Praise for the Legacy series
LEGACY:
“An exciting and well-written tale of contemporary witchcraft and romance. . . . [S]hould please the legions of paranormal fans looking for a sophisticated supernatural thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Will satisfy readers hungry for a little paranormal witchcraft and romance in a post-Twilight world. . . . [A] quick, entertaining read.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The well-conceived history and culture of Katy’s magical world make this first title unique. . . . The teasing epilogue promises a sequel, and readers will be ready for it.”
—Booklist
POISON:
“The introduction of Arthurian legend is intriguing, and the last few chapters are real nail-biters.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Cochran revisits Arthurian legend while continuing the adventures of powerful, young witch Katy Ainsworth. . . . Fans will be poised for the next installment.”
—Booklist
“Fans of Arthurian legend will appreciate this alternative view of the infamous Morgan le Fay.”
—School Library Journal
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For Michele Horon, my best friend
Acknowledgments
Although most of Seduction was researched through public sources or based on my own experiences while living in Paris, there are a number of people who profoundly influenced the final version of this book: my marvelous literary agent, Lucienne Diver, who never allows me to submit anything that isn’t ready; my publisher son, Devin Murphy, who tries (with limited success) to curb my more reckless half-baked creative impulses; and my pre-readers, Pam Williamson and Lynne Carrera, who read all my dreadful first drafts without gagging in my presence.
Mostly, though, I need to thank two people at Simon & Schuster. First, I am indebted to my new editor, Sylvie Frank, who forced me to think clearly and steered me through the many arcane passageways of this unusual novel. Together we rethought, rewrote, and reworked the manuscript until we got the book you’re reading now. I believe the love shows. The second debt is to publisher Paula Wiseman, who not only brought this novel under her aegis at a time when it had no editor at all, but who has also maintained an unreasonable faith in me from the beginning of my YA journey. To her, and to all those working under her imprint, I owe my unflagging gratitude.
People and Places
Whitfield
Katy Ainsworth
A sixteen-year-old student at Ainsworth School
Peter Shaw
Katy’s boyfriend, a disinherited member of the wealthy Shaw family; an orphan
Jeremiah Shaw
Peter’s great-uncle
Hattie Scott
Peter’s guardian; a cook and owner of Hattie’s Kitchen, where Katy and Peter both work after school
Elizabeth Ainsworth
a.k.a. Gram; Katy’s great-grandmother
Agnes Ainsworth
Katy’s aunt
Harrison Jessevar
Katy’s father; a professor of medieval studies at Columbia University
Fabienne de la Soubise
a.k.a. Fabby; a French student temporarily studying at Ainsworth School
Paris, the Present
The Abbey of Lost Souls
a.k.a. L’Abbaye des mes Perdues, an ancient mansion
Marie-Therèse LePetit,
Sophie de la Soubise,
Joelle,
Annabelle
Residents of the Abbey of Lost Souls
Belmondo
Hereditary owner of the Abbey of Lost Souls; Fabienne’s favorite “uncle”
Azrael
An old man who lives in the carrières beneath the city
the Poplars
A retirement home
Paris, the Past
Jean-Loup de Villeneuve
An alchemist
Veronique de Theuderic
Charlemagne’s eleventh wife
Avremarus
Sister Béatrice
Veronique’s devotee and successor as abbess at the Abbey of Lost Souls
Sister Clément
Sister Béatrice’s successor as abbess
Drago
Jean-Loup and Veronique’s son, their only child
Toujours
Jean-Loup and Veronique’s home
Henry Shaw
Jean-Loup’s apprentice and assistant
Zenobia
Henry Shaw’s wife in America
Ola’ea Olokun
A West African shaman who settled in Whitfield and aided Henry Shaw during his stay there
The Darkness
Immortal evil that can take any form
PROLOGUE
Dear Peter,
Wow, here I am in Paris! I can hardly believe it! Everything is SO beautiful! I’ve already gotten to know some of my neighbors here in Le Marais. It’s the oldest section of the city, with narrow cobblestone streets and buildings that lean in toward each other. Every block looks like an illustration from a book of fairy tales. All sorts of famous people used to live here, such as Victor Hugo and Robespierre and Napoleon . . . and now ME!!
Hope things are going great for you in Whitfield. Say hi to everyone for me, if you get the chance.
Love
Your friend
All the best
Sincerely
Very truly yours
Katy
I put a skull and crossbones sticker over all the closings. I didn’t know if Peter was a “Love” kind of guy anymore. He was probably more than a “Very truly yours,” but you never knew.
“What difference does it make, anyway,” I muttered as I crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it away. I didn’t know what to say to Peter. Or to any of the people back in Whitfield. At least not anything that was true.
The fact was, I was living in a squalid room in a ramshackle building with mold, holes, nearly nonexistent plumbing, and vermin of various descriptions, all disgusting. Two weeks after I’d moved in, I got robbed. Whoever it was took my laptop, my iPod, my alarm clock, and my two extra pairs of jeans, which amounted to just about everything I owned, except for my cell phone. Then the next day a pickpocket relieved me of that, too.
My apartment—well, one room with a hotplate and a bathroom in the hallway that I shared with everyone else on the floor—was in Le Marais, this grand old historical district full of antique charm, but my particular dwelling was a lot more antique than charming, and the only historical thing about it was the arthritic old drag queen who lived next door, next to the five rowdy Nordic brothers who took turns leering at me and murmuring insults with umlauts in them as I passed them on the stairs. Incidentally, the light in the stairway lit up for only thirty seconds after you turned a knob at the doorway. If I didn’t make it up the four flights of urine-scented wooden steps by then, I had to feel my way past my neighbors in the dark.
To add to the international flavor of my building, the entire floor below was populated by a large Chinese family who constantly seemed to be cooking. I wished they’d invite me in for a snack sometime, since my diet consisted mainly of croissants and coffee, which I was hoping I’d learn to like. I only drank it because it made me feel French.
I wore a beret for the same reason.
Mostly, I wished I’d never left Whitfield.
•
• •
Let me back up. Before I came to Paris, I led a normal life. Well, as normal as can be expected in Whitfield, Massachusetts, which is a very strange place. I’ll get to that later. Anyway, I was happy there. I was a boarding student at a school I liked. I worked part-time in a restaurant called Hattie’s Kitchen, and my boss, Hattie Scott, taught me to love cooking. My dad lived in New York City, but my aunt and great-grandmother lived in Whitfield, and took me in whenever I needed some extra TLC. I had some friends, too, even though I’d only lived there for a couple of years. And I had a boyfriend, Peter Shaw, who meant more to me than anything on earth.
That’s how all the trouble began, with Peter, on the last day of our junior year.
CHAPTER
•
ONE
You and a guest are cordially invited
to an end-of-term party for
Peter Henry Shaw
Saturday, June fifteenth
Eight o’clock p.m.
2409 Belmont Boulevard
Whitfield, Massachusetts
R.S.V.P. Black Tie
Graduation was still a year away, but Peter’s great-uncle Jeremiah gave him a couple of presents anyway: a red Lexus SC10 convertible and a party that would make My Super Sweet 16 look like an afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese’s.
Don’t get me wrong. This is not sour grapes talking. In fact, if any seventeen-year-old could be said to be deserving of a new Lexus, it would be Peter Shaw. He is humble and hardworking and respectful of his elders and conscientious about the environment. Also generous, modest, levelheaded, kind, sensitive, spiritual, and deep, not to mention extremely good-looking. He smells good too.
So no, it’s not that he’s a wiener with a car. It’s just that it all came as such a shock. Peter’s great-uncle, Jeremiah Shaw, had never spoken to him before last year. Nor had any of his other relatives. A birthday card from the old man would have been a surprise, let alone a Lexus. Or this amazing party at the biggest house in town.
The Shaw mansion had fifty rooms on four floors, plus five or six outbuildings, an Olympic-size pool, tennis court, and a number of gardens, including one with a waterfall. Double stairways led to a huge balcony at the front entrance to the house, and there were several patios and balconies in the back, where gigantic party tents outlined in lights had been erected.
On the lawn, an army of waiters carried trays of canapés and soft drinks in crystal champagne glasses. SOMA, a nine-piece band that won a bunch of Grammy awards last year, was playing in a specially built amphitheater.
The guests were sharply divided by dress. The townies—meaning my friends—wore the same clothes they’d worn to junior prom or Winter Frolic. But the Muffies—that was my term for the rich girls who boarded at my school—all seemed to be in new gowns.
Actually, I got a new dress too, but it wasn’t my idea. As Peter’s “official” girlfriend, I guess I was expected to look as if I lived up to the Shaw standard. So one of Jeremiah’s assistants brought over a Vera Wang dress the color of glacial ice that must have cost a fortune, plus a lot of blue jewelry that I thought were rhinestones but that turned out to be sapphires rented from Tiffany in New York.
I looked good, I admit, but I felt ridiculous. For one thing, it must have seemed as if I was trying to show off, which offended my friends while at the same time eliciting the contempt of the Muffies, who thought I was trying to be one of them. For another—and this was much worse—some guy was assigned to follow me wherever I went to make sure I didn’t lose or steal any of the jewelry.
“Well, so what?” Peter said when I complained about the security guy. “It’s not like you have to talk to him or anything.”
“That’s not the point,” I insisted as I wobbled on my Jimmy Choo sandals with five-inch heels. “I feel like I’m being stalked.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peter said. “You’re practically the guest of honor.”
“No, Peter,” I answered hotly. “You’re the guest of honor. I’m just one of the locals that thug over there’s been asked to keep an eye on in case I walk out with the family silver.”
That was the extent of our conversation, because a second later Peter was pulled away by someone wearing a Rolex and a toupee.
I turned around to face the lurking security guy and gave him the stink eye. His face never changed expression.
I sighed. He had already creeped out everyone I knew there. Whenever I tried to make conversation with the few people I’d made friends with since I came to Ainsworth in my sophomore year, they fled as soon as the beefy guy with the earpiece lumbered into view. I couldn’t blame them. This was supposed to be Peter’s party, but none of us saw much of Peter. Well, we saw him, looking like a movie star in an Armani tuxedo, but he spent almost every minute with Jeremiah and the old people.
Oh, and yes, also a cluster of fashion model types who seemed to be there for the sole purpose of having their pictures taken with Peter. They spoke only French. That is to say, they were French. And did I say gorgeous? Grr.
The only one I knew was a girl named Fabienne de la Soubise. Yes, that was really her name. She’d spent her freshman year at Ainsworth School, where Peter and I both had scholarships. I hadn’t seen much of her since Winter Frolic, which she’d attended as Peter’s date. That hadn’t been her idea—or Peter’s—so I’d let it go, but I hadn’t been really chummy with her afterward. Not that she needed any attention from me. Everyone noticed Fabienne.
She was beautiful. I mean really, deeply beautiful. Pale, blond, willowy, and tall—all the things I’d always wished I was, instead of being short, dark-haired, and with green eyes that most people described as “strange” or “supernatural.” Whatever. I don’t remember ever seeing Fabienne when she wasn’t surrounded by guys. She never went out with them, though. At least that was the gossip circulating: The fabulously attractive Miss de la Soubise wouldn’t even think of dating anyone from Ainsworth, merci beaucoup.
The Muffies had taken her under their wing at first, but I guess she was too good-looking even for them. So most of the time it was just Fabienne in the middle of a bunch of drooling guys. Served her right, I thought. Outdo the Muffies and you walk alone.
So anyway, here was this huge party filled with beautiful people in gorgeous clothes, with great music and terrific food, so you’d think everyone would be having a great time.
Everyone except me.
It wasn’t just that Peter wasn’t paying any attention to me. I didn’t love that, but I’m not really so insecure that not spending every minute in Peter’s arms was going to ruin the party for me. I knew that Jeremiah Shaw’s influence was going to make a big difference in Peter’s life.
I just didn’t understand why the old man had chosen Peter in the first place. The Shaws were one of the oldest families in Whitfield. There were hundreds of them who lived right in town, and most of them worked for Jeremiah. So if he was looking for an heir or whatever, it seemed weird that he would seek out someone he’d ignored for the past eleven years. That, incidentally, had been when Jeremiah Shaw disinherited Peter as payback for his father’s unpardonable offense: The man had appointed Hattie Scott, a restaurant cook, as Peter’s guardian in the event of his death, instead of Jeremiah. And then he had died.
So Peter had grown up totally outside the patrician family he’d been born into. That had been fine with him, though. Peter didn’t need a pedigree to prove his value, and Hattie had been a better mother to him than anyone else on earth could have been. But then one day last fall Jeremiah—who is the Shaw, by the way, the big Kahuna of Shaw Enterprises—phoned Hattie’s Kitchen and said he wanted to get to know Peter better.
At first neither of us took the invitation very seriously. It wasn’t much of an invitation in the first place, and this codger who’d hardly made an appearance in Peter’s life until that day wasn’t exactly on either of our buddy lists.
Except that he’d been serious. He started sending limos to the dorm to pick P
eter up on Saturday mornings, and they didn’t bring him back until after nightfall.
“What’d he want?” I asked after one of Peter’s all-day sessions with his great-uncle.
Peter shook his head slowly, incredulously. “He wants to teach me the family business.”
“Which is what?”
He shrugged. “Shipping. Import-export. International labor. It’s Shaw Enterprises, Katy. You know what Shaw does.”
I blinked. “I guess,” I said.
Shaw Enterprises was a vast multinational conglomerate, the umbrella for a host of businesses from parking garages to African banks. “It’s just strange that he’d suddenly want you in his life, that’s all.”
“Maybe,” he said. That was the sort of noncommittal answer Peter liked and that drove me crazy. “Just trust me, okay?” He spoke close to my face. I could feel the stubble of his beard against my cheek. His hair, silky waves of it, fell over my eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Katy,” he whispered, and kissed me, making me shudder all over. “Better than okay. He’s going to send me to college. Maybe I could even go to Harvard, like you.”
“I don’t know if I’ll go to Harvard,” I said, although that prospect had pretty much been a given, at least as far as my dad was concerned.
“Of course you will. And now I will too. I’ll be able to make a life for us.”
“We have a life,” I said. “Two lives.”
“Not like what Shaw Enterprises can give us.”
I backed away. I wasn’t part of this deal. “Don’t say us.”
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