8. Angélique
8
Angélique
T he eighteen kilometers I have to walk are uneventful.
The vultures have no stamina, though.
By the time we have reached the ?le de la cité, they have switched places between the on-foot guards and in-flight ones three times.
I guess training only in my human form gave me an advantage.
But I’m no fool. If I were to be running now, they would all shift and catch up to me in no time. I wouldn’t lose them, either.
I can’t forget what Anne told me. It’s a tracker. Get rid of it when necessary. Your father expects you to die tonight .
I can’t get rid of the tracker she stuck on my shirt—or was it directly on my skin?—until tonight, but I also can’t forget that I can’t run away until I’ve gotten rid of it.
We finally arrive in front of Notre Dame, and I can’t stop myself from admiring the building.
Versailles’ palace is beautiful, yes, but it’s gaudy and reeks of arrogance.
Notre Dame is something else.
In front of me, there are three sets of double doors, encased in arches with delightful designs, representing men, women and devils, and right in the middle, just over the second set of doors, there is a huge rose window with three statues just in front of it: a woman with a child and two angels.
No wonder my father wants this building.
Above that level, there are gargoyles guarding the building. They’re all around that level and the two squared towers flanking the sides of the building.
Just between the towers, I can see another one. This one is pointy, and on top of it, there’s… a rooster.
I guess French people do have a sense of humor.
It’s built on an island right in the middle of Paris. On each side of the building, the river la Seine hugs the island, taxi boats floating at high speeds over the water in a stark contrast with the historical building they pass.
I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but none of the flying taxis are anywhere close to Notre Dame. People seem to know it’s not somewhere they’re authorized to fly.
“Move,” douchebag vulture number two—or maybe he’s number three… Don’t care, don’t want to know—says as he pushes my shoulder.
I take an extra step just to stay out of his reach and keep walking.
Until something falls from the sky, right in front of me.
No, not something. Someone.
Quickly, he’s joined by four other people dropping from the sky.
Maybe they weren’t all gargoyles up on the third level of the cathedral, after all.
I know I should be looking around to find where I could escape, where I could hide, and I do. That’s why, when I finally face the man who dropped from the sky, my breath cuts short.
I wasn’t prepared.
No, really, nothing could have prepared me for the man in front of me.
Earlier today, I called Emmanu?l a mountain. I take that back.
The man in front of me is the mountain.
It’s not specifically how he looks that makes me think that, but the air around him.
He feels like the world would bow before him, and the prickle I have at the back of my neck tells me I should be bowing. I should be on my knees for this man.
Stop.
Not the right time for my dirty mind to take over.
I tilt my chin up to take a good look at the man. I’m not small for a woman, especially knowing I change into a small bird. I’m 1,76 meters and yet, I still have to tilt my head to see the two gold lights that the man has for eyes. They’re mesmerizing. So is the cut of his angular jaw, that is covered in stubble, and the almost white hair that he sports slightly too long to pass for a military haircut. The sides are almost as short as my hair, but the top looks luscious and shiny, and I close my fists at my sides to prevent myself from reaching for them.
Yes, I need to get a grip.
Me drooling over him—whoever he is—can’t be the first thing he remembers of me.
I try to avert my eyes but end up looking at his chest. His very naked chest, covered in tattoos. I have no clue what they mean, but I can’t take my eyes off them. They look like they hug every curve and angle of his muscles, and I wonder if they continue under the leather belt and the jeans that he wears.
I’d like to let my fingers glide under the rough fabric and feel if the skin is raised where the ink has been drawn.
Stop, Angélique. Get your head out of the gutter. You’re not here to fantasize.
I gulp when I see that the man hasn’t stopped looking at me.
Then douchebag vulture number whatever forcefully sticks a piece of paper to the man’s chest.
“Micha?l sends his regards. Sadly, he couldn’t be here today.”
Sadly. I almost snort at the word.
“And for fuck’s sake, put on a damn shirt. We don’t need an exhibition.”
“Why would I deprive the world of the sight of perfection?” he asks with a cocky smirk.
“Fucking dragons and their egos,” I hear the other vulture mutter behind me.
My head snaps forward, or more specifically, to just above his shoulders.
That’s when I finally see them.
His wings.
They’re almost as black as the night. The skin is taut over angular bones that make the frame of the wings. They look like rougher and bigger versions of bat wings.
Except for the tips.
Up in the air, the tips of his wings aren’t just tips, they’re talons, and from where I stand, I can see how sharp they are.
Who needs weapons when your own body is one?
The man grabs the paper that douchebag vulture is still holding to his chest, and without letting his eyes stray from mine, he blows on the paper.
Instead of air, it’s fire that leaves his lips.
That’s the moment my brain chooses to function again, and two things hit me at once.
The man in front of me is Elhyor.
I’m so screwed, because he looks at me like he wants to eat me, and I might not be opposed to it.
“Tell your boss that I decide when I’ll marry his daughter. If I marry her.”
He doesn’t leave a chance for the vultures to answer before, in one huge step, his torso is plastered to my front, his arm circles me, and—I don’t have time to think—we’re airborne.