Bloodlust

Chapter Seventeen

The trek to the door is exhausting. Externally, I'm fine: the cameras eat up my fashionable look and I'm able to spin enough stories to convince the reporters of the existence of Nadya Audibert and her companions, Jacques and Louis Moreau. Internally, though, I'm exhausted. The loss of blood is kicking in. I may be old, but there's a limit to how much damage my body can take. The blood loss, while not damning, is enough to alter my compulsion abilities.

Finally, we enter the grand Palais de l'Élysée, a monument reflecting the triumph of the will of the French people over their monarchy. Marie Antoinette was a good woman, but not a perceptive one: she was far more interested in her gowns and balls than in filling the bellies of her starving people.

"You know, in all my time in France, I don't know that I've ever been in the Palais," Will muses as we stand at the top of a grand staircase leading to the Palais' ballroom.

"Didn't get around to it or didn't want to break your Council's precious rules to get inside?" I ask, eyes scanning the ballroom. We haven't yet descended the stairs, standing off to the side as couples drift down, announced by a pudgy man in a too-tight tux.

"I'm not a goody-two shoes all the time, Nadya."

"One day, I'd like to see that."

Will leans down to my ear and whispers, "You'll know it when you're screaming my name, Ms. Telemun."

Instead of being embarrassed - after all, Nik is still attached to me by my other arm, strangely stiff - I smile at him. "I think it will quite be the other way around, Mr. Amstraat." As smooth as ice, I remove my arms from theirs and begin to descend the stairs.

"Mademoiselle Nadya Audibert!" the pudgy crier announces as I make my way down the storied steps, my skirts brushing the ground. In contrast to the couture but dark-shaded gowns that adorn the bodies of the French elite, the gold fabric that sashays down my body stands out in a striking - albeit possibly scandalous - way.

The crowd shifts as I reach the ballroom floor, creating a slight path to the front of the room, where the elite of the elite stand, waiting for the two people with the most power in France to complete the presidential transfer power, a performative show that ensures the continuation of democracy in France. It is a nice idea, most definitely.

Except the president is not the most powerful person in France.

I am.

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After the elderly former president finally finishes his long and time-worn speech about the triumphs of democracy and the power of the people, he introduces his successor, Monsieur Gabriel Lambert.

Monsieur Lambert is an intriguing mystery. Unlike the myriad of presidents preceding him, he is young and unmarried, a fact which, some news channels argued, led to his massive support among women. Do men ever get tired of blaming things on women? From stains to undercooked meat to devilry, history has been the fault of women and witches; even though it is men who have started every bloody war the planet has ever seen. Nevertheless, Monsieur Lambert has caught my intrigue. And tonight, he will tell me why.

The moment he descends from the raised platform, waving and smiling as though he has not a care in the world, France's new president is swarmed by politicians and well-wishers desperate to make a connection with the newest addition to French history. Instead of immediately going towards him, I stay just inside his sightline, drinking from a glass of champagne I whisked away from a waiter at the beginning of the ceremony.

His eyes follow me and I can see him trying to make it my way. When he gets close, I send him a coy smile and grab the hand of the nearest person just as the orchestra begins to play. "Hello, Monsieur Ministers," I say as his hands instinctively clasp onto my waist in a waltz position.

"Nadya," he replies.

We spin in silence for a few moments before I say, "To waltz convincingly, Niklaus, you have to look at me like you're deeply in love with me."

"I'm not. In love with you, I mean. I'm an officer of the Law and Orders."

"Do you ever get tired of it?" I ask him. There's no harshness to my tone; just curiosity, though I'm sure Nik doesn't realize that. "Playing a part?"

"What part?" Denial. It's an age-old affliction.

"This one. This idea that you...you're nothing more than a pawn for the Council to move around. That you hate being around me and you have nothing else to care about in the world besides the Council."

"I don't like being around you, Nadya, because contrary to your beliefs, you are not a good person." Niklaus' fingertips drive deeply into my waist and I nearly wince. "You are the worst kind of person because you justify everything you do."

"I have never claimed to be a good person," I say as we spin. "I am a survivor, and that is quite nearly the same thing in our immortal world." The song's rhythm starts to pick up and our steps become faster. Noting the flash that appears in Nik's eyes, I quickly change tact. "Do you like music, Niklaus?"

"I do," he says carefully, clearly aware of my change in conversation.

"I think Mozart was a magnificent composer. He wrote his forty-first symphony for me. I was friends with his sister, a maestro in her own right. Unfortunately, history has forgotten her."

"I thought you said people you---"

"That they died? They do. But everyone deserves to be selfish for a time in their life and Nannerl Mozart was the most selfish I have ever been." We twirl quickly and I stay silent, before adding, "She was lucky. Nan lived to be 78, but I think...I know the curse affected her in a different way. She was always in the shadow of Wolfy, never able to pursue her dreams, the second fiddle to her brother, all her life. A difficult pill for her to swallow, despite their closeness. And I've always known it was my fault."

Niklaus does not respond. The song races, reaching its crescendo and the steps grow faster and faster as it climbs. "Do you truly believe that? In this curse?"

"Of course I do, Nik. I am not soulless, just a survivor. Still, it is easier to pretend to be what the world thinks you are than trying to prove them otherwise." The song finishes with a flourish and I gently touch his cheek before quickly pulling back. "Now, I have a president to dance with. Perhaps you could bring William a drink. He seems like he needs it."

I turn to leave, my skirts whirling around my ankles, when Nik grabs my arm. A jolt ricochets through my skin and I turn back, just in time to see his eye flash with a question: how do you know him so well?

"You, Niklaus, are a mystery to me. I...I can't understand you like you seem to want me to. I can...I can explain it more, if you want me to. If you want me to know you, I'll meet you in the Louvre, tonight." I smile humorlessly. "By the Mona Lisa."

I tug my arm, but Nik doesn't let go of me. "Why?" he whispers, his eyes flicking over my face. "Why do you want to know me?"

I smile at him, sadly. "You remind me of someone I used to know. And I know if you wallow in whatever is plaguing you, it will consume you. And I can't have that happening to the only person who has questioned our immortal fate with me, now can I?" 

super fucking long update for y'all (1320 words!!) now, i have to go read shakespeare. peace. x, k