28. Angélique
28
Angélique
F or the next hour, we compile the differences between the pages that have been printed twice in the book. Some are easy to find, like an “e” being replaced by an “a” instead, or an “r” that is missing in a word, but others are trickier.
The French language isn’t the easiest I know, and their accents on letters everywhere makes me doubt what is the right way to write the text I have before my eyes.
I should be used to it. I learned French as a kid. I was even given a French first name, hell, even the Aléan language has accents, but since the collision between Aléa and Earth, English has been the official language for the entire world and accents are now only fancy little additions to words and names.
Once we’ve read the doubling pages—twice each—we finally have something. All I see is letters and punctuation.
Nothing looks like a sentence or even words.
I huff in annoyance. My brain is mush, but next to me, Cassiopé gets a tiny notebook and writes all the vowels on one side and the consonants on the other side.
Then she starts to group them together, and it’s like magic.
She mumbles to herself, and then she looks at me.
“Do you happen to speak French?” she asks with a weird glint in her eyes.
“Yes?” I say tentatively, and it comes out like a question, because it’s been a while, so I’m not even sure I still speak French, after all.
“Look at that and tell me if something rings a bell. I’ve got no idea what I wrote, but it sounds like it’s kinda right,” she says with amusement.
I look at her paper, and it takes a moment to register.
Papa a étè empoisonné. Je suis prisanniers de ton pére tont que tu n’a pas rempli la mission.
Some of the letters aren’t where they’re supposed to be, but it’s all the same. My blood freezes at the sight of what I’m reading. My breathing goes wild, and my hands curl and uncurl at the pressure I’m feeling in my whole body.
I think I tossed the paper on which Cassiopé wrote, but as I open my hand, I realize that I absently corrected the sentence. I have no recollection of doing so.
Papa a été empoisonné. Je suis prisonnier de ton père tant que tu n’as pas rempli la mission .
Dad has been poisoned. I’m your father’s prisoner until you complete the mission.
That can’t be right.
“It’s not good?” Cassiopé asks me, but from the way she looks at me, she already knows something is wrong.
If I had to guess, I’d say that my face has turned paler than it’s ever been.
It’s not possible.
Why would Léandre write that to me? Why would he hide that in something I can barely understand on my own?
Fuck.
That’s exactly the reason. If I, his closest friend, didn’t think that it could be a secret message, then no one would guess it.
I feel awful.
“Why do you feel awful?”
The question pierces through the fog in my mind.
Did I say that out loud? Of course I did if Cassiopé is asking about it. As far as I know, bat-shifters—or vampires, like the humans like to call them—can’t read minds. That would be insane.
“He has my best friend,” are the only words I manage to say before it permeates my brain.
We’re screwed.
I’m screwed.
Léandre is screwed.
Because there’s no chance in hell that my father will release him if I explain to him that Elhyor can’t be killed.
We’re doomed.
“We need to tell my dad,” Cassiopé starts as she stands again.
I don’t know what I did to deserve her in my life, but right now, I’m not going to complain. I’m so thankful that her first reaction is to come to my aid, to try to make things right, but it’s also all too much.
“It’s too late,” I whisper.
I know she will hear me, and it’s good, because I don’t think I have any strength left in me to speak louder.
“What? Why do you say it’s too late?” she asks, and she almost looks affronted by my words.
Me, too, girl. Me, too.
“Because I didn’t tell you the whole truth,” I say with a sigh. “Come back here. I’ll explain.”
And I do exactly that for the next few minutes, not forgetting any of the details this time, except maybe what I am when I shift—if I ever shift again. This part feels too personal.
When I’m finally done, there’s no glint left in her eyes or smile on her face. The only thing I can see is outrage.