4. Julien
four
Julien
T he short walk to Darcy’s cottage, nestled in a quiet spot near the edge of town, was awkwardly silent. Darcy led the way with Julien and Elliot trailing closely behind Cinnamon, essentially caging him with their bodies, blocking any further escape attempts.
Julien expelled a deep breath. The previous half an hour had been a close call, far too close for comfort. Shortly after Eleanor Sinclair had called to update him, the fire in Darcy’s living room had crackled, spitting out another smoking parchment piece that demanded the three of them hurry to the gate at the edge of the green—Eleanor citing information from ‘her sources’ that Cinn was on the move, and had entered the grove.
If they’d arrived five minutes later, they might have lost him. He could only imagine the fury on Eleanor’s face if they’d let him slip through their fingers. Likely she would have tracemotes on the newcomer before the day was over, lest he go wandering.
She’d whirlwinded into his apartment the day before last to announce she was flying to England to collect someone she needed his help with. The details were vague: a man, a year or two younger than him. A criminal record. And most importantly: a shadowslipper .
“He’s… not exactly Auri material, is he?” Elliot whispered, his lips twitching into a snide smile. “What exactly is he wearing?”
Julien’s eyes raked over the guy’s baggy clothes that hid every inch of the smooth, olive skin he’d brushed up against during their fight. The grey woollen beanie that he wore, tugged down low on his head, was fraying slightly at the seams.
Non , this man was definitely not his type. But there was certainly something about him…
Probably just the adrenaline from the fight talking.
When they were brawling earlier, Julien’s eye kept magnetising to the small silver bar that adorned his right eyebrow. The temptation to pull it had been strong, but Julien didn’t want to really piss him off. Not when he needed him so badly.
“Maybe his style is all the rage in London these days,” he replied.
“Can you imagine what your father would say if you started dressing like that?” Elliot continued to snicker to himself, but Julien gave him no response. Elliot would often bring Julien’s father up, and Julien would shut down the conversation instantly, yet it never deterred Elliot.
Cinnamon’s head snapped back towards them at Elliot’s laughter, but they were saved by the distraction of Darcy announcing, “Home sweet home!” Good job, too—Julien did not want a repeat of the fight from earlier, in which his shorter opponent had certainly held his own.
The fire was down to its dying embers by the time they settled in the living room of Darcy’s small cottage, and Julien set to work reviving it—one long, hard breath, and the heatmote-infused grate did its job. He stared at the blazing inferno, half expecting immediate instructions to burst out of the now-present flames. Instead, the telephone rang.
Darcy was closest. After the caller had spoken for a moment, she replied smoothly, “Of course.” She placed the phone on the wall hook. “Eleanor is on her way.”
“I bet she is.” Elliot grinned and looked at Cinnamon like he was a rabbit about to be devoured by a wolf.
“How are you feeling, Cinnamon?” Darcy guided him to the seat closest to the fire—the cosy emerald armchair that Julien usually took for himself. “The heat should help with the last lingering effects of the Frostbite.”
“My name’s Cinn,” he replied, sitting on the very edge of the chair and fiddling with the lining of his beanie. “Nobody calls me Cinnamon.”
“Someone must have, at least once,” Elliot sniped, earning him a whack on the head from Darcy, which Julien approved of—they now needed ‘Cinn’ on side, if they were going to enlist his help.
“So Cinn,” he started, consciously using his most charming smile—the smile that nobody could say no to. This should have been his approach from the start, but he’d let the panic of almost losing access to him take hold. Julien sat down cross-legged in front of the fire, beaming up at Cinn, maintaining strong eye contact. The wary-looking man’s deep golden-brown eyes held a surprising amount of warmth, despite the scowl he wore on his face. How much prettier would he be with a smile?
“Yes?” Cinn snapped, glaring at him now. Julien had gotten distracted. Very distracted.
“We understand that this must be very confusing for you,” said Darcy, clearly deciding Julien wasn’t up to the task of placating their captive. “I’m sure Eleanor wasn’t the most forthcoming. But she’s coming here now, and we can go through everything else you want to know.”
The teapot whistled on Darcy’s stove and she left the room, beckoning Elliot with her.
Cinn eyed Julien warily, as if he expected a sudden attack now they were alone. “Are you Swiss? Or what?” he abruptly asked.
“French,” Julien said, deliberately rolling his ‘r’ . “My homeland is the City of Lights,” he continued, exaggerating his accent in that seductive way that often had people melting in front of him.
Cinn didn’t look impressed. Strange.
“Who the hell even is Madame Sinclair, anyway? Does she run this place? The Institute or whatever? ”
Julien barked a laugh. Eleanor would have loved to hear that. “Not exactly. I suppose you could say she’s… middle management. I primarily know her as a friend of the family, but our paths cross here from time to time.”
“Does she often fly across the world to personally kidnap people?”
“Only the very special ones.” Julien used the opportunity to bat his eyelashes ever so subtly, but Cinn was unaffected, staring back with a deadpan expression.
With saucers clinking, Darcy and Elliot carried in two trays laden with teacups and dark chocolate cookies. Setting hers down on the round coffee table with a flourish, she announced, “Ma just sent me this new chai blend from India.” Darcy thrust a cup into Cinn’s hand before falling onto the sofa beside Elliot, turning on the bronze torchiere beside her. “They just spent a month there and stockpiled twelve different types of tea before returning to Scotland.”
Julien eyed Cinn discreetly as he lifted the mug to his lips. Cinn took the smallest ever sip, his face pinching when he swallowed. Then he leaned past Julien to swipe a biscuit, with a lunge so quick that it almost cracked a joke.
Cinn devoured most of the cookie with a single large bite. “Is there… black pepper in these?”
Darcy’s hands clapped together as her eyes sparkled. “To enhance the richness of the chocolate! You bake?”
“Not exactly. I cook. I’m a chef. In training, anyway. Well, was in training.” Cinn’s eyes dropped to the well-worn blue rug.
“Well, you can help me in the kitchen anytime. These two Neanderthals can’t tell a paring knife from a pastry brush.”
Elliot snorted out a spray of tea as Cinn’s head snapped up to glare at Darcy.
“I’m not staying.”
Julien shuffled forward an inch. “Cinn— ”
A knock at the door had Cinn flinching backwards, panicked eyes flashing towards it. For the first time, a trace of fear could be detected on his face. “What is she going to do to me?”
Darcy stood, but before she took a step, Eleanor burst into the room, heels thundering on the wooden floorboards. “Evening,” she said calmly, her gaze landing straight on Cinn. “Mr. Saunders. I hear you went on a little walk.” She hung her long black coat on the wooden coatrack.
Elliot shuffled along on the sofa to make space for her while Darcy sprung up, wringing her hands together. “Madame Sinclair, can I get you anything?”
“Something stronger than that should suffice.” Eleanor nodded at the tea, sending Darcy scurrying off. Julien had never understood Darcy’s unease around Eleanor, but then, he’d grown up attending dinner parties with the formidable woman since he was five.
“Look,” started Cinn, sitting forward. “Unless you plan to produce some sort of legal documentation that says you can keep me here—”
Eleanor held up her hand. “We have just saved you from a life behind bars, Cinnamon Saunders. If I were you, I’d be grovelling at my feet. And if I were you, I’d be hesitant to go back to the outside world until I knew I wasn’t going to be responsible for any more deaths.”
Cinn recoiled, face horrified, as he slumped back into himself, but Eleanor smiled. She’d said the magic words, and she knew it.
“Now, now,” she said, as she accepted the half glass of brandy Darcy offered her. “There’s no need for that. I promise you that this is the best place for you. We can help you. Train you. Besides, as moteblessed, you need to be with your own people.”
Cinn shook his head. “What?”
“Moteblessed. It’s the overarching name our community gives to those of us able to channel motes of any kind. Some of us have a narrow range of motes we can influence. Some, like Elliot here, have trained their mind and body to withstand a great range and quantity of motepower, particularly elemental-based motes. He’s one of Auri’s finest upcoming members of our gendarmerie.”
Pride practically seeped from Elliot’s pores, and Julien laughed, which helped to squash down the tiny prickle of jealousy that he couldn’t help but feel whenever Elliot’s channelling abilities were complimented.
In disbelief, Cinn stared at Elliot, opening his mouth as if to question what Eleanor said. Elliot smirked, wiggled his eyebrows, then proceeded to raise every drop of tea out of his mug to form a swirling ball of brown liquid between his hands. A gasp came from Cinn, followed by a string of expletives. His mouth fell slack as his thick eyelashes rapidly blinked at the floating tea, which was now being expertly manipulated back into the teapot through the spout.
“Elliot! That’s unhygienic!” snapped Darcy.
With a soft laugh, Eleanor swirled her brandy. “Darcy is also able to manipulate a wide variety of motes, and is researching the synthesization of them into compounds. Julien, on the other hand, specialises in how we can utilise them within technology. These are just three examples of professions or areas of study in our moteblessed community. And then we have you. Stop shaking your head at me, Cinn. You utilise shadowmotes when you have your… experiences. You just never knew it.”
Julien stared at the mixture of shock, bewilderment and… relief?… that warred on Cinn’s face. What must it have been like, growing up moteblessed and not having the faintest clue what that entailed? Confusing, certainly. Lonely even, maybe. What had Cinn thought was happening when he had his ‘experiences’?
“So… you’re telling me that it’s their fault? These shadowmotes ? Can I stop them? Can I fix myself?”
Cinn sounded like a broken man on the edge of desperation, and a soft noise burst out of Julien before he could stop it, but it was Elliot who beat him to say, “Being moteblessed is a privilege that most could only dream of. Why would you want to stop it?”
“Mate, did you miss the part where I murdered four people?” Cinn snarled.
Darcy looked to him with wide, sympathetic eyes. “That wasn’t you though, if what Madame Eleanor told us is correct. You just… accidentally brought back a psychotic-murderer spirit or something. Right?”
“Same result.”
“She’s right, Cinn,” said Eleanor. “There’s no blame for you to shoulder. However, now you need to learn how to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
The firelight danced in Cinn’s eyes as he considered her words. “Fine,” he eventually spat through gritted teeth. “But I can leave as soon as I’ve learnt to control it? These shadowmotes or whatever? I’ll be free to go? And my record wiped clean?”
“We can discuss all of that in due course. Although, this isn’t something you’re going to learn overnight. These three have been practising motecraft since they were children, and they still have a lot to learn.”
“Hey,” said Julien. “Where are these unfounded accusations coming from?”
Eleanor continued, “From tomorrow, you’ll start private sessions with a colleague of mine. Albert Noir.”
“Does he have the same problem as me?” Cinn asked.
Eleanor caught Julien’s eye in the most subtle of glances. A cue to bite his tongue lest he reply out of turn—Eleanor was running this show.
“No,” she said smoothly, withholding the very noteworthy fact that nobody had the same talent as Cinn. Well, nobody still alive to tell the tale, anyway. “But he’s a highly competent scholar and will take good care of you. ”
“If you can suffer through his bad jokes,” said Elliot, and Darcy glared at him. She had a fondness for the old man that Julien and Elliot did not share. “And his morning breath.”
Abruptly, Eleanor stood up. “I could only step away for a short time. Cinn, see to it that I don’t have to pay you any more unscheduled visits. My time is precious and I don’t like wasting it. Julien, walk me out, please.”
Without a backward glance, she marched towards the door, forcing Julien to surge up to follow her. Once they’d left the cottage into the frigid night air, she beckoned him down the path to the gate.
“What is it?” Julien was already annoyed at having to leave the warm fire.
“I’m sure this is obvious, Julien, but do not start dragging him into your little project anytime soon.”
Seething, Julien clenched and unclenched his fists. “You’re the one who told me all about him. You’ve practically delivered him to our doorstep.”
“So you can keep a constant eye on him between the three of you,” she hissed. “You know exactly why he’s actually here, and why that’s so important. You know damn well it’s not to play mouthpiece for your sister, as sad as her death was.”
“But—” Julien stopped himself from pouting like a toddler. Pushed down his anger. Smiled sweetly. Play the game.
“There’s nobody here that Viktor Sturmhart and I trust more than you to make sure the boy stays put, keeps his head down, and doesn’t get interfered with by the wrong people. He’s a baby, Julien. He knows nothing about this world. A newborn cub. If you try to get him to run before he can walk…”
Inside, a maelstrom of fury threatened to burst out of Julien. What about Béatrice? How have you just forgotten all about her, just like Père? You promised to help.
“And how is the internal review of Béatrice’s death going?” Julien asked, voice level.
“We’re still going through things, Julien. However, the general consensus is still that it was an accident. A tragic accident.”
Lies !
Eleanor moved towards him, to rest a hand on his shoulder and squeeze it in a rare moment of affection. He resisted the impulse to shrug it off. “Still? It’s been three months.”
“Exactly, Julien. It might be time to—”
“I’m going back inside. You should know I’m not babysitting your ward. I’m sure Darcy will be happy to, and I’ll stop Elliot from tormenting him, but I’m too busy with work to ferry him around and entertain him.”
He knew he’d gone too far when Eleanor’s tone turned icy cold. “Julien, have some compassion for once in your life. And if you really can’t do that, then listen to this: your direct orders from Viktor Sturmhart, in addition to your father , are to ensure no harm comes to Cinnamon Saunders. Keep him here, and out of trouble. You know the stakes that are at play here. Do not fuck this up. Especially with your application to MEET about to be reviewed.”
Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, Julien nodded. He’d play along if that’s what it took. “I’ll keep an eye on him, but he hardly seems like the hardened criminal you described.”
“I told you that he spent a year in juvenile prison as a teenager, not that he was a common thug.”
Julien shrugged. “Just saying, I doubt he’ll be a flight risk now.”
With a parting nod, Eleanor slid into her car, and Julien stomped all the way back to the front door. Laughter burst out of the living room entrance. Startled by the sudden change in dynamic, Julien paused.
“Then we’ll take you to this bar we love,” said Darcy.
“Darcy loves it. We just tolerate it,” Elliot sniped .
He’d been gone all of five minutes and they were already making weekend plans?
He rounded the corner, lifting his coat from the rack. “I’ll drive you home, Cinn.”
“But it’s not on your way.” Elliot stared at Julien intently, but Julien only stared back, daring him to make a scene.
Cinn gave an uncomfortable squirm in the armchair, glancing between the pair of them.
With loud clinks, Darcy gathered three empty teacups onto a tray—Cinn had finished his chai after all. “You’re going home? Fantastic news. I figured you’d demand to crash on my sofa again. You’ve used it more than your own bed this month.”
Julien would often suffer through the occasional stab of a loose spring rather than face another night alone in his penthouse suite. Béatrice’s bedroom was opposite Darcy’s, but he couldn’t ever quite bring himself to sleep in her bed. Just being in her room was bad enough. He knew this well—they’d many times attempted to summon her to the space, figuring it to be a familiar, special place.
“Let’s go,” Julien said pointedly to Cinn, who finally jumped up, mumbled goodbyes to the other two, and followed him outside to where his car was parked, next to Elliot’s motorcycle.
He tried not to laugh when Cinn made to get into the driver’s side before muttering something about stupid European cars.
Once Cinn clicked his seatbelt, he ran his hand over the dashboard of Julien’s Mazda Eunos 800. He’d bought it on impulse last year after a particularly draining visit home. It was jet black, like his mood at the time.
“Nice ride,” Cinn said.
“Do you drive?”
“Nah. Never have. Don’t really need to in my part of London. ”
Great. It looked like Cinn really would be reliant on them to ferry him around.
“ Oui , your public transport really is… something,” said Julien, wrinkling his nose at the memory of the one time he’d attempted to board an overcrowded bus. Thank goodness for the black cabs.
“You’ve been to London?”
Julien glanced at him. “ Oui , of course. I grew up in Paris. It’s just a stone’s throw away.”
“I’ve never been to Paris.” A wistful edge coloured Cinn’s voice. “It looks so nice in the movies.”
“Most of it’s a cesspool. My father and his wife live there though, so I go back, every now and again.” Not as little as I’d like.
“Are they… moteblessed ? Your parents?”
A laugh bubbled out of him before he could contain it. Of course, Cinn would have no idea who his father was. “ Oui . It usually tends to be genetic. It’s likely one of your parents was.”
Cinn fell quiet for a moment. Julien glanced at him. What had Eleanor said about his upbringing? Shit-show of a childhood. Foster system since age thirteen. School dropout.
“Is this you?” Julien asked, as he pulled up outside the address Eleanor had given him on the phone that afternoon. The institute owned twenty percent of the property around town, so why on earth had they stuck Cinn so far out? Wouldn’t it have been better to keep him close to the centre?
Cinn squinted through the darkness. “I guess it is.”
A small pause stretched. Cinn didn’t look delighted at being dropped off to be all alone in a strange new house, and Julien had a sudden urge to invite himself in. Then Julien reminded himself that Cinn was a normal, functioning adult, unlike himself. “I’m presuming Eleanor wants me to take you to Auri tomorrow. I’ve got a lecture to catch at midday, so I’ll pick you up at ten.”
Cinn grabbed the door handle, then froze, turning his head to look Julien directly in the eye. “You said you needed my help. Earlier, when you used that stuff on me.”
Oui, I did. Yes, I do. I really, really do.
“Did I?”
Cinn’s piercing gaze was unrelenting. Eleanor’s clear orders from earlier warred with the image of his dead sister’s body.
Naturally, it was an unfair contest.
“There is something I have in mind. But it can wait.” A day or two.
Cinn ran his fingers through the messy dark hair that poked out of the front of his hat, seeming poised to say more, but eventually, he just slid out of the car. “Cheers for the ride,” he mumbled, before walking up his path, head down.
Julien stared at Cinn’s door long after he’d closed it. Cinn was a puzzle. An intriguing puzzle. And there was nothing Julien liked more than a good puzzle.