“I like that.” He leans down and kisses me softly. “Like giving thanks for having survived long enough to be in each other’s lives.”
“Exactly.” I smile at him shyly. We’ve both been through a lot to get to this moment. We both know how lucky we are to be alive.
“And I think I’ve found the perfect home for our little heart.”
“Good,” I say, “because it’s freezing out here!”
“Then let’s get this done!” Dev opens the lock with a tiny brass key. Then he loops the padlock through the railing. I can see our initials shining in the moonlight. “Okay,” he whispers. “Together.”
I put my hand over the cold metal of the lock. Dev puts his hand over mine, big and warm.
“To a new year,” Dev says.
I shut my eyes. “To a new year.”
Together we squeeze the lock shut. It fastens with a satisfying click. I open my eyes and laugh, the sound clean and crisp in the cold air. Dev gives the lock a little tug. “On there tight.” He smiles. “That will last forever.”
“Good.” I feel giddy with my own boldness, talking about forever like this.
“Now,” Dev says, “you have to throw the key.” He holds out the tiny key, and I take it. “Throw it out in the middle, in the deep water, where no one will ever find it.”
“I’m a terrible thrower,” I say.
Dev laughs. “You got this, Saint.”
“Okay, here goes.” I throw the key as hard as I can. It arcs out into the darkness, flashing like a fish in the moonlight, and hits the river with a tiny plink. The black water swallows it whole.
Dev whistles appreciatively. “Wow, that thing is gone.” He puts his arms around me from behind, swaying slightly, enveloping me in warmth.
“Yup,” I say. “If you ever want to get rid of me, you’re going to have to go deep-sea diving.”
“And if you ever want to get rid of me, you’re going to have to get a hacksaw for the railing.”
I turn around to face him, still circled in his arms. “Well,” I say, “lucky I want to keep you.”
“Very lucky, indeed.” He presses me back against the railing and kisses me, hard enough that the locks around us tremble. For a long minute, I’m lost in him: the lines of his body against mine, the sound of our breathing blending with the rushing river, the warmth of his lips as he kisses hungrily along my jaw line and down the curve of my neck. Dev’s fingers twine into my hair at the nape of my neck, his other hand sliding down to the small of my back, pulling me closer against him. I moan softly as his lips work their way back up to mine, kissing me deeply. When he reluctantly pulls away, I feel like I’ve been down under the black water myself, and I’m only now coming up for air.
“Let’s go back to the house.” His voice is rough with longing.
I can only nod numbly. I don’t trust myself to speak. My knees are melted, and my head is spinning. It’s all I can do to stand and let Dev draw me off the bridge and back to the path. Holding hands, we run as fast as we dare on the icy ground. The snow has started to fall, big flakes pressing tender kisses on our cold cheeks. Behind us, the locks shudder in the wind, clinking goodbye to us as we dash through the little stretch of woods and out on the other side, toward the golden glow of the kitchen lights shining through the back windows of Pour Toujours.
We burst through the back door laughing and I know we must look ridiculous, running like a couple of kids, my hair half wild from the wind, but there’s no one there to see us. Our table has been cleared and a single key left in the center of it, on a gold-rimmed china plate. Dev snatches it up as we rush by and in a second we’re up the stairs. He kisses me again as he unlocks the door to our room, fumbling the key blindly into the lock until the door gives way and we half-fall into the little room, giggling like crazy. I get a quick impression of the room. It’s not opulent like the restaurant; more like a provincial French cottage with a four-poster bed plush with white lace linens and hand-sewn quilts. A fire crackles in the arched fireplace, and the snow swirls against the window. It’s beautiful, but I have no time to admire it.
I’m too busy admiring Dev. God, he looks so handsome in the firelight, little flakes of snow clinging to his red curls. He shakes his head like a dog and sends the snow flying, grinning at me. But his expression turns serious again when I slip off my jacket and sit down on the edge of the bed, watching him. He tosses his own jacket in a corner and pulls off his shirt and sweater. I catch a glimpse of the words tattooed on his arm—a corps perdu, “lose the body”—and I know they mean “be in this moment,” but all I want to do in this moment is find the body, his and mine. Pushing me gently back against the snow-white pillows, he lies down beside me, kissing me slowly but with such intensity it takes my breath away. My hand winds into his hair, still damp with snow, and I pull him over on top of me, the warm weight of him pressing me deeper into the soft quilts as we kiss for what feels like forever. I’m breathing hard, each breath in time with his, my chest rising and falling against him as I spread my legs slowly to let him press one leg between mine. It’s such a delicious feeling, I give a little moan of frustration when he pulls away. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.” He swings his leg over me so he’s straddling my hips and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. My breath catches a little when he pulls out a condom—this is real, I think, we’re really going to do it—but he sets it on the bedside table and pulls out something else, a little square of paper. “What’s that?”
He smiles playfully. “Temporary tattoo from the Cracker Jack box in the car.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Well,” he says, “let’s see what the directions say to do with it.”
I don’t want to do anything with it. My breathing is still ragged, my lips warm and buzzing from our kiss. “Come on.” I pull him back down to kiss me again, but our lips meet only for a moment before he pulls gently away again.
“Patience, Saintly! I’m reading the instructions.” He peels the little plastic strip off the tattoo and tosses it aside. “It says ‘Decide where you want the tattoo.” Setting the tattoo aside for a moment, Dev undoes the top button of my shirt. Eyes locked with mine, he works his way down, undoing each button deliberately, until my blouse lies open, my lace-edged bra exposed. I can see my breasts rise and fall with each breath, my nipples hard against the satin. Dev hooks the strap of my bra with his finger and pulls it slowly off my shoulder, pushing the lace edge of my bra until most of my breast is exposed. He looks down at me open admiration on his face. “I think this is a beautiful spot.”
“Dev.” My voice comes out breathy. “Come on.” I squirm a little, impatiently, under him and hear his breath catch as my pelvis bone rubs against the seam of his jeans.
But he doesn’t give in. “Shhh,” he says, “I’m working here.” He picks up the tattoo and reads, “Moisten the desired area.” He gives me a wicked grin. “Okay.” He slides off me to lie down beside me and kisses the chosen spot. I can feel my heart pounding against his lips. The beat quickens as his lips travel lower, dangerously close to the lace edge of my bra. He slides one finger under the fabric, tugging it down a little lower, his finger brushing against my hardened nipple so that I bite my lower lip and suck in my breath. His smile widens, pleased at my response. “I think this is in our way, don’t you?”
I nod silently, unable to speak, and Dev unhooks the front clasp of my bra and pushes it aside. “Oh, so nice,” he breathes, and kisses the spot again, this time cupping my bare breast in his hand, his thumb playing over my tender nipple until it aches. “What do you think?” he whispers. “Is that wet enough?”
I moan in response. I know I am quite wet enough now, aching to rub against him. But Dev gives his full attention to the little tattoo. “Press firmly,” he reads. “Okay.” He lays the little square of paper over my heart and presses it there, at the same time slipping his leg back between mine, pressing it up against me in a way that makes
me squirm deliciously. “Moisten again as necessary.” He lays a quick kiss on the square of paper, trailing his lips down to take my breast in his mouth, his teeth gently grazing my nipple as his fingers peel away the paper. My back arches as my whole being tries to get as close to Dev as humanly possible, and I can see the little red and white heart tattoo he has left over my heart. Written in the middle are the words “Be mine.”
Yours, every part of me sings as all my millions of worries fall away. I shut my eyes, trembling as his fingertips skim over my stomach and find the button of my jeans. I want to be yours.
Chapter 19
Dev
When I wake in the middle of the night, for a minute I can’t remember where I am or who I’m with. It’s a disorienting feeling—this midnight could be one of a million I’ve lived and the girl silhouetted under the sheets beside me could be one of a million girls. I run my hand over the curve of her side, as if my fingertips can read her name there, written in a language my mind has forgotten.
Saintly. Immediately, our conversation on the bridge comes back to me, the memory as strong and dark as the cold river that rushed beneath us. I had pushed it aside for the night to enjoy the sex, but there’s no avoiding it any more. She told me she saw her brother’s ghost, that she had to be put in a mental hospital. But is she actually crazy?
And what if she’s not?
I sit up in bed. Saintly looks so peaceful now, her dark hair tangled against the white pillow, the cool sheets wound around her, her face angelic in sleep. But clearly the mind behind that pretty face is a lot more troubled than I thought.
And now I’m feeling troubled, too. I need to clear my head, to get a little distance so I can think. Carefully, I climb out of bed. It’s chilly in here—the fire has almost gone cold—and dark, but I manage to quietly rummage around the floor until I find my jeans and shirt. I tug them on and shrug on my jacket. I can only find one of my socks, so I slip my bare feet into my boots and head for the door.
Saintly murmurs in her sleep, and I freeze in the doorway. Slowly I turn back to face her, half expecting her to be awake, but she has only rolled toward me. In sleep she looks so open and trusting. The blanket has slipped down so I can just make out the edge of the tattoo. Be mine.
I almost wish she could be.
But of course it doesn’t help to think like that. There’s no choice about it. It’s almost New Year’s Eve.
And in a way she will be mine, forever.
I comfort myself with that thought as I slip out the door, shutting it carefully behind me, and head downstairs as quietly as I can. The lights are off in the restaurant. In the darkness the white tablecloths look like shrouds. I steal my way into the kitchen and liberate a dusty bottle of red wine. I probably shouldn’t drink—I’m in a dangerously sentimental mood as it is, and I need a clear head to think this through—but I can’t resist. I uncork it and take a long swig, feeling it warm me from the inside out as I head for the back door.
Outside the night is crisp and clear. The snow has stopped falling and the fresh dusting lies pure and untouched. Moonlight glints off the icy branches, and I can just see a sprinkling of stars above the tops of the trees. It makes me think of the planetarium, of the look on Saintly’s face when the skylight spiraled open and the real night sky shone through. That was a nice touch, I think, if I do say so myself. I have to keep things fresh for myself. There are only so many dinners and concerts and cruises a guy can stand. I take another swallow of wine.
“Are we drinking?” An’s voice comes from behind me. I turn in time to see her transforming from her cat form, its feline silhouette stretching and lightening until it becomes a tall, blond girl. Her eyes, however, stay cat-like, the pupils slits. “Rough night? I thought things were going beautifully. The girl is in love with you already.”
I shrug. It’s not that I don’t think Saint loves me. I do. I’ve just learned not to become complacent about it. Love can be a funny thing to judge, even for someone used to watching for the signs. I have had years when I was in suspense up until the last second—girls who never said I love you, or who said it a million times but still held some part of themselves back. You have to earn it, right up until the last second.
“Oh, go on.” An rolls her eyes. “Humility doesn’t suit you, Deveraux. We all know this is a triumph, pulling it off at the last minute like this. I’ll admit, I was worried for you.”
“Were you?” I raise one eyebrow skeptically. “You didn’t join the betting pool among our demon friends? I’m sure there was one.”
“I did, of course, but I bet for you, darling, and now I’m so happy I did! We should be celebrating, nest pas?” She takes the bottle from my hands and raises it up so the moonlight glints off the glass. “To your future!”
I take it back so quickly the wine spatters, little drops of red on the white snow.
She frowns at me, annoyed. “What is wrong with you tonight?”
“Nothing.” I take a deep breath, forcing the casual charm back into my smile.
“It’s just that there will be plenty of time to celebrate on January first. Let me get the thing done, An, before you go declaring victory.”
Her cat eyes narrow. She studies me shrewdly. “I don’t think that’s it,” she says slowly. Then her eyes widen dramatically, as if she’s had a realization. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming attached?” I can tell by the glint in her eyes that she would love nothing more. “Oh, wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? You pull off the last-minute save of a lifetime, only to—”
“It’s December twenty-ninth. We’re not changing the plan.”
Antoinette’s smile widens. “There’s no need to get defensive.”
I lean against the door frame. I don’t want to seem too tense. You can never let a demon know she has the upper hand.
“Fine,” she says, “You don’t want to talk about it.”
I shrug. “Nothing to talk about.” And there isn’t, really. Am I getting attached? It happens. You just have to push through it, like an athlete pushes though that moment when he hits the wall. There were times in the early years when I used to curse God, times when I was almost paralyzed by guilt. I was like the farm kids who cry when it’s time to kill the lamb. They sob themselves to sleep, but in the end they eat it and they like it. And aren’t I even more justified? It’s me or them. Faced with that choice, anyone would choose himself. That’s human nature.
And it’s demon nature to smell a weakness. An is still studying me too closely. She can tell there’s something more on my mind. “Fine.” I lower my voice. “If you have to know, I think the girl may have a gift.”
An smiles wickedly. “Really? That virginal little thing?” She reaches down and lays a hand over the crotch of my jeans. “I wouldn’t think there was anything she could do to you that hadn’t been done before.”
I push her hand away. “I’m not talking about that kind of gift. And if she comes down and sees you touch me like that, she’ll break up with me and I’m dead. You get that, right? Dead.”
She holds up her hands in fake apology. “My bad, Deveraux.” Her smile doesn’t falter. “Tell me, what is this gift?”
I lower my voice another notch, although there’s no one around to hear. “I think she may be able to see ghosts.”
That sobers her. Her eyes go wide. “You mean… But what about the spirits of past years’ girls? Won’t they warn her?”
“They can’t. Only a few have escaped the castle, and they’re still bound by the curse. It won’t let them say anything about me to anyone.”
“But still! They can cause problems, n’est pas?”
I think of Kayla’s crash. There’s no proof the escaped midnight girls caused it, but there’s no proof they didn’t, either. “True.”
An’s forehead is creased with thought. “When did this start?”
“She says she saw her twin brother after her died, but I suspect she may have seen other ghosts as well. Or at least she thinks sh
e did. Whether or not—”
“Her twin brother?” An’s eyes are wide. She breathes a string of swears in French. “Well, then, it may well be true! You know that can happen, when a twin passes over to the other side, particularly a twin of the opposite sex, yes? It creates a link with the world of the dead. The connection they held in life is carried over in death and the survivor develops the ability to see the dead. It’s rare, of course. There would have to be someone with the sight somewhere in her bloodline…”
The concern on her face scares me, but I try not to let it show. “So, you think I’m right to be cautious?”
“Yes. No.” She frowns. “Maybe, but it could be an advantage, too. Yes, she might see your escaped midnight girls, but she also might be able to send them into the light.”
I shake my head. “Nothing gets rid of the ones who have leaked out. Trust me, I’ve tried. They can’t be sent into the light.”
“Not by you, no. But by someone with that level of connection to the other side, it should be a simple thing. She would only need to command them to go with the lux vos liberabit.”
“The light will set you free.” I know the Latin phrase. I’ve tried it myself a few times over. It had never worked for me, but would it work for Saintly?
An smiles slowly. “Someone with the power to banish ghosts. That could be very useful, could it not?”
Useful doesn’t begin to cover it. If the escaped girls have reached some sort of critical mass where they are able to actually affect things in the physical world, having someone who can send them into the light could mean the difference between life and death for me.
Kissing Midnight Page 17
