had not managed to catch (Sebastien would be disappointed in him)—stood when Jack did. "You're too new for wandering Paris at night," he said. "Especially on the full moon. I'll see you safe back where you belong."
For a moment, Jack wondered what Rene expected in return for the escort, but then he shrugged and got his coat without a protest. Jack was a slight man, but Rene was classically Gallic: dark, not tall, with a distinctive nose. Jack thought he could defend himself if it became necessary. "All right," he said, and Rene wrapped his scarf, buttoned his overcoat, pulled on his gloves, and was ready while Jack was still fussing with his cap.
They walked in silence through empty streets, breath steaming under cold lamplight, between swirling flat broad snowflakes, and chins scrunched into collars, while Jack considered what he'd do if Rene made a pass.
It was the downside of being slight and pretty. If you considered it a downside, exactly.
But Rene seemed mostly nervous of ambush, or something. And so Jack was still contemplating his options when he noticed the streetlights down the block flickering and then brightening once more, one at a time, like a ripple rolling over still water. The effect was moving away from them, slightly faster than the pace of a walking man, and he nudged Rene with an elbow to get his attention. "What's that?"
"Just an eddy in the power. You see them sometimes." Rene sounded bored. "You know, it doesn't snow like this every year, in Paris."
Jack speeded his steps. His boots left a wet black trail pressed through to pavement. "There's something there."
"Where?"
"Under the first lamp." The lamp where he'd seen the beginning of the ripple effect burned bright as ever. Under it, something black and lumpy stretched on the cobbles, the snow about it a soaked outline of red. With a nasty creeping feeling, Jack recognized the shape. "There's someone in the street."
"Oh God," said Rene, folding his gloved hands into the bends of his
elbows. "Not another."
* * *
The conversation proceeded along absolutely predictable lines. Celeste, a sister in the blood to whom Sebastien had spoken in Köln, had been very forthcoming about Monsieur Renault's predilections. Celeste was young, as such things went, and still maintained a few lingering human friendships; some of them touched on the demimonde of Paris.
She had seemed flattered by the attentions of an elder, and had put herself out to be an entertaining and informative conversationalist while Sebastien had allowed her to think he might be seduced to more. He was no fool; he knew that just the evidence of his regard would lend her cachet in the social games the blood played to alleviate their long boredom.
Celeste had assured him that Monsieur Renault considered himself something of an adventurer and a master of intrigue, and would find it
hard to avoid being beguiled by a suitably glamorous proposal. And thus,
all the nonsense with scaling buildings and hand-delivered letters and misled courtesans.
By the end of the conversation, however, Sebastien was confident that he not only had the prime minister's attention—but also his interest.
He exited the hotel not by the window, but more simply: down the corridor and the stair—he had not yet learned to trust lifts, especially new ones installed in old buildings—with only a pause at the bell desk to alert them to the need for a porter in Mademoiselle Glibert's room.
The street beyond was still well-lit, the electric lights unflickering despite the risen wind and deepening chill, but entirely deserted now. Dry snow scoured the cobbles and drifted into doorways, and flakes blew horizontally, swirling around Sebastien's limbs. He turned his collar up for the sake of appearances and hasted his steps.
There was no repeat illusion of dimming street lamps, but Sebastien again found himself with the creeping sensation of being watched. The
snow and the chill emptied the streets. He walked, now, nearly alone. And so, when he felt the pressure of someone's regard most fiercely on his
spine, he stopped, and turned, and stared directly back along the path he had just walked.
There was no benefit in pretending that one believed one's self unobserved when there were no bystanders to perturb. It only made the stalker bold.
Not that this stalker was in any need of additional boldness, apparently.
Sebastien turned to face yellow eyes through eddying snow, a gray
four-legged shape almost the color of the grey city behind. The wolf stared levelly, and Sebastien stared back. It was of a height such that he could have