Another time, I would’ve laughed at the fire in her voice. But now, I saw it for what it was, smoke to conceal the truth. “Tell me why it bothers you.”
Her body went completely still. Unmoving except for her gaze that rose to mine, laden with the weight she’s spent her whole life running from.
In that moment, I knew whatever the reason—it was the thing that kept her running. Because when something wounds you so deeply, there are only two ways to handle it.
Either you let the weight of the hatred swallow you into a sea of revenge like I had. Or you run from the weight, knowing the pain will crush you if it ever catches up.
And my Gypsy had been running for a very long time.
“I lied to you,” she spoke even though her lips appeared to barely move, as though the truth just spilled from them like audible air. “The car bomb that killed my parents… the one set off by the ISIL…” Her voice drifted into something devoid of all emotion… the only way to speak of something that hurt so deeply. “It was set by the ISIL. But the man who did it was my uncle.”
My body jerked with the impact of her words.
“My uncle killed his own brother… killed my father and my mother… simply because they found a love that wasn’t supposed to be.” She licked her lips and some sense of registering her surroundings came back into her eyes. “Because there is no room for love in the extremes.”
I drew her head against my shoulder and held her tight, as though I could protect her from the pain of her memories.
“I didn’t see them die, Quinton,” she murmured against my skin. “But I know what it’s like to lose someone you love to another who lives only for a purpose—a purpose that has no concept of what love is.”
My jaw tightened.
Méchant had killed my mother because she’d betrayed him and his organization, betrayed his purpose for power, for love—for her love of me. And Esme… her parents had died because they’d found a love that betrayed a world of irrational extremes.
“I’m sor—”
She spoke over me, as though the heartbreaking truth of her past wasn’t enough to end there, “After the bombing, he grew even further entrenched in the ISIL’s jihadist attacks, until finally, he was stopped at the airport in Pakistan, attempting to board a flight with a French passport.” It slowly became clear that her relation to her parent’s murderer wasn’t the only hole in her story needing to be filled. “He was coming here to bomb the US Embassy.”
My eyes narrowed, the plot sounding familiar.
“Found guilty, he was put in jail where he mentored and recruited men like Amedy Coulibaly and the Kouachi brothers.”
Recognition speared through my mind with a violent stab. The first name was the man responsible for multiple shootings and attacks, including the hostage situation at the Hypercacher Supermarket, all in the days surrounding the mass attack at the newspaper, Charlie Hebdo… An attack that was carried out by the second name she mentioned: the Kouachi brothers.
“My uncle was Djamel Beghal,” she concluded, her eyes leveling to mine. “My real name is Esme Beghal, and the reason I was never adopted—never kept—was because I’m related to a member of the Islamic State. Because my uncle is an infamous terrorist.”
“My real name is the reason I changed it—because it didn’t matter who I was or what I’d suffered because of the hateful acts of violence of a man who’d already taken so much from me… they still judged me. The world still shunned me. They chose to lump me in the same category with the man I most hate…” she trailed off and finished with the softest whisper, “Just like they’re doing to you.”
“Esme…”
“Colleges… jobs… they saw my name, sometimes without even seeing me, and made their decision: I wasn’t worth the risk.”
Fire burned through my veins like I’d never felt before.
It never mattered what the world thought of me. It never mattered if they painted me a villain though I’d renounced any semblance of a life in order to keep them safe.
“I wouldn’t be here, Quinton,” she confessed. “I wouldn’t be in Paris or at Notre-Dame if my name were still Beghal. They’d never let me inside a place like that. Alone.”
I wanted to argue with her. I wanted to tell her that neither her name nor her relation to a known terrorist would’ve made a difference. Because a name shouldn’t determine guilt or innocence.
But what I wanted to tell her was a lie.
The world had become a life raft littered with holes of hate. In fear of drowning, those in the raft blamed the foreign water for their fate. But the water wasn’t the problem—water didn’t discriminate; it would as easily keep the raft afloat as it would breach the broken walls.
Yet, truth mattered little in the face of fear.
So, though the water took the blame, it was the holes that were the culprit—it was hatred that would sink us all.
And Esme… she was one more innocent pail of water they’d dash over the side, too blinded by their effort to save a sinking ship to realize they were responsible for its failure.
“So, when I turned eighteen, I went through the grueling process of not only changing it, but sealing my previous one. I went through interview after interview, my childhood stripped apart. I had to bring in documents—proof of the discrimination I’d suffered—and photos of all the racist threats I’d received over the years.” Her tears streamed freely now.
“I gave it all. And I gave up my name, one that, to me, symbolized a love which surpassed all judgments, simply because, to the world, it had become a synonym for hate.”
“I’m sorry, Esme,” I rasped harshly, hardly able to stand the hurt that dulled the shine of her eyes. My chest felt so heavy to move and yet, I wished that I could bear the weight of her confession and her pain. “I’m so sorry, ma coeur.”
My heart.
I would’ve taken my past, inflicted on me each and every day of my life like Prometheus chained to the rock, if it meant I could’ve spared my Gypsy her loss.
Her lip quivered. “I gave it all so I could keep my dream, and the new life it came with.” Her eyes looked like gold coins in the bottom of a fountain, resting under a foot of clear water. “Just like you gave it all, Q. You gave up your life, your dream… everything… to stop Méchant and to start over. You gave up everything in order to do the right thing, and now they’ve taken that from you, too.”
I drew a deep, steadying breath.
One by one, I kissed her falling tears until they grew less in number.
“But they haven’t taken you.”
She let out a small gasp and peered up at me. “And what am I?”
My jaw ticked as I brushed her hair back from her face, cupping her cheeks and pulling her toward me until her forehead touched mine.
I expected more resistance. But as I looked into her eyes, the doubts that plagued my blood for weeks vanished. The fears of what I’d lost faded. And the hope… the hope of what I could have was too bright to ignore.
At least for one more night.
“You’re the gypsy who has stolen my heart.”
Quinton
It had taken every bit of my strength to untangle myself from the soft curves of her bronze limbs. Even now, my head turned, desperate for one more glance at the way her midnight hair spilled over the soft sheets and her silken skin.
For the first time in the last decade, I woke up this morning wanting something more than vengeance.
More than revenge.
I woke up with her delicious weight sprawled on my chest, her hand over the relic in my chest she’d somehow claimed, and wanted to stay.
I wanted to stay with her. Forever.
But staying any longer would be a mistake. My chin dipped and I shook my head. No. The moment I decided to watch her work in the cathedral all those weeks ago, that was the mistake.
This wasn’t a mistake.
“Where are you going?” I tensed with my hand on the bedroom door.
The sheets rustled, and I knew she must be sitting up.
“I have to go,” I replied, but kept my gaze forward. “I have to stop him. I have to finish my mission.”
I was Quinton Bossé.
I was a forgotten man.
I was the Valois.
And there was no room for love in this life.
“Quinton, you can’t go.” Her disbelief was evident. “You just… you were just stabbed. The media thinks you’re a terrorist. They’re looking for you. Méchant’s men are probably looking for you—”
“All the more reason why I have to leave.” At least she couldn’t see my eyes squeezed shut from the pain of having to do so.
To stay any longer not only risked everything I’d worked for, it risked her.
I needed to end the game I’d been burned into almost a decade ago. And I needed to protect her.
“Surely, there is someone else—someone who’s not injured. You can’t be the only one…”
My head drifted side to side, as though she’d be able to see it in the shadows. She was wrong. I was the one who had to stop this. I was the one who had to stop him. And, after all the work I’d done, I might be the only one who could.
She rose from the bed, and my body prepared for battle—a battle I had to win because losing could very well mean losing her.
After she’d fallen asleep in my arms, the reality of a danger so close, so imminent kept me awake. The part of me she’d awoken—the part buried deep inside—ached to know I’d almost died to save her and the crowd, only to wake and hear they held me responsible. But the rest of me…
The rest of me was a product of the Valois.
The rest of me didn’t give a damn whether they thought I was a sinner or a saint. They were not my concern. Méchant was my concern. And the only link between the two of them was what information Méchant could glean from the news.
That I’d known about the attack.
That I was injured.
That the woman performing had screamed for my safety.
“This is my life, Esme. This is my purpose.”
“Bullshit.” She gripped my arm and my eyes flung open as I allowed her to turn me to face her. The dusky light of dawn snuck through the heavily draped curtains and cut bright lines over her cheeks.
Then her hand slid higher until it touched the scarred remains on my chin… higher until it cupped the broken flesh which determined my fate.
I savored it for one long second. I savored it like Jesus savored the bread and the cup of the Last Supper—the sweet freedom of forgiveness paid for by sacrifice.
With a growl, I snaked my hands around her wrist and pulled her fingers away.
Her gasp was slight. “You don’t have to be a martyr. You can choose to be a man. You can choose to live… to listen to your heart.”
“I’m neither, ma Gypsy,” I said with a low voice. “I’m merely a means to an end.”
“God,” she sneered, tears clinging to her thick black lashes. “Sometimes, I think you’re head really must be made of stone, Monsieur Gargouille.”
“Made of stone,” I repeated, dropping my face closer to her. “Made to watch and protect. Protect Paris. Protect Notre-Dame. Protect you.”
Glittering eyes sprung to mine as her breath quivered through her kiss-swollen lips.
“I never promised more than this,” I said, more softly this time, unable to stop my free fingers from wiping away one of her tears.
“And what about love?” she asked, sounding in a daze as she stared at my mouth, willing from it a truth that didn’t exist.
There was no denying how I felt about her. But just because I couldn’t deny the sun existed didn’t mean I had to choose to live in the light.
There was no room for light in my world.
There is no place for love in our world.
My father’s words rang out like an explosion in my mind, their destructive heat obliterating the unsteady beat in my chest and the longing buried in my heart.
This was the decision he had made. The one that took my mother and me from his life for most of my own.
“Love doesn’t exist for the gargoyle. Just like it didn’t for the hunchback.” I let out a steady breath, willing myself to believe the words. “Maybe the next inhabitant of the Notre Dame will have better luck.”
Her eyes found a slow, singed path back to mine as her breathing labored. Her nostrils flared.
“Then let me help you.”
I drew back. Of all the things I expected, her hatred being first and foremost, this wasn’t even on the list.
“No.” I pushed her to the side and opened the door.
“Why not?” She padded behind me and demanded, the chains on her ankles jingling with each agitated step.
I whipped around, sending a searing burn through my knee. “Because I love you!” The words whipped through the air. “Because you are everything, and I am nothing. Because you are my weakness. And while Méchant is still in this world, he will find a way to exploit it.”
I didn’t bother to hide the raggedness of my voice.
“The world—both the good and the bad—is after me,” I ended quietly. “And though I’d do anything for you, Esme, though I’d risk anything for you—my safety, the Valois, my life—I won’t risk you.”
Quinton
The wealth present in the Palais Garnier was enough to rebuild Versailles ten times over. The massive hall of the opera house, glittering from the chandeliers, gold touching every surface, was reminiscent of Louis the Fourteenth’s opulent style, but it was the swell of people that adorned the space like ostentatious ornaments, gossiping… donating… competing for awards in both generosity and gaudiness that would’ve made the Sun King proud.
I waded through the crush of designer tuxedoes, silk sheaths, and jewels which rivaled those of any royal.
In the forest of finery, I searched for my prey.
After the Neuf Trois attack and the weeks of recovery spent in the haven of Esme’s arms, the invitation to the exclusive charity gala had drifted from my mind, but it returned with full-force when I walked away from her that night. And my mission could be the only thing I could think about.
While the mask, which covered my scars and made me into a modern Phantom of the Opera, especially given the location, rather than the Gargoyle of Notre-Dame, was useful at concealing a face too distinct to go unnoticed, it also made identifying Hubert harder.
I needed to get to him before the speeches started—before the hundred or so people in the crowd became aware of who he was and made it harder for me to do my job.
I straightened the singular tie I had left—the one that had been locked in a closet in my Valois apartment along with my tuxedo. I’d been staying there—the small space more like a tomb than the massive cathedral—just in case Esme decided to search me out and try to change my mind.
My step faltered slightly.
The nights I’d been away from her were almost unbearable. Almost.
It was only the knowledge that I was protecting her, reinforced by the media who hadn’t picked up on the link between us, that kept me away.
“You clean up nice.”
I froze and turned slowly at the familiar French voice.
“What are you doing here?” I asked and spun to meet Léo’s masked gaze.
He swirled the clear liquid in his glass, replying, “Do you really need me to answer that?” before taking a sip.
Of course, I didn’t.
He worked at L’École and he was a Baudin. Even though he’d been severed from his father’s empire for a long time now, the name still carried weight in the circles that wanted money.
“I think the question is what are you doing here?” He came to stand beside me.
I should’ve kept moving. Remaining in one spot was what got a person noticed. Moving through the crowd was what kept me invisible.
“Working.”
�
��A little risky, don’t you think?” He took another sip with a small smile, as though we were chatting about the alcohol selection rather than secrets and spies. “You can’t be completely healed already. Not after what I saw.”
My mouth thinned.
The pervading cellphone video had captured the blast but only in the periphery of the violence of the riot. If it had recorded the whole thing, the world would know I wasn’t responsible. But it didn’t.
“I’m fine. I have a job to do.”
His eyebrows rose. “In the public? When the public wants your head?”
“The public doesn’t know what they want,” I griped. “And yes. This is where my target is.”
I didn’t look at him as I spoke, rather scanning the clusters of conversations, searching for the hair color, height, and build of Hubert.
“Target?” He placed his empty glass on a server’s tray who walked by. “Is that what you’re calling her now?”
My gaze whipped to his. “What do you mean ‘her?’”
My vision tunneled to his mouth as he spoke her name. “Esme.”
I couldn’t be hearing him right.
“Esme… is here?” My voice was tight as I dragged my glass to my lips, my knuckles white around it.
His eyes flicked to the crowd. “Of course, she’s here. Her work is being funded by the ministry and the school. She was invited as LeBlanc’s guest of honor.”
“Fuck,” I cursed, my eyes diving through the crowd anew.
She shouldn’t be here.
What if this place was Méchant’s target?
Unlikely, with Hubert inside, but then again, what better alibi?
“You didn’t know?” he asked with a low harsh whisper.
“I haven’t seen her… recently.” It had been two weeks. And it felt like a century. “She shouldn’t be here.”
My tuxedo tightened, and I fought the urge to rip my tie from my neck.
Léo searched the crowd behind us, keeping our shoulders in line so he could tip his head to continue speaking.
“What’s going on?” he asked through clenched teeth. “I thought you… and her…”
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 32
