A Necklace of Water (14 page)

My eyes widened. “Where should I
start
?” I pulled my arm one last time, and he let me go but stood between me and the door, looking like he wasn’t going to move.

“How long are you going to be mad about that? Ballpark figure?” he said irritably, and I assumed he was talking about the whole “attempted murder” wrinkle.

“Um,
forever
?” I’d never had a crush on Richard, never needed to win him over, so I’d never tempered my anger or watched my words or tried to pretty things up. I always let him have it with both barrels. And he always took it. And came back for more. Come to think of it, he was the only guy I spoke totally straight with, all the time. Basically, it probably confirmed his opinion of me as a total bitch.

In the next second, just like that, it was like he’d flicked a switch and gone from regular annoying Richard to deadly seductive Richard. Eyes staying focused on my mouth, he stepped a bit closer and visibly let go of his irritation and impatience.

Oh
no
, I thought, backing up.
No
.

“No, not forever,” he murmured, his voice silky.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

He never listened to me. His hand reached out and curled around the back of my neck. I stiffened, narrowing my eyes at him in a way that had once made someone cry.

“Clio,” he said, so close that I could feel the heat of his skin. “We don’t like each other. But we have this between us. If we gave in to it, maybe it would go away.”

Yes
, said my stupid, easily convinced body.

“No. Don’t be an ass,” I said.

I braced myself as he leaned closer, tilting his head to kiss my neck. I pulled back, but he pursued me, pressing his lips against my skin.
Again I had an odd, vague sense that something was just slightly … different. It made me crazy not being able to put my finger on it. His mouth was warm and firm and familiar, and shivers ran down my spine. I instantly felt my knees start to melt, which pissed me off. He left another kiss on my neck, by my collarbone, and my heart sped up and my breath got shallow. He always did this—the Richard effect.

“No, go
away
,” I said crossly, and pushed against his hard shoulders. Then my hands slid over his shirt, feeling his heat through the cloth, and my brain went dead. He pulled me to him, one hand against the small of my back, one hand sliding up my side. His stomach seemed to burn me through my thin shirt, and all I could think was,
Uhhhh
… Slowly, slowly, he kissed his way up my neck and across my cheek while my eyelids fluttered closed.

Somehow, when he kissed me, everything else went away—my pain over Luc, my fear and dread about working with Daedalus, Nan, Thais being upset with me—it all faded. All I was aware of was Richard’s scent, how he felt, how his hands felt moving over me.

Just as his mouth covered mine, I heard Luc’s door opening and footsteps coming down the hall. My eyes flew open and I quickly stepped back.

“Damn it!” Richard said, reaching for me, but I had my sanity again and dodged around him, lunging for the living room door, opening it.

Sophie, still looking upset but no longer crying, nodded at me. “Clio,” she said, as if it were no big deal that I’d found her in Luc’s bedroom. After all, they’d known each other for two hundred years; who knew if they’d been lovers before she’d gotten together with Manon? She opened the front door and left, with one last look at Luc.

I almost choked when I saw how he looked back at her—I actually saw the love in his eyes, the only part of his ruined face capable of expressing emotion.

The front door closed, and Luc looked at me. Then he looked at Richard, standing close behind me, and saw that we had just come out of the living room. He frowned, looking back and forth. I could hear Richard breathing hard.

“What’s going on?” Luc said.

“Nothing,” I said shortly, heading for the front door. Once again, I was disgusted with both of them and with guys in general.

“You two—what’s going
on
?” Luc said, but this time I heard comprehension in his voice.

“Nothing. You’re the one with the girl in your room.” I reached the front door and pulled it open.

“What?” Luc asked, sounding incredulous. Little Mr. Innocent. “That was
Sophie
!”

“Uh-huh.” I stormed outside and slammed their door behind me. Damn both of them! And damn
me
, for giving in to Richard
again
.

The door opened and Richard came out as I stomped down the steps.

“We have to sort this out,” he said in a low voice, gesturing between himself and me.

“No, we don’t,” I said, and began to head to my car.

“Clio!” Luc’s voice. Disbelieving, I turned around.

“What are you doing with Richard?” He sounded almost outraged, which was a big laugh and pushed me over the edge. I was so mad at both of them and even more mad at myself that I just lashed out stupidly.

“I’m
sleeping
with him!” I snapped, and then felt worse than mortified when a passerby turned because she’d heard me. My cheeks flamed and I wanted to scream.

Luc’s jaw dropped open and Richard started in surprise, then grinned lopsidedly.

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t start shrieking swearwords at the top of my lungs. Shaking my head, keeping my mouth shut tight, I whirled and practically ran down the sidewalk.

“Oh, Clio!” Richard called after me. I ignored him. “Sophie is Luc’s sister!”

L
uc came back inside and shut the door hard, glaring at Richard.

Richard just grinned and headed for the kitchen.

“She’s lying,” Luc said, following him.

“Yep, uh-huh,” Richard replied in a tone calculated to make Luc insane. He flicked on the kitchen light and got a glass out of a cupboard.

“She’s totally lying,” Luc said. “You didn’t get in her pants.”

Richard poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey and took a sip, looking innocent. This was too good. He would have to thank Clio later for giving him the most fun he’d had in weeks.

“Admit it,” Luc demanded, his hands on his hips.

“Why do you care? I thought you were hot for Thais.”

Luc started to look angry. “Tell me she’s lying.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” said Richard, brushing past him.

“Listen, you stay away from her.”

He really sounded mad, which was verrry interesting. Richard knew Clio still had warped feelings for Luc, but he’d thought Luc was resigned to his disgraced status. The two of them pissed him off—Clio for still thinking she loved Luc when clearly she was all wrapped up in Richard, and Luc for being the greedy bastard that he was. He couldn’t have either twin, but he didn’t want Richard to have Clio either.

Which was too bad.

Because Richard was coming to terms with the fact that he did want her.

Really, really wanted her.

“What’s it to you?” Richard asked, leaning against the door frame, drinking his whiskey.

“You stay away from her,” Luc repeated, actually pointing his finger at Richard. “She loves me, and I love her.”

Richard laughed. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Luc insisted.

Richard shook his head in disgust. “Whatever. May the best man win.”

“You’re not even in the running!” Luc almost shouted. “You’re her frigging grandfather!”

Richard stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Clio and Thais are the thirteenth generation of Cerise’s line,” Luc said deliberately. “Where did Cerise’s line come from?”

Right. Richard had fathered Cerise’s baby, and he felt the familiar barbed-wire feeling in his heart at the memory of it. Thirteen generations later, the baby he had made had descendents, Clio and Thais. Yes, he
was
related to them. But incredibly, incredibly distantly. The connection certainly wasn’t close to significant by now.

“I’m not their grandfather,” Richard said. “The percentage I’m related to them is so small I can’t even figure it out.”

“You’re still related! I’m telling you, Richard, don’t touch her.”

“Why not, Luc?” Richard made his voice mild, but he knew that Luc knew him so well that this should be a sign for caution, if not outright alarm.

“She’s mine.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Really. Does she know that? Is that why she can’t keep her hands off me?”

Luc looked stunned, then quickly recovered. He stalked back to his own room, shaking his head.

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah,” said Richard, raising his voice so Luc couldn’t help hearing him. “She and I are
both lying
.”

Luc slammed his door.

Richard swirled his drink in his glass, then set the glass down. He had to go get something to eat.

“S
mells and bells,” they called it, the “high Church” style of service. A typical Sunday in a town still very Catholic. The priests swung the heavy brass censer, and they carried the Bible around the church, doing the stations of the cross. It was beautiful, ultimately civilized and yet very primitive at the same time.

Everyone stood, and Marcel stood also. He had this rear pew almost to himself—only an old woman shared the very far end. A strand of jet beads, her rosary, dangled from one hand. Automatically Marcel tapped his pockets, but the plain wooden beads he’d once carried everywhere were no longer tucked into his monk’s robe.

It was time for the sermon, and the priest ascended into the pulpit and turned on the microphone. Marcel sighed, wishing for the churches of a hundred years ago, a hundred and fifty. As the priest began to talk about how they, as ordinary people, could embody the reflection of Christ in everyday living, Marcel let his mind wander.

Axelle, Claire, and Sophie.

Three women he now unexpectedly found himself in relationships with. Three women he doubted he’d spoken to more than a dozen times in two hundred years. Axelle was still self-serving and duplicitous but also unexpectedly shrewd and generous. Claire he’d written off when she was fifteen and already had a reputation as a loose skirt. God knew she’d only gone downhill from there—with each new age of civilization, it seemed she found new opportunities for depravity. Now she seemed—funloving and lovelorn. She was in love with Jules. Now that he finally recognized it, Marcel, looking back, couldn’t remember a time when Claire had not apparently been in love with Jules.

And Jules wouldn’t give in to her, for some reason. Why? Marcel saw love in his eyes as well. What was holding Jules back? Now, at last, Marcel could see, if you loved someone for hundreds of years and they didn’t love you back, you might very well want to try every diversion you could to take your mind off it. When he looked at it that way, it was much easier to empathize with Claire and even admire her courage.

And then … Sophie. Long, long ago, Sophie had loved him, had pined for him. And he’d never seen it. He’d focused his sights on one person—Cerise—and had never looked to either side.

People around him stood again, and Marcel mindlessly began singing the closing hymn. The priest in his white robe and embroidered alb passed, palms locked together in prayer as he sang. Everyone filed out after him: deacon, altar boys, choir.

Sophie had been a lovely girl. Marcel grimaced—clearly, she was lovely still. How long had she pined for him before giving up? How many shy signals, glances, slight overtures had she made toward him that he hadn’t noticed?

Almost groaning, Marcel rubbed his temples and waited to exit his pew.

Sophie. He had missed out.

Marcel went out into a humid, too-warm Sunday afternoon. It was thickly overcast, and the breeze carried the scent of rain. He wandered aimlessly onto the wide slate flagstones that bordered Jackson Square.

Sophie was beautiful, in a quiet, deeply feminine way. She was one of the few truly nice people he’d ever known, someone truly without avarice or meanness or anger.

What would his life have been like if he’d loved Sophie instead of Cerise? He could have been loved instead of given a number and been squeezed in whenever Richard wasn’t in her bed.

Acid burned his stomach, and he forced himself to control his anger. It had all been so long ago. Richard had been just a kid. Only recently had Marcel actually realized that. Richard had been only fifteen. Cerise had been four years older—she should have known better. In a way, she’d taken advantage of Richard. And Marcel too, both of them. Gotten what she wanted without giving either of them what they’d wanted.

Marcel found himself on the corner of St. Ann and Chartres.

Sophie and Manon had broken up—possibly for good.

Marcel turned and headed deeper into the Quarter. Maybe Axelle would want to get some lunch somewhere. Or Claire and Jules.

Marcel’s mouth quirked in a slightly surprised smile. He had friends.

“M
arcel, huh? I have to admit, I missed that one.” Claire handed Sophie a Snickers bar, then lay down on Jules’s pink futon sofa. She ripped open the end of her own Snickers and took a bite.

Sophie nodded miserably and looked at the candy bar as if needing instructions.

“Just eat it, honey,” said Claire, chewing.

Looking like she had nothing to lose, Sophie carefully undid the wrapper and took a tentative bite. Claire tried hard not to roll her eyes. It was a frigging Snickers bar, for God’s sake. What rock had Sophie been living under?

Jules hadn’t had any Kleenex, so a roll of toilet paper sat next to Sophie’s chair, along with a paper grocery bag of used tissue.

“I never wanted anyone to know,” Sophie said. Her voice was thick with chocolate and crying. “I only told Manon because—” She sniffled again and took another bite of peanuty goodness. “I told her after we became … friends, years after the rite.”

“Hmm.” Claire carefully scratched her nose next to her silver nose ring. “Well, Marcel knows now. The question—well, one of the questions—is, are you and Manon going to patch things up?”