The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  I didn’t tell her about the Valois.

  And I didn’t tell her about Méchant or about Hubert.

  I didn’t tell her about anything except that it felt like my heart existed outside my chest when I was apart from Quinton.

  My knee-high gladiator sandals clicked softly against the stone floor as I beelined for the secret passage to the stairwell.

  I’d given him the entire week.

  And a weekend.

  But I’d still heard nothing from the man I loved.

  You shouldn’t be doing this, Esme. This isn’t Law and Order; crimes and plots like this aren’t unraveled in an hour.

  Still, there was only the briefest hesitation before I deftly opened the passage to the stairs and made my way to his loft.

  It was Monday and my afternoon class hadn’t ended soon enough for me to get here. Of course, I went back and forth with myself the entire time as I set up my laser questioning if I should check—if I should look for him. But when the laser clicked on, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit in the sacred space in silence any longer. I needed a sign that he was okay, and if he wasn’t going to send one, I was going to find one.

  But after the myriad of stairs I jogged up, I opened the door of his attic only to be greeted by emptiness.

  In truth, I hadn’t expected to find him here. But I also hadn’t expected the space to be devoid of all of his things minus the desk, chair, mattress, and dresser.

  It felt as though my heart tumbled out of my chest and plummeted toward the floor, about to shatter into a million pieces when I noticed the book on top of the desk.

  Strange that he would leave it and nothing else.

  The thought barely crossed my mind before I realized it wasn’t strange at all. It was on purpose.

  I never really noticed the sounds my jewelry made until faced with this silence—the solitude without him. My anklets and bracelets jingled against my skin, the thin cotton of my skirt pulling back against my legs as I darted to the desk to see Hugo’s novel and, underneath it, a single sheet of paper with his familiar scrawl.

  Written in code.

  Swallowing hard, I sank down into the chair, my fingers shaking as I lifted the sheet and locked on the numbers.

  Flipping through the book, I took a deep breath and recalled what he’d told me about how to translate it.

  Of course, the translation still needed to be translated from French, but I took my time, checking and rechecking each word until I was confident that the words I’d pulled were the correct ones.

  Folding the paper and tucking it into the novel, I made my way back down toward my things, where my dear friend, Google Translate, was waiting.

  Each step had my heart hammering harder as I knelt by my bag, pulled out my cell phone, and typed in the French.

  I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist, Gypsy.

  I felt myself bristle but smiled warmly that he knew I’d go looking for him. My eyes trailed eagerly to the next line.

  Have faith in me to finish this. I will keep you safe, and I will come back to you.

  My heart swelled and felt as though it had a little jingle of its own as I read and re-reread the words.

  I bit into my lower lip, but it couldn’t stop my smile. It was the reassurance I needed, and it would be enough. For now.

  A calm settled over me while I folded the paper and slid it and my phone back into my bag, but it was when I turned around that I realized I’d been so focused on the message he’d left me, I hadn’t realized I was no longer the only person inside the cathedral.

  But it wasn’t Quinton who’d snuck up on me like he had so many times in the past.

  This time, it was a real monster.

  Big, broad and cloaked in a black suit, the bald man regarded me rabidly.

  “Madame St. Claire,” he drawled with a cordially menacing smile, the scar on his lip spreading wide, and I shivered as his French accent eroded my name. “So good to see you again.”

  “Again?” I drew a hand to my chest, protecting my racing heart, trying to remember where I would’ve met this man before.

  The leering smile with which he regarded me grew as I spoke. “From the gala,” he revealed. “Andre Racine. I was with… Monsieur Hubert.”

  I tried to remember, but the only faces burned into my memory that night were Quinton’s and Hubert’s.

  “And did he send you, Monsieur Racine?” I lifted my chin. “I told him I would reach out through Monsieur Lavigne about my work.”

  His low chuckle reminded me of dry, splitting wood. Raw and cracking with the potential to violently ignite.

  “I don’t work for Monsieur Hubert.” He rubbed his thumb over his scarred lip. “I work for his boss.”

  “So, Monsieur Méchant, then?” I fired back, realizing what he must be—the Cerberus to Méchant’s Hades—making sure all his men stayed in line.

  His attention drew away from me, as though I’d bored him with my knowledge, as he checked the expensive watch on his wrist. Everything about him was expensive and deadly.

  “You are clever, madame, but that won’t change what has to happen here.”

  It seemed Quinton wasn’t the only one who lived his true self in the shadows.

  “Gustav had grand plans for you and your work, Madame,” he told me nonchalantly with a chill right to my bones. “Unfortunately, those plans are going to have to be altered.”

  “Oh?” I tipped my head to the side, faking ignorance. “And how is that?”

  “I’m here, Madame, because I am the right hand that fixes all Monsieur Méchant’s problems… and you are becoming a problem.” His lip curled. “But your family has always been trouble, hasn’t it?”

  My chin notched up.

  “You crawl to it like a pig to shit,” he went on lazily, rising from his seat. “And Monsieur Méchant can’t have that lying around.”

  There was no doubt in my mind, with the way he looked at me, that he knew about my past—my family.

  Our attention turned at the same time to the rustling and thuds that echoed through the nave. It reminded me of the day they’d erected the scaffolding, yet not quite as forceful and not as regimented.

  But for the construction crew to be working this late in the day was—

  “Don’t mind my men,” the brute told me. And like a white board being wiped clean, even the trace of his fake smile disappeared into a malevolent snarl.

  His men? Oh, God. What were they doing?

  “Now, where was I? Oh yes, so, I’ve come to fix a problem, and I thought you might be able to help.” He stepped toward me. “There is a man whose been interfering with Gustav’s campaign progress… a man who is trouble.”

  There was no trace of respect in the way he addressed me.

  He moved closer again, standing within arm’s reach, and even though I felt the skin on my back trying to rip itself from my body in order to flee, my feet rooted themselves in the ancient stone.

  “Do you know who I’m talking about, Madame?”

  My brow scrunched as I met his accusing gaze and replied, “No, I can’t say that—”

  I gasped and stumbled to the side as he flung the back of his hand across my face, his studded ring cutting into my cheek.

  My fists tightened from the pain but I refused to let him see me cry.

  He let out an exasperated sigh, as though my answer had left him no choice but to strike me, and said, “Don’t waste my time, cunt. It won’t change the outcome of this situation.”

  As I rose up, I caught his brief nod before I felt my arms wrenched behind my back.

  I didn’t know where the two men standing behind me had come from, but they didn’t seem to care that one’s shoulder belonged in its socket the way they twisted my arms behind my back.

  Racine pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully began to wipe the blood off his ring as he said, “Don’t want to leave any trace. Getting my hands dirty is not par for my reputation.” He shot me a hard glare
. “It is however par for theirs,” he indicated the men holding me viciously.

  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get my breathing to calm. Every inhale came in choppy waves, barely filling air into my lungs before it was gone again.

  “What do you want?” I bit out, struggling against their hold.

  His snarl grew. “Not so clever after all then, are we, madame?” He reached out and pinched my chin, forcing my face up as he leered over me. “Working all this time in this cathedral and yet, having no idea how critical your role is in its demise.”

  “What are you talking about? What are you going to do?” I demanded, preying on this man’s effusive ego to prove his power though he was nothing but a glorified head henchman.

  His scar twitched.

  “This cathedral is a relic. Necessary collateral damage to achieve our success,” he told me, his gaze roaming my face like he was thinking about other ways to harm me. “And your scans will be the sword we let Hubert pull from the crumbled stone.”

  Oh, God.

  He was going to destroy Notre Dame.

  And then Hubert was going to swoop in like a savior—with my scans—and both condemn the president for allowing this to happen and paint himself as the man with the forethought to restore it.

  “Méchant can’t possibly think he’ll get away with this.” I whispered horrifically, my mouth feeling like a bucket of sand.

  He nuzzled my cheek and I wanted to vomit.

  “He knows he already has.”

  I swallowed down my bile. “Then why am I a problem?”

  “A problem because you associate with that scarred bastard,” he bit out, his fingers bruising my skin. I flinched, the mention of Quinton like another strike. “The monstrosity who killed my men in the Neuf-Trois.” He let out a small rueful chuckle. “It was satisfying to paint him as the culprit.”

  And my heart broke into tinier pieces wondering just how many more protests and riots around the city were instigated by Méchant and for his son’s benefit.

  And the fact he was telling me about it only meant one thing…

  He released my chin and trailed his knuckles down the side of my cheek that still burned from his strike, bastardizing the foundation of a touch that should be tender for the toxic display of power he’d turned it into.

  I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear what he said or what I was afraid was the truth. Yanking my face away from his hand, I craned my head in any direction it could go that would take me as far away from his touch as possible.

  His hand jerked from my face and I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut and bracing for another hit—one that never came.

  He laughed again. “I won’t hit you again,” he informed me carelessly. “There’s no point, even though I did enjoy it.”

  “Perhaps because you are the pig,” I spat. “Nothing more than an errand-boy with a childish ego.”

  It was bold.

  It was foolish.

  His low laugh settled on me. “You are feisty. No wonder that monster wanted to fuck you.”

  “He is not a monster—you are!” I cried out, straining against the man who held me, ignoring the tremor in my voice. “Just like Hubert and Méchant… you’re the fucking monsters.”

  I thought he might hit me.

  I almost wanted him to.

  I wanted to know I’d made a dent—that I’d made him nervous. I wanted to know I’d worried him in some way or another.

  Instead, his eyes widened for a moment before he laughed harder. “Mon Dieu, you’re in love with him. You’re in love with that rabid fucking monster.”

  I strained against the two men who stood like statues who held my back, the burn in my arms nothing compared to the fire in my veins.

  “He knows everything,” I warned. “He knows what you’re going to do. You’re too late.”

  The threat was a stretch—a long stretch. But sometimes, all you can do is stretch to see how far you can go.

  His head tipped to mine. “If he knew what I was going to do, he would be here.” A sick, twisted smile spread over his face. “Instead, he’s off to meet the mole in Méchant’s organization—or the piece of him I left for him to find.”

  I couldn’t contain my shocked gasp.

  Maybe he was lying, too.

  I had no reason to believe him and I wanted to believe he had every reason to lie and exaggerate like I did. But then he spoke and decimated any hope I had of that.

  “I have to say, using the vigil candles to communicate with his inside man was quite an example of poetic justice on his part.” My heart began to thud slower and slower until, if it were possible for a heart to beat backwards, mine was.

  Oh, God. Quinton was walking into a trap.

  “I wonder if he told you that’s how his mother died.”

  “You mean how Méchant killed her?” I spat hoarsely.

  He hummed and smiled. “Good God. Your…” he trailed off and clenched his fist in front of him. “Your vivacity is stunning, madame.” It made me sick to see how my defiance turned him on. “If only I didn’t have a job to do.”

  He glanced back at the roof once more. The noises weren’t as loud, but I could still hear his men up there.

  Were they weakening the scaffolding? Was that his plan?

  My mind raced through possibilities. I knew if Quinton were here, he would know. He’d lived in the shadows in order to understand men like this and how their minds worked.

  Sometimes, to catch the monster, you have to live like one.

  Another man approached and Racine drew away from me and gave him his brief attention. Even if I could hear them, I didn’t understand their French, and I’d never felt more useless in my whole life. They spoke briefly before he turned back to me.

  “Where is your laptop?” he changed course and demanded.

  “Not here.” It wasn’t a lie, and I wasn’t about to offer up the truth.

  “Good.” My stomach sank like a stone. Every time I felt the briefest glimmer of putting a dent in this man’s plan, I turned out to be wrong.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  At this point, I was smart enough to know I wasn’t making it out of here alive. He’d revealed too much, insinuated too much, for me to think anything else.

  “Always so nosy.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Is that how you met the monster? Nosing about in his business?”

  Racine walked deeper into the church and I felt the men behind me move, forcing me to follow him away from all my things and the vestige of comfort they provided me.

  “He’ll still find me,” I insisted, mainly for my heart.

  The hardened criminal laughed. “Maybe he will. But there won’t be much left of you to find by then.”

  I swallowed my gasp. There was no point in being afraid. It wouldn’t save me.

  I remained silent as he opened the door to the attic stairwell—and all three-hundred steps it contained.

  “So, your plan is to kill me and create some sort of construction disaster?” I pressed as my legs reached the point on the stairs where they moved out of habit rather than will.

  I estimated it was at the one-hundred-stair mark, give or take a step or two.

  Even if he didn’t answer, I had to ask. If there was even a slim chance of escaping—of surviving—this, I was going to do it with the most knowledge possible.

  He shook his head and for a second, I thought he wouldn’t reply.

  But if I knew anything about criminals who sacrificed innocents to fuel their own lofty goals, it was that they liked to take pride in the acts of violence they committed, no matter who their lips credited in the end.

  Just like my uncle.

  He’d eagerly claimed responsibility for the bomb that killed my parents. He’d eagerly claimed responsibility for the other acts of terror he’d been involved in. And one would have to be blind to believe it was all for the praise for ‘Allah’ that came from his mouth when there was nothing but pride i
n his eyes for acts that were all him.

  “I was instructed to do what was necessary.” He let out an extravagant sigh as we began to ascend toward the attic of the north transept and, looking back, his eyes hollowed with hate. “I will burn the heavens if that’s what it takes to make them happen.”

  Even though he was only a few feet in front of me, it sounded as though every word echoed through the stairwell that kept getting longer and longer with each heartbreaking statement he made.

  I stumbled over the steps, crying out in pain when my body tried to fall forward but the guard holding my wrists pulled me back.

  His words were chosen carefully, the truth breaking my heart in two.

  “You’re… you’re going to burn Notre Dame?” The question was a pathetic whisper as I tried to wrap my head around the statement.

  A riot was a bad thing.

  Bombs exploding in a crowd was a horrific thing.

  But this? Destroying a cathedral that had survived and stood for so much?

  I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I’d just been told he was going to fly a plane into the World Trade Center in New York City. If the World Trade Center had been built a thousand years ago and stood as a symbol of love and sanctuary and mercy for an entire century.

  My body continued to move as my mind reeled.

  “You’re going to bu—” I broke off with a sharp gasp as he whipped around.

  “No.” His smile spread like a poisonous spider weaving its web. “You are.”

  Quinton

  I wasn’t an idiot.

  My whole body thrummed as I stood shielded in an alley by the harsh late-afternoon shadows.

  If there was one rule that was never broken, it was that after a source went undercover, they were to never ask to meet in person. Too many risks. Too many opportunities for failure.

  And that was how I knew the note I’d received earlier was a trap.

  My body jerked and then relaxed, realizing it was just a homeless man who’d wandered into the alley, mumbling to himself as he tried to drink alcohol from what was clearly an empty bottle.