Nevers, France
Nothing is as it seems.
The Nevers air was rich that day, especially outside the café. The scents of fresh baguette and thick soup and dark coffee swirled around the customers seated outside. They were the early-rising usuals—a few couples, a brother and sister, father and daughter, a few older women. Dawn had only just begun in the city, and the sun painted everything in a warm orange glow.
A man at one of the small tables near the street lifted his hand, and a waitress drifted over. A few words were passed and she nodded, heading back into the bistro. The man leaned back in his seat, gazing around at the people near him, and then turning back to the woman across the table.
There were many interesting things about her, but the most important was not the bronze wave of hair sliding over her shoulders, her sharp brow, or even the way her lips turned up at one end and not the other—leaving her with a permanent look of knowing something no one else did. No, it was her eyes. At first glance, they were simply amber. But things are never as they seem.
For a lot of the time, her eyes were ochre, with bits of azure, cobalt, and chartreuse pieced together inside like stained glass. They caught the light and bounced it back, and sometimes, at just the right angle, a little sliver of what was inside could be seen.
And then, sometimes, they were gold. Sometimes, her smiles would carry all the way up into her eyes, or her laughs couldn’t be held back, and her windows opened up. Her eyes would fill with nothing less than the sun itself, and her soul would shine out, and it would become clear exactly what she was. Captivating, brilliant, and deadly. She was untouchable, too bright for the eye and too hot to the touch and too distant for the heart. And, ever-present, there was a dazzling twinkle in her eye unmatched by anything but that of the man who had given it to her. He watched her now with it, and she met his gaze easily.
The looked like half of a family meeting for breakfast, but there was more, even to that. “L’homme dernier?” he purred, one dark eyebrow arching upwards.
Her eyes swiped around their surroundings imperceptibly and then settled on her father. “The last man,” she answered, “was a joke. Three-four-seven-one-six-nine-eight-two-five, and the devil’s number for the door. He said she hasn’t been heard from in months. Her numbers and addresses are in the bag.” She nodded to the black case at his feet.
He opened his mouth, but she answered him before he could question. “She’s in Africa—Lagos, Nigeria. Holed up with some old man who doesn’t know what she is. She’s good, he’s got no idea.”
Blake’s eyes twinkled as a smile drew across his face. “Bon, merci beaucoup. Votre prochaine mission est au bureau.”
She nodded. She knew her next assignment was at the office—she had already seen it. “De rien,” she replied, and then stood. “Au revoir.”
He leaned his head forward and moved his hand up, as if tipping an invisible hat to her. “À tout à l'heure,” he countered, dismissing her.
—Ardgroom, Ireland
She had encountered the letter on her way home, the small orb rocketing up to her from seemingly nowhere. She had unwrapped it and read it, and then continued on her way. It wouldn't take long to get there, so she needn't travel until tomorrow. All day, her mind had wandered, wondering what was possibly so important Atticus was calling on them. What had happened? She wanted to know like nothing else—today could not have come fast enough.
Evening hovered at the stones, casting an odd light around Cal as she moved into the circle. Her light eyes flickered between Atticus and the others. She knew of nearly all of them, but wasn't especially acquainted with anyone. They all looked interesting, and more importantly, vital. Beside the urgent need to know why they had been called there rose another desire. She wanted to touch them, to find out when they would expire and how long each had until their dying breath. It was a question that was always burning in the back of her mind with any new face she encountered. For now, they were alive and moving and being, but one day all of that would simply end. And how easily it could happen—one misstep into the street, or tripping on shoelaces that made you late and put you in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even saying the wrong word could end it all so quickly. That, Cal had always thought, was the most fascinating thing about life. How quickly it could be taken.
Knowing now was not the time, she burrowed her hands into her dark jacket's pockets, and turned towards the man who had called them all here.
