Thank you, as always, for reading along!

Enjoy!

Erik

Chapter 27

The Cat's-Eye

The coach couldn't drive fast enough.

My every nerve was aflame as the horses clomped against the cobblestone street, every step a reflection of my own rapid heart. No. My heart was faster.

Vincenzo.

I was going to see Vincenzo. I was going to see my brother after all these years believing him dead and gone.

I continuously closed my eyes and breathed in deep, expecting to awaken. But I never did - and my dreams were never this pleasant, besides. Not anymore.

Beside me, Christine shifted. I noticed a little line appear between her brows, so small it was barely noticeable. Nerves. She was nervous, but was doing her best not to be.

"Tell me, my friend," said Ibrahim in the silence, and I looked to him. He had a glint in his eye - this whole affair was a distraction for him. A welcome one. "What should we be expecting from this 'Vincenzo' character?"

A quick look around the coach showed that everyone was now looking at me, expectantly awaiting an answer.

I offered a sly smile to Ibrahim. "In a few words, he is where I obtained the majority of my sense of humor."

Gustave made a low hissing sound through his teeth, shaking his head slowly, but he winked. "Best not introduce him to Nadir, then. The man would kill him."

"I'd love to see him try." I frowned despite his jest, moving my eyes to the window - the darkened city moving past. So few people were out tonight, at least in this part of town. An image of myself at fourteen appeared there, an image of Carmelo and Vincenzo running with me, toward home, to be welcomed by Giovanni and Luciana and Salvatore. I blinked and the image was gone. "Vincenzo already escaped death once."

And how he'd done it is something I needed to know. Something I had to ask him. Along with why he'd come to France rather than go south, to Naples perhaps, or Sicily even. He'd never learned French, so why go to a country where it was the language spoken?

But the latter question was less pressing than the first. The fact that his heart was currently pumping in his chest contradicted everything about my curse. Either he was immune, somehow, like Christine.

Or she was right, and there had never been a curse at all; I was simply a severely unlucky bastard.

At last - at long last - the coach pulled to a stop in an area of Paris I doubted anyone at de Chagny's party had ever set foot. Not quite the depths of the slums, but I wouldn't be surprised to find a lady of the night or a poor homeless fellow lurking around these street corners.

A look out the window presented a dark stone building, set with plenty of windows, but each with a red curtain drawn. A sign above the black door was painted in white: La Taverne Oeil de Chat. The Cat's Eye Tavern. True to form, an enormous image of a cat's eye was there above the tavern's name.

Seconds later, the coachman opened the door for us. I exited, then Ibrahim. When my father-in-law left the carriage, the coachman glanced at the tavern and offered a dubious look. "Messieurs..." he said softly, "are you quite sure that we are in the right spot?" He reiterated the address.

"Very sure," I responded, and held out my arm for Christine. She took it and left the coach, watching the establishment all the while, as though she expected that eye to blink. The night air blew some of her hair loose from where it was styled back, and she pushed it behind her ear. I was sure that in the daylight, this place was unassuming; but in the dark-

Well, even I had a chill.

"And you don't need me to wait?" the coachman asked, sounding very much like he hoped we did not. He scratched at his auburn sideburns, already turning toward his seat behind the horses.

"I presume we will," said Ibrahim, and, noting the man's discomfort, pulled out a wad of francs that had me glancing around for thieves. But the former Grand Vizier was bright, hiding the money so that it was only visible to our small group. "Will this be enough to cover our ride, as well as the time wasted waiting?"

"I..." The coachman practically salivated at the francs as he took it. "Take your time, Madame and Messieurs, please. I will be here when you need a ride elsewhere."

Ibrahim gave a self-satisfied smile and came to stand between me and my father-in law, with Christine on my other side. Behind him, the coachman climbed into his seat and counted the francs; his night seemed to grow better with every paper counted.

"Carry a wad of money around with you, Ibrahim?" I said. "Just...took an entire bank's worth of francs to a party? I'm beside myself with shock that you weren't robbed as well."

He shrugged. "Eh, I figured I might need it. Clearly I was right."

"You'll drain your account dry by next month, if you keep going at this rate."

He smiled wide. "And you clearly don't know just how much I have." He looked between us all. "I do mean it - should any of you require assistance, I am perfectly capable-"

"Not so loud, Ibrahim, please," said Christine, looking at a street corner. I didn't see anything there, and I doubted we were in much danger, but that likely didn't matter. I didn't forget her predicament when she'd been plucked from the street and taken to Persia. A stranger - two strangers - had taken her right as night fell. She'd thought she was safe. She'd been wrong.

I gripped her hand, and when her eyes found mine, I gave as reassuring a look as I could. Her expression softened and she squeezed my fingers.

"Ready?" I asked them. Christine nodded.

"Ready, yes," said Gustave, though his voice held an edge, and his hands worked at his sides.

"As am I," Ibrahim said, with more ease than the older man beside him.

"Right," I said, and though I uttered the word with as much confidence as I could muster, there was a swell of fear in me. Just a bubble. But it was there. Not because I feared Vincenzo - not that I feared harm at his hands.

But because of what he might say. What he might blame me for.

It wasn't fear, then. Not really.

It was shame.

I could turn around now. I could, and my small group - my family - would be more than willing to support this decision. But Vincenzo was also my family, and he'd asked me to find him. He'd been alive when the wolves attacked in Venice. I hadn't known. I'd abandoned him.

I wouldn't do so again.

"Let's go," I said, louder than I intended, and we stepped up to the door of the Cat's Eye Tavern. Paris at our backs, the unknown before us, I turned the knob.