The late evenings after dinner were used to search for Father Dominique.
“He isn’t dead, but he doesn’t want to be found,” Francis said more to himself than to me. That was not a good sign… for example moi. I was hiding—as a boy. Ugh.
“What if we just Google his name?” I asked Francis.
I was impressed with his ease to access any system in the world—Interpol, FBI, or NSA. We’d even tapped and looked into all of the countries’ birth registration systems. There was no corner left unturned by Francis. Even still, I was frustrated with our search. We’d found zip, nada on Father Dominique. He shook his head.
“We must be careful of not creating lines that can be traced back. The kingdom depends on our closely monitored livelihoods,” Francis explained, showing me the mapping lines on the screen. His knowledge extended to all kinds of system manipulations on the internet that were illegal for most. At least, I didn’t think any of these were taught at any school. “You must understand that our kind holds the blood gift of immortality. It’s enough reason to search for us as the Holy Grail or the lost Fountain of Youth and annihilate us in the name of humanity to justify their studies.”
So we were not different than monkeys or lab rats—shocking but not surprising—because we were not human. We were monsters or aliens to them. In other words, humans were our sworn enemies.
I was heartbroken. In my mind, I was still a girl—a human girl. There was no distinction in my hearts—either of them. I sighed sadly.
Twice a week, our day ended with some sort of meditation crap with Francis—mind-training as he called it. We sat in the most uncomfortable position, somewhere on cloud nine, in wishful hopes I would be silencing my thoughts. Like I could.
I couldn’t stop thinking on how to avenge Mother Clarisse’s death, finding Father Dominique, or the fact that I wasn’t human. But whenever I was able to keep my mind clear, without any warning, my lips would tingle with the memory of Demyan’s kiss followed by the strangest humming heartbeat in my chest. It would literally keep me from focusing on the task at hand.
When I stopped myself from thinking about Demyan Greco, we could exercise concentration and meditation, visualizing an assortment of things that Francis would ask me to focus on. It became sort of a game where I would tell him what he had written on a paper without me knowing the content.
“How do you know I won’t be listening to your thoughts?” I teased him.
“Ailie, it is not about cheating yourself. This is about being able to focus your mind without the use of your provident powers,” he scolded me.
Instead, I couldn’t let Francis know I had located Demyan all by myself, without his help—at least, not without him making a lot of fuss. Not that it mattered anymore, Demyan was avoiding me. That much was clear. We remotely observed events taking place anywhere in the world. This was one exercise I could control what the target of the vision was.
Inside my mind, I was sitting on the top of a peaceful mountain, relaxing and breathing the crispiness of the air. I supposed this was the place where I felt the best. It felt real, as real as the blue sky anywhere. Savoring the moment, I closed my eyes, feeling the hyperawareness of the quick rush that brought me to an assigned place or person. My mind had traveled far to the site without me ever stepping a foot there. Later, after I had come back to Francis’s dojo, my hand had drawn the entrance to the most iconic building in Petra, Jordan, on its own volition.
“Very accurate, impressive,” Francis said, as I showed him my drawing on the pad. With enough practice, I was able to connect my sight, opening a tunnel between whoever or wherever my target was, just like I had with Demyan. It was almost as if my mind had transported in time and space. Mind powerful hooffah, if anyone asked me.
I also learned that I couldn’t listen to any human mind like I could Francis’s or Demyan Greco’s mind. Human-thought frequencies seemed to be unconsciously and naturally different.
My kind has always had the advantage to hear your kind. Gavril gave me this piece of information, which meant he could listen to Francis’s thoughts.
I wondered if Francis knew about this, but I sincerely doubted it. I also wondered if Gavril’s human half prevented me from listening to his thoughts. Not that I needed to. He was able to barge into my head at any time. I could apparently only connect to nonhuman beings.
During my daytime sessions with Francis, we discovered I could see images in Francis’s mind if I adjusted my attention. However, I couldn’t access any other sides of his mind, like memories or knowledge I didn’t know unless he was thinking of them. For example, I couldn’t understand difficult formulas Francis thought in his head or if he thought in a different language, Chinese for example. I couldn’t pick up on his thoughts not because I couldn’t listen to them but because I didn’t speak Chinese—at least not yet.
“We will meet someone who might know Father Dominique next week,” he announced one morning during our morning break.
I almost choked on the fruit I’d served myself. The news caught me unprepared. I looked at him across the garden table, startled by the news. I had to hand it to Francis, he was true to his word. He had been inquiring about Dominique through other channels. It had taken him a couple months to locate Father Dominique. I felt as if everything was happening much too slow and too fast, all at once.
Fuck. We should be looking for the prince instead. Gavril’s colorful vernacular never ceased to shock me.
Chapter 24
Over two months and several haircuts had gone by since I last saw Demyan. At first, I blamed my masculine appearance. Gavril seemed to hate my looks too. He had chewed two pairs of loose gray sweat pants to rags—the type that had elastic at the waist and on each ankle. Francis had them replaced with navy blue ones, exactly the same style. And I had the suspicion Gavril had hid all scissors in Francis’s mansion.
You are a girl—a beautiful girl. Those things are hideous. I wouldn’t even wear that, Gavril growled, after I told him he couldn’t chew my clothing or Francis would have him neutered. But it was then I realized that if Demyan was that lame, I shouldn’t even think of him. Then why was I obsessed with that kiss to the point of… of thinking I should go looking for him? No, I should not. I wasn’t. No. The truth was it hurt so much that he didn’t care about me.
On the other hand, Francis seemed tenser than usual, and it wasn’t because of Gavril’s scratches all over the wood flooring of the second and third floors. Gavril had been very offended. I had to trim his claws a day ago. It also wasn’t because of the sweatpants Gavril had chewed, nor the night raids in Francis’s refrigerator or pantry. No.
Francis had been checking the mansion’s high-tech security from his phone or computer about every hour for the past forty-eight hours. He glanced through the windows often, always taking cover behind the drapes. I had a bad feeling Francis found something had been traced back to us. I also thought he was just being paranoid much or perhaps overreacting purposely. Why?
I kept my eyes to those windows but saw nothing unusual. The street windows facing the avenue had the regular Parisian traffic that came with the lifestyle of living in a city. Francis had told me that living in Manhattan, New York, the upper east side, was very similar. Not that I would know, since I had never been anywhere but St. Mary’s before arriving in France. Among the oddest of things that Francis had ever done, this had topped them all.
We rode in an old piece of metal, destined for compacting into a neat square of metal scrap rather than sitting in a museum as an antique.
It is a Renault 1962 R4, Gavril informed me, sitting in the back seat as if the car wasn’t falling apart or stuttering. I wondered if we were even going to make it outside the city as we departed Paris before dawn with only a bowl of tasty oatmeal and couple sandwiches to take that Enit prepared for us.
“Make sure the crossbow is not tangled with the arrows and the picnic cover,” Francis instructed about the contents of the basket on my lap.
/> I had doubled-checked before, but for his sanity I did it a third time. Yup, the weapons were still squashing the sandwiches.
“You made sure to bring your concealed weapons under your habit?” Francis asked me—again. As if he had forgotten he doubled-checked before leaving his place. The truth was I was roasting under all these layers on a sunny, warm day despite being early winter.
“Yes, for the third time. Now, are you going to tell me why we are also bringing our regular men’s clothing underneath?” I asked him—again. I was beginning to suspect he was purposely prepping me for my first battle.
As if our nun habits weren’t disturbing enough to say the least, Francis had dressed as a nun.
He is the ugliest woman I have ever seen. Gavril snorted into laughter for the fifth time this morning.
I know, shocking, yet Francis pulled it off gracefully. No one could say he wasn’t a genuine nun. But as always, he told me zero vital information that morning before departing. Why? I had no idea why… I’d quit asking last night. I’d been going nowhere.
But it was clear to me that we were hiding our identities and most importantly that he thought we could be in danger—hence the weapons. Sigh. If I wasn’t feeling so put off by Francis’s stubborn silence, I would have enjoyed the trip more.
Enit had stayed at the mansion. Neither Francis or Enit explained why. I supposed he was nervous someone would break into the mansion. Enit was a better security system than any electronic device. She was undetectable and lethal, but I seriously doubted that was the reason. His mansion had been emptied before we left.
Francis took the highway to Bordeaux. We sat in traffic, each with our own thoughts. I speculated the reason for Francis’s paranoiac behavior. He was a master, and not much made him nervous. I knew that much. Was he making me nervous purposely? Was this part of the training to keep me alert?
The morning rush-hour traffic was long and dreadful. Everyone was either giving us the evil eye or honking at us. The poor old wreck of a car wasn’t going pas très vite—not too fast.
“You know, these days we have fast trains, fuel-injection cars, and hybrid and electric cars, don’t you?” I bantered with Francis, who had adopted his old cryptic silence.
For a split second, I caught him arching his brow at me.
“What? I have been reading about engines since you gave me those notes on how to wire bombs,” I explained.
He twitched his mouth in a bemused grin.
After we reached the city of Bordeaux, ate our flattened sandwiches, including Gavril’s that Enit made with a thick wad of meat, and filled the gas tank without incident (like the car catching on fire after the engine gave up), we took to the countryside roads to Saint Émilion. I admired the astoundingly beautiful landscape with acute fascination, like a changing painting of endless vineyards, chateaux, Romanesque medieval churches, and monasteries in every direction, blanketed with a light morning fog that was lifting with sunlight as we drove.
“We have a tail,” Francis said.
My touring detracted, I glanced at the crappy small side mirror and saw a black SUV with direct fuel injection, a multi-spark ignition, and V-8 engine. And judging by the windshield’s tinted glass, the vehicle was bulletproof and possibly armored. Not humans. It was enlightening how easily I was able to tell these days. Three young strong males sat inside, judging from the size of their shoulders I could see through the windshield.
“What do we do?” I asked him.
Ooh, fin-naa-lly. Okay. Don’t act natural. Flirt, wink back, catcall them, honk that horn. Gavril was as always cracking bad jokes at the wrong time. Like I could do any of that...
Yeah right—two nuns and an insane wolf. I shook my head.
“Royal guards. Nothing to worry about.” Francis shrugged his shoulders. Evidently, he thought they weren’t exactly a threat. So who was he concealing our identities from? Who got him all rattled? Or was he playing a game, keeping me alert? Demyan had warned me. Francis liked to take him to battle for training. Was he using this trip as an excuse to train me? I barely knew how to use sticks. I only had six small arrows and a crossbow inside the basket and less than a week learning to use it. Oh, and a ninja shuriken throwing star and a small knife under my pants which were under another heavy layer of the nun habit. By the time I got to them, I would be dead. Crap. Gavril whimpered at them as they passed our decrepit car without even giving us a glance.
After a long six-hour trip, we arrived in St. Émilion, located in the heart of the Bordeaux wine region of France. I was sure we could have done it in less time if Francis had agreed to take a different mode of transportation. It wasn’t like he didn’t have fancy, fast cars at his disposal or money for the train tickets or access to a private jet. But much to my suspicion, he was taking me on a ridiculous and hopefully quixotic first battle, hence his silence. I focused on a lighter topic, like the wall outside the medieval city’s cemetery.
According to history, in the eighth century, a Breton monk named Émilion fled to southern France to escape persecution by the Benedictine order and adopted an eremitic existence living in a cave. It was said he established a strong Christian community in the area, performing miracles and attracting a following of monks.
The town of Saint Émilion was picture perfect with the uniqueness of winding, hilly medieval-town cobblestone streets, red-tile roofs, and limestone houses. As we neared the town square, we looked for a parking spot on one of those slim medieval streets. An impossible task, I may add, with so many tourists flooding the city even this time of the year. It was about the only small space around. The three males in the SUV were probably doing endless rounds to find an empty spot. Francis smirked; he was having similar thoughts. Good luck dudes.
“Keep your head down, Sister,” Francis said, as we got out of the car.
We walked through the small cobblestone street calmly until reaching a tall bell tower, mysterious with byzantine arches and part of the monolithic cathedral of Saint Émilion. Originally, this church had been carved into the rock base there in the eighth century by the miracle-performing monk whose town was named after him, Émilion. The monks who followed him started the commercial wine production in the area.
Gavril kept by my side held by a leash. Some people, mostly tourists, glanced at him with speculation but decided him inoffensive on a leash in the company of two nuns. It proved that people saw what they wanted to see.
“Hey, have you heard the one about of two nuns and a wolf, walking into a bar?” I mumbled. Francis twitched his eyebrow. I know he held a smile somewhere in his stiff seriousness. One day I was going to make him laugh. Like a real belly laugh.
“I have been informed that there is a hermit abbé who lives in the lower-back side part of the church. He may know about Father Dominique,” Francis said. We surrounded the monolithic church that rose dramatically against its rocky backdrop. The front side of the church was atop the city where the imposing bell tower stood as a tourist attraction. As we reached the backside of the building, which was the lower part of the town, we encountered barricades, scaffolds, and reparation structures that surrounded the base of the church. The building seemed to have structural issues. I noticed there was no one around, whether restoring or visiting.
The back of my head prickled with an eerie feeling.
You feel it too? Gavril asked me. The feeling was not human, more of the paranormal type. Evil.
Uh-hum. Everything around us seemed quite normal, despite the feeling that we were being watched—closely.
“I don’t like this. We should go back. I don’t think it is safe for you anymore,” Francis said. He also had the heebie-jeebies.
I agree. We should leave now. Gavril snarled.
“I am not going back. I came here to find Father Dominique.” I continued my march.
“If you trust me, I’ll give you all your answers,” Francis said. It wasn’t only a matter of trust, which I didn’t have. Francis knew everything about my parents, but
would he know why I was so freaky even by Strzyga standards? So far, there was no explanation of why was Ash stalking me. Why had he murdered Mother Clarisse? Francis didn’t have those answers.
“Please, Francis. I’m training and kept my part of the bargain. You promised.”
He sighed, and we continued moving toward the church.
Barricaded with a big red sign of Fermé—closed—we crossed underneath the temporary restoring scaffold that hid steep stone steps that went down precariously. Francis removed one of the metal structures, enough for Gavril and me to walk through.
The stone steps were small, partly broken, and dark as we descended. The monolith walls became moist with growing lichen. By the time we reached the bottom, there was no sunlight coming through. A large, ancient, perhaps several-hundred-year-old wooden door with iron latches waited for us. The door had a smaller door at eye level and a rusted knocker. Francis barely lifted the rusted and screeching knocker, and the little door suddenly opened, revealing a monk in dark brown hooded robes. We couldn’t see his face; it was shadowed by the dark.
“This section is under repairs. You may get a tour of the church if you access the main entrance,” he said in French and rudely closed the little door.
“Mon Frere, we seek for Brother Dominique,” Francis said.
The little door opened again. The monk took a long moment, as if studying us.
“He is with the Lord,” the monk answered in good English.
I gasped. I had come all the way to France for nothing. He closed the little door again, dismissing us. Francis turned to face me, looking sorry for my fruitless quest. I had come so close. I needed to vanquish Asmodeus. I needed answers. I stepped closer to the door, hoping the monk hadn’t left the other side and used the knocker twice.
“Please,” I begged him. “Mother Clarisse asked me to seek his help. Do you know who I can contact?”
The entire door opened, revealing the monk behind. He had a long, wiry red beard under his hooded brown robe. He looked directly at me, and I realized he was blind. His eyes had a milky gray color to them.
Legends of Astræa_Cupid's Arrow Page 23
