The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  My partner was right, but still….

  “Okay, well maybe the Night Gentleman is arrested today,” he suggested. “Or tomorrow. Or maybe he never kills anyone else.”

  “Are you honestly arguing with me right now? Or are you just playing devil’s advocate?” I demanded.

  Gaige grinned. “Both.”

  I rolled my eyes, then sent a brocade pillow sailing through the air to connect with his face.

  “Look, Stass, this situation bothers me, too. We should have been told about it, we should have all of the information. You’re right about that.”

  “But?” I asked, correctly guessing his next word.

  “But it doesn’t change anything. We aren’t cabaret singers or magicians or snake handlers. We aren’t his potential victims. Just follow the golden rule and you’ll be safe.”

  “Golden rule?”

  “Stay a virgin. Oh wait, that’s not going to work,” he teased, holding up the pillow I threw to show me that he was armed against any impending attack. “Just don’t take candy from strangers. Or, in this case, perfume and roses.”

  THE ATMOSPHERE ON rue Mouffetard was more subdued than I’d expected. The crowd was thinner, too. Patrons walked quickly along the market street with their heads down and eyes averted. Shop girls were skittish and storeowners curt. Few wanted to chat, even when Gaige tried to strike up conversations about local tourist attractions and must-see haunts. We were supposed to be mixing and mingling, but there were no willing participants.

  Luxembourg Gardens was no different. Only two men sat by the fountain, one reading and the other scribbling furiously in a leatherbound journal. The open circle and meandering paths were otherwise deserted. It should have been crowded and lively, a place for nannies and mothers with prams to stroll with their children; a place for wannabe artists and novelists to come for inspiration; a place for tourists to glimpse true beauty. The entire atmosphere was surreal, like seeing a vacant Times Square in New York City.

  “What’s the deal?” I muttered to Gaige as we exited the gardens in search of a more populated venue. “I thought Ines said these were good places to see and be seen.”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” Gaige shrugged. “The weather is decent. Maybe it’s still too early for the fun-loving people? The bright young things aren’t exactly known for rolling out of bed before noon.”

  “I guess. What time is it? Should we head to the café?”

  Gaige pulled a pocket watch from his pants pocket, shielding the face with his hand to read the time. “We have an hour before we’re supposed to meet Ines, but I guess we could go over now. The writers could all be holed up there, avoiding sunlight while they convey their genius for the masses to consume and praise.”

  We made our way to Av. de l’Observatoire, stopping in front of Closerie des Lilas to take in the sight. Shrouded in ivy, the landmark café was situated on a corner, its name scrawled across a burgundy awning.

  As Gaige and I entered, I couldn’t help but think of all of the books written inside of those very walls. As if Ernest Hemingway and Andre Rosenthal weren’t enough, the café was home for centuries of beatniks and creative types who would shape so much of culture throughout history.

  I took a moment to soak in the atmosphere.

  The outdoor patio was informal, with square two-person tables covering the sidewalk space and lush foliage separating the patrons from the outside world. Inside, the floors were hardwood and the tables adorned with glass flower vases atop linen tablecloths. High-backed stools lined a lacquered bar with brass fixtures. A lone man wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a bowtie stood behind the bar, polishing glasses and mugs. He barely glanced up from his task when we entered.

  “Can we sit anywhere?” Gaige asked loudly, breaking the serene silence.

  “Any empty table is yours for the taking,” the barkeep replied, the first acknowledgment of our presence. He made a sweeping gesture meant to encompass the entire café, both inside and outside.

  Gaige turned to me. “Lady’s choice.”

  I nodded to an inside table beside a window. It was the perfect vantage point to scope out both the patio and the main bar areas, just in case anyone of interest showed up.

  The bartender sauntered over and handed each of us a menu.

  “Bonjour, je m’appelle Michel,” he said, my Rosetta translating the introduction.

  “It’s rather quiet in here today,” Gaige said conversationally.

  The waiter shrugged with indifference. “Typical for this time of day.”

  “Is that so?” I asked. “My friend promised a lively lunch.”

  Michel looked around his nearly empty restaurant. One man sat alone at the corner of the bar. He knocked back the last dregs of a scotch and pulled his hat low over his forehead.

  “Maybe it is a little slower than usual,” Michel conceded. “Would mademoiselle care for a drink? Champagne, perhaps? We have many outstanding vintages. Monsieur?”

  Though drinking during the day was par for the course for Parisians, Gaige and I were on the clock. We both ordered coffee and a dessert to split. Between the croissants, sweets, and champagne, my clothes were going to be tight when I returned to the island. Nevertheless, when the waiter returned with the soufflé, I decided the melt-in-your-mouth mixture of chocolate, cream, and fresh strawberries was worth a few extra pounds.

  When in Paris…, I thought with a contented sigh.

  “We’re visiting from the states,” Gaige told Michel, even though the man had not asked and did not seemed interested in making small talk.

  “You chose a poor time for a holiday in our city,” the waiter told us.

  Just then, the front door opened, the single bell above the door chiming at the new arrival. A small, disheveled man entered the café with a satchel over one shoulder and a book clutched tightly against his chest. Round spectacles sat atop his squat nose, magnifying beady black eyes that I’d become very familiar with over the past forty-eight hours.

  I wasn’t the only one who recognized him.

  “Is that Andre Rosenthal?” Gaige asked, sounding like a fourteen year-old fangirl who’d just spotted her untouchable movie star crush. “The Andre Rosenthal?”

  Nice going, Gaige. Way to be totally creepy.

  The waiter apparently agreed with me. He narrowed a suspicious gaze on my partner.

  “Is this where he writes his books?” Gaige continued to gush, oblivious to how stalker-like he sounded.

  In a not-so-subtle attempt to shut him up, I kicked Gaige under the table. He winced and reached down to rub his shin.

  “Please forgive my brother,” I said. “He’s quite a fan of Mr. Rosenthal’s work.”

  This seemed to mollify the waiter some, but he continued to stare at Gaige as though he’d suddenly sprouted a second head.

  In my periphery, I saw Rosenthal walk straight to the back corner of the café, to a table shrouded in shadows near a dark hallway with Toilettes over the entranceway. Without looking up, the writer readily rearranged the chairs so that they were next to one another. He placed the satchel on one chair, and then sat in the other.

  “Have his novels been published overseas? I had not heard,” the waiter said.

  Crud, I thought, trying to recall the publication facts about Rosenthal’s work to bail out my partner.

  “McGrath’s Wrath was released in the U.S. earlier this year, and my father gave me a copy of Mine Eyes that he picked up on his last trip to Europe,” Gaige said, the lie coming across effortless.

  Admittedly, I was impressed. Brain like a sponge, that kid.

  Across the room, Rosenthal disappeared down the hallway to bathrooms.

  “I’ll tell him that he has a fan,” the waiter told Gaige. “Be warned, though, Mr. Rosenthal keeps to himself. He comes here to write and not be bothered.”

  Gaige held up his hands. “Hey, I understand. Wouldn’t want to interfere with his genius. One question, though: What’s he drink while he writes
?”

  I wanted to crawl under the table and hide.

  The waiter chuckled. “Scotch on the rocks. Would you care for the same?”

  “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Gaige said by way of answer.

  The waiter frowned.

  “He means ‘oui, merci’,” I explained.

  As soon as the waiter was back behind the bar, I rounded on Gaige.

  “Really?” I demanded.

  The fork was halfway to his mouth, loaded with fluffy chocolate. Gaige paused long enough to feign innocence, and then plunged the heaping bite of dessert between his lips. Eyes rolling back in their sockets, he moaned.

  I glanced around the café, double-checking that there was no one in the vicinity of our table to overhear our conversation. Or to witness the spectacle my partner was making. In a low voice, I continued scolding Gaige.

  “Did you need to advertise that we’re here to stalk Rosenthal? Are you trying to send him running for the hills?”

  Gaige swallowed, sipped his coffee to wash down any lingering morsels, and smacked his lips noisily.

  “I said I’m a huge fan, not that I’m trying to steal from the guy. That’s flattering, Stass. Every writer likes hearing his work is appreciated. Are you gonna eat any more of this? Or are you watching your weight these days?”

  Stabbing the dessert with my own fork, I scooped up a bite that rivaled the one Gaige had just taken. “You didn’t need to be so obvious,” I grumbled, right before devouring it.

  “You know what?” Gaige asked, the question clearly rhetorical. “You are awfully high-strung today. More so than usual.”

  “Thanks,” I deadpanned.

  “No, I just mean you aren’t usually this touchy about stuff.” He paused, brown eyes studying me intently. “Is the whole Night Gentleman thing really getting to you? We can head back to the island if you want. Cyrus will understand, you know he will.”

  The waiter returned with two glasses of scotch, setting one in front of me and the other in front of Gaige.

  “Compliments of Mr. Rosenthal,” he told us. “He says it is not every day he encounters such a voracious fan, particularly an American one.”

  Gaige beamed up at the waiter, and then turned to look at Rosenthal who had returned to his table in the dark corner.

  How does he write without any light? I wondered.

  Rosenthal, head bent over his notebook and pen in hand, was scribbling furiously on the pages before him. As if sensing Gaige’s stare, his head popped up. His glasses slid forward on his nose and were close to falling over the edge. The writer pushed them back into place with one finger.

  Gaige raised his scotch in toast. To be polite, I did the same. With a small half- smile, Rosenthal returned the gesture.

  “Let me know when you are ready for a refill,” the waiter told us, then returned to the bar.

  “Don’t say it,” I warned, anticipating Gaige’s gloating words.

  My partner simply grinned and sipped his scotch, leaving his smug expression to do the talking for him.

  Much to Gaige’s chagrin, Rosenthal did not come over for a meet and greet with his biggest fan. True to his reclusive nature, the writer remained in his corner, ensconced in shadows for the rest of the afternoon. And while Gaige was comfortable openly gushing to the waiter about his love for the author’s work, he was not brazen enough to walk over and make a fool of himself. Yet.

  “I’ll wait until Saturday,” my partner replied when I commended him on the achievement.

  From our lessons, I knew it was unlikely that Rosenthal was actually working on Blue’s Canyon that day. At this point, the initial draft was complete and hidden away, awaiting final polishing. Judging by the timeline of his life and career, I guessed he was working on Sparrows of Summer.

  Unbeknownst to Rosenthal, Sparrows would become his highest-grossing work of all-time. The premise sounded interesting—a young American heiress said to be touched in the head falls in love with the Marquis of Mancera, only to learn on the eve of her wedding that he was a notorious conman who assumed the noble title under false pretenses after murdering the real Marquis. The New York Review of Books would later describe Sparrows as “evocative and spellbinding”, “a true work of literary genius”, and “just risqué enough to whet the appetite, without being indecent”. So, not my usual beach read, but it did sound intriguing.

  When our scheduled meeting time with Ines came and went with no sign from the alchemist, I started to worry. Gaige didn’t appear the least bit concerned, though he was quickly growing bored with the empty café. With two glasses of scotch under his belt and very little food in his stomach, my partner was somewhat tipsy and entirely ready to leave. I couldn’t blame him, watching Rosenthal write for three hours made for a pretty dull stakeout.

  Nevertheless, amidst Gaige’s protests, I insisted we stay. I wasn’t sure how long Rosenthal usually spent writing each day in Lilas, but I was hoping he’d stop by to say hello on his way out. As a conciliation prize for Gaige, I went up to the bar to order another round of drinks for both men.

  While Michel busied himself pouring the amber liquid from a bottle on the top shelf, I scanned the titles on a small bookcase behind the bar that appeared to be a lending library of sorts. I’d spent the past two hours flipping through the glossy editions of Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, and Vanity Fair scattered around the restaurant, and my interest in magazines was beginning to wane. Hoping for something more stimulating, or at least more educational, I ran my eyes over the rows of spines.

  “Wait, is that a Fantômas novel?” I asked Michel, just as he slid the glasses over the smooth bar.

  Following the direction of my stare, the barkeep walked over to the bookshelf and searched for the title in question.

  “Second shelf, on the right,” I chimed in helpfully.

  Michel held up a book with a masked man in a top hat on the front and raised one eyebrow in question. A young American woman interested in graphic novels was apparently quite odd. Or maybe it had more to do with my interest in the character some murderous whackjob was using as a muse.

  “Yes, that one,” I said, hoping my eagerness wasn’t too transparent.

  The bartender handed over the book. I opened it to a random page, running my fingers over the pictures of Fantômas. Could it be sheer coincidence that a killer was imitating the comic book character?

  “Do you read French, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked as I began flipping through the graphic novel.

  I smiled sheepishly.

  “Only a little,” I admitted. “Would it be okay if I took this over to my table?

  “Of course, of course,” Michel replied. “That is what the books are here for.”

  A phone hanging on the back wall rang.

  “Pardon me, please,” he said.

  Novel in hand, I turned and began walking to our table with Gaige’s drink. I left Rosenthal’s atop the bar for Michel to deliver, since I didn’t want to disturb the writer. Though it was an unlikely scenario, if I interrupted Rosenthal at the wrong moment, I might never get to read Sparrows of Summer when I got home. Or it might suck.

  “Excuse me, Mademoiselle Prince?” Michel’s voice called, just as I was about to sit down.

  It took me a moment to remember that Prince was the last name Gaige had given us.

  “Yes?”

  “There is an Ines Callandries calling for you. She apologizes, but she has been detained at her place of work and will be unable to meet with you and your brother.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you, Michel,” I replied.

  “She’s obviously a very hardworking and dedicated employee,” Gaige grumbled, as I slid his fresh drink across the table.

  “Last one, fishy,” I warned, watching him take a deep gulp.

  “I’m not a fish, I am a man,” Gaige declared, just before he belched loudly.

  Yeah, the day was off to a great start.

  “WAIT RIGHT HERE,” I said to my partner. “Do not get up o
ut of your chair, understood?”

  Gaige’s third scotch had somehow brought the idea that he and Rosenthal were old pals, and my partner was resolved to approach the man. I could just picture him pulling up a chair at the author’s table and plopping down to offer unsolicited critiques on the man’s work.

  With a final warning glare to Gaige, I went up to the bar to return the book and settle our check.

  “Je voudrais le cheque, s’il vous plait,” I said to Michel, drawing an amused smile.

  Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a linguist. But I also needed to practice, or I never would be.

  “Monsieur Rosenthal’s, aussi, s’il vous plait?” I added.

  “That is very kind of you,” Michel replied in English. “I’m sure Monsieur will appreciate the gesture.”

  “It is the least I can do after my brother’s untoward behavior. I hope he has not disturbed Mr. Rosenthal’s work for the day.”

  The bartender looked over at the corner where the writer was still frantically scribbling away.

  “I assure you, Monsieur Rosenthal becomes easily lost in his own imagination,” Michel said kindly. He scrawled several figures on a slip of paper before turning it upside down and pushing it over to me. “Is there anything else that I may do for you this afternoon?”

  I glanced down at the book in my hand, debating whether to ask about buying it from him. The comic was probably in bookstores, and I might even be able to find an English language version. Then again, this copy was in my hands. And if it proved too difficult to understand, I could always read it aloud and hope my pronunciation was good enough for the Rosetta to translate.

  “Would you consider allowing me to purchase this?” I asked uncertainly.

  “No charge.”

  “I’d like to buy it,” I clarified.

  “No charge,” the waiter repeated with a wave of his hand. “We have several more copies.”

  “Thank you.”

  Adding a generous tip, I paid our check and retrieved Gaige from where he’d remained dutifully in his seat. As we exited, I glanced back at Rosenthal, still working away. I felt a tinge of shame over planning to steal something the quiet man had obviously dedicated a great deal of time to. If Blue’s Canyon had ever been released, I might have really struggled with the mission, though I never would have admitted it. Only the thought of someone in my time becoming enthralled with the novel assuaged my guilt. Books were meant to be read and enjoyed, not hidden away, lost, and forgotten like a hoarder’s treasure.