The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,179

far, far from home.

But then her eyes adjust, and she turns, and sees the skyline rising above the trees, and realizes she must be in Central Park.

Relief sweeps through her.

And then Luc’s voice drifts through the dark.

“Adeline, Adeline…” he says, and she cannot tell what is an echo, and what is simply him, unbound by flesh and bone and mortal shapes.

“You promised,” she calls.

“Did I?”

Luc steps out of the dark, the way he did that night, drawing together from smoke and shadow. A storm, bottled into skin.

Am I the devil or the darkness? he asked her once. Am I a monster or a god?

He is no longer dressed in the sleek black suit, but as he was when she first summoned him, a stranger in trousers, a pale tunic open at his throat, his black hair curling against his temples.

The dream conjured so many years ago.

But one thing has changed. There is no triumph in his eyes. The color has gone out of them, so pale they’re almost gray. And though she’s never seen the shade before, she guesses it is sadness.

“I will give you what you want,” he says. “If you will do one thing.”

“What?” she asks.

Luc holds out his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says.

There is longing in his voice, and loss, and she thinks, perhaps, it is the end, of this, of them. A game finally played out. A war with no winners.

And so she agrees to dance.

There is no music, but it does not matter.

When she takes his hand, she hears the melody, soft and soothing in her head. Not a song, exactly, but the sound of the woods in summer, the steady hush of the wind through the fields. And as he pulls her close, she hears a violin, low and mournful, along the Seine. His hand slides through hers, and there is the steady murmur of the seaside. The symphony soaring through Munich. Addie leans her head against his shoulder, and hears the rain falling in Villon, the brass band ringing in an L.A. lounge, and the ripple of a saxophone through the open windows on Bourbon.

The dancing stops.

The music fades.

A tear slides down her cheek. “All you had to do was set me free.”

Luc sighs, and lifts her chin. “I could not.”

“Because of the deal.”

“Because you are mine.”

Addie twists free. “I was never yours, Luc,” she says, turning away. “Not in the woods that night. And not when you took me to bed. You were the one who said it was just a game.”

“I lied.” The words, a knife. “You loved me,” he says. “And I loved you.”

“And yet,” she says, “you didn’t come to find me until I’d found someone else.”

She turns back toward him, expecting to see those eyes yellowing with envy. But instead, they have gone a weedy, arrogant green, mirrored by the expression on his face, the faint lift of a single brow, the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, Adeline,” he says. “You think you found each other?”

The words are a missed step.

A sudden drop.

“Do you truly think that I would let that happen?”

The ground tilts beneath her feet.

“That for all the deals I do, such a thing would ever pass beneath my notice?”

Addie squeezes her eyes shut, and she is lying beside Henry, their fingers laced together in the grass. She is looking up at the night sky. She is laughing at the idea that Luc finally made a mistake.

“You must have thought yourselves so clever,” he is saying now. “Star-crossed lovers, brought together by chance. What are the odds that you would meet, that you would both be bound to me, both have sold your souls for something only the other could provide? When the truth is so much easier than that—I put Henry in your path. I gave him to you, wrapped and ribboned like a gift.”

“Why?” she asks, throat closing around the word. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s what you wanted. You were so set upon your need for love, you could not see beyond it. I gave you this, I gave you him, so you could see that love was not worth the space you held for it. The space you kept from me.”

“But it was worth it. It is.”

He reaches out to brush her cheek. “It won’t be, when he’s gone.”

Addie pulls away. From his words, his touch. “This is cruel, Luc. Even for you.”

“No,” he snarls. “Cruelty would be ten years instead of one. Cruelty would be to let you have a lifetime