14. Julien
fourteen
Julien
S omething was wrong with Cinn.
He hadn’t come to Julien’s room that morning, so he eventually headed to the kitchen to make coffee for them, then brought it into the conservatory where they’d worked yesterday morning. Then he waited. And waited.
Earlier, in a sleep-addled haze, Julien had woken up reaching for him, heart skipping a beat when his hands found an empty mattress, rather than a warm Cinn to wrap himself around.
Why had he sent him back to his own room again?
So he didn’t start expecting something you can’t offer him.
Now, in the cold light of day, Julien could see how that had probably appeared slightly—okay, incredibly —rude.
He softly banged his head against the table. Why did he keep fucking this up?
What they’d done together last night had been amazing. Julien couldn’t stop replaying every moment in his mind. The elation he’d felt at exploring Cinn’s body. The tattoos adorning the exquisite expanse of olive skin he’d relished running his tongue over. The feeling of Cinn squirming underneath him, desperate for his touch, and his only. The taste of him.
What if Cinn regretted what they’d done?
Just when he’d reached boiling point and decided to go knock on his door, Cinn slunk into the room clutching his book, headphones around his neck. He barely met Julien’s eye when he mumbled hello, sliding into the same seat as yesterday before quickly opening his book before Julien could strike up a conversation.
The tension was palpable, and the distance between them stretched with every passing second.
Every so often, Cinn tugged up the neckline of his hoodie, which—mostly—covered the lovebite that Julien had marked him with last night.
“You can’t see it, and besides, it’s just me in the room.”
Cinn flushed beetroot-red, glueing his eyes to his book.
“How’s the reading going today? Seems like it’s easier?”
“Please stop talking.”
So he was angry with him.
“Why are you upset with me? Because of dinner still?”
Cinn sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temple. “No.”
“I’ve realised it was probably very rude of me to assume you’d want to go back to your room.” I’d have far rather woken up with you in my arms.
Cinn turned the page of his book, placing his overlay on the next sentence.
A sickening jolt passed through Julien’s heart. Whatever he’d done, Cinn seemed extremely pissed. What if he never forgave him?
Mind-blowing sex aside, Cinn’s tentative inclusion into his tiny circle of friends was more important to him. Too important to fuck up. Even though he’d only been in his life for a handful of weeks, he’d feel his absence like a missing puzzle piece. And so would the other two.
Why, oh why, had he not listened to Darcy?
“Cinn?” he practically whined, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.
Cinn’s eyes snapped upwards, angry storms swirling in them.
“You didn’t tell me if you were clear, yesterday. ”
Julien blinked. “You didn’t tell me , either.”
“Well, I don’t go around sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Harry! Plus whatever their female equivalents are.”
“What? Who are they?” He was fairly confident he’d never slept with a man called Dick. He’d remember that.
“It’s an expression! It means you fuck around a lot.”
Julien winced. “Really, Darcy was exaggerating that the other day.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I’m clear.”
“You sure?”
“One hundred percent. I’m actually offended that you think I’d endanger you like that. Who do you think I am?” Someone that sleeps with every ‘Tom, Dick, and Harry,’ clearly.
Cinn placed his headphones over his head, turning the volume on his Walkman up to what must have been maximum. His eyes returned to his book, jaw clenched. A frown etched a deep canyon into his forehead that Julien itched to smooth with his thumb.
Look at what you do to the people you care about.
Unable to bear the oppressive atmosphere, Julien scooped up his papers and slipped out of the conservatory. His feet led him past his rooms, and up another flight of stairs, to Béatrice’s.
Her childhood bedroom was, of course, exactly how she’d left it: lilac frills and a forest of memories. She watched him from the corner of his mind as he collapsed onto the silky sheets of her bed, reaching for her one-eyed stuffed bear. Bernard Bear.
The toy stared at him judgmentally, burrowing deep inside his soul.
Why haven’t you found her yet? Bernard grumbled at him, in the gruff bear’s voice his mother used when she’d wiggled him in the air.
The ghost of Béatrice’s laugh echoed through her room.
Another person he kept letting down .
A drop of the grief he kept so tightly bottled up leaked out. Panic crept in. If he allowed his sadness to spill out of its airtight container, it would flood him, sink him under, drown him like it had done for that first month after she died.
Béatrice had been his rock, his anchor through the shitstorm of their childhood, and then she’d been his very best friend. The only one that truly understood him.
The grief he’d felt after Béatrice’s death was nothing like the grief he’d felt for his mother. His mother’s passing had been a tempest, a relentless storm lasting years that battered his soul, leaving behind a landscape scarred and barren, where every memory was tinged with sorrow.
Béatrice’s departure was different. It was like a quiet mist that randomly descended upon him, subtle yet suffocating, wrapping around his heart with delicate tendrils of loss. While his mother’s absence, in the years after her death, pounded into him like thunderclaps, reverberating through the chambers of his being, Béatrice’s absence was more akin to a silent scream. He often found himself trapped in a vacuum, an emotionless state that left him suspended in a haunting stillness.
Julien moved to sit at her white wooden dresser, staring at the sea of makeup she’d stopped wearing once she hit her twenties. Whereas he’d updated his Parisian living quarters over the years, she hated coming home even more than him, and as a result, hadn’t bothered to redecorate. Julien’s gaze dropped to a shoebox, its contents spilling out of it. He crossed the room to open it.
It was a treasure trove of trinkets.
Old photos of the two of them, sometimes with their mother as well, and a rare few of the four of them. Black and white smiles and silly faces. That boat ride down the Seine. Underneath, a collection of letters, postcards from their travels—New York, Malaysia, Australia—a scrap of material from her baby blanket, a child-sized silver Irish Claddagh ring .
Any number of these possessions would likely make an effective magnet item, yet Julien had something even better in mind.
But that was later.
Julien picked up the telephone in the corner of Béatrice’s room and dialled the number for Darcy’s hotel from the business card she’d given him. The receptionist put him through, and moments later, her voice burst through the receiver.
“It’s me.”
“Julien? Is everything alright?”
“ Oui . Well, not entirely. Can you come around here today before the party? I’m worried about Cinn and I think he’d like to see you. He’s not… very happy with me.”
A pause.
“What the fuck did you do?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Julien!”
“Can you come? I miss you.”
“I’m spending the day with my parents, Julien,” she said, but her tone was softer now. “I’ll see you at the party venue, okay? Leave Cinn alone for a bit. Don’t push him.”
“Fine. See you at the party. Oh, and don’t wear heels.”
“What? Why?” And then, “ Julien ?”
He hung up the phone.
Julien appraised himself in the mirror.
Hair brushed until gleaming. Check .
Dark suit, wrinkle-free, just one top button undone. Check .
One slightly less grumpy companion, lurking in the shadows of the room? Check .
Once Julien had made it back to the conservatory earlier, Cinn suggested they go out for a walk. As if by some unspoken rule, neither of them mentioned any more about last night. Cinn slowly unfurled throughout the day, and by nightfall he was practically back to normal. As long as they continued to ignore any elephants that stampeded through the room.
Cinn had, rather sensibly, left his beanie hat off this evening. His head seemed naked without it, brown curls bouncing free, and Julien resisted crossing the room to run his fingers through them again.
“Here.” Julien threw him a suit jacket of his, navy blue with white embellishments. It matched the tie that Cinn looked so strange in. Even more strange was the brogues he wore instead of his usual battered trainers. “Ready to go? Our car should be here soon.”
When Julien picked up two bags, one oddly large and rectangular, and one a tatty rucksack that certainly didn’t belong at a high-society party, he glanced at Cinn expecting a comment, but none came.
Their destination was on the outskirts of the side of Paris. The traffic was awful, making them blessedly late—the less time at this ostentatious affair, the better—but their taxi eventually pulled up at the venue. Cinn’s eyes became so saucer-wide, Julien could easily see the building reflected in them: a majestic mansion adorned with ornate wrought-iron balconies and cascading ivy, and soft, golden light spilling from arched windows.
Impeccably dressed attendants launched into their efficient checking-in process, ticking their names off lists and taking their coats. Julien dragged Cinn straight through the grand lobby, which housed so many fresh flowers it made his nose itch.
Staff ushered them through to the heart of the party, a spacious ballroom with towering ceilings featuring intricate mouldings, already crowded with people. Beautiful, beautiful people, a vision of refined fashion, the very definition of haute couture. Men donned impeccably tailored tuxedos, complete with bow ties and cufflinks that glinted in the light. The women created a sea of bright colours with their flowing evening gowns, sequins and lace galore.
“See, I told you we wouldn’t be overdressed.”
When Cinn didn’t reply, Julien spun around to find him frozen still, clear panic on his face.
“Look, Darcy and Elliot are over there,” Julien said, even though he hadn’t located them yet.
Scanning the massive space was a challenge, but at last he spotted them—Elliot looking sulky and Darcy in a floor-length emerald-green-silk gown that accentuated her coppery hair, mostly wrestled into an elegant bun.
Like divers swimming for treasure, they crossed the busy ballroom, the ambient murmur of polite chatter underscored by the clink of crystal glasses.
“I told you not to wear heels,” was the first thing out of Julien’s mouth.
“And I’ve told your ego complex again and again, that you don’t control the actions of everyone around you.”
They exchanged cheek kisses.
Elliot lifted champagne glasses for them all from a server’s tray. Cinn downed his entire drink, bubbles be damned, then swiped two more from another tray. Darcy gave Julien a look that said, look after him or die.
Cinn gravitated towards a small stage area, with Julien reluctantly trailing after him. He’d always hated theatrical entertainers channelling motes as cheap party tricks. This one was juggling fireballs that turned into watery ball-shaped whirlpools on every third rotation. Child’s play. Yet Cinn was enthralled .
Tugging at Cinn’s elbow, Julien guided the two of them over to his father to pay their respects, to ‘extend their best wishes’ like every other guest. Better to get it out of the way early.
His father, sitting on a throne-like chair surrounded by his usual loyal subjects, stood up to greet them both with handshakes. “Jonathan Steele is around here somewhere,” he said to Julien, nodding meaningfully.
Parfait . Julien was sure the director of MEET would love to be personally harassed about his application this evening. Likely, his father had already dropped some ‘subtle’ comments, anyway.
Upon noticing Cinn, Carrie immediately took it upon herself to sweep him away to introduce him to their ‘most important’ guests, many of whom Julien had already caught surveying Cinn with curiosity.
“I’ll stick right by you,” Julien whispered into Cinn’s ear, fully expecting some sort of sarcastic comment back. What he got instead was a quick grateful smile, plastered over a terrified expression. Julien brushed his hand over the small of Cinn’s back in reassurance. Had he forgotten it was Julien’s fault he was there in the first place?
The first guests happened to be Darcy’s parents, the Beaumonts.
“Alexander and Fiona are both completing pioneering work in the medical field,” said Carrie, by way of introduction. “And this is Cinnamon, or Cinn, Saunders.”
Fiona’s eyes—the exact same green as her daughter’s—lit up as she gushed about how much Darcy had spoken about Cinn that day. Cinn relaxed an infinitesimal amount—his shoulders slightly unfurled, and he wasn’t clutching his champagne as if it were a life support any longer.
Just as Alexander finished describing to Cinn how he and Fiona were developing a mote-powered pacemaker, funded by HorizonTech, Julien’s father’s company, Carrie brought over more guests to speak to them, each consortium chair-holders at Auri. These next three were not as tactful, however, and as soon as conversation turned to Cinn’s shadowslipping—their beady eyes raking over him like he was some sort of spectacle—Julien tugged him away, pretending his father needed them elsewhere.
After about an hour of this, a hush descended upon the room.
Viktor Sturmhart had arrived, fashionably late.
All eyes turned to the German man, whose commanding presence overshadowed even his formidable size. Although he’d passed sixty, he’d very few wrinkles to show for it, and only a peppering of grey in his dark hair. Motecraft cosmetics.
A quiet, low whistle. “Who the fuck is that?” asked Cinn.
“Viktor Sturmhart. He basically governs Auri’s consortium, even though it’s supposed to be leaderless. The man thinks he’s God’s gift to the universe and that he deserves to be in charge. He and my father are in each other’s pockets, of course.”
“What’s his actual role meant to be?”
“He’s supposed to manage and support the moteblessed we’ve placed in governing political parties across Europe, and be Auri’s representative on the world stage. As you’d imagine, he relishes the second part of his role.”
As if sensing his name, Sturmhart eyed them from across the room and strode purposefully towards them. Julien shuffled closer to Cinn until their arms touched.
“Julien! And of course, Cinnamon Saunders,” Sturmhart boomed, even though he was standing close enough for his nauseating cologne to assault their nostrils. “When Lucien told me you were attending, it made my day. I trust Eleanor has been taking care of you?”
Julien held back a scoff.
“Yes,” was all Cinn said.
“I look forward to hearing great things about you.” Sturmhart clapped Cinn on the shoulder before striding off to the right—straight to Julien’s father, who was now with Jonathon Steele .
Julien observed them for a moment. Something about the trio’s dynamic was off, and Julien couldn’t tear his eyes away. The three men leaned in close to exchange words before his father nodded his head upwards. Was he suggesting they meet privately upstairs? To discuss what?
“Those three look pally.” Cinn swirled his champagne.
“ Oui . The third one is the director of MEET. They probably need to discuss confidential motetech business away from prying ears. Jonathon probably wants a cash injection from HorizonTech for some sort of project. And Viktor Sturmhart just wants to have his finger in every pie.”
Cinn snorted. “Sorry. That sounded weird. What sort of stuff does your father fund again?”
“There’s an arm of the business that deals with standard tech, but his main focus is on owning and controlling development of each and every motetech product that gets approved. He’s made millions from it. Most of it is sold on to normal companies who have no idea about our world, and motecraft.”
Cinn gave him an incredulous stare. “Like what?”
“More subtle stuff, like mote-infused metal to lay railway tracks, guaranteed to need less maintenance. Same with building materials. There’s a fair bit of agricultural tech. Tear-resistant fabric. Medical equipment. More efficient solar panels and batteries with longer lifespans. You get the picture.”
The three men headed for an exit, and an appealing notion of attempting to eavesdrop struck Julien, but he squashed it. He doubted Cinn wanted to be hiding in closets with him any time soon, sadly.
Once his father had rounded the corner, Julien started to turn away, then paused. Someone else was following them out of ballroom, slinking against the wall, fox-like. A woman. He’d recognise that gleaming white power suit anywhere. Eleanor Sinclair .
She glanced ever so casually over her shoulder before she slipped through the archway.
Now this was interesting.
Just as Julien was opening his mouth to make the case for a covert mission after all, Cinn loosened his tie, before fanning his face with it. “Can we go outside for a moment? It’s so hot in here.”
With effort, Juilen tamped down his burning curiosity. Who cared why Eleanor was skulking after the three most influential moteblessed people in Europe? Definitely not him. After all, he had attractive men to re-seduce.
Catching Elliot’s eye across the room, Julien gestured to a door, and soon enough the four of them escaped the stuffy ballroom to sit in the courtyard garden, surrounded by lumenmotes dancing in cages. A light show flickered across one vine-covered brick wall—balls of various coloured lights creating rainbow patterns. A party guest reached out to touch it, and the motes responded to the contact, rippling outwards away from her hand.
Cinn raked a hand through his hair. “When does this thing finish again?”
Elliot chuckled. “Having fun then?”
Rearranging the collar of his shirt, Cinn shuffled on the bench. “Those people are all…”
“A bit much?” said Darcy.
At the same time Julien retorted, “A bunch of assholes?”
After sliding a cigarette out for himself, Julien tossed the packet of Gitanes on the table, and soon four wisps of smoke rose into the crisp night, Elliot whipping the wind around them ever so slightly to clear the air.
“Remember that year”—started Darcy, before taking a puff—“that Lucien held his party in that field in Epernay, with all those white horses? And we all had to compete in that horseback archery contest? They all looked so unhappy, the poor things.”
Julien shook his head. “It was nowhere near as bad as the year he hired that band—the one that had motetech instruments that could be heard wherever you were within a mile’s radius. I woke up with a migraine the next day.”
“Next year, rather than drag all of us here to suffer with you, perhaps you could just bail. Send him a birthday card in the post.” Elliot smirked, and Julien imagined his father’s face if he did indeed do that. Tempting.
This annual occasion was useful though: it was reliably a hive of whispered snippets of gossip about investments, consortium seat changes, mote-use policy proposals, and more. If he didn’t have to watch his father lord over the whole thing, he’d probably enjoy it.
“I kept overhearing stuff about the umbraphage attack from a few weeks ago,” said Cinn. “It sounds pretty awful, what with so many people dying.” He took in a long drag, eyes on the crescent moon hanging in the sky, seeming lost in thought. “I guess they’ll want to try to use me to help pretty soon.”
Use me. A sudden spike of terror shot through Julien at an image of Cinn being shipped off to deal with one of the enigmatic, deadly creatures. The way he’d awoken from his shadowslipping trip didn’t fill Julien with confidence that Cinn was the missing key to defeating them. Plus, he wasn’t sure how much he trusted Eleanor to keep him safe.
“There’s no way we’ll let them make you do anything you don’t want to, Cinn,” Darcy promised, her face sombre.
Julien silently agreed—if anyone started a fight, they’d get a war before they wielded Cinn like a weapon.
Finishing their cigarettes, they headed back in, Darcy and Elliot peeling off from them to find food.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Cinn announced, and Julien swallowed his suggestion to accompany him .
Before he could even blink, Carrie filled Cinn’s empty space, eyes narrow, face pinched. “Julien. I can’t help noticing that man over there bears a striking resemblance to the friend of yours that Lucien said he wished to never see again. One Elliot Pérez.”
Julien overtly scanned the room before his gaze landed on Elliot, then he whipped out his best surprised act. “Oh! So he does! What a strange coincidence.”
“And how do you suppose his name got on the guest list?”
“Well, I suppose someone must have written it down on it.”
Taking a step forward, Carrie lowered her volume, hissing, “This is your father’s birthday, Julien. The event he looks forward to more than anything else.” And my yearly torture. “It would be extremely embarrassing for this family if any… scenes were to happen.”
A bat of his eyelashes. “Wouldn’t it just?”
A warning flash swept across Carrie’s face. Then, her expression morphed. Jerking back as if electrified, her lips parted as she stared at Julien’s neck. Before Julien could react, her hand lurched forward, and for a horrible second he thought she was about to strangle him. Instead, she tugged on Béatrice’s locket chain until she freed the silver oval from under his shirt.
Holding it in her palm, she lifted it higher into the light. “How… how did you get this?”
The odd note of rage in her voice only irritated him further. “That’s none of your business. It’s not like Béatrice would have left it to you!”
Composed Carrie returned like an actor slipping on a mask, and she stepped away from him. “I simply wasn’t aware that it had been returned to you.”
Julien stared at her, mind whirring. Cinn chose that moment to return to him, sending Carrie scuttling off with a fabricated smile.
“What was that all about? Why was she touching your locket?”
“I’m… not sure. She asked me how I obtained it. ”
“Did Béatrice leave it to you?”
“Well, no.” Julien grimaced. “Who do you know our age who has a will? It was with her body when they found it. The gendarmerie’s investigation department held her corpse for weeks while her death was investigated, and I asked and asked for it to be returned to me, but they refused. I wasn’t even allowed to see her body…” Julien became momentarily lost in hazy memories as the colours of the bright room swam around him.
The feel of Cinn taking hold of his elbow brought him back to reality. “So how did you get the locket?” he asked, but something in his face told Julien he already knew the answer.
“Creative methods.” Julien winked. “A breaking and entering… of sorts.” It had actually involved a bottle of scotch, half seducing a security guard, five rounds of strip poker, and a specially made motetech device to unlock a fortified door, but specifics weren’t needed here.
Cinn rolled his eyes. “I can imagine. So Carrie wanted Béatrice’s locket?”
“ Non! They hated each other. But that was certainly strange.”
Reaching out to brush his fingers over the locket, Cinn said, “I’ve just realised we’re going home tomorrow and we haven’t even looked for the magnet item for Béatrice. You know, the whole reason I was dragged along this weekend.”
You were dragged along for many, many reasons, darling.
“Oh, we’re getting that this evening. Very shortly, in fact.”
Cinn’s forehead wrinkled. “What? How? We’re not even at your house.”
“I’m aware.”
Tugging Cinn by his sleeve, Julien led him over to Darcy, who was watching Elliot scoff down macaron after macaron with obvious disdain.
“Follow me to the lobby,” Julien announced. “We’re bailing on this pathetic excuse for a party. ”
“We are?” asked Darcy.
“We need to go and collect Béatrice’s magnet item.”
The three of them shared confused glances with each other.
Julien couldn’t help but love every second of it.
They trailed after him to the now-quiet lobby, the two security guards facing the night sky. In the corner of the room, a plush red velvet sofa awaited them. Julien fell to his knees, dragging out two bags from underneath it.
One was his usual rucksack, although stuffed with unusual items.
And the other…
“What…?”
And then, out of the enormous zipped bag Julien had brought along in the taxi’s boot—and then paid the driver a hundred francs to ensure it was placed under the sofa closest to the door—he lifted an enormous shovel. With a theatrical flourish, he wiggled it in the air. “We’re going to need this.”
Darcy gasped. Even Elliot looked shocked.
“Huh? Where are we going?” asked Cinn, who, unlike the other two, hadn’t caught on.
“Père Lachaise Cemetery.” He flung the shovel over his shoulder.
“No!” breathed Darcy. “No Julien, not that! Anything but that! That’s… the literal definition of sacrilege!”
Watching Cinn’s face change as he put the puzzle pieces together was the highlight of Julien’s night. So far.
“You mean… we’re going to go and… dig up Béatrice? From her grave ? And… take one of her bones home with us as a magnet item?”
Despite the look of horror on Cinn’s face, Julien beamed at him. “C’est ?a!”
“Elliot, back me up here. Tell Julien he’s deranged.” When Elliot didn’t say anything, Darcy shouted, “Elliot!” She snapped her fingers .
“Darce, Béatrice would probably find it quite funny. Besides, we can put it back afterwards. Julien is on to something here. What could possibly be a stronger magnet item than her freaking bones?!”
A scream of exasperation. A pursing of her lips. The tiniest stamp of her foot.
Darcy wasn’t happy, but she’d come.
Julien turned to Cinn, expecting resistance from him also, but clearly they’d corrupted him, as he just threw his hands up in an ‘I give up’ sort of way.