Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(21)

“Did you expect a court dandy in fancy clothes, then?” he says. In French for certain—but not with a native accent.

I take a moment to inhale his voice, which is deeper than I’d anticipated, and with a hint of gravel. “Your clothes tell me nothing, sir; it’s in your eyes.”

That makes him angry. But it’s true. His eyes are fire and rebellion, and the head of this sort of operation would have need of neither. Running a successful business, even an illicit one, fills men’s eyes with confidence, satisfaction. This person in front of me longs for more in life.

It’s a feeling I can well understand.

“Are you going to take me to your employer, or have we both wasted our time?” I ask, pinning him with my eyes.

“I have no employer.”

“We’re going to mince words, then?”

I note a telltale twitch at his jawline. Without breaking eye contact, he mutters, just loud enough for the Nav computer to pick it up, “Take us to him.”

I’m not the least bit familiar with the streets of Paris, so I don’t bother to look out the windows and try to guess where we’re going. I’ve put my life in this man’s hands, and at this moment, I feel it. Anything could happen and no one in the world would know if he slit my throat and tossed me into the Seine. My fingers tremble as I clench them in my lap, and I’m struck by how stupid it was to put my trust in people who deal in illicit wares. But soon, sooner than I’d have guessed, the car stops and the young man climbs out. A figure in black takes his place.

And my long-fractured world explodes into dust.

“Look who we have here,” he says, amusement floating on his voice.

Liberté. The light is better here than it was in the catacombs, so this time I can read the word tattooed on his neck. Inside, I feel like I’ve been knocked over by an ocean wave and am trying to figure out which direction is up, which direction means air and light and life. For a few seconds I hold very still, looking at—though not truly seeing—the man’s face.

The younger one slides back into the car from the other side, seating himself next to the man I first met in my sojourn to the catacombs. I wonder now if they were both there that night too. If the young one was one of the faces in shadow; if his were among the scurrying feet.

If he was the one who cut the satin laces on my corset.

A steady heat rises to my cheeks.

The young man gives a whispered order, and the car pulls away from the curb. Only after I’ve counted to twenty in my head—twice—do I trust myself to speak without shouting.

“I suppose I ought to say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, monsieur, but I don’t like to lie.”

In response the blackheart laughs heartily, shamelessly, then doffs his hat, and I see his face clearly for the first time. “If you don’t mind my asking,” the tattooed man says once the sedan is driving along smoothly, “I told Saber not to bring you unless you specifically asked to see me—how did you know?”

Saber. Odd name. “It seemed an obvious ploy,” I reply, not elaborating. Especially not in front of Saber himself. The spark of attraction makes me at least attempt to avoid offending him.

“After our encounter in the catacombs, I didn’t expect ever to see you again,” he says. “And I admit, I only accepted this meeting out of sheer morbid curiosity. What could the shimmering diamant of Sonoman-Versailles’s costume-court want with a peasant such as myself?”

“I didn’t know it was you, did I?”

He smirks. “No, I think you did not.”

Already wearied by this man’s uncouth manners, I hold up one of the patches I took from my father yesterday. The man silences himself at the sight, though he continues to smirk. Annoyingly. “Now, Monsieur…?”

“Are you seriously asking my name?”

“You know mine.”

“Everyone knows yours.”

I lean forward, forcing myself to remain calm. “I did send you ten thousand euros. And you know I have every intention of conducting further business with you in the future.”

“S’pose it can’t hurt,” he says after a long pause. “Reginald. Friends call me Reg, so you may refer to me as Reginald.”

I don’t react. “Tell me about the patches. What are they, exactly?”

“Papaveris atropa.” He reaches into his jacket and removes a very small vial filled with what looks like finely ground silver dust. “That’s what the chemists call it, anyway. The newest thing in…street pharmaceuticals. So new most of the media hasn’t even gotten a sniff of it yet.”

“Really?” I ask, not hiding my skepticism.

“How do you think we got it past all the sensors in your palace?”

That would explain it—if he’s telling the truth. “They don’t even recognize it?”

“That’s right. Totally new. But it’s going to blow the others out of the water. A complex blend of opiates and gengineered belladonna, processed for transdermal delivery. Directly to the skin,” he adds when I blink uncomprehendingly. “It induces bliss like heroin but leaves you conscious, and with most of your wits. Truly top of the line, for the more cultured consumer.” He shakes the vial so the substance inside catches the sun and throws bits of light around the car. “This is ten thousand euros’ worth.”