Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell) - By Jenn Bennett Page 0,53
balcony, he was trying to kill us—for no good reason! Sure, I wish things hadn’t turned out like they did for him, but I did the best I could at the time.
Lon was right: I wasn’t a killer. Merrimoth’s death was not my fault. I was not turning into my crazy, bloodthirsty parents. I was just a girl trying to do the right thing in spite of very abnormal circumstances.
The hollows of Lon’s cheeks deepened when he smiled down at me. I tightened my hand around his and put all the bad stuff out of my mind.
We slowed our pace in front of the church. People mingled outside heavy wooden double-doors, chatting and smoking valrivia cigarettes. Lon shook a few hands and grunted at several Hellfire Club members, tilting his chin up in answer to people who waved from afar. The few brief conversations we had with other attendees all started out with “Such a shame about David” and “I just can’t believe he’s gone,” but quickly progressed to “Where are they serving lunch after the burial?” And these were Merrimoth’s peers.
The inside of the sanctuary was packed. We decided to forgo the pews and stand along the back wall. We weren’t the only ones. When a couple squeezed in next to us, Lon shifted me in front of him, pulling my back against his solid chest. I relaxed, grateful for the comfort his warm body provided. He ran his thumb down the side of my arm from my elbow to my wrist and up again, a slow, soothing stroke.
“You look nice,” he murmured in my ear, so low and close it tickled. I turned my head sideways, trapping his cheek with mine. He smelled really good, like clean laundry and soap . . . and like Lon—that same identifiable scent I caught yesterday when Telly was tearing the bridge down over us. I breathed him in, a small pleasure, as he whispered, “Wish we were dressed up for a restaurant instead of a funeral.”
“Me too,” I whispered back.
A few seconds passed, then he said, “Better yet, I wish we were alone.”
“Mmm?”
“Completely alone. No Jupe. No Mr. and Mrs. Holiday. No in-laws. What do you think?”
“Right now?” Funerals were turning out to be way better than I imagined.
“A vacation.”
“Oh?”
Sometimes communicating with Lon was like pulling teeth. But I’d learned if I stayed quiet, he’d eventually spit out what he was trying to say. So I didn’t answer. I just waited, watching people file into the crowded sanctuary.
After a long pause, he continued murmuring in my ear. “I got an offer for a photo shoot in the Alps. Thought maybe you’d like to come along and we could make a vacation out of it.”
“As in Europe?”
“I could choose Switzerland or France. I thought maybe you’d like to go to France.”
Hmm. My parents’ families were both originally from France (my mother grew up in Paris, and my father’s parents were from Marseille) and they used to speak French when they were alone. My mother had a heavy French accent up to the last day I’d seen her alive. I’d always been curious about France. I still had family there—distant cousins and whatnot—and I often wondered what they were like. But I’d never been out of the states.
Lon raised a finger and shifted a lock of hair away from my ear, then continued to speak in a low, quiet voice. “A small village in the Alps. Just the two of us. I was thinking we could rent a villa. A nice one. Indoor pool. Big fireplace. Drink wine. Go skiing.”
“Skiing?” I said incredulously. I doubted I could roller skate, much less ski.
Then he admitted, “Mostly I was just thinking about getting naked.”
My throat made a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a gasp. A little thrill zinged through me. “A sex vacation?” I whispered.
He chuckled. “No Jupe, no Tambuku. Just you and me.”
“I’ve never been on a vacation before.”
“Ever?”
“Never.” My parents had always left me at home with someone from our esoteric order when they went on vacations, and then, of course, I separated from them when I turned seventeen. Being on the run and living under an alias doesn’t exactly lend itself to relaxing vacation time.
“Another first,” Lon whispered in a sultry voice. It was one of his favorite pastimes, cataloging any “first” experiences I shared with him. He kept a mental list. I think it was some kind of male pride thing. Kind of endearing.