Isabel was standing on her toes, trying to see over the crowd. “They are here to see the art.”
“They’re here to waste time being pointless and frivolous.”
They’d come in through the entrance at Les Invalides. The avenue up to the Pont Alexandre III Bridge was lined with pavilions on both sides, and up ahead the gilded roof of the Grand Palais rose up above everything else. And everywhere there were fucking people—families with children in tiny yet fashionable clothes, people hauling cameras, street buskers performing, vendors hawking crepes and other foods. Laughter and happy voices filled the air.
Wesley grimaced. “If I were asked to describe hell, it would look like this.”
“I see why you are so drawn to Sebastian’s sweetness,” said Isabel, “because you are very sour.”
They passed a pavilion fronted with statues and greenery, and then another pavilion with a tall, round roof like an inverted bowl and two pillars flanking the entrance, topped with bright flowers.Primavera, it said on its side. The bridge itself had been turned into a place for shopping, and below, in the Seine River, restaurants floated up against the banks like houseboats.
Isabel pointed up ahead, to the other side of the bridge. “There is the tourism pavilion, just before the Grand Palais and the Porte d’Honneur.”
Wesley squinted, and there it was, a narrow, rectangular pillar stretching high, a clock face at the very top. “But you can see that damn clock from all over. Sebastian could be anywhere.”
“And there are so many people.” Isabel bit her thumb. “There are children here. If Mercier is here—and he has the magic to start fires—”
“Christ.” Wesley balled one fist. “Can we get closer—fuckinghell.”
A mime had just bumped into Wesley, his face painted bright white with blue diamonds drawn around his eyes. He bowed apologetically and then began to pantomime—something, Wesley didn’t know or care.
“Fuck off, already,” he said, which made the mime’s eyes go wide and Isabel side-eye him.
“We know Sebastian is—or will be—somewhere near the clock,” said Wesley. “Can you draw something that will help us find him?”
Isabel shook her head. “My art confuses other magic, sometimes stops it completely. It won’t help us seek—”
“Feu! Feu!”
Oh no. They were searching for a fire paranormal; Wesley could guess what that meant. He and Isabel both pivoted toward the scream as more people began to shout and tourists began to run.
“Feu!”someone shrieked again, over the pounding of feet.
“Fire,” Isabel breathed. “And that’s where the paranormal exhibit is.”
They ran across the street, and Wesley could see smoke rising in the air behind one of the pavilions. “When Mercier set a fire around me in London, he said water wouldn’t put it out.”
“Because he creates magic flames, and his magic is too strong now.” She swallowed. “I think—I think I need to protect the fair.”
“What do you mean?”
Isabel pointed again, this time at a patch of pavement with a chalk drawing of the Eiffel Tower. The street artist had disappeared, leaving his hat behind, still sitting in front of the drawing for tips.
“Oh,” Wesley said, as his brain finally made the leap from world’s fair to de Leon’s Wonderland. “The chalk—you can draw something that will help?” he said, as they hurried toward the art.
“I can’t put out the flames, but I can contain them.” Isabel crouched, and picked up the small box of chalk. “I will cover as much of this area as I can, with art that will stop the fire from spreading.” She looked up at him, and there was pain in her eyes. “Sebastian would never forgive me if I didn’t.”
And all of Wesley’s hope vanished. “Because if you’re drawing, you can’t look for him.”
She squeezed her hand around the chalk, her despair nearly tangible.
Stupid, idiotic to ever feel hope.
Except.
Except Sebastian hadn’t written Wesley off as too big an arse to be worth saving, not even once deciding he wasn’t worth it. Wesley would not give up on Sebastian either.
“I’llkeep looking,” he promised Isabel. “You protect the fair, I will check every pavilion by the clock until I find Sebastian.”
