Can I? Where was she when my dad was sick? She didn’t even take the time to come to the States when we buried him. And now, she’s dragged me to Paris to appease her insane and homicidal mother’s dying wishes. So, no. I don’t really think I can trust her.
What could she possibly know that would help anyway? Compared to the other teachers here, Aunt Charlotte is so normal she borders on boring. I’ve been eating dinner with her three nights a week since Mom left. Our conversations range from my grade-point average to if I’m sleeping well at night and waking up refreshed. Refreshed. Who even says that? Stilted, awkward conversations that go nowhere. If there is some strange affliction I’ve inherited from our ancestor, Comte de Saint-Germain, it passed my aunt by. There’s no glow to her eyes. There never has been. I’ve also never seen anything strange about her auras. But then again, I am new at reading them . . .
My cell phone vibrates inside my beaded tote. I drag it out, careful not to let my aunt see the clothes and makeup I have stashed inside. I open the text. It’s Sunny responding to my message. I told her I had to escape Aunt Charlotte . . . that my aunt was being a helicopter and I wanted time alone to check out the Palace of Versailles. So I needed to lie and say I’d be with my friends, then asked if she’d cover for me.
Curfew is ten o’clock. I promised Sunny I’d get back before that, early enough that she can watch for my arrival and sneak me in. I wanted to be sure no one at RoseBlood will pay for my dishonesty, including Aunt Charlotte.
I bite my lip, pretending to read a long message that’s nothing more than a thumbs-up emoticon from Sunny. I stand. “Look, Aunt Charlotte . . . I hate to ditch you, but I know you’re going to visit Grandma Lil anyway.”
She frowns and nods for me to continue.
“Sunny and a few classmates want me to meet them in Paris to buy our Halloween costumes for the masquerade on Monday. We’ll hang out the rest of the day in the city.” It’s an outright lie. Unbeknownst to my aunt, we bought our costumes two weekends ago. My friends would go ballistic if they knew what I was really planning, even more so if they knew I used them to do it. “It’s just, it feels weird, to be so close to the prison. The memories of the fire . . . it’s like I can smell the smoke from here.”
Aunt Charlotte winces, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. It’s deplorable, to use her shame over Grandma Liliana’s crimes to my advantage . . . to make it impossible for her to refuse me. Yet it doesn’t stop me from asking for her Paris metro pass so I’ll have unlimited access to the city, or leaving her to buy herself a new ticket so she can get back to the academy later this evening.
My stomach churns, the guilt overwhelming as she digs in her bag for the pass and also pulls out seventy euros. “This should be enough for lunch, dinner, and the costume.” As I start to take it, she holds the money between us, like a bridge she’s reluctant to break. “I need you to assure me you will stay with a group of friends the entire time. Do not venture anywhere alone. It’s dangerous.” Her whitish-gray eyebrows furrow. “Your mother would never forgive me, were you to end up in trouble.”
I make the promise, although I know it’s a lie.
It’s 6:05 p.m., and I’m in Paris on a deserted street corner, waiting for some nameless car to escort me blindfolded to an undisclosed location.
I have to wonder how many missing persons reports start with this premise.
The sunset hangs low and the air chills, scented with mildewing mortar. Lavender and apricot hues soften the glimpses of sky between buildings. Stagnant puddles glimmer in inky spills at every curb.
The wristband itches on my arm like poison ivy, as if to demonstrate that I’ve chosen the toxic path. I can’t shake the image of the taxi driver’s disapproving face when he dropped me here alone a few minutes ago, an obvious inference that he knew I was in over my head.
What am I doing?
An icy tremor radiates from my spine to my limbs in answer. I should have sense enough to call back the taxi; I should get myself out of this situation before it turns into a full-blown mistake with irreparable consequences. I would, if my plan hadn’t fallen into place so seamlessly—like a cosmic sign I’m doing the right thing.
My tote’s strap eats into my shoulder. I cinch it higher, trying not to think about the jeans and tunic tucked inside, the fiber-optic dress I’m wearing in their place now hidden under my hooded gray trench coat and clinging to my every curve, or the nude underthings I’m glad I brought from Texas—being the only ones that don’t show through the shear fabric.
In any other situation, these surroundings would be a tourist’s haven: the damp brick streets and abandoned buildings surrounding a cathedral-style church—pillars emblazoned with carved ornamentation and drainage pipes topped with gargoyles frowning down at me. I feel as if I’ve fallen into the pages of Victor Hugo’s romantic gothic novel, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.