The Never King, page 16
part #1 of Lost Lands Series
“They lived,” he elaborates confidently. “Every last one of them.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s the truth.”
“We would know that if it was.”
He snickers. “Maybe you forgot.”
My temper flares. He’s laughing at me again. “So, you’re saying the sixty most idolized people in all of French history lived and we don’t know it?”
“That’s about it. Yeah.”
“What happened to them then?”
He gestures to building over our heads. “Take a look around.”
“At what? Paris?” I shake my head, sitting back hard. “Wait, no. You’re saying the sixty became the Brûlén?”
He shrugs like he doesn’t know. I said it, not him.
“You’re lying,” I accuse.
“I’m not,” he promises.
“Prove it.”
“Talk to your boyfriend. He works in the library, doesn’t he? He can show you the records. The family tree of every Brûlén is in there. All the way back to the sixty.”
“Fine. I will.” I grab my plate, standing quickly. I’m eager to get away from him and the cryptic way he talks. The unnerving way he looks at me, like he already knows me better than he should. “But when I find out you’re lying, I’m coming back to call you out on it.”
“How are you going to find me? You don’t remember my name.”
Hell!
He’s right. I can’t remember. It didn’t lock in.
And for some reason, I’m angry at him for that.
♥♣♦♠
“He’s wrong.”
I roll my eyes. “I know you think he’s wrong, but can you just look?”
“I don’t think it,” Bastian argues. “I know he’s wrong. The sixty are not the Brûlén.”
“I need proof.”
“Because some random guy told you a story, you’re going to make me sift through genealogy records?”
“It’s your job.”
“Why can’t you just believe me?”
“Because sometimes you’re wrong.”
He stares at me blankly, like I’ve just spoken to him in Ancient Greek. It does not get through his skull.
“Can you please just help me?” I ask.
It’s the ‘please’ that does it. It usually does with Bastian, odd as that is. He’ll never say it himself but he appreciates the sentiment in other people. Especially me. He knows I can’t stand begging. I have to really, really want something to plead for it.
Bastian sighs, standing reluctantly. And slowly. So. Slowly. He’s making a point and I get it but it’s annoying.
“You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing,” he warns, leading me into a dark corner of the library.
“I know. I’ll stop once I know the truth.”
“You should be resting.”
“I was eating lunch. He showed up at my table and started talking crazy. This is not my fault.”
“What’s his name?”
“What does it matter?”
Bastian looks at me sideways. His face is shadowed, his eyes too dark to read. “I want to know who this guy is who’s sitting down with you at lunch.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes,” he answers, unashamed or embarrassed.
I blink, surprised, my heart skipping beats. Dropping coins. “You shouldn’t be. I don’t like him. There was something off about him.”
“And he’s not as good looking as I am.”
I laugh at his arrogance. “How would you know that? You’ve never met him.”
“Because I’m better looking than everyone.”
“Wow.”
Bastian smirks. “Am I wrong?”
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?”
I roll my tongue inside my mouth, irritated but amused. “No. You’re not wrong. You’re definitely better looking than him.”
He grins proudly. “I knew it.”
An hour later, he’s not so proud.
He’s wrong.
“This can’t be right,” Bastian mutters at the tome recording the Brûlén lineage. It’s crystal clear, starting from the beginning.
It starts with the sixty.
“How did we not know this?” I ask in amazement. “You’d think it would be in every history lesson.”
“Do you think your grandfather knows?”
“I don’t know. If he did, he would have told me. I think.” I shake my head, repeating, “I don’t know.”
“The Brûlén are the sixty that saved France.”
“It sounds insane to hear you say that.”
“It feels insane to say it,” he agrees.
“Do you think it’s true?”
He shrugs, his face painted in uncertainty. It’s a strange color on him. “It must be. It doesn’t change anything, but it’s weird.”
“It’s crazy that it’s a secret. Why doesn’t anyone talk about it?”
“Maybe no one but the Brûlén remember.”
“Why, though? How?”
“We assumed the sixty died. They knew the truth, but they don’t use titles. They don’t hold rank. They were martyrs but if they don’t believe in labels…”
“They never would have told us,” I agree slowly. “Because to them, it doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t know that it will matter to anyone in France, either.”
My heart jolts with realization. “It should,” I breathe.
“Why?”
I point to the tree – to a name that looks painfully familiar. “One of the sixty was named Fillion.”
“So?”
“Fillion was the first King of France after The Sickness.”
“I know basic French history, Aurelia. It’s not the same guy.”
“I know it’s not. I think it’s his son.”
Bastian scowls at me, then the book. The name. “Fillion had four sons,” he mutters.
“I can’t remember all of their names, but wasn’t one of them named after him?”
“No.”
“Bastian,” I push gently.
He shakes his head, his face uncertain. “Maybe.”
“If that were true, if this Fillion is a son of King Fillion—”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he insists sharply.
I keep my mouth closed tightly, but my mind is racing. It’s a hundred years of history, a broken lineage that probably can’t be confirmed, but if it could, it could change everything.
With the Bouchards dead and Bastian accepted as Gable, a bastard with no family, a Brûlén could be the next heir to the French throne.
chapitre quarante
The nightmare wakes me in a cold sweat. The room is dark. Foreign. I panic, not sure where I am, until finally I remember – Paris.
I’m in Paris.
It’s an impossible thought, like waking up on the moon.
And there’s a Martian laying next to me.
Bastian is asleep on the floor between the bed and the window. He found a narrow mattress in the other room and drug it in here. That made it so real – us sharing a room. I know the logic behind it but part of me is dead set against it. It’s not because I don’t want him here. I do. It’s actually because I want him here that I think he shouldn’t be. I’m too used to him. Too dependent. I’m actually afraid to be here without him and that fear makes me sick to my stomach.
Mother would never forgive me for the weakness.
It’s worse at night when the dreams come and I stare at the wall wondering when I’ll sleep again. I’m so tired. It feels impossible to be this tired and still be alive. My head is throbbing, my memory is slipping away from me like thin strips of paper thrown into the wind. Black ink on white parchment, torn and scattered, fluttering away as I reach for them desperately. I can’t catch a single one. I’ve forgotten so much.
How many tables were in the jail? Were there two or three?
Did the woman in the car ever speak? Even a single word?
When will we hear news from Loire?
How long do I have to rest before my brain is back to normal?
Will it ever be back to normal?
It’s scary not knowing. I can’t trust my own mind and suddenly I can’t remember what my latest nightmare was about. It was less than a minute ago but it’s gone. Lost. Was it even a nightmare that woke me up or was it something else? Is there someone out in the hall? Did I hear a sound in the street?
How do I know who I can trust, especially when I can’t trust my own mind?
“Bast?” I whisper faintly.
He doesn’t answer. He’s deep in sleep. I should let him stay that way, but I’m already rolling off the bed. I slip out from under the covers and onto my knees on the floor next to him. It’s too dark to see what I’m touching but I think it’s his shoulder – cold and bare.
“Bast.”
He slaps my hand away, his other hand reaching for my throat. He pinches my windpipe until I’m gagging.
I stare down into his eyes, mine bulging. I see it when the lightbulb goes on. When he realizes it’s me. His face goes from angry determination to shock in the blink of an eye. Bastian releases my throat, sitting up to take my shoulders in his hands.
“Breathe,” he commands. “Nice and slow.”
“You choked me,” I gasp.
“You surprised me.”
I touch my neck. It hurts so much I worry I’ll cry. “You’re such a dick.”
“You surprised me!” he repeats defensively.
“Let me go.”
“Not until I know you’re okay.”
“I was fine before you tried to kill me,” I bark, shaking off his hands.
He exhales hard. “You can’t take someone by surprise like that.”
“You can with normal people.”
Bastian sits back on his heels, his face dark. “Why are you down here anyway? What do you want?”
“Nothing. I don’t want anything.”
“You’re lying. I can always tell.”
“I don’t care.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure? Girls only climb into my bed for one reason, Ria, and if you’re thinking about that reason I’m up for it. You just have to say the word.”
“Stop acting like you’re some kind of sex machine. No one is impressed.”
“You would be if you gave it a chance.”
I roll my eyes, rising. “Whatever. I’m going back to bed.”
Bastian grabs my arm, pulling me down onto my knees in front of him. “What do you want?” he asks gently.
I want to call him a few more names and go back to bed, but he’s giving me this look that feels too open. Too honest for this time of night. It gets under my skin, in my blood, and I feel myself soften.
“I had a nightmare,” I admit.
“Which one?”
My eyes prick with tears. “I can’t remember.”
Bastian nods slowly, his eyes searching mine through the salt water mist between us. “Do you want me to sleep on the bed with you?”
I nod, unable to say the words. I’ll start crying if I do. I feel so vulnerable and afraid, so bone tired I can’t keep myself in check anymore.
I climb back into bed. Bastian follows me, draping the comforter over both of us.
The bed feels smaller with him in it. It feels warmer. Safer. He’s between me and the door, his hair so dark against the white pillow it almost looks black. I want to brush it away from his forehead but I’m afraid to touch him. It’s bad enough I’m in bed with him. My reputation couldn’t survive this if word got back to court. The myth of Bastian Bouchard is a stain no girl can wash away.
“I’m sorry I choked you,” he tells me, his deep voice filling the room like a fog.
I’m stunned by the apology. Bastian doesn’t do ‘I’m sorry’s.
I blink, searching for clarity. “I’m sorry I said you’re not normal.”
“Don’t be. You’re right. I grabbed you because I thought you were going to kill me. That’s how I wake up in the morning.”
“Scared?”
He frowns, unhappy with the word. “With my guard up.”
“Was that always how you did it or did it start after the assassination attempt?”
“Assassination.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it,” he says flippantly.
Your dad did. That’s worse.
“You can’t remember your nightmare?” he asks even though he knows the answer. He just wants to stop talking about himself.
“No. I’m forgetting other things too. Little stuff but it’s frustrating.”
“It’s normal.”
“Will any of it come back?”
“Not the stuff you’ve already lost, but you’ll stop losing soon. You have to take it easy. Sleeping would be a good start.”
“I can’t.”
“Because of the nightmares. Right.” He pushes his arm under my neck, wrapping it around my shoulders. “Come closer.”
His chest is bare and smooth. There’s a dark tattoo on the right that I can’t quite make out, but my fingers itch to trace it. To learn it.
My heart starts to run. “I’m fine.”
“Just get over here and go to sleep. I’m too tired to argue.”
I think about fighting but I’ve already lost. I lost when I went down onto the floor to be next to him. I give in, curling up against him. His hand on my shoulder is heavy, his heartbeat steady in my ear, and suddenly I’m slipping into a trance where I don’t see what’s wrong with this. With him and me in a bed alone in Paris.
“No Bouchard babies,” I mumble, my eyes slipping closed.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my cheek. “Not tonight.”
The sound of his breath lulls me to sleep.
chapitre quarante et un
In the morning Bastian won’t let me get out of bed. He goes downstairs to get me breakfast – coffee and a bowl of fruit that will be out of season soon – and brings me a book from the library in the afternoon. He comes and goes a lot, unable to sit still but unable to leave me alone for too long either. His leg is finally getting better, and a few days later my head is too. I hope I get a job soon. I’m hoping to take his.
In addition to manning the catalogue of books in the library, Bastian is also in charge of DVDs. Apparently there’s a theater somewhere in the hospital. They have a small projector to play movies on every Saturday night. It’s a big thing here. The social event of the entire town. Bastian says the next showing is three days away and he promises to take me.
“I’m not sure I want to go,” I admit. “Not after what happened the last time we went to the theater.”
“That was rough,” he agrees heavily.
“Maybe we should skip it.”
“Not a chance. We’re going.” He steals a slice of apple off my lunch tray, his body sprawled out on the bed next to me. “They’re playing a horror movie. You love being scared.”
“I do love being scared,” I agree.
“Then you’re in. Nine o’clock. Right after dinner.”
“It’s a date.”
I regret saying that. I wait for Bastian to make a comment about it, something off color or mocking, but he doesn’t. He just nods, munching away on my lunch.
The next day, Bastian is more wired than usual and I’m about to climb the walls of our room. The wallpaper feels like it moves when I’m not looking. The pattern gets wavy when your eyes are out of focus and I swear the radiator is whispering to me. I have to get out. I’m getting weird. Luckily, I start work in the library in two days. I’m taking Bastian’s job and he’s moving to maintenance.
Today, we decide to take a long walk around the Arc, venturing down to the Seine where we can see the Eiffel Tower across the river. We don’t cross it, though. I’m terrified of the water and neither of us wants to get any closer to the tower than we already are. As it is, the sight of the structure makes us both sad. It’s like the ledger and the sixty. It’s confirmation of another lie. Or, if not a lie, another truth we were never told. It’s hard to know what to believe in Paris. Everything feels different here. Distorted.
We haven’t talked about the sixty since that day in the library. It makes Bastian angry and really there’s nothing to say. We don’t know the truth and even if we did, he wouldn’t want to hear it. Not unless it was in his favor. That name – Fillion - is a question looming in the distance like ‘Will we ever go home?’ and ‘What is happening in Loire?’. We can’t answer any of them, so we do our best to pretend we don’t hear them.
“What do you want to do when they let you leave the library?” I ask on the walk home from the river.
Bastian shrugs, bouncing a yellow rubber ball against the wet pavement. Thump. “Anything. Nothing could be worse than the library.”
“Not even janitorial?”
“I’m not above scrubbing a toilet.”
“Since when?!” I laugh.
He smiles because he knows he’s lying. We both do.
Thump, goes his ball.
“Where’d you get that?”
He studies it for a second before bouncing it again. Thump! “Jen.”
“Who’s Jen?”
“Some girl. She comes into the library a lot.”
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
Is she pretty?
“Is she nice?”
Bastian stops, looking at me sideways. “She’s just a girl, Ria.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“Because I live in a closet and I have no life,” I complain. “I’m living vicariously through you.”
“And Jen.”
I hate Jen.
“Only if she’s taller than I am,” I joke. “I can’t handle getting shorter.”
Bastian shakes his head. Thump. “Play it however you want but we both know you’re jealous.”
“Jealous of what? She gave you a ball and she has a name. What is there to be jealous of?”
He smirks. “I’ll let you know.”
Such. A. Dick.
Thump!
When Movie Night finally comes around, Jen is a running joke between us. He drops her name whenever he wants to make me angry, and the smart thing to do is not react at all. But I can’t. My cheeks go hot with annoyance every time I hear her name. I’m not even sure she’s real. She’s probably something he made up to torture me with because that’s the kind of sadistic freak he is.
