So college. Oh my God. Someone hit me in the head with a shovel and end my misery. 22 credits, two sports and a shit ton of clubs are gonna make it a tad more difficult than usual to get these chapters out in a timely manner, but don't worry! They may be a bit delayed, but I'll have them out eventually! Thanks Challenges2014for translating!
* HawksFan1988 - Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's the longest yet!
* Guest - You've gotta love suspense! I hope you like this chapter!
* anon - Thank you thank you! It took me so long just to storyboard the entire plot, but I have a feeling it's gonna come out awesome!
Chapter Music:
* Mind Game Part 2 - Steve Jablonsky, Gavin Greenaway & Metro Voices
* The Last of Us (You and Me) - Gustavo Santaolalla
* Data, Data, Data - Hans Zimmer
* Nothing Is True - Chris Tilton
"Time Travel without a capsule. That's a killer."
- The Doctor
Date: Unknown
"Can't I go with you father?"
Eva's eyes fluttered open, nearly blinded by the white-brightness of the sun from where it fell through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Curtains swayed in the faint breeze as dust motes floated lazily in the golden warmth. This… this is familiar… She'd heard that voice before; seen this place.
"Courage my boy." The 'C' curled, a ghost of a whisper, echoing tenfold down the lengthy hall. From her position off to the side, Eva raked her eyes down the corridor, nearly jumping in fright with a squeak when she spotted the man kneeling beside her. He was older, with hair that smelt of powder and a choice of clothes that would have either made the fashion police commit suicide or call in the reign of a new era of style. I kind of dig his overcoat. I mean, it's better than the ugly sweatshirts Riley and Everett always slouch around it. Much more tasteful. And expensive looking, sheesh.
"You wait just here," the oddly familiar gentleman before her murmured, his words so muffled it sounded like he was speaking from underwater. Eva blinked, squinting in the brilliance of the room at the elder man before her— did he know her? Taking out a pocket watch encrusted in a silver than shone like the moon, he clicked it open and pointed to the studiously ticking hands.
"I will return when this hand reaches the top."
"But that's forever," a small voice around her sighed.
"Not as long as all that,"
Either this is a seriously fucked up case of deja vu or a weird movie I watched half drunk, because I've definitely gone through all this shit before.
"And when I get back, we'll see the fireworks." The man rose, a handsome smile ghosting across aging features, patting Eva's knee before turning to leave. She watched him go, perplexed, before peering behind her for the source of the little voice.
From over her shoulder, the man's voice drifted almost lazily. "And Arno, no 'exploring', hmm?"
Eva's head whipped around so fast her neck cracked loudly, a sharp twinge of pain causing her to gasp and mutter a curse under her breath. I know that name. Her memory insisted upon it, poking and prodding her with a blurred face. His features were indistinguishable, and no matter how hard she willed herself to recall the name's owner, Eva was at a loss— he hovered in the shadows, the recesses of her mind. As if he didn't want to be caught.
"Yes father," the little voice came again, and this time Eva did not remain immobile. Leaping to her feet with a small shriek of shock, she whirled around to face the boy, sitting propped on an antique high-backed chair, stockinged feet swinging idly to and fro. He blinked, brown eyes shifting from his father to lock gazes with her, and she gasped, the wisp of cloud shrouding her mind evaporating.
Arno… Arno? Arno! The man who had saved her. Eva's mouth popped open. There's no way— how could that little kid be—? He was so much older… The little boy blinked, turning around to boredly inspect the painting that hung behind him before his eyes flashed across her vision, drifting after a breathy giggle down the hall. Eva whirled, utterly bewildered, to find the head and shoulders of a young girl poking from behind one of the corridor's stone columns. A shroud of icy thorns passed through her slowly, drifting like a leave on the wind, and suddenly Arno emerged from her front. Walking through her, he jogged down the hall towards the girl, sparing her a backwards glance only once.
Did he— Did he just— am I a fuckin' ghost?
"You'd rather sit with that old prune?" The girl called mischievously, "Come on!"
Eva slapped a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Excuse me. I'll have you know that prunes are a great source of vitamin K— aaand they're gone. Asshole kids," she muttered. I am not a prune— ew. I'm more like a banana, or a pear… or an avocado—
A muffled shout tore through Eva's train of though and she whirled, backing up half a step at the sight plastered before her like a horror movie gone haywire. There was a sickeningly wet tearing sound that spattered echoes down the hall, and Eva almost hurled across the expensive looking carpet. The man from before— Arno's father— was lying bonelessly on the ground, his body slack. His head was turned towards her, eyes wide and pleading. Around his lips blood was beginning to trickle, painting them red, the thin pink slivers of skin stretched wide in a voiceless scream. Eva's eyes stumbled downwards at a funeral's pace. The man's silence did not reside solely with the fact that he was dead. Well, dying. The cavity where his throat had once sat was dripping, the hole so deep that Eva imagined it echoed like a cavern. A red, gory, gummy cavern. Blood seeped, stretching thick, swelled fingers across paling skin to dip into the rich carpet down below.
How—?
A growl had Eva stumbling back several more paces, her converse skidding across the carpet nearly sending her toppling over the two solid masses that smacked hard into her back.
"Oh!" She gasped, not caring what she'd tumbled into as long as it wasn't— whatever got him—. Her eyes were abruptly locked, glued to dark pits of pure malice that she'd hoped never to glimpse at again. La Bête grinned— his fanged smile smeared crimson— from where he was suddenly hunched over Arno's father. Dribbles of goopy blood plopped noisy from the corners of his mouth, pattering like a gentle summer shower down onto the dead man's fancy overcoat. A chuckle went through him, a deep throated huff of a laugh that shook his frame and sent droplets of beady red flying. A fine spray dusted Eva's lips and lashes, cruor just barely misting over her features before she turned, ducking away on instinct.
She collided with a small body again, and clutching two tiny arms Eva righted herself, looking up to stare aghast into the boyishly pensive face of little Arno. His lips were pressed into a smooth line, pretty dark eyes drenched in a gloomy understanding, flecks of green flashing a radiant hue in the beaming sunlight, whispering of their potential. They're divergence.
"It's alright," Arno said softly, reaching up to pat Eva's shoulder. "I'll protect you. I promise."
Eva blinked stupidly, unsure of what to say. A snarl over her shoulder had her lurching, spinning on the spot, dragging Arno's slight form behind her.
"No offense kid, but the only thing we're going to be doing is running." She muttered.
Beside her, materializing out of thin air, the little girl was suddenly gripping at Eva's arm, tiny fingers a vise in her terror.
"Where are you going kiddies?" La Bête whined, crawling over the limp, bloodied form on all fours. His bloody claw-like nails snagged themselves into the carpet, and unconsciously Eva realized that his long legs weren't human, but rather the hind legs of a great wolf. "I'm still hungry, you see—" Here La Bête swung his head slowly to the right, black eyes fixed on Arno where he was peeking out from around Eva. "You boy," La Bête hissed, long tongue diving in-between his teeth, scraping the drying blood away and down into his throat. "Show me your throat." And he lunged.
Eva's hand shot out, gripping the collar of Arno's jacket and hauling him sideways. A rustle of motion fluttered past as the two fell. They collapsed in a heap, Arno landing sideways across her, limbs tangled. Picking her head up, Eva's feet scrambled, legs jostling akimbo, already working to regain her footing— to run. She sat up, Arno rolling off her quickly as Eva pulled him to his feet.
The pretty little girl was dying. Her eyes stared glassily back at Eva from where she lay sprawled on the ground, neck lost between La Bête's wolf-like jowls. A curtain of red hair spilled from where it had been tossed from its bun, the hat she'd had it pinned up in lying innocently by Arno's shoe-buckled feet. Eva covered her mouth, a sob shattering weakly past her lips. And then the little girl blinked and spoke.
"Keep him safe." She ordered, the words as commanding as they were smooth. Her voice was deeper, firmer— a woman's voice in a child's body. A voice she would never grow into. Eva's brow tangled, eyes tracing the rivets of blood that had begun to trail down the girl's neck. La Bête still held her in fierce grip, jaws clamped tight. Finding purchase. Preparing for the kill.
"You must protect him." The little girl ordered, voice rising. "You must!" She screeched hysterically. Her lips began to blur then as she scrambled to finish the rest of her warning. "La Bête will come looking for you— the both of you. Nothing is as it seems— He will kill Arno if you do not—"
La Bête's jaws snapped shut and he reared backwards violently. With a gasp of desperation, the girl's eyes blew wide. "Keep him safe, for me!" She shouted before her voice guttered out and her throat tore itself from her neck with a dreadful ripping sound. Eva heard Arno utter a shaky cry, felt his hand grip hers, but all she could see were those eyes. Deep, they were endless in their inky oblivion. Spitting out chunks of blood, bone and skin, La Bête sat back on his haunches and grinned. A thin strand of something was caught between his front teeth, and with a nauseous shudder Eva realized it was a vein. His right eyelid dipped downward, a whisper of a wink. When the wrinkled, tender skin finally folded back into its creased place, La Bête's eye was a goopy white mess. Eva felt a wetness interlaced between the fingers of her right hand. A gentle tug. Turning slowly, a ballerina trapped on a windup music box, Eva's gaze dropped down to the gory mess that was Arno's hand interlocked with her own.
She glanced up at him through her long lashes. He was smiling.
"I poked it out for you, Eva."
She screamed, thrashing away from the little boy, hands coming up to shield— protect— her eyes. Twisting and turning Eva found herself lost in the darkness without a light to guide her, writhing and screaming. Her eyes, someone had taken them, someone had taken her eyes— she was blind. Blindblindblindblind. The thought echoed like a droplet of water in an ancient well. And always there hummed that constant, dull burn beneath her skin, in the core of her being. It was becoming frighteningly familiar. She could see their throats; the slender, pale cream of the girl's, the thickset neck of the man. Both gouged and dripping. Unerring eyes branded into her memory. Unblinking. Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Arno's slippery hand squelched in hers, dripping with the remnants of an eye—
Something was tangled in her legs, a singed smell wafting up to clog her nostrils. There was the dim sensation of falling, the ground sweeping out from under her only to reconnect just as suddenly. Jarringly Eva smashed onto hard wood, a gasping cry of agony ripping its way out of her throat. Eyes opened weakly, fingers clawing air as she curled in on herself. Her side roared, pain sprouting like wings on a dragon. Her ankle pulsed spitefully.
Dead. They were dead. He ripped out their throats. And now he would rip out hers.
Dimly Eva became aware that her eyes were closed, lips squeezed tightly together. She forced herself to pry them open, blinking tears and crust from the corners.
The first thing Eva saw was the leg of a bed. The next, the underside of it. Panting, weakly she brought shaking hands to smooth the hair back from where it clung to her sweat-slicked skin. A dream. It was just a bad dream. Or was it? Isn't this a dream too— all of this? A dream within a dream? She honestly couldn't tell anymore.
Disoriented, Eva uncurled herself slightly from her fetal position, pushing her quivering frame up unsteadily onto the lackluster strength of her forearm. The world spun around her, fast. Too fast. Make it stop. Loosing her balance, Eva slumped forward with a whine of pain, huffing agonized breaths as the fire in her side was stretched taunt. A thin sheet was tangled around her legs, portions of it burnt black and reeking of smoke and ash. Strands of limp blond hair clung possessively to her sweat-slicked arms, and moaning Eva felt her entire frame tense up in pain. Her body protested feebly when she tried to move— where to, she could not say. Collapsing, Eva felt the first sob of frustration clog her throat. Her forehead and cheek rested against the rough wood of the floor. It scratched her like a cat's claws, and as much as Eva wanted to roll away she only managed to curl into herself closer with a broken, gasping sob.
As with any place that is inhabited unwillingly, Eva felt a deep, frustrating hatred from her predicament. For the weakness she'd become. She panted and gasped in her tears as the seconds tick by like centuries. Arms, elbows and knees creaked and groaned, protesting their locked-limbed position, but any thought of movement sent a thrill of blurred vision and nauseous heat spiraling through her. The floor beneath her skin was beginning to smoke and blacken as her agitation grew, higher and higher still, and with it the flames in the crux of her body leapt— with each passing minute Eva became certain that she would lay there for hours, decades. That her body would burn through the floor and she'd fall and crack her head open and die. Maybe she'd wake up, if this really was all just some bad dream, and find herself in the hospital. Or in her hotel bed. Or even at home, asleep on the beach with a sand crown courtesy of Riley.
He wouldn't… fucking dare… Not after last… time.
Her mind was beginning to fog. Somewhere in the distance Eva heard the distinct muffle and bump of someone walking. Suddenly— Her side hissed and spat fire, flaring inexplicably, feeling like a shark had chosen her as his afternoon snack. And oh, did it hurt. She unfroze. Back arching off the floor, Eva screamed as loudly as she could (no more than a few octaves higher than a hoarse whisper) as her fingers clawed at air and her eyes roved in search of relief from the tormented prison her body had become. Something clattered somewhere in the room, and there was movement.
"Merde." [Shit.] Footsteps battered against the floor rapidly, their drumbeats growing louder and louder until they were replaced with a pair of knees beside her and hands beneath her. The gentleness with which she was turned onto her back had Eva barely crying out in pain, lashes fluttering and eyes roving half-consciously as someone floated beside her.
"Eva?" The thickened accent was unmistakable.
Arno.
A kaleidoscope of emotions tore through her: fatigue, embarrassment, confusion— but most prominent was the overwhelming sense of relief. Her head swam, falling back as her eyes connected with his for only a moment before they too began to blur and mist. With a gasping, wet sob that was both parts pain and frustration Eva herself begin to float as her legs were slowly disconnected from the ground, Arno lifting her into his arms. Her hands lay useless across her stomach and her head lolled against a firm shoulder. Why was she relieved? The boundaries between consciousness and the wild abyss of its darker half suddenly loomed threateningly, and Eva could no more answer herself than remember her last name. Her head was beginning to pound viscously, her eyes straining to stay open. The fire within her stuttered to a hazy, airless churn. When Arno set her down on the bed, her side screamed.
As did she.
"Shh… Shh." Arno murmured, sitting next to her carefully. He muttered something under his breath in French, a curse maybe. Through the greasy mist that smeared her unfocused vision Eva saw the blackened bits of his coat that had touched her skin. Smelt it in the air. Someone (Arno, her subconscious reminded her faintly) was rolling up her shirt, ghosting soft, leather tipped fingers across the enraged, unforgiving pucker of flesh and thread. Eva whimpered, her attempt at flinching away so meager all she managed to do was roll her head to the side with a dull flop. Arno caught her eyes for a moment, and on the way to meet them Eva had spotted the glistening smile of blood smeared on his fingertips. Then their eyes connected and she was struck with the astounding realization that for all their dark embrace there was a light that danced there. A deepness. There was more depth and history and soul behind them than she had ever once encountered in any person before. Or maybe not, maybe she was dreaming again. Eva shivered and her skin burned hotly. She could almost feel the heatwave it emitted. Beside her, Arno's face remained impassive, but something in his eyes grimaced. Eva knew, something was wrong. Arms still draped across her middle, Eva forced her fingers to move, brushing them gently against Arno's wrist. He flinched as if he'd been burned (I touched him I touched him I touchedhisbareskin!) and she gasped, eyes wide and round with horror. Sorry. SorrysorryI'msosorry.
Arno seemed to understand. "It is okay," he said as quickly as his language impediment would allow. "You did not… There is no burn."
Past the relief in her drooping, pain filled eyes he must have seen her question, for at that moment he tucked her rolled up shirt gently beneath her, eyes darting down to her side. "You tore your… ah… coudre." [stitches] He frowned, brows drawing together violently, and shook his head. "What remains of them… Your body… burnt the rest."
Eva could barely understand him through the rough lilt of his accent and the clawing tendrils of fatigue that threatened to curl her up and drag her down into the darkness. And she most definitely did not know what a coudre was. She was so tired— so tired of the agony and the heat. Of her own confusion. The steady, calming drone of Arno's voice hadn't stopped. Eva was almost inclined to slip her eyes closed and let the ebb and flow of his words draw her into the cocoon of sleep. Almost. Instead, she forced herself to focus, pried her eyes open. Caught his gaze.
"…heeat from yourr bodeey is only, euhh, hot whhen youu arree panieecking. When I go find Madame Gouze youu must caalm yourseelf so the… the new…" here he paused a moment, frowning, before skipping the word completely, "do not buurn. Youur coudre." [stitches] Arno finished, peering down at her imperceptibly. Eva trailed her gaze across the warm brown of his hair, realizing with a muted jolt that his hood had been pulled down and away to reveal a ridiculously handsome face beneath. His lips were moving again, telling her something about not panicking, but all Eva could think of was the way she felt with him next to her— sleepy and safe, and yet at the same time like someone had doused her in a huge bucket of icy water. Had lit up her nerves and nodes in a white wreath of flame or pushed her out of an airplane without her parachute. Something breathed a wild, wind-whipped breath into her that went shrieking through her lungs and dancing across her veins.
Arno stood up, the bed creaking slightly when he did. He took one step, then two before turning, the tails of his peculiar coats fanning out behind him.
"Dou not moove… Madame Gouze will bee up soon." He said, and would have probably left and disappeared to wherever it was he usually lived if Eva would not have opened her mouth and forced the words through gritted, grinding teeth.
"Stay."
It was more a desperate gasp than a command, a question that hung in the shocked silence for seconds that seemed to stretch everlastingly into the sunset of time. Arno froze, lips parted slightly, eyebrows arched impressively to the ceiling. "St—" Eva gasped, nearly choking on her own tongue as she gagged through a wave of nausea and forced herself to pant the words. She needed him to be here, needed the comfort he brought with his presence to remain. Too ward off the nightmares, to keep the prowling creatures (La Bête) at bay. If only until the darkness reclaimed her. It was inevitable, after all.
"Stay. Please. Siv ou— Siv—"
Arno was very quick. With a blurred hand he reached out to grab a lone chair, hauling it over the railing that separated the bed Eva lay on from the rest of the room and setting it down not a foot away from where her head rested. His boots tapped smartly against the floorboards as he moved to sit, silently tucking his elbows into his knees and leaning forward, folding his hands together. The soft hair that swept over his neck and framed his features bounced and wavered as he shifted, bangs falling into his face for half a moment before he lifted his head and glanced at her, uncertain gaze shifting over her almost tentatively. Eva closed her eyes tiredly. She was close to the edge, toes tipped over the side as she stared down into the blackness. She had no clue if it were rushing up to meet her or her it, but Eva welcomed it all the same. The fire in her smoldered and banked, and for the first time in days she felt a cool breath of air stumble and bump its way over her arm, her fingers. The sheets no longer smelt charred. She no longer burned.
Arno's eyes on her were like a spotlight; she could feel them pressing a brand into her skin. Eva opened her mouth— she desperately wanted to thank him— tell him about the dreams she'd had about him. Ask him about that girl. See what he would have to say about it. He seemed like he'd have a few answers. Hopefully. There was something about the way he looked at her— her clothes, her face, the necklace that clung to her throat— that whispered of his own unanswered questions. Something told her that this man was just as confused as she was.
Instead of acting on her impulses, a deadweight reared up like a rogue wave and collapsed heavily atop her, washing across her body until it covered her in its lapping fatigue. She felt ancient, like a stone that had been eroded over millenniums— sleepless, worn down. Groaning, Eva's head depressed into the pillow, sluggish thoughts hovering a thousand distant miles above. Her entire body was shivering with exhaustion. Eva was just too damn tired to care about any of it. Her mind blanked, body sagging as she let go of its overly prolonged tension. The sigh rushed out of her, long and deep and relieved, and with it came the ripping, crackling white hot fire that streaked up her side like a lioness on the hunt and back down, digging sharp claws into tender flesh.
The sound that tore itself form her throat was somewhere between a shriek and a mewl, a chair clattered as her spine arced itself halfway off the bed, firm hands suddenly pressing her back down onto the mattress. Eva opened her eyes and saw a girl with a mess of sweaty blond hair and a wild, tear streaked baby blues gaping back through Arno's dark green gaze. In his rush to get to her he seemed to have misjudged the distance, their noses brushing faintly as his arms bulged beneath the fabric of his navy coat in their effort to keep her down. Eva sobbed once deliriously and gently Arno shushed her, relinquishing his grip on her only when she sagged limply once more. The fire was back.
Arno must have noticed. Removing his glove he placed tentative fingertips against the burning skin of her hand, digits curling and jumping back at the heated friction that bit against the pads of his fingers.
"Calm down," he said, and this time his accent wasn't so thick. Eva blinked once and caught the tail end of the deep breath Arno blew from his lungs. "Calm down." He repeated, and swallowing noisily Eva managed a single nod. After a minute that felt like a floating eternity something brushed against the skin of her knuckles softly. This time, Arno didn't pull his hand away with screaming, red fingers, instead letting them curl around her own loosely. Footsteps penetrated the haze that was settling over Eva like one of the thick wool blankets her grandmother liked to make for her (and boy could she pop those things out like they were on an assembly line). A familiar female voice echoed a question in French over her head, to which Arno answered before turning back to her.
"Madame Gouze will fiex yourr sieede now," he murmured, but Eva hardly heard him. The depression made by his body sitting beside her on the bed was as comforting as the hand that still rested on her own.
"… will hurrt…" Arno was saying, but Eva was too far gone to feel anything besides the heat that was receding from her sweaty skin. There was a cool hand on her brow and the woman muttered something, sounding amazed. The distinct rustle of tiny tools (needles and thread, needles and thread to sew me back up again) tinkered and clinked together in a bag. Eva's eyes opened, slitted, and trained upwards to Arno's.
"Stay," she breathed, the word so faint and weightless it might have only been a figment of thought. His hand remained firm on her own, though, and by the time a needle was produced to flash in the candlelight Eva had succumbed to her exhaustion.
"The fire in the girl's touch is simply an effect of the Artifact. One of its many powers manifesting within her."
Arno sighed, crossing his arms impatiently. He'd figured that lovely bit of knowledge out the first night he'd learned of the Piece of Eden strapped round her neck. If the only reason he'd taken nearly half an hour to pain his way over the backwater dirty and blackened Le Repair Cafe was to listen to a crazy man reiterate almost comically obvious knowledge, then Arno was two sips of beer away from jumping out the window and leaving.
"Tell me, how is she?" Renard was drinking his tea with a raised pinky, the chipped teacup's once glistening white porcelain a smeared, yellowish brown. Arno frowned, tipping his own mug to glance into its contents before grimacing and pushing the untouched drink away. He could deal with a parched throat for a little while longer. Renard coughed, cup hovering mid-sip as he blinked rather pointedly at Arno, ridiculous hat askew.
"Fine." Arno grunted, his frown deepening at the image of Eva's tear-stained face, the way he had found her lying brokenly on the ground, hand stretched towards the bed hopelessly. She'd reminded him of the tiny china doll Elise had received one year for her birthday. Disgusted, she had tossed it disdainfully to the hard floor, shattering its pretty face and mangling it beyond repair. Arno shuddered at the memory— the thought of her. Something deep and heavy shifted within him, rolling over mournfully, and he shook the thought from his head, obliterating it in the mess of peculiarity that had decided to besiege him that week. Beneath the table he flexed his left hand, burned nerves screaming with reddened pain at the motion. He'd held her hand until she'd passed out— thankfully before Charlotte had taken the needle to Eva's weeping, bloodied side. Again. Her body temperature had been a tempest, dropping and rising like the blade of a well oiled guillotine, quick and silent, but the thread had wound its way smoothly into her skin. It had smoked once, the needle hissing sharply when it had pressed into the skin, but Arno had whispered hushed words to Eva (calm down calm down), chanted it to her (you must calm down) and eventually her skin had grown nearly as cool as cloudy day (I'm here, you're safe. I'm here. Calm down). Yes, now that Arno thought about it, he'd held her hand for some time even after she'd gone under, and there it had remained for God knew how long. He had paid the price of course; Arno had found that he couldn't even so much as tug his glove off past the swell of his palm before a nasty thrum had traveled from the roots of his palm to his fingertips, and there it sang shrill with agony— She ruined my glove and then she ruined my hand— Yet not once had it crossed his mind to relinquish his hold on her, not with those desperate sea green eyes boring into his own. Who she was and where she came from he hardly knew, but something in Eva's gaze captivated him; made him feel as if he'd known her before, in a past life perhaps, if one believed in that sort of thing.
"Fine?" Renard's retort angled Arno from his reverie like a fish caught on a hook. Ripping himself back to the present. Arno blinked, eyeing the man opposite him with an annoyed look young children knew only too well.
"That is what I said, yes."
"Feisty today darling, aren't you?" Renard murmured over the lip of his cup before draining its contents. He set it down, and over the dull chink of china fixed Arno with a stare so cold and commanding the Assassin couldn't help but draw himself back a bit. "Pray, give me a sliver more detail than a simple 'fine'." His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair restlessly. Crossing his legs, Renard raised his brow and fixed Arno with an expectant glare.
Eyes narrowing almost to the point of slits, Arno leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together in a manner that was akin to a lioness sinking into a hunter's crouch. His hood sat low over his eyes and shielded them, penetrating gaze shrouded in a cave of dusky mystery. With a twist of his lips Arno fixed Renard with a hard glare from beneath his hood. "Eva, she—"
"Eva!" Renard purred, hands flying to clasp together before his sternum in delight. "Short for Evangeline if I'm not mistaken? What a beautiful name!"
"Do you want to here that sliver you were whining about, or are you just going to continue to interrupt me?" Arno hissed.
Renard chuckled behind a gloved hand. "Carry on then, I suppose."
"Hypocrite," The Assassin muttered. "Ev— She— burns like the sun. Melted the needle that sewed her stitches in the first time— melted the stitches too. Her body's temperature is at its hottest whenever she is awake, mostly when her side acts up…" (And I'm not there) He'd noticed that rather quickly… Arno broke eye contact with Renard for a moment. A gaping slit spanned her side long enough for a grown man's hands to fit through— any deeper and the spliced skin would have surely bled her dry. "It's her severest injury." He added, gaze returning to hawk on the man opposite him. Downstairs the causal clatter and chatter of the Cafe's questionable guests lulled on, but up in the private room Renard had secured for them it was as still and quiet as an abandoned house. At one time Arno would have compared the lifeless hush of the room to a graveyard, but an increasingly familiar experience with them had rubbed his mind clear of his ignorance— graveyard's were rarely quiet. Not as long as the living continued to come and stare stone-faced at the grey markers. To whisper the names of the dead, tell them stories and fill them in on important news. Not that it would matter to those buried six feet under. To the deceased, all news was unimportant news, unless it was the babble of a spade digging a new grave.
Renard opened his mouth to comment and was silenced by Arno's pointer finger shooting straight up in the air.
"She has burnt the sheets, my gloves as well as the woman's who stitched her side, all of the pillows and a good amount of skin," his singed hand twitched reflexively, as if it knew it was being mentioned. "What she has not burnt to a crisp is her clothing." He didn't elaborate on how strange it all was, both the lack of sizzling cloth and the actual lack of clothes. They were very… risqué. She was practically wearing a tattered version of a woman's first layer of undergarments (albeit they were very different in make than any he'd encountered), and that wasn't including their strange cut and material. "Or her Medallion." Arno continued, carefully watching the flicker that lit in Renard's eye at the mention of the Piece of Eden. The gleam sent a warning spark sizzling down his spine like a flame that blew in a wild dry breeze, and not for the first time Arno caught himself wondering if this deal was really such a good idea after all. He blinked suddenly, reflexively, as a dust mote floated into the corner of his eye, and in that rapid quick-fire of light and dark he saw a flash of red hair and apple-red cheeks. Heard a cheeky laugh that echoed up from decades past.
Elise.
Arno's heart ached, straining in his chest so violently and sadly that he felt as if it would blacken and shrivel. His breath became labored and his head swam with the weight of the long carried grief— Did he really have any other choice but to go through with this?
Someone was snapping their fingers, and distantly Arno could hear his name being called. Blinking (almost hesitantly for fear of again seeing—) he snapped from his daze (—her.) and turned his attention to Renard, who was looking more than a pinch exasperated.
"Has she managed to control its fluctuations?"
"To… an extent." Mostly when I'm with her, he refrained from adding.
Renard's frown deepened at the vague answer. Uncrossing his legs he leaned forward, bent elbows jostling onto the table as his chin found purchase atop his interlaced fingers. "Has she recovered enough to regain self awareness beyond confusion?"
The question, so precise and accurate, caught Arno offguard. He felt his brows pull together and glanced right to stare out the window. "No," he murmured. He hadn't gotten around to mentioning the most… troubling bit about Eva's recovery (besides the literal fire under her skin), but it seemed Renard had rightfully suspected more. "Not yet. It's been a week and a day today, and no change in her… coherence." A couple was making their way across the street down below, clothes bedraggled and tattered, hands interlocked and heads together as if they were whispering some dark secret. Suddenly, the girl threw her head back and laughed, pushing her lover. Arno felt a sigh go through him, soft and quiet and tired. The pair below disappeared into a shadowed door. "Her wounds— her ankle— every bruise and scrap on her has faded." Arno shook his head, gaze floating back to Renard. "The last time she woke up she was asking for her parents and… the… the 'poe-leese'?" The word had been as foreign to him then as it was now (despite Arno asking everyone in Cafe Theater… including Alex, who had said it sounded like some kind of foreign dessert. Right.), and though his childhood English tutor had been outstanding in instilling within both he and his adopted sister an excellent foreign vocabulary (including several nasty swearwords, but that had been Elise's doing more than his), Arno had absolutely no clue what a 'poe-lees' was.
"She's not French," Arno added.
Renard sputtered into his cup dramatically. "Well what is she?"
"English."
"And you have no trouble communicating with her?" He asked suspiciously.
After nearly a week of practice the language came quickly enough to him. "For the most part no." He replied in English.
Renard sighed, clearly not understanding. "Is that a yes?"
"Oui." Arno deadpanned, a smirk twisting his lips at Renard's evident lack of bilingual prowess. "Fucking ass." This too was in English, said softly to himself. But intended, of course, for Renard's ears.
"What was that?" Renard scowled
"Hmm?" Arno feigned confusion. "Oh, just an expression the English like to use."
"What does it mean?"
"Ah, uh, 'not a problem', I believe."
Renard nodded, "Ah I see. 'Fucking ass' is right." His pronunciation of the words were horribly mauled, but that still didn't stop Arno from having to bite the pink on the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting and doubling over laughing. Really, it was too easy. Renard hardly seemed to notice. Instead he'd pulled a sugar cube from the delicate, yellow filmed bowl between them, spinning it between his fingers idly.
"The Piece of Eden has displayed two prominent powers through her so far: fire and regeneration— specifically, a particularly rapid recovery rate. When Eva does recover, because mark my words she will, Arno, I must warn you that she may be far more unstable than at present." Renard sat forward, inching himself towards the end of his chair. "Her evident deliriousness will have left her both exhausted and at the end of her patience, and such a potent mix might bode ill for any who aren't careful."
Arno sighed. He wasn't sure how Eva could possibly get any more unstable than she already was. Just the fact alone that she was able to literally burn anything she touched was enough to send him down to the cafe for a drink every evening.
"What, precisely, are you trying to get at here, Renard?" Arno asked, the heels of his chair scrapping loudly as he stood. He'd had enough gabbing around with the bizarre scientist from the moment he'd arrived. In fact, he almost hadn't come. For a good portion of the morning Arno had debated on whether to just send word that he was too ensnared in his work— chalk it up to a busy schedule. This, of course, was laughably untrue. A full week after his little dalliance with the country's most wanted mass murderer and Arno still had not a single lead on him. It was as if La Bête had just up and vanished. A ghost, his mind reminded him. He'd needed a distraction, something to make him forget how poorly his mission was fairing. Even if that distraction was Renard.
The man eyed him calmly, almost lazily, not bothering to stand himself. Instead, pushed his chair back and kicked his legs up to recline on the dingy little table. "Arno, Arno. I was merely attempting to hint at the severity of your charge. If this girl were to be unleashed into Paris it would atrocious. Can you imagine for a second the havoc such an unstable creature would cause amongst the citizens? She might even get herself killed again, and then where would you be in our little deal." Renard's eyes glinted sharply, like a full moon's watery reflection.
Arno bristled. "Are you threatening me—?"
"Not threatening, no." Renard inserted quickly, holding up a hand. "Simply producing for your convenience a warning of sorts. The girl may seem helpless as a freshly guillotined carcass, but mark my words she is no rolling head."
Arno's nose wrinkled at the analogy. He hadn't though it possible, but Renard was beginning to make de Sade seem almost sane.
"She is deadly," the man hissed, leaning forward for emphasis. "You must keep a watchful eye on her."
Arno scoffed. "Under lock and chain? I am not imprisoning this girl, she has done nothing wrong."
"Oh but she will, it is inevitable." Renard smirked then, a little knowing thing, and looked down away from Arno's glare. "Did you hear the gossip circulating the streets of late? A committee reviewing the palace of Versailles a few days ago for its resurrection found the body of an unidentified man lying in the surrounding woods. They say his neck was so badly burned you could see the dead leaves right through it." Renard chuckled, the deliriously happy notes taking on an unhinged tone. "Not as effective as the guillotine… but close."
He'd had enough. Spinning crisply on his heel Arno turned and headed for the door,. He would have made it out too, perhaps even down the stairs and back to Cafe Theater— if Renard hadn't let out a knowing giggle and called, "And I suppose you have already learned the whereabouts of our dear Dog."
He had him again, trapped in the netting of his words.
Arno would rather chug his untouched mug of questionable ale than admit that he'd nearly face planted the door in his shock. "What?"
Renard shrugged, the action nonchalant though his shoulders were tight with excitement. "It's just that a few of my little birds twittered to me that La Bête has returned to his lair in the outskirts of Paris's southern district. Slunk is more the word I would use, however. Like a whipped puppy." Renard chuckled melodiously. "With decidedly less guards as well. It seems our darling Eva did away with quite a few, as did you." He simpered a grin, sitting back to regard Arno with a gaze that the Assassin had seen many times over, when the Cafe's cat had cornered her chirruping, screaming mice.
'Our Eva'— Something about the way those words meshed together didn't sit right with him. Arno sneered, almost lashing out at Renard. 'Our Eva'… The words sent a rippling fury up his spine and down into the wrist that caressed the springs of his hidden blades. His only restraint was the promise of reunion, that half-hoped light at the end of the tunnel that suddenly seemed so much closer. So much more attainable. As long as Renard was alive, of course. So instead of stabbing the creepy bastard, Arno merely tightened his hold around the door and growled, "How did you learn of this? The place has been vacant for days, I checked—"
"Hmm?" Renard glanced at him as if he'd forgotten him before gesturing to the door with a flourishing hand. "Weren't you leaving, darling?"
For the second time that day Arno felt a surge of annoyance so strong it threatened to swell and drown him. I don't have the patience for these ridiculous games he seems so overly fond of. De Sade would have a field day with him... His hand tightened on the doorknob, and as it swung open and he stepped out he heard Renard call, "I have my ways Arno. Meet me with her in the catacombs six months from today. You know where."
The door slammed shut behind him loudly.
An hour later found Arno walking through the mahogany doors of Cafe Theater, a large mug of something actually safe to drink the singular driving force behind his motions, when a distraught Charlotte Gouze nearly fell down the stairs and into his arms in her effort to get to him, rocketing Arno's senses into high alert. The boy being considered by the Assassins as their newest novice inductee, Alexander Leau-something or other, came thundering down the stairs two by threes after the poor woman, eyes alight with some excitement.
It never ends. All I wanted was something to drink and a nap.
"Gouze, what's wrong?" Arno asked, voice stern, shoulders set rigidly. Renard's warning suddenly seemed more prominent than ever, almost mocking him in its sudden resurfacing— Arno very well knew what was wrong, or at least, who it was wrong with.
Poor Charlotte's lips were moving but no sound escaped them. She mouthed words for a moment, a fish gasping incoherently out of water, before Alex took her arm gently and pulled her out of Arno's arms, steadying her. Tall and slender, with strawberry blond curls and blue eyes to match, Alexander was every bit the opposite of the serious aura that floated around him like a faint summer mist. Ready to dissipate at any moment.
"The girl, she woke up." He said steadily, though Arno could easily detect the faint rise and hitch of his uneven breath.
"Woke up." Arno repeated slowly, tasting the words.
"Oui, woke up." Alex glanced over his shoulder at the stairs nervously. "As in, her fever or whatever it was broke and she just—"
"I was bringing soup up to her!" Gouze wailed suddenly, the noise unlike any Arno had ever heard come from her plump lips. "And she just, she just—" Charlotte put her head in her hands and shook it back and forth once. Impulsively Arno reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. He'd never seen the normally composed overseer so upset before.
"Saw me and panicked." Alex finished for her, shrinking visibly despite his towering height when Arno's gaze green-speckled switched to bore into him. "She was like a demon." He swallowed, and his voice shook with excitement. "Flew right down the hall and nearly killed Cêlestine on her way."
Arno glanced at Madame Gouze. First thing first— "Where's Augustin?"
"In the Sanctuary. The Elders wanted to converse with him on a new style of tactical training for the novices." Alex replied, that charged light still sitting fixedly in his sky blue eyes.
Taking Madame Gouze's hands, Arno led her a few steps away, instructing her to find Augustin and alert him as to what had happened. She tottered away looking more than a little drunk, her wheezing breath trailing out behind her as she disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
One down, one to go.
"You come with me," Arno grunted, passing Alex and taking the staircase two at a time. He could hear the kid— nineteen years old, two years younger than you when you joined. You were just a kid too— clambering up behind him, long legs bringing him so close that if Arno would have turned around he would have smacked right into him. Resisting the urge to groan, Arno forced his feet to move faster, raising his head to glance upwards at the second level.
"Did she hurt anyone— Cêlestine?"
"No, no one that I know of. The Cafe's a bit deserted today."
I hadn't noticed… "Where did she go— Do you have any idea?"
"Last I saw she was heading towards the roof."
The what?— "Shit."
Arno hit the top step at a dead sprint, pivoted, and ran for the terrace where he so often trained with Augustin. Whipping around, he had time to shout "stay here!" back at Alex before he was shooting suddenly out into the brilliant afternoon sunlight.
Eva stretched and rolled over onto her stomach, ignoring the muttered twinge in her side as she groaned and buried her head deep into her pillow and inhaled deeply. And then again, so slowly she caused herself to yawn— the scent laced into the softness of her sheets was just short of the best thing she'd ever smelled… aside from her father's bacon, of course. It was tantalizingly heady, a mixture of aromas she'd never before smelt but instantly wished she had. Mom must have found some new detergent she's head over heels with. Eva sucked in another deep, long breath through her nose drowsily, deciding that the smell leant far more towards masculine that anything else. Soft, intimate even. It reminded her of what Riley or Everett smelt like as she came awake beside them in the early hours of dawn after a late night of video games and pizza, or when one of them leant her their jacket when she was cold as they watched the sun set over the waves. Only that wasn't quite it exactly. Not all of it, at least. There was more, some aspect in the way her heart squeezed painfully— excitedly— every time she caught a whiff of the scent that never occurred when she was around her best friends. Eva sighed dreamily. She loved it.
Her thoughts wondered in the gloriously golden daze of half-sleep a while longer— how long Eva would never actually know— flitting from one thought to the next in a lazy trance that bordered on dreaming. It certainly hadn't gotten too far along in the morning, she'd mused at some point, since the rising sun usually announced it's presence by shining bright yellow bands through the thin drapes over her window and across her bed in warm stripes. This usually occurred around six-thirty every morning, about the time Eva would drag herself out of bed (and land in a heap on the floor, where she would stay for the next ten minutes) to pull on her wetsuit and shove a piece of toast down her throat before heading down to the waves. Besides, if she slept in, the sun would blind her through her eyelids at about seven or so. Now, through the warm darkness that floated comfortably behind her lids Eva could detect a faint light, creeping its way towards her like a choking vine. She could also smell, strangely enough, the bizarrely out of place mixture of coffee brewing and eggs sizzling— why is dad making breakfast so early?— tangled with the foul odor of horse manure and something else… Sewer stench, a sleepy voice in the back of her mind offered. She'd only ever smelt it when she'd entered town for her classes, but the stink was practically identical (and a lot worse).
Eva moaned grumpily, ripping the pillow from beneath her and throwing it sideways over her bedhead with a muttered curse, arm pressing down on top of it in a somewhat piss-poor attempt to block out the foul stench. Another smell enveloped her gloriously, blissfully, and she sighed. It reminded her of cologne in a way, only not one she'd ever had the pleasure of catching scent of. It was twice as good as any of the expensive shit the guys at University wore . She would know, she'd passed through clouds of it enough walking around Humboldt State, where it wafted from them in overwhelmingly sickly, choked droves. This was better. Much better. She could get lost in this— subtle, nice. Very nice. It sent a shiver up her spine and a heat pooling below her tightening lower abdomen. Eva flexed her foot in a rich stretch, spine arching, and briefly wondered why her entire body was so stiff and sore, or why her side kept throbbing in gentle rhythms, or— wait, wait, why would dad be cooking breakfast so early? A few moments of woozy, disoriented thinking suddenly overstretched itself and snapped like a taunt rubber band, sending Eva flying upwards, the pillow rocketing halfway across the bed. She sputtered as she tried to detangle herself from sheets that snaked and knotted around her legs like creeper plants.
Fuck, I forgot! Our flight to Paris— it's today! Shit, shit shit, I'm so late! What the fuck alarm?! Despite her flustered frenzy Eva's eyes were barely cracked with sleep, ankle throbbing dully— must have twisted it while I was surfing yesterday— and the blood that was rushing to her head was threatening to blot out her vision completely with speckled, fizzy darkness. She shifted and her side gasped, stretching with a protesting pull of pain that had Eva growling darkly. Her hands shuffled through the sheets lethargically— where the hell is my stupid phone… it's probably dead, oh my God it's too fucking early to deal with this shit— Giving up, Eva rolled without thinking, making to get up, legs still caught in the blankets. In her blind haste she rose, tottered, and fell just as quickly, crash landing into a heap on the hard floor.
Okayyyy, so much for the carpet being soft— what the hell?
Ripping the covers from her long legs— why am I sweating? Jesus it's so hot— do I have a fever? 'Cause if I get one on the day we leave I swear— Eva shot up about as quickly as a defunct jack in the box, leaning against the bed for support as she rubbed her eyes and shouted tiredly, "Mom, what time is it? Am I late? Are we gonna miss our flight?!" When there was no response, she added, "My alarm clock didn't go off, I'm sorry! Tell dad not to eat all the bacon!"
Silence.
"Mom?"
Eva popped open an eye and nearly collapsed back onto the mess of stained blotchy black and white covers. Standing to the side of a large four poster, she had a great view of the huge, fancy room lain out innocently before her, looking to be about two centuries out of style. Her thoughts, a coagulated mishmash tangled and writhing, managed one coherent thought, the realization of which sent a stone as hot and heavy as a meteor plummeting like an avalanche into her belly: she was most definitely not at home.
But then where—?
The thin, grotesquely puckered line that slanted across her upper left arm caught Eva's attention as she moved to steady herself against the sturdy wooden frame of the four poster, clutching one of the beams with bleach white fingers in a desperate need for support. Angling her injured arm upwards, Eva felt her heart stutter dreadfully. The line was long and rucked, the skin folded like a pair of crinkled pink lips— healing. It looked like it was healing.
A scar.
There was a flash of a knife in her mind's eye, and with a gasp Eva ducked out of the way of the imaginary blade, hand finding the delicate material of her shirt and clutching tight. Wavering for a moment, Eva steeled herself before lifting the soft material, hands shakily ghosting over the raised edges of a much larger, much more tender snake of knit, healing flesh. Eva didn't want to look at it, didn't want to accept that it was there and somehow, somehow she'd known it would be. She'd rather shove her face back into the pillow and smother herself dead, but something made her look. Kept her eyes glued to the stripe of raw skin. Some unseen force, some macabre hidden curiosity. A dreaded knowledge, buried somewhere deep in her mind, that there was more. More to remember.
And of course, there was.
A hundred pink dashes and lines littered her body, small and long, shallow and deep. The scars were mostly on her arms and legs, but a few had made their way up to her stomach. Her shoulder. Eva ducked away from the sight and entombed her eyes behind sweaty palms, head in hands. A laughable attempt to hide from the cutting board her body had become. She flinched away from her palms with a soft cry when they pressed into bruised, tender flesh that screamed indignantly.
What happened to me? She wanted to ask herself, to feign innocence a while longer— her own naivety— until the very last possible moment. Because she knew, just as any groggy person will when they jolt themselves awake from a nightmare. She knew she was awake, really awake. She knew why the scars littered her body, her arms and legs. A montage of memories slide like a showreel across the backs of her eyeballs as she'd examined her beaten, broken body. Versailles; the prison; her torture; and of course—
Eva shivered so violently she nearly puked.
That man. The one who had saved her, who had spooned out La Bête eye like it was any old Sunday morning breakfast.
Arno.
Legs shaking, Eva stumbled her way off the platform that raised the fourposter a foot or so from the rest of the room and wobbled on shaky, numb legs towards the bright sky that peaked in through the open door ahead of her. Now that she remembered, now that her senses were tuned in and straining like a radio station bordering on static fuzz, Eva could distinctly pick up the sounds of muffled chatter and shouting, the clinking of cups, the stomp and scuffle of footsteps mingled with the clatter and whinny of horse and carriage. Shuffling in a way that was both parts shy and fearful into the wide doorframe, Eva paused, hand coming up to catch hold of her opposite arm and she leaned against the solid, cool wood. It was cool, refreshingly so— she could feel it in the knots of her pounding temple, the point of her elbow. With a jolt that more resembled a leaf floating to the surface of her consciousness, Eva realized that the last time she had felt anything remotely cold had been in the air conditioned haven of her parent's rental car who knew how many days ago. The heat that lurked in her core hadn't vanished, though. No, it still broiled, simmering, a flame dozing lazily in its hearth, ready to awaken at the drop of a match. Only Eva hadn't the slightest idea what would cause it to fall.
A bang like a gun had Eva flinching violently away from the door frame, knocking her elbow hard as she skittered into the sunlight filled hall like a spooked cat. She tittered and nearly fell, akimbo on legs as unbalanced as a newborn foal's as she spun around. There was a noise behind her, a shuffling skid that had her heart hightailing it into her stomach and her mind frizzing into a grainy slate grey, a TV stuck on static. At the opposite end of the corridor stood a tall man, his dark coat billowing out behind him as he slid to an abrupt halt. A mess of golden curls framed his face wildly, and in the quick glimpse she got of his features Eva realized that for all his height and toned muscle, the man couldn't be any more than eighteen.
His eyes widened, a hand raising, and suddenly he was running at her.
"Stop!" He shouted.
Eva backed up half a step, limbs locked in horror, heart beginning to beat like a winded racehorse's. What was happening? Where was… what was his name? Arno. Where was he? The man's long legs had already carried him nearly half the distance. Eva stuttered back a step. He looked a little too much like one of La Bête's younger thugs for her liking. Pivoting on her heel quickly, Eva took off at a dead sprint—or at least she would have, if she hadn't found herself smacking right into a tray full of food, including a huge bowl of soup that flew up into the air nearly three feet. The woman carrying it screamed— the tray scattering it's contents everywhere as the woman's hands flew up to shield her face. Eva was gone before any of it was shoved back down by gravity, her nerves severed even further as the lady behind her continued to screech, soup splattering all over her neatly powered face. From somewhere behind her there was a loud burst of insane laughter. The bowls hit the floor then, their shattering intermingling with a final chuckling "stop!" from the man chasing her. Eva poured on the speed, legs blurring as she rounded a corner. Rooms and their contents shot by in a color-meshed rush as she twisted and turned through them blindly. Breath pulled greedily into her aching lungs and her head swam, but Eva refused to stop. Refused to be captured. Not today, not again. Not ever again.
She slipped into a darkened study a panting mess, halting only for a shiver of a second to take in her surroundings— walls and walls of bookcases, a sturdy looking desk— before streaking to a nearby ladder and clambering up. She couldn't hear any footsteps over the rush of her own labored breathing, but the horror of whoever was pursuing her possibly catching her unawares had her speeding up the final few rungs of the ladder. Her legs were moving even before she'd regained her footing— at the far end of the cozy loft was a couch littered with blankets and pillows, thrown together as if someone had slept there and never bothered to fold anything up. A slim coffee table covered in books and empty teacups was squished before it. A wide-paned window sat squarely behind it. Eva rushed to it, hands closing around the latch and yanking once, twice, before she gave up with a gasp of desperate frustration. For a moment she debated simply kicking the pane out, but images of the sharp shards raking up her legs had her spinning around again. Without hesitating Eva snatched up the china cups, saucers and all, and dumped them behind her carelessly. Her arms swept the books off the table, and she kicked the pile aside and upturned the table with a grunt and a stab of strength that a person only seems able to harness in the most dire of situations. The books sat amongst the china fragments in haphazard, chunky piles behind her makeshift fort between couch and table. Eva dove down into hard edges and pliant spines, knees scraping sharply, her hands trembling violently as she shoved leather-bound novels out of the way, the pads of her fingers sticking to the old paper as she hefted two into her grasp. Eva's breath jogged her throat with hitching gasps of panic. Strings of blond hair clung to her sweaty neck and cheeks, and for a moment she felt the oncoming shudder of tears about to blossom. She swallowed them down thickly— Could she never catch a break?
The sudden, searing pinch of paper dragging itself sharply across her thumb was only a whisper in the whirring jamb of her mind, the warm well of blood slipping and curling along her skin hardly noticed. She stared unblinkingly at the uprighted table top, stealing herself— is he here, is he looking for me, did he follow me? Oh God where is he— Images of the man creaking silently up the ladder, crawling slowly towards her battlement as she sat huddled amidst the book piles had a chill shudder through her. Eva peeked over the dark edge of the table without really meaning to, too mortified by the idea of being crept up on. If he was going to capture her (or worse), whoever he was, he'd do it head on, not sneaking and slinking up on her like some spineless worm.
As her eyes crested the lip of the desk, Eva's first thought was that her eyes were playing tricks on her. 'Messin,' Riley would always say. Either way she twisted it, the conclusion was still the same: the study below was blissfully empty. No one crouched behind the tidy desk in the center or lounged in the shadows cast by the sun scrambling the bookcases into looming obscurity. And there was most certainly not anyone scaling the ladder in silent pursuit of her. Nothing; void.
In her hands the hefty volumes suddenly seemed as heavy as ivory elephant tusks. She dropped them, hissing as her pinky finger clipped the bitingly sharp edge of a broken china cup, fresh blood spurting an arc into the air. Wiping her bleeding fingers onto the front of her tattered shirt— it hung on her like a beaten, battle worn sail— Eva buried her head in her hands with a whimpering, pitiful sob. Her heart was beating into her throat so violently that her temples were beginning to throb a booming rhythm. Eva nearly gagged on her frustration, her anger. Her fright. She wanted out— she wanted away from this fucking mess for good. And for the love of God she wanted to stop bleeding.
Hurried footfalls pounded down the hall that led to the study. Eva's fingers twitched from where they'd plastered themselves over her eyes. The breath in her throat went sour in her constricting lungs, and all she could manage in her dread was the jackknife twitch of her lips parting, gaping in a breathless gasp of horror and denial.
No, no, no, he can't find me.
Defiantly the footsteps only seemed to echo closer. Reaching around her blindly, Eva grasped a heavy volume. A fire— her fire— was beginning to stoke itself within her core, and as Eva's fingers curled vice-like around the book's spine it whined, the first smoking crackle of the burning leather cover popping hotly in protest to the sudden heat. She ignored it, sitting huddled and trembling with a smoldering book in each white-hot hand until the footsteps rapped to a halt at the entrance to the study.
Oh God, Eva's mind was lost in a thick, smoky white shroud. Her panic had caused it to feel separate from the rest of her, detached, like a boat slowly drifting from a dock. Oh God, oh God. He would be climbing it now, the ladder. Any moment a sneering, gleeful face would appear around the corner of the desk with another raucous cackle and she would be caught. Captured, just like that. Blood was dripping from the slits on her fingers, rolling down the uneven pages of the books she held.
No, not just like that.
She wasn't going down without a fight. Fuck just lying down and dying.
What occurred next happened so suddenly and so swiftly that reflecting upon it several nights later, Eva was nearly certain that it couldn't have been avoided.
A voice called up to her and Eva recognized her name with a surprised blink. At the same time she was already in motion, hurling herself upwards past the safety of the overturned desk, throwing herself halfway over her makeshift battlement, the smoking book in her right hand cocked so far back it hurt her arm when it rocketed forward. The mass of crinkled paper and bound leather sailed through the air curiously fast for such a heavy book, and smacked her pursuer with a satisfying ka-thud squarely in the chest, bowling him over so rapidly it was bordering on comical. Eva gasped, eyebrows rocketing to her hairline as she struggled to her feet. It had knocked him flat!
Of their own accord her sticky, blood covered thumb and forefinger rose to caress the chain of her necklace, gripping it tightly, fingers nervously toying their way down to the flat disc-like medallion that clunked against her throat heavily. Down below the man was cursing violently in French, rolling onto his hands and knees as he scraped himself off the floor. I need to move, Eva thought, before he regains his footing. Or maybe she could just stay up here until her 'ammo' ran out— her aim was fair, and she was pretty certain that getting hit repeatedly with huge books would be enough to deter anyone after a while. Eva could have moved, could have easily scaled the ladder or climbed over the railing and dropped to the floor and leapt over the man and out the door, but something inside her made her stay put. Some unknown force, holding her pinned like a bug on a display piece of cardboard. Her fingers glided across the bumpy gold grooves of her necklace, slick with blood— this guy is gonna start yelling at me, guaranteed, and I'm not gonna have a fucking clue what he's saying. Again. This would all be so much fucking simpler if I knew even a little bit of French— A moment later, pulled from her reverie by the sting of tattered, wet skin thumbing across the ridges of her necklace. Eva realized her mistake and wrenched her hand from her necklace with a cry of dismay, but not before a surge of energy rushed from the tips of her ears down to her toes, ripping and pulling at her strength as it washed itself from her body all at once.
Eva stumbled, breath heaving roughly as she clutched at the side of the desk for support. Her hands landed instead on the railing, and she sagged so heavily against it that the wood groaned and creaked dangerously. Eva suddenly felt exhausted, like she'd just dragged herself headlong out of an insanely strong rip-current. The fire that had burned within her ever since she'd woken up in the gardens of Versailles was doused abruptly, and with it went one of her legs, knee buckling weakly. Down below the man was on his feet, dusting himself off and turning around, shooting her with a glare that was half exasperation and all worry. Eva wavered on her feet, heel slipping back a half-step, knee threatening to cave. Her shocked gasp caught in her throat, but that was all the reaction she could muster. The rest of her was too tired, too numb. Exhausted.
She used the last of her strength to call his name.
"Arno?"
Arno sighed, shaking his head. "I'm guessing you though I was Alex? Not that you know who that— Hey!" Arno darted forward even as the black spots eating away at her vision won its mind numbing battle and sent Eva pitching half consciously over the railing. He caught her with a grunt, the jostling of her head against his shoulder— her cheek grazing the rough stubble of his jaw— enough to pull her back from the blackness. Eva blinked, taking a breath that expanded her singing lungs gloriously. Her senses slid back into place like a pair of glasses alighting their perch on the bridge of her nose, and suddenly she could clearly see the man staring, bewildered, down at her. She was tired still, yes, exhausted, but at least she wasn't dead. At least he was here.
Her current situation suddenly slapped her in the face like a block of ice.
Wait a— Whoa, wait a sec!
He was cradling her arms strong around her torso, a hand supporting her head gently. And his eyes, his nose, mouthlips— they were so close. Eva felt a red hot blush streak upwards, staining her cheeks pink. Embarrassed, she groaned, weakly pushing herself out of Arno's grasp. He let her go immediately— more shocked than anything— and she tumbled, landing on her butt and scrambling a moment later to her feet only to stumble into a bookcase. The lightheadedness passed pokily, and silently Eva pleaded that she would not black out again. Once over the side of a freaking railing was enough.
I am such a fucking mess.
Dusting herself off her gaze drifted upwards, catching Arno's curious, unflinching stare. His arms were crossed, a false expression of seriousness battling against the smug, twitching curve of the corner of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to laugh. Eva didn't blame him— she'd just pitched herself over the fucking balcony, for Christ's sake. She would have laughed too, if they're positions were switched. Actually no, I wouldn't. I'd probably be dead, 'cause he would definitely crush me. She cast her pale green gaze over him, up and down in a swift once over, feeling like she was seeing him— taking him in— for the first time.
He was tall, but so was she. If Eva had to guess, she'd probably place him in the ballpark of five ten or eleven. Twenty six, twenty seven… maybe… Slender. Muscular— hot damn I bet he has a six-pack and a half under all those layers— and graceful as all hell on his feet. Oh, and it was kind of hard to miss that he was handsome. Very handsome. Jesus Christ he blows every guy and their brother out of the ballpark at Humboldt. Fuck. Are you kidding me? Fuck.
Eva nearly groaned, throwing her head back as her eyes rolled to the ceiling in annoyance. Why the hell did he have to be hot? Taking a shaky step away from the bookcase, Eva sighed. Well, look at the bright side of things, at least when he starts speaking French you have something nice to look at while you're mentally blanking. Or, y'know, while you're trying to decipher his English. The thought immediately caused a snicker to flit across her lips, and she snorted, leaning heavily against the bookcase.
Arno blinked, brow arching, head cocked; Eva could almost hear the question that was probably pinging around in his mind. What the fuck is wrong with this girl? Or maybe it was more along the lines of: this bitch is insane, why did I just save her for the hundredth time? Shoulda let me face-plant the floor, man. Honestly, she couldn't blame him for thinking she was the craziest thing around since the invention of the selfie. After all, she'd just clobbered him with an ancient book and took a swan dive over the loft's freaking banisters. Eva shifted awkwardly on her feet, balancing as she scratched her heel with the toe of her opposite shoe, left hand working on a rather persistent kink in the back of her neck. She coughed. Arno stared. He was leaning against the desk, arms crossed, eye trained on her like a sniper's target. It suddenly occurred to Eva that he was looking at her like she were some new, bizarre species of animal.
Fan-fucking-tastic. By the way, are you by any chance free tonight—
"Uh, thanks for catching me there man." She rolled her eyes away from him towards the ceiling and winced. Sighing, trying to break the awkwardness. She couldn't, though. She was on a roll. "And, y'know, saving my ass from La Bête…" Can he even understand all of this? Jesus, this is more awkward than that time you had to present that slideshow in sex ed— Arno still hadn't spoken, and the way his dark eyes sank into her own had Eva squirming. "You da the real MVP." Oh my God, I need to shut up, someone shut me up someone throw a book at me ugh. "Uh…" Eva took a step forward, hands clasped tightly behind her back, the toe of her converse squeaking against the hardwood floor as she dragged it slowly after her. "Look, I'm really grateful for everything, seriously, you saved my ass like ten times… but would you happen to have a phone I could borrow…" She glanced upwards, directly into his eyes without meaning to, and saw the confusion and shock hovering plain as day in the forest green of his irises. Eva panicked and began to babble again. "O-o-or maybe you could just call the police yourself, since I don't speak French an-and lemme tell you, if I do, that conversation will just be such a fucking shitshow and—"
A hand shot up, encased in the rich black leather of a well tailored glove, and Eva faltered. Her pacing feet skidded to a halt not three feet in-front of him. "Stop," Arno said, and Eva blinked at the crisp clarity of his voice. "Just, stop for, for a second." His voice was low, smooth. And clearly strained. Great, I've probably overloaded his internal stress-meter for the decade. Blowing a tuft of bedraggled blond hair out of her eyes, Eva suddenly froze. Wait a secon— "Wait— hold the fuck up, when did you lose your accent?"
Arno started, the look of pure bewilderment cast her way enough to make Eva's skin crawl. Her stomach jittered, unsettled. Something wasn't right.
"Accent?"
He sounded so… so confused. Something was definitely off. Holding up a finger, Arno shifted so that that he was half sitting on the desk, crossing his legs before cocking his head and narrowing his eyes. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and shaking his head he grasped his furrowed brow with slender fingers and emitted a sigh that would have given an overworked grade-school teacher a vicious run for their money. Eva was nearly about to say something— anything— she was so uncomfortable and confused and damn tired… when he spoke.
"When," he sighed, "no, why— why didn't you speak French before?"
It was her turn to be baffled. Eva felt her mouth pop open, felt the crinkle of her brow as she frowned, squinting at Arno with a look of such utter confusion and bafflement that— if she could have seen herself— resembled Arno's almost identically. Taking in a long breath, Eva blew it out in a breathy "What?!"— Arno's face remained impassive, arms crossed once more, and without thinking Eva pointed to herself before whirling around in a circle.
"You, you mean me? You're talking to me, right?"
Without missing a beat, Arno snorted. "No, the armchair in the corner actually, could you move to the left a little, you're blocking my view."
Eva balked at the sarcasm that dripped from his words before sticking out a leg and sliding theatrically to the left, "thereee ya go…" Her eyes never left Arno, who was fighting down a snicker. "I don't even know how to fucking respond to any of this." She muttered. "Like, you're aware we are actually speaking English, right? I-I don't even know how to explain this. You're just pulling my leg, right? You're just pulling my leg 'cause I'm probably the biggest thorn in your side this week?"
Arno hesitated before shrugging, the smirk that graced his lips ripping a thrill through her heart so violently that Eva had to look away for a moment. "Well you're right about one thing at least… You are kidding with me, right? You do know you're speaking French to me."
Eva bristled instantly. What, is this guy crazy or something? Y'know what, with my recent track record why am I even surprised?
"No, no I'm not. I-I'm not, we're speaking English."
Arno sighed. "Ah, noo. Perfect French."
"Perfect English."
"French." Arno droned.
"English." Eva bit back.
But even as the syllables hissed from between gritted teeth she knew that she was wrong and Arno was right. She knew, like a mother might know something was wrong with her child— a gut feeling, a deep archaic natural instinct. All at once she understood, and the answer that came to her was so simple and obvious and impossible that for a moment Eva couldn't believe it— she wouldn't. And then (because how could you go through seemingly endless days of burning like a hot stove and not believe) she did, and the acceptance was like a train ramming into the soft, tender pink of her brain: It was the medallion. The proof was all strewn out in front of her, like clues to some huge murder mystery show. She'd gotten blood on the medallion back in the gardens of Versailles and had woken up… well… wherever here was. La Bête had smeared her blood across the room back in the prison, onto her necklace (and I'd understood him suddenly). And now— now— The cuts on her fingers, deep and aching. She'd grabbed nervously at her necklace right before she'd fallen. Don't get blood on that necklace Evangeline! Her mother would always scold her when she'd be zipping up her wetsuit. It would be a real shame. Somehow, in some weird, Harry Potter on crack way, the necklace had done this to her. The weight of the realization hit Eva like a brick to the head and stomach all at once. She staggered (a real shame) planting a hand on the edge of Arno's desk, a hand coming up to clutch at her hair.
"Jeeeeeezus fucking Christ." Eva moaned, dragging her hand down over her face. "Holy shit. Hoolllly fucking— Oh my God— Oh my God— What the fuck?" Eva threw her hands up in the air. "What the fuckwhatthefuck. Are you kidding me?"
Arno frowned, shifting uncomfortably beside her. "Umm, are you going to attack me if I say no?"
Eva huffed and glared at him before running her trembling fingers through her hair, hands falling to her hips. She swiveled so that she was facing him, her hair a fray framing her pale cheeks, and swallowed. "So…" she said slowly, matter of fact. "Um so yeah, I'd just like to throw it out there and say surprise, apparently I can speak fluent French."
If Arno had rolled his eyes any higher Eva was sure they would have gotten stuck. "And do I get an explanation for this or…?"
"No," Eva said bluntly, turning so that her back was to the desk, hands clutching its smooth edge behind her. For a moment she faltered, surprised at how close Arno actually was— not three feet away— taking in his strange outfit, the breeches, his long blue coat. Then she blinked and cleared her throat. "Not until I get a phone call." Her voice sounded firm, not like the wobbly jello the rest of her body felt like, and for that Eva was grateful.
"Okay." The man before her let his head fall back for a moment, eyes closing and huffing exasperatedly. Waving a gloved hand in the air dismissively, he hooked her with a sideways frown. "Then if you insist on keeping that little mystery a secret, at least answer me this…"
"Shoot."
"What is a 'phone'? Did I say that correctly?"
"What is a…?" Eva felt all the air whoosh out of her at once, her chest cavity feeling like it was going to fold in and collapse into her stomach at any moment. Reaching up a finger (which trembled madly, though she refused to acknowledge it's shivering presence in her vision's periphery) Eva jabbed it at Arno. "Stop it." She hissed, "Knock it the fuck off. This isn't a joke."
"What?" Arno snapped back indignantly. "It was a serious question!"
She could feel the tears coming, clogging her nose with mucous and stinging her eyes like wasp pricks. "Cut the shit," Eva didn't even care that her voice was as wavery as a drunken gymnast, nor that her tone had taken on a rough, pleading quality that made the air she gasped in taste sour and thick. She was tired, she was lonely, and she was pretty sure that she would need a good bit of counseling after such a dramatic experience. Also, Eva was half convinced she'd developed some new kind of disease— is there a form of Ebola that can cause my skin to be able to bake cookies on it? She didn't have time for this shit, this playful beating around the bush. "Please stop it. Stop messing with me… Where am I anyways?" A tear had begun to mosey its way down her cheek innocently, and angrily Eva reached up a fist and dragged it across her cheekbone with a low sniffle. "Do you have a phone, can I call my parents?" She asked thickly. "Please?"
Arno's face was impassive besides the slight parting of his lips. His eyes, though, his eyes were a brilliant spasm of emotion, a firework erupting vividly into the night sky of his dark green irises. Shock, a disoriented confusion, disquieted unease— in that one transient moment of their eyes meeting Eva saw his utter bafflement, his thoughts tangling up and his confounded mind a muddled mess. He has no idea how to handle this situation… The thought slipped from the cracks of his stoic armor and writhed its way into her mind. Arno was just as confused as she was, and the realization of their joint unsureness had her breath catching in her throat in short, painful gasps.
"Hey," Arno called, snapping from his momentary trance, foot sliding forward warily. "Eva, breath. Breath. Calm down."
The wind snaked and surged down her throat and up again, ripping at the tender flesh of her throat as stars began to float in spotty clumps before her eyes. "Don't… tell… me to… calm down!" She wheezed. Her skin festered and hissed with a dangerously rising heat, her vision hazy, and something about the way it swam told Eva that this time, it wasn't tears. Rather, it reminded her of the distorted shimmer held by an object when one stares at it through the wavy heat of a grill or a campfire. Arno must have noticed, because in the next instant he was before her, gripping her shoulders and leveling his face with her own. A wisp of that smell, the one from before, the one from the pillow— so wonderful and foreign and wild and alluring— sailed in front of her nose when he leaned closer.
"You need to calm down," he was saying, murmuring, and blinking Eva felt her eyes go wide at how close he actually was to her. Another few inches and their noses would have brushed. A part of her, the part that was nearly half insane with fear and disorientation, chuckled internally— Oh, sexy.
"Look, I don't know what happened to you or why La Bête captured you, but we're not going to get anywhere if you stop breathing and collapse." Arno snapped, "Again." The solid, strong pull of his fingers gripping at her skin and the pointed bones of her shoulders had Eva sucking in a mouthful of air so fast that she wheezed noisily on the exhale. Her legs quivered and seesawed, the heat burned and smoldered within her, and reaching out a hand Eva gripped Arno's forearm tentatively as she steadied herself, fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, eyes fixed on the space in the floorboards between their shoes. She didn't recall Arno helping her into the chair beside the elegant desk, but he must have, because the next thing she knew Eva's fingers had relinquished their hold on his forearm and were clutching the chair's arms in a death grip. Arno glanced from his unmarred coat sleeve to her hands nervously. Her palms were hot and sweaty, but nowhere near the furnace her skin had been even yesterday.
Eva stared at her lap, ignoring Arno for as long as she possible could as he paced back and forth before her. A part of her wandered if he were as deep in thought as she were— he must be, since he'd nearly run into her chair twice— but the majority of Eva's mind was still ensnared in the laughably insane attempt at trying to comprehend her reality at the moment. Her lips parted, and Eva was just about to ask Arno if she could borrow a phone (again) when he spun suddenly, the look of determination dominating his features and the line of his brow moldering at the sight of her anxious, tear-streaked distress. He faltered, glanced away as if debating something, before blinking back up at her uncertainly. A strand of brown hair had escaped the ribbon that messily tied it all back in a ponytail and drifted against the handsome rise of his cheekbone idly.
"What—" Arno licked his lips, arms rising, dropping, hands balling into fists. "Please don't get upset."He added quickly, a hand raising out towards her warily. Eva only eyed him. "What is a 'phone'?" He said it with a hitch in his voice, twisted and warped. Foreign. The word was foreign to him.
Eva shook her head, scooting forward and balancing her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands. Jesus Christ, he said the word like he's never heard of it before. And maybe he hadn't. The idea was almost too much to bear, and as much as she tried to shut it out, it persisted, knocking against her skull obnoxiously. The way they dress, all of them, her mind rang and rattled, the way everything looks so… old. Antique. And he doesn't even know what a phone is… A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips, and burying her head in her hands Eva blinked rapidly against the bleary little tears that floated at the corners of her eyes. It was almost a dream, the thought that festered and bumped persistently around her head. A nightmare, a ludicrous imagining of children. A comically bad movie. There was no way, no fucking way, that it could be possible. Things like that just didn't fucking happen.
But it made sense. It made sense, and that scared her so much it was almost unbearable.
Eva lifted her head, eyes peeking out from behind the safety of her hands, and caught Arno's gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something, his brows raised in concern— rather, she thought it was concern, he might just be incredibly bugged over the limits of her sanity— and so she held up a finger and gathered herself (or at least tried to) for what seemed like an hour at the very minimum, but was really all of five minutes. Twice Eva decided firmly that she simply wouldn't ask the question, the one she knew would rock her world. Would send her spiraling into lunacy. Madness. But she had to ask, had to clear this hump. Had to move on, get it over with. A small part of her was still clinging to the hope that maybe, maybe she was wrong, that her overactive imagination, her fatigue, had drawn up a ridiculous conclusion that was absurdly impossible. There was only one way to find out.
She steeled herself.
"What—" Eva croaked, licking her lips with a tongue as dry and rough as freshly cut sandpaper. Arno stilled, looking at her expectantly, curiously. She was as alien to him as the words she used, an unpredictability. And that unsettled him.
"What is the date?"
Arno frowned, eyes crinkling as he squinted at her. "The date?" He asked dubiously.
Eva could only nod, all quivering limbs and bated breath.
"Ah," his eyes flicked to the ceiling. "Last I checked it was the fifteenth of October."
Eva's breath caught in her throat and Arno tensed, eyeing her for any sign of another breathing fit. October fifteenth. She'd gone to Versailles with her parents on the twenty-ninth of September. She'd been missing for over two weeks.
The room seemed to be spinning, Eva's sweaty fingers were sticking together and her panicked heart was hammering. Arno took a step forward and she shook her head, gasping loudly. "The year?" She choked. "Tell me the year."
Arno's voice was clear and smooth and alarmingly, frighteningly calm when he almost offhandedly replied:
"Seventeen ninety-six."
Eva tried to swallow and couldn't. If this were a movie, she would dead faint away right now. If this were a movie someone would burst through the doors and magically have a way to get her back to her own time (I'm stuck here). If this were a movie, everything would end up okay. But this wasn't a movie and she wasn't okay. She was lost (stuck), lost in a time she knew nothing about, and her parents probably thought she was dead and long gone (stuckstuckstuck). Well, they're right about one thing.
Seventeen ninety-six.
Eva wanted to throw back her head and scream. To puke. To faint. To smack herself so hard she woke up from this nightmare coma that wasn't a comaitwasrealrealreal— Instead she threw herself from her seat, sprinting past Arno to the window and wrenching it open. What she saw made her hand slip from the window's edge and fall to her side numbly. Eva's gaze swiveled mechanically back to Arno's. She felt like she was free-falling, even though her feet were planted firmly— almost too firmly, her knees locked and trembling— beneath her.
"Fuck."
