0.5 One Wilde Night (10 page)

No wonder I liked this place so much.

Stepping into the warm, muggy night, I strode toward the Luxembourg Gardens without too much hurry, the popular tourist destination still illuminated despite the fact that it was nearing midnight. I angled my way through a dozen or so manicured plots, waiting for a tail to materialize. None did that I could see, so I changed course. I had that creepy crawly feeling of being followed, but there was nothing for it. I had more work to do.

Besides, all was not lost tonight. Not yet, anyway. Chances were good that the king of coins would cough up the money for his relic. Even at triple his original cost, it was probably a steal, if my contact’s panic and the interest of the
freaking Swiss Guard
was any indication.

But, if the deal blew up, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been left holding the proverbial bag; it wouldn’t be the last.

And I hadn’t been lying back at Le Stube. The magical antiquities black market
had
been heating up for the past couple of years. If there were already two parties gunning for this chunk of gold—my buyer and, apparently, the pope—then someone else with money to burn was probably sniffing around too.

That cheered me up.

I left the Luxembourg Gardens and skirted the Odéon, turning onto the Rue de Tournon as I let my stride lengthen. Paris was drying out from a recent drizzle, and everything smelled like spring.

Father Jerome would be waiting for me, and though I’d wanted to be able to give him more cash tonight, I was not arriving empty-handed. It would be enough, I thought. It had to be enough.

I turned onto the Boulevard Saint-Germaine and scanned the long, wide street. As usual, the neighborhood was hopping, but that didn’t concern me so much. As I approached the church, however, something about the tone and tenor of the large crowd milling around struck me as odd.

Specifically, that there was a tone and tenor.

Rollicking music blasted out from several venues, the partiers unusually raucous, while jazz, booze, and pot all hung heavy in the air. I finally caught sight of a large banner flapping in the evening breeze that explained all the crazy: Festival Jazz à Saint-Germaine-des-Prés!

Ah, Paris. City of Festivals.

I slipped into the throng, drifting toward the arched entryway to the church. With this many people, I could have been a gorilla in a tutu and no one would have noticed me. The main church entrance was locked at this hour, but, as expected, the side door opened easily into the cool quiet of the ancient church.

I’d barely stepped through before the bolt slid home, then the short, cloaked old priest was at my side. “Bienvenue, Sara.” As always, his quiet greeting was as comforting as warm bread. “Is everything all right?” Though a native Parisian, Father Jerome’s English was flawless, his words sounding richer and somehow more intelligent in his thick Parisian accent.

I shrugged. “I had to cut short tonight’s negotiations.” We walked toward the nave of the church, where colorful frescoes gleamed in the gentle light of dim sconces, and I let myself relax a notch or two. Here in this sacred space, there was solace to be had. Even if just for a little while.

As we paused in front of the altar, where the light was highest, I reached into the left side of my jacket and pulled out the thick money pouch. I handed it to Jerome. “I’d wanted there to be more. The list grows longer.”

“It will always be long.” The priest’s words were a quiet absolution I’d not realized I needed. He reached for the pouch but didn’t take it from me immediately. Instead, his soft, papery hands enveloped mine, his eyes staring up at me. “You are
tired
, Sara. The need will always outstrip those who serve, and we cannot lose you too.”

“You won’t lose me.” I pressed the money into his palm and turned away. “It’s thirty thousand. That won’t go very far.”
It will hopefully be many times more than that, soon.
But I couldn’t promise that to Father Jerome. I was done with promises I couldn’t keep.

“It will go as far as it must.” It was always this way with him—he was careful, calm, and sure, even as he took risks that would have terrified a man half his age. Risks to protect the youngest and most defenseless members of the psychic community, whose very innocence made them coveted commodities on the arcane black market.

Standing in the half-light of the nave, he weighed the package in his hands. “We must make choices, though. The boy in Chartres shows promise—and with promise comes danger. He and his family currently live outside the village in relative safety, but small pilgrimages have begun to bring them food and gifts.”

I grimaced. “What did he do?”

“The village’s crops had failed two years running. A month ago, he blessed the soil in which they grew.” Jerome chuckled. “Which ordinarily would have bought us more time, except the villagers have already gathered their first harvest, and it is barely spring.”

A proven ability to hurry along the growing season? That wasn’t good. “Then he’s the priority. Chartres draws too much attention anyway with its ley line configuration. Someone will notice what’s going on there. The family should be moved before there’s trouble.” I squinted at Jerome. “Only child?” He nodded. Single children were the norm in families like this. “Who else?”

“Two other families remain on the watch list,” he said. “In Turin and San Sebastian. Those are established cities, with friends close at hand, and the children are young. So far, whispers of their abilities have been kept to close relatives. The château in Bencançon has received five more families in the last week, however, and yet another orphan. So whatever is not needed for the boy in Chartres will go there. And the search continues for others. ” He sighed. “The young healer in Linz has not been recovered. The twin girls from Kavala, it has been nearly a month without word. The same with the child from Berlin. Fifteen remain at large, and those are merely the ones we know. ”

“Pierre-Charles?” I couldn’t keep the hope out of my voice, but I knew the answer before the old priest shook his head.

“He…was found in Nimes. His heart and eyes removed.”

I glanced away, knowing the image would haunt me anyway, along with too many others. Pierre-Charles had been a blond, blue-eyed boy of fourteen, his features angelically perfect. But he had not been taken for his fair skin or sweet face.

He had been taken for what he saw.

Visions of holy fire and retribution, of a scourge of wings that would sweep the earth clean of its filth and degradation. Visions he’d been stupid enough to share with his fellow students at some backward Toulouse boarding school. Word had gotten out too fast for us to intervene. By the time we’d reached Toulouse, Pierre-Charles was gone.

Magic was a bloody business these days. True members of the Connected community had value as tools, yes. But also as donors for rituals. Their eyes, their organs, their limbs could all give power to a dark practitioner, or so it was said. And children with such abilities were considered to be especially precious.

It was always the children who paid.

“Bounty hunters?” I turned back to Father Jerome. “Or scared locals?”

“Hunters, we believe. The body was dumped outside the city, the surgery precise.” He shifted in the half-light. “The dark practitioners grow bold.”

I nodded. “Something’s bothering them.”

I’d met Father Jerome on my second assignment, more than five years ago. He was an acknowledged expert in Roman antiquities. More importantly, he’d actually once seen the trinket I’d been commissioned to find on that particular job.

We’d worked well together, then Jerome had hired me to liberate some second-rate reliquary from a cesspool of dark magic. Back then, I didn’t know how deep the underworld had become. Back then, I’d just been on the run, willing to hire out to everyone and anyone with money to spend and artifacts to find.

But I’d been lucky. Father Jerome had proven to be an able instructor.

I’d found other such instructors along the way too. And with instruction had come awareness, then knowledge, then understanding. And, sure, the occasional betrayal. Eventually, I’d learned about the black market bounty hunters who were being paid top dollar to deliver not simply artifacts but real-live people as well, gifted psychics who could be used as arcane sacrifices—the younger and more untrained the better.

I tried to keep out of it, not get involved. I knew better than to make connections I couldn’t easily walk away from. After that crisp, sunny morning in Memphis ten years ago, when my whole world had gone up in a rush of fire and smoke and pain, I needed to stay as far off the grid as possible.

But I couldn’t help myself in the end. Not when children were going missing.

Some things never changed.

“I should have more for you soon.” A new thought struck me. Maybe Father Jerome would know what the big deal was about my current relic, why it’d suddenly been elevated to Rome’s Most Wanted list. The old priest was an expert on antiquities, and I had a vague recollection that Saint-Germaine-des-Prés had been erected on a Roman shrine of some kind. I reached into my jacket. “Actually,” I began—

“A moment, Miss Wilde.”
The sensually familiar voice riffled through my mind, setting me on edge. “
I would rather you not do that.”

“Yes?” Jerome frowned at me as I stiffened. “What is it, Sara?”

Dammit, Armaeus.
“Just…Give me a minute.”

I turned and strode down the long central corridor of the church, the world falling silent around me.

Then, with a flash of shockingly white light through the soaring stained glass windows, the sky rained down with fire.

To read more of Sara’s adventures, purchase Getting Wilde today at one of these retail outlets:

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Author’s Note

The cards that appear at the opening of One Wilde Night were the ones pulled by Sara before her first meeting with the client who would commission her for the Rio de Janeiro job. She knew she’d have to be on her guard, but she had no way of knowing how much. Here are the three basic interpretations a Tarot reader might give to someone pulling these cards:

The Magician

Magical influences come into your life and you can create solutions to your most challenging problems. Synchronicity and creativity prevail, as well as quick thinking and resourcefulness. Opportunities abound, and your dreams and deepest wishes can come true with focus and positive intent. A new, magical relationship or life-changing energy is on the horizon.

Seven of Swords

Stealth, mistrust and secrecy rule the day. Be smart and hold your cards close to the vest. Take steps to protect yourself and your possessions—someone may try to steal something from you or take advantage of you. Actions during this time require daring and surprise. Keep your strategy secret and be careful of whom you trust.

The Tower