“I know,” she said, patting my shoulder. “But I had to offer. It’s the only thing I know to do for you.”
Finally, around midnight, I told Ambrose I was leaving. I couldn’t stand the grave faces and hushed conversations another moment. “I’ll come back. I’m just going to take a walk.”
“Then I’m going with you.”
Shaking my head, I asked, “Ambrose, after the numa hunts that you and Gaspard staged today, do you really think any of them will be hanging around the center of Paris?”
“No, but some of the humans around here can be just as bad.”
I tried to smile. “I’ll be fine. But if you guys hear anything—” I began.
He cut me off. “I will call you. I swear.”
“Thanks, Ambrose.”
I slipped out the front gate and headed toward the river. And when I reached its edge, it was if something possessed my arms and legs and I started running. My hurt shoulder ached with every step, but I ignored it, running from my heart’s pain and my mind’s fear. And even when those emotions were exhausted and the ghosts chasing me were overthrown by a second wind of determination and denial, I continued to run.
I finally came to a stop, leaning over and panting to catch my breath. Beside me, the Pont des Arts stretched dark over the Seine. Without thinking, I moved toward it, climbed the steps, and stepped out onto the wooden walkway. When I got to the center of the bridge, I stopped and, leaning against the guardrail, stared down into the dark, churning water. A gust of winter wind blew my hair around my face, and I pushed it back and inhaled the marine smell of the river. And let myself remember.
This was where Vincent and I had kissed for the first time, just five months ago. It seemed like a lifetime already. It was the day I had told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him anymore. That I would commit only to the next date and no further. And he brought me here and kissed me anyway. Now that I knew him better, I was sure he had planned it. He figured if he could steal my heart, I might abandon my reason, too. I couldn’t prevent the nostalgic grin that forced itself onto my lips.
I wondered if I would see him again, and defiantly choked back the tears welling in my eyes. I couldn’t think like that. Because if I did, it would mean that Violette had destroyed him and he was gone. Forever. I spoke to the water rippling beneath me: “I refuse to believe it.”
“You refuse to believe what?” came a low voice from behind me.
I spun to see a man dressed in a long fur coat standing a few feet from me. And though I knew instantly who—and what—he was, I wasn’t afraid. Instead an incendiary hatred rose inside me. “You!” I snarled, and threw myself at him, fists raised and arms flailing. He dropped something he was holding and, moving quickly, grabbed my wrists before I could strike him.
“Now, now. Is that any kind of way to greet a messenger?” Nicolas said, glancing at the objects at his feet.
My eyes flew downward, and when I saw what was lying there, something broke inside me. “No,” I whispered. He let go of my arms, and I bent to pick up the white lilies scattered at my feet.
“Violette said that if you didn’t have your book handy, I should tell you what they mean.”
“White lilies are for funerals. I don’t need a flower manual to tell me that.” I wanted to strangle him, but instead I took the flowers in both hands and crushed them, ripped the heads off the stems, and hurled them over the side of the bridge into the water. “What have you done with him?” I demanded.
“Our dauntless leader has taken your lover’s body to her castle in the Loire, where she will dispose of it when she sees fit. I was instructed to pass that message on.”
“And what else were you instructed to do?” I felt my knees bend slightly and my fists clench as my body took on the defensive stance Gaspard had taught me.
Nicolas smirked. “Charming. As if you could fight me. Actually, I am under strict orders not to touch you. Violette is of the opinion that letting you suffer would be more fun.”
I finally voiced what I had been wondering since our battle at Sacré-Coeur. “What did I ever do to her?”
Nicolas chuckled. “I wouldn’t think it’s anything personal. She merely wanted the Champion, and you helped her verify that it was indeed your Vincent. Now that she has him, she doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Then why make me suffer?”
“Oh, that. Probably because you’re human. She’s not very fond of mortals, you know. Five hundred years of saving you miserable beings in order to maintain her existence seems to have left her a tad bitter.”
I shook my head in disbelief. If centuries of being obliged to rescue humans had warped Violette’s perception of the value of life, it didn’t seem to have done the same for Arthur. What could turn a young, hopeful human into a centuries-old bitter immortal? I just couldn’t understand.