The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,173
she is tired, and he is the place she wants to rest.
And that, somehow, she is happy.
But it is not love.
Whenever Addie feels herself forgetting, she presses her ear to his bare chest and listens for the drum of life, the drawing of breath, and hears only the woods at night, the quiet hush of summer. A reminder that he is a lie, that his face and his flesh are simply a disguise.
That he is not human, and this is not love.
New York City
July 30, 2014
XI
The city slides past beyond the window, but Addie doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t admire the skyline of Manhattan, the buildings soaring to every side. Instead, she studies Luc, reflected in the darkened glass, the line of his jaw, the arc of his brow, angles drawn by her hand so many, many years ago. She is watching him, the way one watches a wolf at the edge of the woods, waiting to see what it will do.
He is the first to break the silence.
The first to move a piece.
“Do you remember the opera in Munich?”
“I remember everything, Luc.”
“The way you looked at the players on that stage, as if you’d never seen theater before.”
“I’d never seen theater like that.”
“The wonder in your eyes, at the sight of something new. I knew then I’d never win.”
She wants to savor the words like a sip of good wine, but the grapes turn sour in her mouth. She does not trust them.
The car pulls to a stop outside Le Coucou, a beautiful French restaurant on the lower side of SoHo, ivy climbing the outer walls. She has been there before, two of the best meals she’s had in New York, and she wonders if Luc knows how much she likes it, or if he simply shares her taste.
Again, he offers his hand.
Again, she does not take it.
Addie watches a couple as they approach the doors of the restaurant, only to find them locked, watches them walk away, murmuring something about reservations. But when Luc takes the handle, the door swings open easily.
Inside, massive chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, and the large glass windows shine black. The place feels cavernous, large enough to seat a hundred, but tonight it is empty, save for two chefs visible in the open kitchen, a pair of servers, and the maître d’, who drops into a low bow as Luc approaches.
“Monsieur Dubois,” he says in a dreamy voice. “Mademoiselle.”
He leads them to their table, a red rose set before each place. The maître d’ pulls back her chair, and Luc waits for her to take her seat before taking his own. The man opens a bottle of merlot, and pours, and Luc lifts his glass to her and says, “To you, Adeline.”
There is no menu. No order to be taken. The plates simply arrive.
Foie gras with cherries, and rabbit terrine. Halibut in beurre blanc, and fresh-baked bread, and half a dozen kinds of cheese.
The food is, of course, exquisite.
But as they eat, the host and servers stand against the walls, eyes open, empty, a bland expression on their faces. She has always hated this aspect of his power, and the careless way he wields it.
She tips her glass in the direction of the puppets.
“Send them away,” she says, and he does. A silent gesture, and the servers disappear, and they are alone in the empty restaurant.
“Would you do that to me?” she asks when they are gone.
Luc shakes his head. “I could not,” he says, and she thinks he means because he cared for her too much, but then he says, “I have no power over promised souls. Their will is their own.”
It is cold comfort, she thinks, but it is something.
Luc looks down into his wine. He turns the stem between his fingers, and there in the darkened glass, she sees the two of them, tangled in silk sheets, sees her fingers in his hair, his hands playing songs against her skin.
“Tell me, Adeline,” he says. “Have you missed me?”
Of course she has missed him.
She can tell herself, as she has told him, that she only missed being seen, or missed the force of his attention, the intoxication of his presence—but it is more than that. She missed him the way someone might miss the sun in winter, though they still dread its heat. She missed the sound of his voice, the knowing in his touch, the flint-on-stone friction of their conversations, the way they fit together.