The Night Has Teeth (22 page)

“I don’t get it,” I admit to Madison, who crowds
in beside me.

“What’s to get?” she asks, her tone making it very
clear she doesn’t agree with my as-yet-unspoken
assessment.

“This is supposed to be one of the world’s
greatest masterpieces.”

“And?”

“And...” I try to find the right words to convey
my feelings without trivializing the work of art. “It kind of
under-delivers.”

“That’s sort of the point,” she informs me.
“You’re supposed to focus on her enigmatic smile.”

As Madison examines the painting, I take in her
profile, from hair that’s a synthetic shade of red to her glossy
pink lips. Today’s eyebrow ring is a red heart with a keyhole, as
though somewhere out in the wide world there’s actually someone who
can unlock that. I try to picture her in a natural state without
all these accessories and camouflage, but I can’t. She’s done
everything she can to obliterate that girl. What I want to say is
that she’s more of an enigma to me than Mona Lisa’s smile, but I
figure I’ll just wind up sounding cheesy.

“I’m with Connor,” Josh interjects as he squeezes
his way between us. “She looks like a dude.”

To which Madison merely shakes her head. “You guys
have no appreciation for art.”

“Untrue,” I protest as we follow the guide out of
the room. “I just think the
Mona Lisa
is overrated.”

After the hum of the crowd, I manage to say these
last words just a little too loudly. Some girls from our class
giggle, and we’re hushed by our teacher, who’s clearly not amused.
I allow myself to fall to the back of the group as we enter another
hall. Never a fan of school trips, I’d much rather be on my own
anyway. Self-guided learning is what the school calls it. Being a
loner more fits the bill. When you never quite fit in, you begin to
appreciate time away from people who’d judge you first rather than
get to know you. I don’t really understand why it took my moving to
Paris for that to change. Before I can put any more thought into
it, I catch sight of Boguet. He’s sitting on a long, stuffed
leather bench, dressed in a tweed suit ― the kind with elbow
patches. I have to wonder if he cultivates this grandfatherly look
on purpose so that unsuspecting neophytes can be lured in by his
promises of a second life. I’m sure that’s what he’s here for now,
a spider waiting for the shiver of his web to alert him to prey. It
can’t be a coincidence. It’s the middle of the day. He should be in
a lab discovering evil applications for DNA.

“What are you doing here?” I ask while sidling up
next to him.

He keeps his eyes focused on a painting in front of
us while my own eyes scan the room for signs of his employees.
“Can’t an old man take in a masterpiece?”

“Not when he’s supposed to be on the clock, saving
the world from
werewolves
.”

I say the last word quietly, casting my eyes around
to ensure there are no eavesdroppers. I try my level best to be
inconspicuous. The last thing I need is to involve Madison, Josh or
some random person who overhears too much and winds up dead in a
river like in the movies.

“The benefit of running one’s own business is that
I’m permitted to stop the clock as I please.”

With a nod I say, “Well, since you’re not here for
me, enjoy.”

I turn with purpose, and I’m not surprised when he
says, “Wait.”

“I’m here on a field trip,” I explain over my
shoulder, as much to keep the conversation short as to let him know
people would notice if I went missing.

He merely gestures toward the imposing painting in
front of us. “This is
The Coronation of Napoleon
,” he tells me.

The painting takes up most of a wall. Within it a
crowd of people watch a ceremony that looks like it’s being held
inside Notre Dame Cathedral. Napoleon is dressed like a Roman
emperor. There’s something about the composition of the painting
that makes me feel like I’m part of the crowd, a spectator.

“Imagine such a legacy,” he continues. “To be
remembered amongst the greatest military commanders in history.
Leaving one’s mark on the world, it’s all anyone of greatness
wants.”

I make a mental note to add megalomaniac to Boguet’s
list of flaws.

He must read my judgment in my expression, because
he adds, “Naturally, there is ego in everything we do, but if all
of us were to merely live our existence in pursuit of
self-interest, the world would be a much bleaker place.”

“You already left your mark,” I remind him, “and I
can’t say the world is in any better shape than when you first came
into it.”

“Don’t you believe in second chances?”

I shrug. “What does it matter what I believe?
Besides, what you’re proposing to do isn’t any different than any
of your former witch hunts. Wolf’s Bane: that’s your legacy.”

He glances over at me finally, a spark in his cold
blue eyes ignited by something I’ve just said. “I would that you
could see it differently.”

“Why? I mean, really,
why
? Who am I in the grand scheme of things? Your
interest in me, it’s ― no offense ― but it’s kind of
creepy.”

He smiles, which doesn’t make it any less
creepy.

“Just to be clear, I’m not interested in becoming
one of your shifters.” I quickly add, “Even if I was dying, which
I’m not.”

“Be assured, my interest in you remains
steadfastly scientific.” He casts an expansive look around the
gallery before remarking, “Alas, I’m afraid the shades are being
drawn on this window of conversation. Before we part ways, I must
say your friends are keeping you in the dark.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m a scientist, Connor. I can deduce from what
you’re saying that you haven’t heard all the truths.”

If that’s the case, I don’t want to hear any more.
But I don’t say it out loud. Eventually the truth will out itself,
and I’ll be left sorting through the unseemly details. For now, my
bliss is clouded with ignorance. That he continues to instill fear
in me with more cryptic talk makes me want to run away.

“You’re playing a game with rather fearsome
predators,” he tells me ominously. “There will be a point in the
not too distant future where your ability to choose sides will be
taken from you. Let us pray that, when that time comes to pass,
you’re standing on the winning side.”

Just as Madison waves at me to get my attention, he
rises. I’ve lagged behind in the group and she has a hand on her
hip, annoyed. As I walk toward her, Boguet makes his exit in the
opposite direction.

“Do they not teach you about stranger danger in
the States?” she asks.

I can’t help laughing, albeit nervously. Stranger
danger doesn’t even begin to cover my dealings with Boguet. She
arches an eyebrow, questioning my sense of humor. What I want is to
hold her in a bear hug for being the one normal constant in my
otherwise upside-down existence. But that’s off limits. So I settle
for words.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

She waves me off with a flourish of her wrist. “Any
time, princess.”

17. Dead
Hearts

“W
hat are we doing here?” Madison asks with a tremor in her
voice that I haven’t heard before.

We make our way down a wide, tree-lined street
passing mausoleums and statues on the hilled terrain of Père
Lachaise Cemetery. Roots of trees have destabilized some of the
monuments. Many of the graves resemble little houses, and in a way
they are, because within them lie entire families stacked one upon
the other. I read once that there are over three hundred thousand
people buried here. It’s no surprise. This cemetery could be a
small city of the dead. The thought sends a shiver through me.
Under regular circumstances this place would actually be kind of
cool. There are a bunch of famous people buried on the premises,
like old rock stars, poets and artists. From some of the tributes
left at the gravesites, it turns out that fangirls and boys do the
weirdest things even after their idols have left this world.

“This is a short cut to my place,” Josh
explains.

“It’s kind of a freaky one, isn’t it?”

“It’s just a field of stone.”

“With dead people under the stones,” she
adds.

Dead people freak her out. Check. It brings back an
earlier conversation, when Josh mentioned she had a celebrity-grade
flip-out at the Catacombs because she didn’t realize she’d be
surrounded by a bunch of human bones. Why agree to go at all,
though? Somehow I’m convinced it’s all show. After all, she’s a bit
of an attention hound. Besides, Madison gives off the impression of
being completely invincible. Most days, werewolves aside, I believe
her. Even though it seems clear that she wants nothing to do with
the deceased under her feet, she pauses to take in an elaborate
burial site. Obligingly, we follow her cautious approach to a
wrought iron fence surrounding two marble sarcophagi with sculpted
figures. They’re lying on their backs, side by side, hands in
prayer. Within the spired metal perimeter, the coffins are
surrounded by a pillared canopy made to look like a small cathedral
of sorts.

“Héloïse and Abélard,” Madison says in a hushed
tone. “They were like a real life Romeo and Juliet. Their love was
thwarted by her uncle.”

“Thwarted how?” I ask. “Did he kill
them?”

She shakes her head. “He sent her to a nunnery and
had him castrated in his sleep.”

Regretful for having asked, I cringe as Josh lets
out a groan of empathy. Not that Madison even notices. With her
fingers twined around one of the metal spires, she almost looks
wistful.

“It was total star-crossed suckage. They rarely
saw each other after but wrote these amazingly soulful love letters
that are like the greatest love story ever.”

“Never heard of them,” Josh remarks.

Madison lets out a little huff as she rummages
through her rucksack. Whipping out a pen and a fluorescent pink
Post-It note pad, she proceeds to scrawl a message.

I have to ask, “What are you doing?”

“People come here all the time to leave notes to
them.”

“Lame,” Josh says.

Without taking her eyes off her note, she continues,
“Or in hope of finding true love.”

As soon as she tosses it over the fence, she walks
off down the path, gingerly touching monuments and peering into
crypts like there are no secrets among the dead. Josh eyes the
paper. So do I. But he follows after her. I’m not sure what
possesses me to do it, but I reach in and pick up the note. After
I’ve uncrumpled the paper, my brain tries to process the writing.
One sentence has never been more perplexing to me. When I peer back
down the cobblestone path, I catch Madison watching me. Her wry
grin makes me smile.

“Hurry up,” she demands. “It’s getting
dark.”

Josh pulls off the most convincing impersonation of
a chicken I’ve ever heard, and we all laugh as I pocket the note to
decipher it another time. We leave the cemetery as the ruddy light
of dusk hits the gravestones and casts them in a bloody glow. He
lives in a distinctly working class part of the city. Rue
Saint-Blaise is a cobblestone street blocked off from car traffic.
It’s definitely a remnant of a much older part of the city, and the
buildings look a bit run down. There’s a church that overlooks the
street. As we pass, the remodeled but medieval tower looms
overhead. The streets are lined with restaurants and cafés. We are
stopped at an arched wooden double doorway painted a dull green
when wolf whistles call from above. Two college age guys lean out
from the open-shuttered window and smirk smugly down at Madison,
who retaliates with something choice in French, but her words only
have the effect of encouraging them. A windowsill flower container
hides their gestures, but I’m fairly certain they’re being
rude.

“Roommates?” I venture.

Josh shakes his head. “It’s a hostel.”

“Supposedly run by monks,” Madison explains then
shouts up, “but I guess they let in any kind of stray
dogs!”

Josh can’t hide his smile as he opens the
street-level door. Inside, a monk descends the steps of a wide
staircase. As he does so, he lights sconces that line the walls.
When he reaches ground level, he tucks his hands into the wide
sleeves of his long white robe, his face shadowed by its hood.

Keeping the door open, Josh greets him. “Brother
Christopher.”

The monk merely raises a hand and bows silently.
When he straightens up, our eyes meet, and in the brief glint of
light I can see that his face is heavily scarred, ravaged by some
unthinkable tragedy. Madison steps back, eyelids quivering at the
sight of the man as he passes us to light the remaining exterior
torch light. Josh gestures for us to come inside.

“I don’t think so,” she says quietly.

“We’re already here,” he notes.

With a glance up she lets out an uneasy sigh. The
guys above have retreated from the window. Maybe they have better
sense than to be so openly disrespectful in front of the monk.

“This hasn’t exactly been a warm welcome,” she
says, still looking up.

“We’re fine.”

“Speak for yourself,” she tells him, looking into
his eyes and holding his gaze.