6. Julien
six
Julien
I t was ten a.m.
Ten a.m. and Julien had already eaten breakfast, read the weekly Auri-produced newspaper, completed a three-kilometre run, showered, tinkered with the translation device prototype he was developing for fun, practised his German verbs so he could test said device, and drunk two cups of coffee.
Julien rolled his neck. Still two more hours to kill. That was fine. He could do two more hours.
Next, he would work. Slipping on his reading glasses, he reached for the papers on his coffee table.
His phone rang, vibrating his side table and hurting his ears with its loud shrill. One glance at the caller ID sent two fingers straight to his temple. After a deep breath, he picked it up and held it a few inches away from his ear.
“ Père.” If his father picked up the note of annoyance already in his voice, he didn’t mention it.
From his first line of rapid, angry French, it was clear he had called to rant. “Three people deceased, and over fifty injured, and my own son doesn’t find it within himself to call and assure me of his well-being?”
“You could have called me last night, Père.” Fifty people injured? The newspaper had said thirty. His father always did have more information than everyone else, however .
“I should not have to chase after reassurance. I expect the courtesy of my offspring to prioritise familial duty and ensure his parent is spared the inconvenience of concern. It’s basic decency, something I thought I had instilled, but evidently, the appreciation of such matters…”
Julien held the phone away from his ear and hummed a low note.
“Julien? Julien ?”
“I’m sorry. Do you want to have an actual conversation now?”
His father emitted an exasperated huff. “I suppose my energy is best spent on the terrorists who claimed the lives of three of our own last night. All of my sources indicate that none of these Arcane Purifiers had the audacity to reveal themselves at the scene of the crime and take responsibility for their actions?”
“Correct, Père , none of them were walking around with a giant sign on their backs that said ‘I did it’. Not that I saw anyway.”
“Well, they’ve truly outdone themselves this time. There’s no conceivable way the consortium will close their eyes to this. Shooting themselves in the foot is an understatement. If this is their idea of promoting their cause, they’ve just orchestrated their own downfall.”
The temptation to openly support the Purifiers just to piss off his father was strong, but Julien resisted.
“Anyway, shifting our focus to other matters, Eleanor relayed the news that she has successfully secured the proven shadowslipper from London and placed him under your guardianship.”
“That would be correct.”
“And? What is your assessment? Do you believe his skills are sufficiently honed to be a valuable asset against the umbraphages?”
Not even in the slightest, but getting him to communicate with Béatrice is a much higher priority for me, as it should be for you, dear Père.
“My role is only to make sure he stays put in Talwacht,” said Julien. “I’m sure Eleanor will be given all the information you want. ”
“Right, right. How did your MEET application fare in the end?” Before Julien could reply, he continued, “And how is the charming Darcy Beaumont? Now, there’s a blossoming young woman destined for success. I crossed paths with her father a few weeks ago, and he regaled me with tales of her accomplishments.”
“I bet he did.”
“Will you bring her to my birthday soiree again?”
The mention of his father’s annual party sent a visceral shiver down his spine. Every muscle in his body tensed as Julien glanced at his wall calendar. The event was marked with a small illustration of a penis with a jewelled crown on it.
“I was actually planning on bringing someone else home for your birthday party weekend.”
He grimaced at his own words, surprised by them. He knew why he’d said it—bringing someone else along to act as armour between himself and his father would make the experience ten times better. Now he’d have to follow through, however.
A beanie-hat-shaped possibility floated through his mind.
His father hummed. “Truly? Someone you’re courting? We would be delighted to extend our hospitality to her. Carrie in particular is dying to dote on a daughter-in-law.”
Julien’s mouth parted in the silent scream he frequently made at any mention of his father’s second wife acting like his mother.
“Regardless, the delightful Darcy Beaumont is more than welcome as well. I’ve already extended an invitation to her family.”
“I have to go now.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very busy. See you soon.”
And with that, his father hung up on him.
Julien flung the receiver across his coffee table, then watched the cord rebound it back towards him. His hands tore through his hair in frustration. That had been one of their more pleasant phone calls, yet it had still reduced him to this.
The unpublished article he was required to review, a proposal for mote-powered steam engines for cargo ships, still sat on his table expectantly, but Julien pushed it away.
There was only one thing he could do to placate himself when he was in this mood. Julien walked over to his piano, sat down, and soothed himself with the jazz-infused melodies of Miles Davis.
Although it was tempting to knock on Cinn’s door to glimpse the interior of his house, it was cold, and the door was far. Three short beeps of Maz’s horn and Cinn emerged seconds later, traipsing down his path while still pulling on his coat.
After Cinn left them yesterday, Elliot had launched into a spiel about not trusting him, not liking him, and then—surprisingly—started questioning their entire plan of getting Cinn involved in their quest to contact Béatrice. Julien had stayed silent—a useful strategy when dealing with Elliot’s outbursts—but his words planted seeds of doubt in his mind. Should they really be messing around with shadowslipping? The practice was largely unknown, and Cinn obviously had no idea what he was doing.
Cinn slid into the car, closing Maz’s door gently behind him, earning him a point.
“Planning to tune all of us out today?” Julien asked, nodding at the chunky headphones around his neck.
Cinn snorted. “Only if you’re annoying. But music helps me control my episodes. Well, it can help stop them. And I know that’s the opposite of what we’re doing today, but…” He shrugged .
“If you’re into music, why don’t you put something on?” Julien gestured to the radio’s scan and seek function as Maz’s engine purred to life to drive them out of Cinn’s quiet street.
Cinn flicked through the channels, bypassing anything German, French, or Italian until he hit something English. Julien glanced over to see his face light up. The vocals were a bit too squeaky for his liking, and the bass too loud, but Cinn was soon bobbing along and mouthing along with the lyrics. Most of the words seemed to be ‘hello’, aside from some notion of the singer’s demands to be entertained.
Julien certainly wasn’t. Well, not by the song, anyway.
Cinn must have seen something in his expression, as he said, “Don’t you like Nirvana?”
“Who?”
With a shake of his head, Cinn went back to enjoying the music, tapping his foot along to the beat. Several headache-inducing songs later, they arrived at Darcy’s cottage. Cinn would never again be allowed control of the radio.
A white picket fence enclosed Darcy’s overgrown front garden. It was getting harder and harder to battle your way through it to reach her door.
“Darcy’s not in, so we need the spare key.” Julien grinned mischievously and pointed to an ornate, antique-looking lantern hanging by the door. “I invented this for her.”
As Cinn raised an eyebrow in question, Julien tapped a hidden sigil on the lantern, causing it to flicker with a gentle glow. Moments later, there was a bright blue burst of light within the lantern’s glass enclosure. Julien unlatched one panel and it swung open to reveal the spare key waiting for them, a few remaining blue sparks—veilmotes—still fading out.
Julien motioned for Cinn to retrieve the key, at which point Cinn may have mumbled something about key safes being perfectly adequate, which Julien may have ignored .
Once they’d closed the door behind them, Cinn hovered, wrapping his coat around him like he didn’t want it to be taken away from him. “Where are the other two?”
“Elliot exists in the magical world of Elliot-time, where nobody else’s schedules are important. Darcy said she had to run out to get something.”
Julien ushered Cinn into the kitchen. He poked around in Darcy’s cupboards, looking for any breakfast tea to offer Cinn, who hadn’t enjoyed his chai experience last time. However, he couldn’t make head nor tail of Darcy’s stock, arranged in mismatched jars with undecipherable codes scribbled on them.
Cinn, meanwhile, paced up and down the kitchen, hands in jean pockets, radiating discomfort. Just when Julien was going to ask what the matter was, he burst out with, “Do you have any smokes? I tried to find a shop last night, but I was too knackered. But I got an envelope with a few hundred francs in it through my letterbox, from Madame Sinclair’s assistant. So I can pay you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Julien didn’t really smoke much—albeit occasionally in social situations with a glass of red wine—but he knew exactly where Darcy’s supply was. He opened the bronze tin in her bottom drawer and took out the packet of Gitanes. “These okay? They’re what we all used to smoke in Paris.”
Removing two, he gestured for Cinn to follow him into Darcy’s tiny back garden. The warm hues of the last wave of autumn foliage blanketed the ground. A black iron bench, that ivy was attempting to claim for itself, lay at the far side of it. Once seated, Julien passed Cinn a cigarette. “These might be a tiny bit stale.”
He took it gratefully. “I usually smoke roll-ups.”
“Really? They’ve always looked rather inconvenient to me. Too many elements to obtain to make them. ”
Cinn raised his eyebrows, his piercing glinting in the light. “They’re cheap though.” He lit his cigarette from the lighter Julien flicked on and offered him. When he took his first deep drag, his eyes rolled back in euphoria before closing completely, and Julien had to suppress a laugh.
For a short time, the pair sat in peaceful silence. Julien lit his own cigarette before leaning back into the bench, listening to the sound of the wind and the distant twittering of birds.
“I thought it was just you that came from Paris,” Cinn said at last.
Caught off guard at his sudden interest, Julien took a second before replying. “I was the only one born there. I first met Elliot when I was twelve, at this international summer camp for moteblessed teenagers. And yes, it was as awful as it sounded,” he said, laughing at the grimace on Cinn’s face. “Then we attended La Sorbonne together in Paris. We met Darcy there. Béatrice joined the university the year after me, and then, voilà .” A nostalgic collage of images of the four of them lounging around in Paris’s parks and cafés during the summer breaks distracted him from saying more.
“Okay…” Cinn said slowly. He tipped his chin back and blew a series of impressive smoke rings into the air, to watch them disappear. “So it was a coincidence that you and Elliot found another moteblessed friend there, or…?”
Julien laughed. Cinn knew so little about his tiny corner of society. “ Non , definitely not. There are a handful of universities across Europe that tend to attract groups of moteblessed students. There’s a slightly different admission pathway, admittedly. But we all studied alongside ‘normal’ students and completed what is equivalent to your master’s degree, alongside some extra-curricular, invite-only classes.”
Julien winked at him. Cinn returned a weak smile that didn’t meet his eyes, before his gaze wandered and he twirled a strand of hair poking out of his beanie. Were the intricacies of Julien’s world overwhelming him? Well, it was Cinn’s world too now, so the quicker he was up to speed, the better.
Cinn finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into an ashtray on the ground. Julien offered him the end of his—he’d found the first few puffs more than enough—and Cinn quickly accepted it before asking, voice strained, “So what did you study then, at your fancy university?”
“Engineering and art.”
Cinn snorted. “Do they go together?”
“They do indeed, actually.”
After popping a mint into his mouth, then offering another one to Julien, Cinn kicked the ground with the heel of his boot and looked at his shoes. “Anyway. I have a bank account for you. If it’s still alright to transfer that money.”
“Certainly,” said Julien. “Have you got all the details?”
Cinn rummaged around in his back pocket to produce a small slip of crumpled paper. “This is actually my mate Bradley’s bank account. Tyler is staying with him.”
“And how much am I transferring him, exactly?”
At this, Cinn did look up to meet his eye, steadying himself, and Julien found himself instantly lost in the depths of his determined gaze. He couldn’t deny it: there was something about Cinn’s face that entranced him. Perhaps it was the fusion of two elements in Cinn’s countenance: boyish innocence paired with a quiet maturity that seemed to surpass his years.
“Ten thousand. Pounds. Or whatever that is in francs, or however it works.” An angry red flush dotted Cinn’s cheeks and his jaw clenched.
Julien almost laughed at the display. He constructed his best deep-in-thought face. “Hmm. I will see what I can do. Move some things around and such. ”
In actuality, the amount was no bother to him whatsoever. He’d expected it to be triple that, at least, if this Tyler fellow was that deep in trouble.
“It needs to be soon,” Cinn said, frowning deeply, and Julien felt a sliver of remorse for toying with him. An oddly large sliver.
“I promise I’ll sort it all out by the end of the day.” Then Julien watched Cinn closely as he continued, “Your boyfriend is very lucky to have you.”
Cinn’s body tensed, a deep frown etching into his forehead. “What makes you call him that?”
“Something in the way you say his name.”
Cinn’s gaze returned to the ground. He pulled his beanie lower down over his head. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore, at least.” Emotion clouded his voice.
Julien basked in the glory of being right. Of course, he was rarely wrong when it came to these things.
“We haven’t been together in a long, long time. I—” Cinn cut himself off, eyeing Julien warily.
Julien remained expectantly silent, his sole focus on Cinn.
“I… told him I couldn’t be with him until he got himself clean. And five years later, here we still are.”
“Really? I’d have imagined you’d have been quite the incentive.”
Julien’s attempt at flirtation crashed and burned, evident by the way Cinn’s frosty face shot him a glare that could rival an arctic chill. “It doesn’t work like that. You can love someone with everything you’ve got, every last inch of you, and it can still not be enough. Sometimes it’s not something they can control.” The atmosphere around them shifted, an awkward tension taking hold. “Don’t judge someone without even meeting them, alright? Tyler’s had it tough. Way worse than me.”
Julien threw up his hands, conceding with a theatrical gesture of surrender, although he harboured a subtle disagreement about self- control—years of practising self-discipline in various ways wouldn’t let him. “Absolutely,” he replied in his best honeyed voice. And then, to rectify the situation. “I’ll say it again. Your Tyler is very lucky to have a friend like you. Even from a thousand miles away, you’re still desperately trying to help.”
Cinn shrugged. “He’d do the same for me.”
Julien wasn’t convinced. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry so much about homophobia and such when you’re at Auri, but be more wary about what you say or do in town. Those folks aren’t quite as accepting.”
Cinn’s eyebrow quirked up. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on shagging anyone in the middle of the town square.”
Julien threw back his head and laughed, enjoying the way his whole body shook. It had been a while since he’d laughed this hard. Without breaking eye contact, he said, “Exhibitionism not your style? Shame. You’d be quite the sight.”
Cinn’s light-olive cheeks were already rosy, but now they burned .
So fun to play with. Too fun.
Julien waited for Cinn to look away, to ease his embarrassment. But he didn’t. He didn’t smile, only stared back at Julien. Was he waiting for him to make the next move? Waiting for him to break eye contact first? Well, if he was playing that game, he was in for a surprise. Julien easily—lazily even—gazed into Cinn’s gorgeously golden eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes.
One eyelash had shed and nestled itself in the crinkle of Cinn’s right eye.
“Don’t move,” Julien whispered, as his thumb ghosted upwards across Cinn’s cheek to catch the lash. He allowed his knuckle to brush over Cinn’s eyebrow bar before sweeping the lash onto the back of his hand. He raised it to Cinn’s lips. “Make a wish.”
And still with that unbreakable eye contact, Cinn blew, his full lips pressing together in a manner surely, surely , deliberately sensual .
“What are you doing?” Came a gruff voice.
Cinn recoiled from Julien, pushing himself into the corner of the bench as Elliot stormed into the garden, leaving the kitchen door swinging wide open.
Julien sighed. Why could he never have nice things without a price? “Smoking. Want one?”
“No thanks. I thought we were here to try to reach Béatrice.” Elliot’s unsmiling gaze settled on Cinn, and did not waver.
“We are. You were late.”
Elliot could read every slight nuance of Julien’s expressions, and so he communicated a crystal clear: W hy the hell are you making a scene? Pull yourself together .
Because she was an angel sent from heaven, Darcy materialised in the doorway, shouting, “How many times have I told you not to leave this door open? Well? Are you coming in? I’ve got everything we need.”