The Never King, page 15
part #1 of Lost Lands Series
“Not everything was burned.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I nearly shout at him. “Whatever didn’t get burned is probably swarming with The Sickness.”
Fennel crosses himself at the name.
“Seriously?” I snap at him and his superstitions.
A name scares him but driving into the epicenter of Hell is okay?
Fennel ignores me. He’s done with us for now.
I look to Bastian for sanity. To Bastian Bouchard. That’s a huge indication of how off the rails my life has gone.
He shakes his head, his eyes tight. His mouth is a thin, angry line that I completely agree with.
“This is wrong,” I whisper. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“We stick together. Do you hear me?” He reaches across the seat for my hand. “If we stick together we’ll be okay.”
I nod in agreement, even though he’s wrong. He’s lying.
We both are.
“We’ll be okay,” I breathe.
We make a quick left, turning down a side street packed in tight by two buildings. Miraculously, they’re still standing. Charred and ruined, but intact. Once we pass between them, we go through a roundabout with too many exits. I start to feel dizzy by the time we turn out of it, but then we’re barreling down a completely empty street. A massive white arch looms at the end of the road.
I scoot forward, kneeling on the floor with my hands braced on the front seats. “Is that the Arc?”
Fennel smiles proudly. “It is.”
I’ve read about the Arc de Triomphe in books, though I never thought I’d see it in person. Napoleon demanded it in the early eighteen hundreds but he died in exile before it was finished. They drove his body under the Arc when it was eventually returned to France, but he never got to see the finished product. Not the way we’re seeing it now. It’s over a hundred and fifty feet tall and almost as wide, built of white stone. Angels fly over soldiers on the front to celebrate the great French victories. It’s gothic and imposing. Disapproving in a way I can’t explain.
“I can’t believe it,” Bastian mutters.
“It was too beautiful to destroy.” Fennel gestures to the right. “The Eiffel Tower is still standing too.”
I look out his window, but there’s nothing. Only burned buildings and gray skies. “I can’t see it.”
“It’s across the river. You can visit it when you’re feeling better.”
Take a walk through the plague-ridden streets! Enjoy the views that thousands took in as their last before their eyes swam with blood! It’s beautiful!
“No, thank you,” I say slowly, slipping back into my seat. “I’d rather not.”
We ride up to the base of the Arc. It towers over us like an ancient giant. It’s seen war and death, unimaginable suffering, and it doesn’t care. Not an ounce. We could all be washed off the face of the earth and there the Arc would stand – utterly unconcerned. A massive headstone marking the death of mankind.
On the other side of it is another shock – another unburned building. This one is more basic, built of raw wood that’s been weathered gray over time. It’s not new but it’s definitely newer than anything else in Paris. The Brûlén must have built it when they retook the city. It’s five stories high, wide and squat like it’s ready for a fight. The trim and doors are painted black, the roof a mix of metal sheeting and solar panels.
They have power here in Paris. And a hotel, by the look of it. People actually live here. They carry out their daily lives in the dead heart of a forgotten city.
They’re living in a graveyard.
chapitre trente-huit
The first sign of life is at the entrance to what I thought was a hotel, but Fennel quickly explains that it’s a hospital first, an apartment building second.
Les Hôpital Napoléon.
As the car pulls under the overhang out front, the big black doors swing open like we triggered them. A man and woman dressed entirely in black step out to meet us. Fennel shakes their hands, smiling so big it makes my cheeks hurt. He introduces us to Abbot and Sana, both doctors, though we aren’t supposed to call them that.
In France, I thought the idea of not using titles was novel and whimsical somehow. Grandfather talked about it like he couldn’t understand it but I imagined it was refreshing. I admired Brûlé for it.
In reality, it’s irritating. Everyone knows who’s in charge but you aren’t allowed to acknowledge it, yet you’re expected to react appropriately based on ranks they refuse to take. It’s like if Bastian was named King of France and he told everyone to stop calling him by his title. He’s one of us! But he’s still king. You still have to treat him like a king. Just don’t say it. It’d be rude.
It’s insane.
“They’ll take care of you here,” Fennel promises. He’s already getting back inside the car by the time I realize what’s happening.
He’s not just introducing us. He’s dropping us off.
“How will we know what’s going on in France?” I ask frantically. “Will they know here at the hospital?”
“They’re well informed.”
“But—”
He pauses, half-inside the car. “But what?”
I don’t really know. This just feels so abrupt. So strange. An hour ago I didn’t even know Paris still existed and now here I am in the heart of it, surrounded by the Brûlén with no idea when or if I’ll ever be able to go home. Watching Fennel go is like watching the rest of the world walk away. Will I be here forever? Do I live in Paris with Bastian now? Are we really being protected or did we just walk willingly into a giant prison cell?
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Fennel smiles. “You’re afraid.”
“I’m not.”
“You’d be crazy if you weren’t but this is the best solution. Henry agreed.”
“Do you have that in writing?”
“I don’t. I’ll see if I can arrange it. Goodbye.”
He’s quick to fold the rest of his body into the car, shutting the door firmly. It drives away before I can take my next breath.
It’s only then that I realize the women in the back never got out, and I wonder if she was carrying a weapon. Was she there to make sure we didn’t attack Fennel and our driver?
“We’ll show you where you’ll stay,” Sana tells us briskly.
“Can we—"
She and Abbot are already heading inside.
We’re expected to follow. Now.
I glance at Bastian before falling in behind them. He comes up beside me, his hand on the small of my back to steady me even though I don’t need it. It’s not about need. It’s about want, and I want him close. I feel better when he is.
I could count on one hand the number of times we’ve touched each other in the last year, and every single one would be from the last few days. It makes the small number seem big as the moon, his hand on my back as important as the sun.
The inside of the hospital looks like a hotel. There are probably fifteen men, women, and children lounging on the scattered furniture in the lobby. They’re reading, writing, or playing cards together. They look up when we come in, but no one acknowledges us. The room is almost silent as we pass through it, followed by eyes that assess every inch of us. It’s eerie and uncomfortable.
As we march up the stairs to the second floor, Sana turns to check on me. “You have the concussion, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not right this second.”
She frowns at Bastian. I’m not sure why, but it’s probably because he’s scowling at her. “And you hurt your leg?”
“Yeah,” he replies gruffly.
“It was infected but it’s getting better,” I fill in for him. “The doctor in Braise gave him some pills to take.”
“Have you taken them all?” she asks him.
“I have three left.”
“I’ll look at it when you’re done with them.”
He doesn’t reply.
He’s not going to let her look at it. He doesn’t trust her.
“The first floor is for patients of the hospital,” Abbot explains without looking at us. He’s basically talking to the air. “The other floors are for the people who live here full time. Hospital staff and military. You’ll find soldiers everywhere.”
I can’t decide if that sounds like a promise or a threat.
They lead us to the third floor. Bastian is sweating when we get there. His leg hurts but he’s being tough, keeping quiet even though we’re with doctors who could help him. I want to say something about his choice. It’s a stupid, prideful one, but I understand it. I’m the same kind of stupid. That kind of prideful.
Sana hands me a key, pointing to a door on the left. Bastian is directed to a door on the right, three down from mine. He takes the key but makes no move to go to the room. Sana looks at him quizzically before deciding she doesn’t care. She follows after Abbot who is already gone, disappearing through the door to the stairs.
“We’re sharing a room,” Bastian says when they’re gone, pocketing his key.
“You think I’m sleeping here alone?” I chuckle. “That’s how you get kidnapped in the middle of the night.”
“I thought for sure you were going to fight me on this.”
“Not on sharing the room, but I get the bed.”
“Why?” he demands. “Because you’re a woman?”
“No, I get the bed because I called it first.”
“I should get it on seniority.”
I shake my head hard. “You’re older, sure, but I outrank you, so…”
“Since when?”
“Since The Strain, Gable.”
Bastian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s a dirty card to play.”
“Blame yourself,” I tell him, pushing open the door. “You’re the one who gave it to me.”
Bastian grunts or chuckles behind me, I can’t tell which. It’s not an entirely happy sound, whatever it is.
He makes it again when we step into the room.
It’s barely larger than a closet. A small, full bed is against one wall, a window on another, and an ugly painting of a horse on its hind legs hangs on my right. There’s no bathroom. I’m guessing that’s down the hall somewhere, and communal. The space is dry but surprisingly cold compared to the rest of the building. They have heat. Why isn’t it here in this room?
Bastian whistles from behind me. “Holy sh—”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s a closet.”
I swat his chest with the back of my hand. “That’s exactly what I thought!”
“Why are you hitting me?”
“I barely tapped you.”
“You backhanded a member of The Crown. People have been banished for less.”
I gesture around us impatiently. “I’m already banished. There’s nothing you can do to me that’s worse than this room.”
He frowns at the carpet, disgusted. “I hate this place.”
“Me too, but we have to make do. Heat would be a good start.” I go to the radiator against the wall, searching for hints about how to turn it on. “We have to open it, right? That must be how you turn it on.”
“I have no idea.”
“Come help me figure it out.”
“I need to test the bed first.”
“Why? You’re not sleeping in it.”
He launches himself on the mattress. It springs back immediately, nearly throwing him off onto the floor. “Whoa! She’s got some kick.”
“Bast,” I snap irritably.
“Turn the thing.”
“Get off my bed.”
“Turn the thing,” he repeats.
I turn the thing. The unit starts to rattle ominously. There’s a faint hissing sound somewhere inside the pipes, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
“I think that did it,” I mutter, not at all sure it did.
Bastian doesn’t answer. He’s on his back, his arm slung over his eyes.
He’s trying to fall asleep. In my bed.
“Hey,” I bark, nudging the edge of the mattress with my knee. “Get off.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He reaches for me blindly. “Come lay down.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Ugh,” he groans. I’m surprised when he sits up, but it’s not what I think. He’s not leaving. He grabs me around the waist, pulling me down onto the mattress next to him.
“Bast!”
“Stop saying that name,” he warns me, settling back in. “Someone will hear you.”
I frown, biting my tongue. “What do I call you then?”
“Sire?”
“No.”
“Master?”
“Stop.”
“Gable.”
I pinch my lips together tightly, inhaling through my nose. “I can’t do that.”
“You already have.”
“And I hated it. I can’t do it every day.”
He turns his head to look at me, checking on me. I won’t meet his eyes. Mine stay glued to the ceiling with the small stain in the corner where water must have worked its way in. Did they patch it or is it still leaking? Breaking down and falling apart as we lay here together, lost as we’ve ever been.
“Bouchard, then,” he suggests.
“Fine.”
“But I like Master better.”
I roll my eyes, smiling faintly. “Of course you do, Dauphin.”
chapitre trente-neuf
The first week in Paris, Bastian and I are allowed to recuperate. They don’t expect anything from us other than eating and sleeping, but we’re warned that once we’re better we’ll be put to work.
Bastian asks for a job early. He can’t stand sitting still all day and I can’t stand watching him pace the room like a lunatic for hours on end. I would love to have a job to go to too, but my memory is still shoddy and my head aches at random times, reminding me it’s not ready for life yet. I hold back and watch Bastian go to work in the library. He sits on a stool and mans a log book that everyone already knows how to use. He says it’s boring but it’s better than nothing. At least he’s meeting people.
I don’t know anyone but Sana and Abbot, and I’m pretty sure they hate me. I’ve met others but I can’t remember their names. It goes in one ear and right out the other. Sometimes I can’t even recognize faces. If I do remember a name, I use it on the wrong person. It’s frustrating so I stop trying until my brain is better. I think it’s earning me a reputation, though. I get cold stares whenever I walk into a room and I wonder if they think I’m a snob because I won’t try to get to know them. I wish I could explain the truth – that I can’t remember them for longer than an hour – but I don’t even know where to begin. It sounds like an excuse even to me.
“Can I sit?”
I look up from my lunch to find a guy looking down at me, his face expectant. He’s short, barely taller than I am, probably a year older. Maybe two. He’s in uniform. Definitely a member of the Armée. His face is square, his eyes set far apart. He’s not handsome but he’s not ugly either. The word ‘interesting’ springs to my mind. He reminds me a little bit of Clare and suddenly my heart screams with homesickness.
“Sure,” I agree.
“Thanks.” He sits, immediately digging into his lunch. “How’s your day going?”
“It’s good. You?”
“Great. Better than yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”
He pauses, his sandwich almost in his mouth. He smiles slightly, lowering it. “You, um… You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
“We ran into each at breakfast yesterday. Legitimately ran into each other. I dropped my toast on the floor. Ruined my whole day.”
I sit back in my seat, deflated. “I don’t remember that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s rude and I don’t mean to be.”
He waves me away. “No, forget it. You got that head thing, right? It happens.”
“You know I have a concussion?”
“Is that what’s wrong? I heard you took a hit. That’s all I knew.”
“During the flood. Yeah.”
“That sucks. Sorry about that.”
“Thanks.” I glance at my lunch; not sure I want it anymore. My stomach is twisting, knotting over something I can’t describe.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Aurelia. What’s yours?”
“Paul.”
“Paul,” I say, trying my hardest to commit it to memory. If I still have it in an hour, it’s mine forever. If not, I’ll probably never get it.
I hate my head right now.
“How are you liking Paris?” he asks jovially. He’s full of energy that feels like it’s leaking out of him onto the table. It sticks to my skin, making me jittery.
“I haven’t seen much except the inside of the hospital.”
“There’s not much else to see.”
“I heard the Eiffel Tower is still standing.”
“Are you gonna go see it?”
“No.”
He smiles. He does that a lot. “So why does it matter if it’s standing?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that we were told it burned. It’s weird to think it never did.”
“There’s probably a lot you’ve been told that isn’t true. A lot of weird.”
“Like what?”
“Do you know who burned the city?”
“Yeah,” I answer, surprised by the question. It’s like asking if I know who the Easter Bunny is.
“You sure about that?”
“What are you saying?”
He smiles, laughing at me. “Never mind.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand sharply. I don’t like being laughed at. “I know who burned it. It was sixty French volunteers.”
“Who weren’t allowed back into the fold after they saved everyone. What did you think happened to them after?”
“They died of The Sickness.”
“Nope.”
“‘Nope’? That’s all you’re going to say?”
