“Cassia, no—” Andrew still tried to pull me back.
Isaac glanced to me, uncertain, watching me to make the call.
I couldn’t see or feel the other two, but I’d already made up my mind. We’d come here to find them. Which we had. Somehow. How had I seen this place? It didn’t matter. We would do our best following the case, the script. We would try.
I didn’t think this man had been gallivanting around Cumbria slaying and animating faie. Not much comfort, but it was something to cling to.
Pulling away from Andrew, I walked in with Isaac and the others while our host stepped back. The moment Jason, at the back, had crossed the threshold, the old man slammed the door and pressed his hand to it. He muttered fast and under his breath in French. Something about criminals and manners.
He did not touch the lock, only leaned palm and fingers flat against the door. A breeze rippled past us. For an instant the door heated so much I could feel it like a radiator. Several mechanisms clattered and clicked.
Andrew’s hand on my left arm was cutting off my circulation. “What the fuck?” A hiss in my ear.
“We just need to talk,” I said, as if to the old man instead of Andrew. “We’ll be okay…” I trailed off as my own doubt and fear stuck in my throat.
All of the others were already regretting this as well. They moved as one away from the hot door as it sealed itself and crowded around me.
Still muttering in French, the old man swept past, up the stairs in long, spritely strides, though his shoulders were stooped with age, or too much desk work.
He didn’t say another word to us, only climbed quickly and creakily until he vanished from sight into a lit room above. Down here was cold, damp, and musty, the heat from the door already gone, but upstairs glowed and I could even hear the faint crackling of a fire for the dreary September day. Still … that didn’t smell like wood smoke.
We stood in the foyer like strays, bunched uncertainly together. The old man shouted in French, a name, a summons, something else I couldn’t follow. Telling André to come down here.
“What are you playing at?” Andrew was shaking, his pupils dilated. “If you didn’t want to come in here you should listen to your instincts.”
“We need them.” I tried for deep breaths. “We need to figure this out.”
“We could have found another way.”
“We came here to find them,” Zar said, but also wavering.
“Without Cassia telling us how dangerous she knew they were,” Andrew snapped.
They all looked at me, then up. I looked up as well.
Quick steps trotted down another flight of wood stairs, arriving to the upper room. Another male voice, fast and younger. The two rattled away in French, the old man doing most of the talking. I couldn’t even tell if he mentioned us. He seemed to be barking orders or making some sort of criticism, rambling on for a minute while I tried to understand and wondered if the others were catching more than I could.
I swallowed, mouth dry. “They don’t have any reason to keep us here. They’re secretive people. So secretive I didn’t know they were still around. They’ll want us gone.”
“Or dead,” Andrew said. “Because we know where they are.”
I shook my head violently, stomach beginning to churn. “I scried the place. If they’re not bothering to ward it—”
I stopped as the younger man appeared at the top of the stares.
He squinted down at us in the gloom, though it was hard to see his face as he was backlit. He wore a dingy gray bathrobe, his dark hair was wet, and half his face had shaving cream on it. He rubbed the back of his neck as if in pain.
He asked something in French that seemed to be directed over his shoulder. “How did they know?” I thought was the question but wasn’t certain.
This provoked more shouting from the old man. The one in the bathrobe, presumably André, turned away.
I was beginning to shiver from the cold, already damp from outside.
Isaac again looked to me, then, as I still hesitated, he started slowly up the stairs. We followed.
Chapter 34
The room took up the full width of the house and extended farther than expected front to back as well. There were two doors, left and right, at the back wall, both shut. Two front windows looking out onto the street where we had waited mirrored these, then spiral stairs up on the left and the regular stairs to the foyer on the right, where we stood at the top.
An oriental wool rug on the floor was so old it showed patches of the hardwood underneath. The rest of the wood was even darker and more battered. There were burns in the wood, candle wax, scratches and scuffs, bits of paper and blots of ink, dust bunnies, feathers, and cat hair. Mostly just the dirt. The walls had been painted red in a bygone era. This was so chipped and faded and flaked, or covered by bookshelves, maps, diagrams, drawings, coats of arms, and other prints and paintings, framed or not, all dusty and lopsided, that it was hard to tell.
Against the opposite wall, between the two doors, was a huge, antique desk. Around this were shelves, tables, stools, and chairs. The old man was just taking a seat behind it in a creaking wooden chair. He had the whole thing strewn with paper debris and bottles, jars, and vials.
A dainty calico cat lay on the desk amidst the mess, apparently undisturbed by our arrival but gazing at us with hooded green eyes and twitching her tail.
The fireplace was set in the left-hand wall, the party wall with the neighbors, where t
hey likely had their fireplace on the other side of the bricks. Here smoldered compressed bundles of herbs in the coals with a couple of large logs black and glowing orange in places.
There were books and papers everywhere, scattered on the desk and spilling over the floor, covering the shelves and nearly every other surface. Cobwebs were thick in the corners and the windows but made their ways to shelves and ornate carving of the desk as well.
The old man sat down, flapping his hands and prattling angrily in French. I was pretty sure he was talking about being disturbed: what a nuisance we were.
André shuffled around in fluffy yellow slippers, avoiding looking at us. When he did, he looked quickly away as if we hurt him. He was dark, not past thirty, but had a haggard, sunken look about him that could only be enhanced by the old bathrobe attire. The cotton dangled off his skin like strips of damp paper.
He asked questions when the old man drew breath. I missed details, but I was pretty sure the theme was, “What do you want me to do about it?”
The old man pulled his long beard down below the desk, sinking to muttering as he hunched over his work—from which he had clearly been interrupted. More names, telling André to get someone.
André, shivering, water dripping down his neck and shaving cream dripping off his right cheek, scuffed to the fire in his slippers. This time I was sure I knew what he said: “They should go.” Sweeping his hand at us like he couldn’t be bothered. The fact that he’d been summoned from a toasty bathroom, dragged from his shower and evening’s hot chocolate, was not endearing either his master or his uninvited guests to him.
The old man slammed his palm into the desk as he had the door. “Non!” Bursting into another tirade.
The cat, apparently more offended than startled, gave him a disgusted look and leapt to the floor. She stretched before making her way toward us, sniffing, sizing us up, lashing her entire tail now.
Moonlight Whispers: A Reverse Harem Shifter Romance (The Witch and the Wolf Pack Book 8) Page 22
