“Merci.” With a shake of his head, he gets out and opens the trunk, mumbling in French the entire time.
I don’t understand his words or his reaction, and I’m too beat down to care. After traveling for over twenty hours, jet lag weighs heavy. My back aches and my clothes pinch, somehow tighter than when I put them on.
Outside, the air is a quick, cold slap, and I wish for a coat, but there was no time to go home for clothes. I flew straight from themovie set in Savannah, like the rest of the cast and crew. All of us scurrying away before the press showed up.
Ducking from the drizzle, I rub my arms and scan the area. Beside the mansion sits a dark open space, only leafy trees and lights in the fog. Maybe a park? A place to sit with coffee and read a book? A Parisian dream.
I imagine the photos I could take for social media—the Eiffel Tower, walks along the Seine, world-famous museums.
But no. There will be none of that. No identifying landmarks. No tagging a location. No hints to the world that I even exist.
Because no one can find out where I am.
Black bars impede my view of the mansion, but lights glow inside the massive building. Stunned by its size, I count one, two, three—no,fourstories altogether, a row of dormer windows gracing the top.
The windows look tiny compared to the gargoyles, hunched and glaring on every corner. The stone sculptures squat along the roof—gaping jaws, curling tongues, demonic horns.
Their sinister faces raise bumps on my skin.
The cabbie brings my bags and sets them at my feet. “Merci,” I say, the French strange on my tongue.
He gives one sharp nod and climbs into the car.
As he drives away, I move to a keypad by the gate. Lin sent me the code in a text, so I check my phone and punch in the numbers. Four beeps, followed by a click and a soft slide of metal.
Easing the gate open, I enter, shut it just as gently, and inspect the place I’ll be living. The mansion stands strong, like a stone goliath. Making me feel especially small.
Subtle lamps highlight beige stone, ornate masonry on every surface. More scowling faces grace terraces and doors, mostly raptors, lions, and wolves.
All of them baring fangs.
In front of the main entrance, two sets of steps curve up like wings, leading to a set of heavy, wooden doors. And on one side a portico, the arched doorway framing darkness and the glistening spray of a fountain.
I can’t help staring. Luxury like this isn’t in my budget, and I only got this place through Lin’s connections. I don’t know who owed her a favor, but it must have been a big one.
The residence isn’t typical, even by Parisian standards. Ahôtel particulier. Not a hotel, as the term suggests, but a private home and historic urban mansion, occupied by a single family.
Despite the opulence, there’s an emptiness about the place. A desolation.
A soft, rhythmic sound carries from somewhere nearby, coming from inside the gates. The light tapping of footsteps.
Tensing, I stand still and listen.
Maybe it’s the late hour or the foggy night, but a shiver of apprehension prickles my back.
I glance around but don’t see anyone, only covered walkways and entrances, all made of stone. An echo chamber.
The sound could have come from anywhere, so I listen again. Nothing but the murmur of distant cars.
A shudder shakes my body—from cold, exhaustion, my finely frayed nerves. The fog and stillness don’t help, reminding me of an old black-and-white movie. The kind with evil creatures lurking in shadow.
Or on the roof.
I ignore the looming gargoyles, chastising myself for being so jumpy. Sleep deprivation. That’s all. I just need to crawl into a nice, comfy bed.
Two wings extend from the main building, housing apartments at each end. Both are identical and have their own entrances. The one to my left glows softly, as if a lamp is burning in the interior.
But the one opposite—the one that’s mine—waits in darkness.
