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On the platform, most people moved towards the exit while a few lingering passengers boarded the outbound train. Soon we were by ourselves and able to do what we had to without fear of being questioned.
Walking the full length of the platform, we checked the tile-covered walls for a point of easy access to the area that lay beyond. There were no obvious entrances, just the stairs leading up to the street. We worked our way down to the platform’s end, to the point of no return, where pedestrians could not pass.
About fifteen feet past the station proper, where the train tunnel began to turn, was a small access door set into the wall. Through the dim light I was able to make out the sign: Réservé aux employés.
“I think that’s our best bet.” I angled my chin towards the tunnel, not wanting to draw too much attention since people had started filling up the waiting area again.
“Seems like the most obvious choice.”
“So we come back tomorrow night, then. Pay a visit to an old friend.”
His mouth formed a thin line. “Don’t you want to take some time, formulate a more thorough plan?”
I shook my head, feeling totally focused on the task before us. “Time isn’t going to help this. We go in. We find Peyton. We kill Peyton.”
“I guess I should be grateful you’re saying we.” He tugged my ponytail until I looked at him, and we both shared a smile.
He had good reason to make that jab. For a long time I’d been the kind of woman—girl, really—to rush headlong into the fray with next to no concern for my own personal safety. I would go at it alone, because the idea of risking anyone else was unforgivable. Over time I started to realize I couldn’t keep doing things the same way. Relying on others wasn’t a weakness, it was a necessity, and I had people in my life who were strong enough to fight alongside me.
Except sometimes they weren’t.
A vision of Holden’s gaunt face tried to creep into my mind, but I struggled against it, imagining him as he was the night I’d left for France. He was healthy, robust, and though he was pale, that was hardly anything new for him. I imagined his dark hair, the color of coffee, and his brown eyes, full of life in spite of his lack of pulse.
Holden was fine. He’d survived our ordeal with The Doctor the same as I had. Maybe better. He hadn’t been brutalized like I was. And maybe it had something to do with the fact he’d already died once, while I still cherished my mortality, but the incident didn’t seem to be bothering him the way it did me.
He wanted me to move on like he had, but I was struggling to put things behind me. Maybe I wasn’t as strong as he was.
And admitting I was low on strength made it easier for me to acknowledge I needed help. I would kill Peyton on my
own, but I’d need Desmond’s help to get me there.
“Yeah. We,” I repeated.
“Okay. I won’t argue, but we do need to consider what we might be up against. I’m sure he’ll have minions or something.”
I couldn’t contain my laugh. “Jesus, Des. It’s not Despicable Me. He’ll have some low-level vamps around him at best. Knowing Peyton’s style, he will probably have a few baby vamps.” My throat constricted, cutting off my laughter. Alexandre Peyton had a thing for turning new vampires. He’d done it before, setting one on my scent to kill me. That vampire—Brigit Stewart—had ended up becoming one of my dearest friends.
Until she’d been killed.
Talking about baby vamps was apparently one of many touchy subjects I needed to avoid.
Desmond sensed the change in my behavior and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. He kept his distance, allowing space between our bodies, and for once my immediate response was not to pull away. I stepped closer and ducked my head under his chin. For a moment he must have been surprised by my willingness to be held because he did nothing. Then both his big arms wrapped around my back, and he drew me in tight, letting his bulk shield me from the outside world.
“We’ll get him,” he whispered, stroking my hair. He felt warm, almost hot. Werewolves tended to have elevated body temperatures, whereas my own skin was usually cool or lukewarm. Against my own tepid skin, his felt downright steamy, reminding me how much I missed touching him and falling asleep with him beside me. Desmond always felt so alive to me, like the little miniature sun at the center of my private universe.
“I know.”
And I almost believed myself.
Chapter Five
I didn’t want to take the train again, so we left the metro and headed into the night-darkened Paris streets. Desmond took my hand, and riding the wave of confidence from the platform, I let him. It felt nice, having him touch me. I wasn’t sure I was ready for anything more intimate, but this…this was good.
Aside from my sword, we could have been any other couple exploring the city at night. I half-expected Paris to have an aroma like fresh bread or Chanel Number Five, but the whole city had a wet, dirty smell to it. Occasionally we’d pass a bakery receiving their morning flour delivery, and the scent of dough would waft out, but otherwise it was just the old familiar reek of damp concrete and garbage.
Still, it was better than the piss stink of Alma-Marceau station.
The walk back to our hotel was long, and for several minutes neither of us spoke. Desmond had the twitchy mannerisms of someone fighting desperately to hold back words but losing.
