The Life and Times of Jazmine Dare (Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

Part 1: Paris, Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own SotINF or any SotINF characters in any way, shape or form. I only own Jazmine, Astrid, any other characters you don't recognize and the plot. I am not trying to make any profit, I just want to write. 

Chapter 1: From Paris to London

I am not Catholic. I am not even remotely religious. I am the daughter of a freaking Egyptian God. Why the hell am I even going to an all-girls Catholic school?

Here's the answer: Astrid O'Hare. 

Astrid is my legal guardian, according to the government, since my parents gave me up. My relationship with my real parents is rather... complicated. I'll explain it later.

Anyway, Astrid raised me for the majority of my childhood and I spent most of my time training (once again, I’ll explain it later). She suddenly decided that I should go to this private school in Paris. So instead of staying in rainy, familiar, English-speaking, London, I was shipped off to the City of Love and Lights, Paris, where they spoke French. 

So, that's why I was standing in the middle of Charles De Gulle Airport, my suitcases and guitar case sitting at my feet and my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder, super confused and surrounded by French speaking Parisians, when I can barely say 'bonjour'. Someone was supposed to be here to pick me up, but I didn't know their name. I knew their last name was Italian, but I wasn't really listening to Astrid when she told me. I'm regretting it right now. 

I finally decided to just wait for a while. Someone would find me eventually. I propped my back up against the nearest wall and retrieved my iPod and headphones from my carry-on bag. The sound of Panic! At the Disco soon filled my ears as I observed the airport and its occupants. They were all wearing classy business suits, carrying brief cases or suitcases and speaking rather loudly into cell phones and Bluetooths. 

Then there was me, a tween girl wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans. There was no briefcase at my side, no cell phone stuck to my ears; I didn't even look remotely professional. I stood out from everyone else, per usual. I didn't mind standing out though. It made me different and my sister told me that being different was always good. 

Too bad she's dead now. 

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Thinking of that was not going to help me now. I pushed my earbuds farther into my ears and scanned the airport once again. I looked for someone abnormal, strange, out of place. Not out of place, like me, but from the past. Astrid once told me that most immortals don't look like they belong in the modern world. Just like her. Astrid always seemed timeless and classic, like an antique doll. I searched the crowd for someone older, and a little out of place...

There! A man about 60, wearing an expensive looking suit, close cropped white hair, tan skin, about two meters tall (six feet for all you Americans)*. No Blutooth, no cellphone, no briefcase or suitcase. And he was walking straight towards me.  

(Line break) 

When Machiavelli was told her would be watching over Astrid O'Hare's daughter, he expected a tall blonde girl with hazel eyes and a bright smile on her face.

This girl was nothing like that. 

 Midnight black hair was cut in choppy layers, the shortest layer fell right above her eyebrows in an uneven fringe and the longest cut off at her shoulder blades. There was a scowl on her face and her slate grey, kohl lined, eyes looked almost empty as they met his own grey eyes. She was the only teenage girl at the airport who wasn't with a parent or a sibling, she was just leaning up against a wall completely alone, so Machiavelli assumed this was Jazmine, Astrid's daughter. 

She yanked the headphones out of her ears when she saw Niccolò walking towards her. "Boujour, vous etes Jazmine O"Hare?"  he asked. (Translation: Hello, are you Jazmine O'Hare?)

She gave him blank stare in response. "I don't speak French," she stated bluntly in English, with a thick British accent. "And its Jazmine Dare, not O'Hare," she added. 

Machiavelli sighed and switched to English. "Astrid sent you to France, yet you don't speak any French at all?"

"Welcome to my world." Jazmine grabbed her luggage off the ground and Machiavelli noticed the black electric guitar strapped to her back. His eyes darted to the worn, sticker covered, guitar case in her left hand. If she had her guitar strapped to her back. If her guitar was there, then what was in the case? Jazmine followed his gaze to her guitar case.

"Oh, my acoustic is in here." She held the battered case up slightly, then leaned in to whisper, "But I also have some knives in there too, shhhh." The raven haired girl held a finger to her lips. "Wait a sec, who are you again?" she asked out of the blue, tilting her head to the side a bit. 

"Niccolò Machiavelli and I already know who you are." 

"Um, obviously you don't. You thought my last name was O'Hare." She rolled her eyes in a very teenager-y way, then stuck out her hand. "I'm Jazmine Rowan Dare, but you can call me Jaz. Not Jazzy, only Jane could call me that." 

Machiavelli reluctantly shook her outstretched hand. "Who is Jane?"

"Oh, she's just my dead sister." Jaz gathered up the rest of her luggage. "Now, I really hope you're the bloke that Astrid said I was staying with, and not some creepy stalker person, or I'll have to kill you and I really don't wanna do that, 'cause I have jetlag." She began to walk out of the airport as Machiavelli was just stared at the odd girl, then shook his head and followed her to the parking garage. 

*Jaz is British, so she uses meters instead of feet.