Page 80 of We Were Eternal Once

Zora’s fingers play along her necklace. I noticed it when we first met, when our eyes locked after she trailed me through the street. Caterina said it was proof of her status as a hunter. If she’d followed us, she would have seen it. It was a curious necklace, but was it as nefarious as she claimed?

If Zora was a hunter and I confronted her, she could kill me.

Would she kill me? She had ample opportunity over the last few months, why delay? If she was trying to gather information about the other vampyrs in Paris, she was doing a poor job at it.

I grab the collar of a young boy as he runs by, pulling him to face me.

“Go harass that woman. Bring your friends,” I tell him. He blinks at me, his pupils wide and his face slack. I turn his face to Zora and point. He slips into the shadows, returning a few moments later with a gaggle of other boys of similar age. They swarm Zora, pushing her and taunting her.

Was I doing the right thing? Why was I so quick to accept Caterina’s accusation?

No—that’s not what I was doing. I was testing a theory, and when she was proven wrong, I would enact my own revenge on her. Perhaps the roof of Le Sang Bleu would collapse, like the temple in Alexandria. Except this would be no act of nature, this would be my doing.

And they would know it was me before they died.

In a way, it was Zora’s fault that I knew how to steal her satchel. She shouldn’t have taught me the most important art of thievery—distraction. The boys circle her, requiring her full attention.

It’s not hard to slip the satchel from her shoulder and replace it with one of similar size and weight. She would notice in short order, but I only needed to get far enough away to examine the contents of it.

If there was proof here, I would confront her.

If there was nothing, I’d find a way to return it to her.

I slip into the shadows and disappear onto a roof where I could sort her items in peace. I upend the bag, spreading her belongings in front of me, turning them over piece by piece.

Jewelry—some I recognized as ones we’d stolen, others I did not. Personal mementos? Things she hadn’t hawked yet? I separate them into their own pile. My bracelet wasn’t in there, Zora keeps it eternally on her wrist.

A silver cross larger than my hand. I turn it over, examining it. I did not know Zora to be religious. I thought she was secular, like the others who separated themselves from the church of the past.

A wooden stake.

I stared at it long and hard, worrying the nail of my right index finger with my thumb. I reach out to touch it, to ensure it was real, then withdraw my hand.

It takes several long moments before I reach out once more, my hand hovering just above it. I expect it to burn my palm as I close my fingers around it. I expect a splinter to lodge itself in my flesh, to somehow poison my blood.

Nothing happens.

It was an ordinary piece of wood. I brought it to my nose and inhaled.

Blood. Old, dried.

I drop the stake on the ground and began to pace.

Was this proof she is a hunter? What if it were a collector’s item? Or what if she used it for protection against the streets of the Palais? If apprehended, would a piece of wood be less damning than a knife or blade to the police of Paris?

I pace the length of the roof three more times before settling down before the remaining objects in her bag.

There is a worn, leather-bound book I’d never seen her with. I crack it and read the inside cover. It was a list of names, Zora’s is the seventh on the list. Her name was written in scratchy, awkward script, cramped compared to the names before hers.

A piece of paper flutters to the ground. I pick it up, unfolding it to read the cramped writing.

Z,

This is your last chance. Do the right thing.

Love,

D