Authors: Michele Drier
“How did this dinner party get put together? I didn’t even arrive until last night!”
“It was planned a few days ago, right after your travels plans were firm. Jean-Louis and the Baron thought you needed to be seen on your own. It will give you gravitas when you begin to work with the boys from the East.”
Ah, the boys from the East. Everything I’d heard about these oligarchs had been that they refused to do business with women. There were a few exceptions, and with women heading up the U.S. State Department recently, they were grudgingly accepting a newer way, but a woman still had barriers to overcome before she was trusted. Well, this was another persona I’d have to adopt if I wanted to keep my place with SNAP.
“That’s very sophisticated thinking, thank you. But why wasn’t I told earlier?”
Francois gave one of his shrugs that could mean, “who knows”, “who cares”, “I don’t know” or “why are you asking?” In this case, I found out it was “why are you asking the obvious?” when he said “I suspect they want you to get used to handling surprises. When you start getting involved with Kiev and Moscow, most things are surprises and they want to make sure you can manage when the sand shifts.”
Once again, I read the situation through my own fears sand perspective. They wanted me to take charge. Well, now, this was something I could do.
Chapter Eleven
The dinner party came off without a hitch. The apartment was filled with flowers, the food was delicious, Marnee had gotten a staff together and the guests, primarily French media types, with two young actors, were charmed and charming. I even had time for a quick call to Jean-Louis, but this time I behaved like a grown-up.
“Thank you for the vote of confidence and for having my back.”
A low chuckle came through the phone. “You are so American! ‘Having your back?’ What weird American coined that phrase?”
I wasn’t going to let him get to me. Not tonight. “It’s a term about danger, it means...”
“Actually, I do know what it means. It’s just that you, your countrymen, bring slang and street talk into the everyday language. It’s just different. Are you liking Paris?”
“You know I love this city. I really haven’t done much today, some looking at a couple of houses, but tomorrow I’m going to spend time with the Parisians.”
“Just be careful and remember that Denis and Michele need to be with you at all times.”
“I know. I’m talking about being out during the day. I’ll be careful.”
“Good.” Jean-Louis’ voice got lower and caressed me, making my face tingle. “I want you to know that I love you, and that some day, soon, you and I will be in Paris together.”
His voice and his love wrapped around me and gave me the extra boost that let me sail through the dinner party.
I didn’t let the euphoria completely dull my business sense, though. The two French actors, both beautiful young women, went into my mental “New Talent” folder and after the guests left, I talked to Francois about them.
“I thought you’d pick up on them. I made sure they got invitations. They were stunned at getting invitations to a SNAP do, and awed by you.”
I said good-bye to Francois at 3 a.m., the middle of the afternoon for him. I didn’t ask what he was going on to do. I wasn’t sure if he was gay or bi or hetero. We always laughed and flirted and he usually picked up on some of the most beautiful regular women at parties, but I wanted to make sure that his personal life was his own.
The next day, I announced to Marnee, and Denis and Michele that I was going out to meet some Parisians. By myself.
Denis and Michele wrinkled their eyebrows and had a rapid conversation, this time in Hungarian. Oh-oh, that could mean trouble.
One of them, I was pretty sure it was Denis, went into the office and I could hear lots of beeps that meant an international call. There was a rushed conversation, again in Hungarian, and he came back and said, “No.”
I stared at him. It wasn’t in their purview to give me orders.
“You don’t have the right to tell me no.”
“Maybe not me, but Jean-Louis does.”
“How did he tell you? It’s day time. He’s...”
“He should be sleeping, but there are standing orders to wake him if it concerns you. Sandor did. He said that Jean-Louis said ‘no’. You must take at least one of us with you. I’ll go. Where are you going?”
This was a long conversation with a demon. As usual, I was overridden. We headed for the river by way of the Place de la Resistance. There were still buildings with pockmarks from World War II street fights and each had a plaque with the Resistance Fighter’s name.
I loved this. For the first time in months, I’d left the rarified atmosphere of the Baron and the SNAP executives and just had a chance to be an anonymous onlooker. It was an overcast fall day and the Parisians were wrapped in scarves with umbrellas handy, but the cool mist wasn’t keeping anyone inside. The streets were full of people who glanced at Denis with interest, nodded and went on. Not a lot of people strolled along the Seine with a large, powerful guy in a black suit, but they registered him as a bodyguard and left it at that.
We crossed on the Alexander III bridge and continued to the Tuileries, where kids pushed small boats in the ponds, watched by their nannies.
I suddenly wanted to go to Notre Dame. I’m not religious, but that huge Gothic building, girded by flying buttresses and frosted with gargoyles, was too much to miss.
“Let’s take the Metro,” and I headed down at the Louvre station before Denis could tell me no. He followed me gamely, not wanting to create a scene. We changed at Chatelet for the line to the Ile de la Cite and Denis was less that a step away from me the entire time. I knew I was making him careful? nervous? wary? , but I was having a great time people watching and listening to French pouring over me like a waterfall.
When the train came, Denis and I were jostled apart by a group of Gypsy women with children in tow. The women started an argument at the top of their voices, not watching the kids who ran up and down the car.
Denis edged close to me. “This is a group of pickpockets and bag thieves. Please watch yourself,” he said in my ear.
When we left the apartment, I’d stuffed a bunch of euros in the front pocket of my jeans, so felt impervious to trained sticky little hands, but I nodded to Denis.
We came up at the Cite station on the edge of the flower market. I headed off to look at the stalls, now filled with fall wreaths and dried stalks, assuming that Denis would follow. When I turned to head to another stall, a large man caught me eye.
He was a series of muscle slabs, beginning at his head which merged into his shoulders without an indication of a neck. His arms stood out from his body, his hands were huge, with hairy knuckles. He had hair pushing out of the neck and sleeves of his shirt and the only hairless place was his head, smooth-shaven.
His mouth twisted into a grimace, then I realized he was smiling at me. I gave a quick smile back and turned the corner of the stall, only to realize that I’d come into a narrow walkway between the backs of the stalls and the wall of an old stone building. Just as I started back, he turned the corner too, smiled and snatched my arm.
“Ah, lady, you make mistake, yes?”
His English was heavily accented and guttural, probably from an Eastern European country. He wore a Parisian workman’s smock over his shirt and pants and smelled like garlic and cheap wine. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to just give me directions back to the Metro.
As he pulled me into his chest, I managed to shout for Denis before he threw a stinking burlap bag over my head. Then I was lifted, the wind was knocked out of me and I was being carried; not too far before I was dumped onto the ancient cobblestones so hard that my head hit the pavement.
I don’t know if I saw stars. I knew I was experiencing what law enforcement calls “altered consciousness”, usually the result of too much illegal substances. Mine was altered because I was so groggy I had no idea where I was or who I was with.
Somebody pulled the bag off me, I sucked in a breath of clean air and started coughing. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on just breathing. I could hear voices over me and they finally sorted themselves out to Denis and Michele talking to a guy with a heavy accent, but I must have still been semi-conscious because the words didn’t make any sense.
Until I realized they were speaking a language I’d never heard before.
I opened my eyes. I was sitting on the burlap bag, against the stone wall of a building, looking at the back of a flower stall. Hmmm, I may have been gone for a while, but I hadn’t gotten far. Above me, Denis and Michele were talking low and hard to the guy in the smock, who wasn’t saying too much back.
Two more demons popped up. They managed to get a needle into the smock guy and when he slumped, unconscious, they poured some more wine over him and strong-armed him away to a waiting car. Denis tsked-tsked and in French, very loudly, said something about people who were drunk during the day.
He then stood me up. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m fine, now. I am so sorry, I’ve gotten you in trouble with Jean-Louis, haven’t I? I don’t know what happened. The last time I looked, you were right behind me.”
“I was, but a swarm of those kids came through, you turned a corner and, poof. It was just enough time for the Chechen to grab you.”
“Chechen? Why him, them, those people?”
“We’re going to ask him. We think maybe the Russians hired him.” Denis’ voice was grim. “I’m taking you home. We have another car here.”
“Wait, who are those other demons. They are demons, aren’t they? Where’d they come from?”
“When I saw you’d been grabbed, I called Michele and had him get back-up. Michele got here first in one car, they came in a second one.”
“How did they get through traffic so fast?” I’d seen the parking lot that passes for Parisian traffic first hand.
“You were unconscious for a few minutes. And we all know shortcuts and ways to get around.”
He at least allowed me the dignity of walking to the car idling at the curb. For the crowds of people, Parisians and tourists, who were wandering around the Ile de la Cite that day, the demons handled the whole incident so well that no one was aware of what had happened.
“I guess my visit to Notre Dame is off. I can’t get Jean-Louis to take me, the vampires get edgy around the church.”
“Huh,” Denis responded, not amused at my levity.
Chapter Twelve
I was right, Jean-Louis wasn’t happy.
Denis (the rat) had already called him and before we got back to the apartment I had a message. My bags were packed, the car was ready, the plane would be at Orly shortly and my Parisian adventure was over.
It was no use arguing with anyone, all of the staff here, demons as well, were just staff and followed Jean-Louis’ orders. By nightfall, I was on the way to Orly, but I gave one last shot at Francois.
“I’m sorry Maxie,” his voice had lost most of its cheerfulness. “Jean-Louis is very angry and I have to agree with him. We had no idea how closely you were being watched. And we also didn’t know about the Chechens. I’ll see you at the castle in a few days. We’re being called to a family meeting.”
My God, this was truly serious. Stefan and Jean-Louis didn’t call an all-family meeting often, this was only the second one I knew about.
Chagrinned, I got on the plane and tried to have THE conversation with Jean-Louis. I failed. I knew he was royally angry, and he had every right to be. I’d talked Denis into doing something against his better judgment and now he was in the soup, because of me and with me.
Denis wouldn’t be fired, you couldn’t fire a demon, but he’d be sent to some way-off-the-beaten-track post with all the time in the world to contemplate his mistake. Sort of a demon limbo where he’d stay until he could do enough good to get back his standing with the family.
Me? Well, me, I
could
get fired.
Good-bye to SNAP and my career I’d worked so hard for. And, oh my god, good-bye to Jean-Louis. I knew I couldn’t live without him, I would shrivel and die.
By the time I got into the car for the drive to the castle, my insides were a void. I was beyond sad, beyond frightened. I’d reached numb and resigned. I was going to purgatory, a life of abject misery. I’d gambled
everything
for a few hours of freedom and the worst part was that I hadn’t even realized I was gambling.
There was no use talking to the demon Sandor had sent as my escort. He was one I’d never met before, so I guessed I was so far down on the list I’d been assigned the dregs.
When we drove up to the castle, lights were on but there was no welcoming committee. Instead, I was ushered up to my suite, where Elise silently took my bags from the demon.
“Are you hungry? I have some soup.”
Soup! It might as well be bread and water. Wasn’t I even going to get a last meal? “No, thank you, Elise. I don’t think I can eat. I would like a bath, though.”
My departure from Paris had been so sudden that I hadn’t even felt the remains of my manhandling by the Chechen, but now, after planes and cars and stress and sitting, my muscles were tying themselves in knots and the lump on the back of my head was incredibly sore.
I soaked for maybe half an hour, until I heard Jean-Louis’ voice in my sitting room. I certainly wasn’t going to talk to him from the bathroom, and not naked, so I climbed out, toweled off and threw on some clothes before I opened the door.
He turned and looked at me. I couldn’t tell what his expression meant. His great, dark eyes were hooded, his glimmer was gone, his skin pale and drawn with two small hectic spots of color high on his cheeks. His face was furrowed with lines and wrinkles I’d never seen before. He said, “Maxie”.
If he’d stabbed me, it wouldn’t have hurt any more that just that one word. I fainted.
When I came to, I had pressure on my arm. Was I tied up? It resolved itself into a blood pressure cuff and I was in my bed with a doctor sitting beside me.