Desired (2 page)

A person brushed passed her, and Caitlin reached out and grabbed his arm, overwhelmed with a sudden desire to know.

He turned and looked at her, startled at being stopped so abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, realizing how dry her throat was, and how ragged she must have appeared, as she uttered her first words, “but what year is it?”

She was embarrassed even as she asked it, realizing that she must have seemed crazy.

“Year?” the confused man asked back.

“Um…I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to…remember.”

The man looked her up and down, then slowly shook his head, as if deciding there was something wrong with her.

“It’s 1789, of course. And we’re not even close to New Year’s, so you real y have no excuse,” he said, shaking his head derisively, and marching off.

1789. The reality of those numbers raced through Caitlin’s mind. She recal ed that she had last been in the year 1791.

Two years. Not that far off.

Yet, she was in Paris now, an entirely different world than Venice. Why here? Why now?

She racked her brain, trying desperately to remember her history classes, to remember what had happened in France in 1789. She was embarrassed to realize that she couldn’t.

She kicked herself once again for not paying closer attention in class. If she had known back in high school that she’d one day be traveling back in time, she’d have studied her history through the night, and would have made an effort to memorize everything.

It didn’t matter now, she realized. Now, she was a
part
of history. Now, she had a chance to change it, and to change herself. The past, she realized, could be changed. Just because certain events had happened in the history books, it didn’t mean that she, traveling back, couldn’t change them now. In a sense, she already had: her appearance here, in this time, would affect everything.

That, in turn, could, in its own smal way, change the course of history.

It made her feel the importance of her actions al the more.

The past was hers to create again.

Taking in her elegant surroundings, Caitlin began to relax a bit, and even to feel a bit encouraged. At least she had landed in a beautiful place, in a beautiful city, and in a beautiful time.

This was hardly the stone age, after al , and it was not like she had appeared in the middle of nowhere. Everything around her looked immaculate, and the people were al dressed so nicely, and the cobblestone streets shined in the torchlight. And the one thing she did remember about Paris in the 18th century was that it was a luxurious time for France, a time of great wealth, one in which kings and queens stil ruled.

Caitlin realized that the Notre Dame was on a smal island, and she felt the need to get off it. It was just too crowded here, and she needed some peace. She spotted several smal foot bridges leading off it, and headed towards one.

She al owed herself to hope that maybe Caleb’s presence was leading her in a particular direction.

As she walked over the river, she saw how beautiful the night was in Paris, lit by the torchlight al along the river, and by the ful moon. She thought of Caleb, and wished he was by her side to enjoy the sight with her.

As she walked across the bridge, looking down at the water, memories overcame her. She thought of Pol epel, of the Hudson River at night, of the way the moon lit up the river. She had a sudden urge to leap off the bridge, to test her wings, to see if she could fly again, and to soar high above it.

But she felt weak, and hungry, and as she leaned back, she couldn’t even feel the presence of her wings at al . She worried if the trip back in time had affected her abilities, her powers. She didn’t feel nearly as strong as she once had. In fact, she felt nearly human. Frail. Vulnerable. She didn’t like the feeling.

After Caitlin crossed the river, she walked down side streets, wandering for hours, hopelessly lost. She walked through twisting, turning streets, further and further from the river, heading north.

She was amazed by the city. In some respects, it felt similar to Venice and Florence in 1791. Like those cities, Paris was stil the same, even to the way it appeared in the 21st century. She had never been here, but she had seen photos, and she was shocked to recognize so many buildings and monuments.

The streets here, too, were mostly cobblestone, fil ed with horse and carriages, or the occasional horse with a lone rider. People walked in elaborate costumes, strol ing leisurely, with al the time in the world. Like those cities, there was no plumbing here either, and Caitlin couldn’t help noticing the waste in the streets, and recoiling at the awful stench in the summer heat. She wished she stil had one of those smal potpourri bags that Pol y had given her in Venice.

But unlike those other cities, Paris was a world unto itself.

The streets were wider here, the buildings were lower, and they were more beautiful y designed. The city felt older, more precious, more beautiful. It was also less crowded: the further she went from the Notre Dame, the fewer people she saw. Maybe it was just because it was late at night, but the streets felt nearly empty.

She walked and walked, her legs and feet growing weary, searching around every corner for any sign of Caleb, any clue that might lead her in a special direction. There was nothing.

Every twenty blocks or so the neighborhood changed, and the feeling changed, too. As she headed further and further north, she found herself ascending a hil , in a new district, this one with narrow al eyways, and several bars. As she passed by a corner bar, she saw a man sprawled out, drunk, unconscious against the wal . The street was completely empty, and for a moment, Caitlin was overcome by the worst hunger pang. She felt like it was tearing her stomach in half.

She saw the man lying there, zoomed in on his neck, and saw the blood pulsing within it. At that moment, she wanted more than anything to descend on him, to feed. The feeling was beyond an urge—it was more like a command. Her body screamed at her to do it.

It took every last ounce of Caitlin’s wil to look away. She would rather die of starvation than hurt another human.

She looked around and wondered if there were a forest near here, a place she could hunt. While she had seen some occasional dirt roads and parks in the city, she hadn’t seen anything like a forest.

At just that moment, the door to the bar burst open, and a man stumbled out of it—thrown out, actual y—by one of the wait staff. He cursed and screamed at them, clearly drunk.

Then he turned and set his sights on Caitlin.

He was wel built, and he looked at Caitlin with il intent.

She felt herself tense up. She wondered again, desperately, whether any of her powers remained.

She turned and walked away, walking faster, but she sensed the man fol owing her.

Before she could turn, a second later, he grabbed her from behind, in a bear hug. He was faster and stronger than she had imagined, and she could smel his awful breath over her shoulder.

But the man was also drunk. He stumbled, even as he held her, and Caitlin focused, remembered her training, and sidestepped and swept him, using one of the fighting techniques that Aiden had taught her on Pol epel. The man went flying, landing on his back.

Caitlin suddenly had a flashback to Rome, of the Colosseum, of fighting on the stadium floor while being charged by multiple fighters. It was so vivid, for a moment, she forgot where she was.

She snapped out of it just in time. The drunk man got up, stumbled, and charged her again.

Caitlin waited to the last second, then sidestepped, and he went flying, fal ing flat on his own face.

He was dazed, and before he could get up again, Caitlin hurried to get away. She was glad she had got the best of him, but the incident shook her. It worried her that she was stil having flashbacks of Rome. She also hadn’t felt her supernatural strength. She stil felt as frail as a human.

The thought of that, more than anything else, scared her.

She was truly on her own now.

Caitlin looked al around, starting to feel frantic with worry about where to go, about what to do next. Her legs burned from the walking, and she began to feel a sense of despair.

That was when she saw it. She looked up, and saw before her a huge hil . On top of that, sat a large, medieval abbey.

For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt drawn to it.

The hil was daunting, but she didn’t see what other choice she had.

Caitlin hiked up the entire hil , more tired than she’d just about ever been, and wishing she could fly.

She final y reached the front doors of the abbey, and looked up at the massive, oak doors. This place looked ancient.

She marveled at the fact that, though it was 1789, this church had already been around for what looked like thousands of years.

She didn’t know why, but she felt drawn here. Seeing nowhere else to go, she got her courage up, and knocked softly.

There was no response.

Caitlin tried the knob and was surprised to find it open. She let herself in.

The ancient door creaked open slowly, and it took a moment for Caitlin’s eyes to adjust to the cavernous, dark church. As she surveyed it, she was impressed by the scope and solemnity of the place. It was stil late at night, and this simple, austere, church, made entirely of stone, adorned in stained-glass windows, was lit by large candles, everywhere, burning low. At its far end sat a simple altar, around which were placed dozens more candles.

Otherwise, it seemed empty.

Caitlin wondered for a moment what she was doing here.

Was there a special reason? Or had her mind just been playing tricks on her?

A side door suddenly opened, and Caitlin spun.

Walking towards her, Caitlin was surprised to see, was a nun—short, frail, dressed in flowing white robes, with a white hood. She walked slowly, and walked right up to Caitlin.

She pul ed back her hood, looked up at her and smiled.

She had large, shining blue eyes, and seemed too young to be a nun. As she smiled wide, Caitlin could feel the warmth coming off of her.

She also sensed that she was one of hers: a vampire.

“Sister Paine,” the nun said softly. “It is an honor to have you.”

Her world felt surreal as the nun led Caitlin through the abbey, down a long corridor. It was a beautiful place, and it was clear that it was actively lived in, with nuns in white robes walking about, getting ready, it seemed, for the morning services. One of them swung a decanter as she went, spreading delicate incense, while others were chanting soft morning prayers.

After several minutes of walking in silence, Caitlin began to wonder where the nun was leading her. Final y, they stopped before a single door. The nun opened it, revealing a smal , humble room, with a view overlooking Paris. It reminded Caitlin of the room she’d stayed in in that cloister in Siena.

“On the bed, you’l find a change of clothing,” the nun said.

“There is a wel in which to bathe, in our courtyard,” she said. She pointed, “and that is for you.”

Caitlin fol owed her finger and saw a smal , stone pedestal in the corner of the room, on which sat a silver goblet, fil ed with a white liquid. The nun smiled back.

“You have everything you need here for a fresh night’s sleep. After that, the choice is yours to make.”

“Choice?” Caitlin asked.

“I am told that you have one key already. You wil need to find the other three. The choice, though, of whether to fulfil your mission and continue on your journey is always yours.”

“This is for you.”

She reached out and handed Caitlin a cylindrical, silver case, covered in jewels.

“It is a letter from your father. Just for you. We have been guarding it for centuries. It has never been opened.”

Caitlin took it in awe, feeling its weight in her hand.

“I do hope that you wil continue with your mission,” she said softly. “We need you, Caitlin.”

The nun suddenly turned to go.

“Wait!” Caitlin yel ed out.

She stopped.

“I’m in Paris, correct? In 1789?”

The woman smiled back. “That is correct.”

“But why? Why am I here? Why now? Why this place?”

“I’m afraid that is for you to find out. I am but a simple servant.”

“But why was I drawn to this church?”

“You are in the Abbey of Saint Peter. In Montmartre,” the woman said. “It has been here for thousands of years. It is a very sacred place.”

“Why?” Caitlin pressed.

“This was the place in which everyone met to take their vows for the founding of the Society of Jesus. It is in this place that Christianity was born.”

Caitlin stared back, speechless, and the nun final y smiled and said, “Welcome.”

And with that, she bowed slightly, and walked away, closing the door gently behind her.

Caitlin turned and surveyed the room. She was grateful for the hospitality, for the change of clothes, for the chance to bathe, for the comfortable bed that she saw lying in the corner. She didn’t think she could take one more step. In fact, she was so tired, she felt like she could sleep forever.

Holding the bejeweled case, she walked to the corner of the room, and set it down. The scrol could wait. But her hunger couldn’t.

She lifted the overflowing goblet and examined it. She could already sense what it contained: white blood.

She put it to her lips and drank. It was sweeter than red blood and went down more easily—and it ran through her veins faster. Within moments, she felt reborn, and stronger than she’d ever had.

She could have drank forever.

Caitlin final y set down the empty goblet, and took the silver case with her to bed. She lay down, and realized how sore her legs were. It felt so good to just lay there.

She leaned back and rested her head against the smal , simple pil ow, and closed her eyes, just for a second. She was resolved to open them in just a moment, and read her father’s letter.

But the moment her eyes closed, an incredible exhaustion overcame her. She couldn’t open them again if she tried.