Craved

  She reached up and took off her necklace and pushed it into his palm.

  “I don’t want you to die,” she said, crying. “Please. Take it.”

  He pushed it back into her palm, as his eyes welled up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I never would.”

  Scarlet leaned in and embraced Sage, and he hugged her back. She hugged him tightly, not wanting to let him go, overwhelmed with grief, love, longing. Anger at fate. She couldn’t understand why the world had brought them together only to tear them apart. She clung to him, crying, willing for the universe to change their destiny—and knowing somehow that it would not. As he hugged her back, his muscles rippling, she felt so safe in his arms, and yet so sad, knowing that in just a few weeks, she would never be in those arms again.

  Did fate have to be so cruel?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Caitlin sat in the back of the foreign taxi as it wound its way through the narrow streets of Paris in the pouring rain. It had been a long, rough taxi ride from the airport, and she hadn’t slept a wink on the plane. She had dozed off once or twice, but to fast, rapid nightmares which forced her to wake instantly, determined not to fall asleep again.

  Now she was exhausted as they went block to block, combing the streets, searching for the bookstore. It was daybreak, and she could barely see out the window. They had been circling this small group of blocks for nearly an hour now, and Caitlin was beginning to feel hopeless. She’d been arguing back and forth with the taxi driver, he speaking French and she English, and neither understanding each other.

  “Six rue Charlemagne!” Caitlin yelled again, enunciating each syllable.

  He screamed something back in French, which she did not understand. They were both at the end of each other’s ropes.

  As they circled the block yet again, she looked out and again caught a glimpse of the sign. Clearly, this was the right street. Then she watched the numbers, saw them climb from one to ten. But for some reason, there was no number six. She couldn’t understand it. They had been around this block again and again, with always the same result. She knew it was the right block—there was no other block by this name in Paris. It had to be it. Maybe she was just missing it from the back of the taxicab. She had no choice. She had to get out and see for herself.

  “Pull over!” she yelled out.

  She paid the driver, gathered her briefcase and jumped out of the cab into the pouring rain. The rain came down in sheets, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. In seconds, she was soaked.

  Caitlin ran down the deserted, cobblestone block, taking shelter beneath an awning jutting out from one of the old buildings. She stood flush against the wall, just barely getting out of the rain, and wiped the water from her hair and eyes. She looked down at the handwritten street name and number again, but now the ink was running with water.

  She put it away. No matter. She’d memorized the address. Six rue Charlemagne.

  Caitlin looked out and from where she was standing and scrutinized the numbers on all the buildings. She was on the even side of the street—it had to be on the other side.

  She ran out into the rain, everything so loud from the pouring water, getting completely doused again, and crossed over to the other side of the street. She peered closely at the numbers. She saw an eight, but no six. As she looked closely, though, she realized she’d overlooked something: a tiny, narrow staircase, leading down. Between the buildings. On the door, below street level, was a faded number. She peered carefully, and her heart fluttered. Six.

  There was no storefront, but then again, that made sense: the old lady wanted no visitors.

  Caitlin took two steps down, reached out, grabbed the ancient lion’s head knocker, and slammed it several times against the door. The sound reverberated in the empty block.

  Caitlin stood there and looked at her watch: 6 AM local time. Aiden had warned her that the woman may not answer, even if she were in. But now, at this time of day, in this weather, what were the odds?

  Caitlin had a sinking feeling this would not go well. She couldn’t stand to contemplate her options: she had crossed half the world for this, and the woman might not even answer.

  Caitlin slammed the knocker again and again, her clothes completely soaked as she stood there. After several more minutes of waiting, she finally turned and examined the streets, looking for any sign of a café, any place where she could wait, and rest, and get a cup of coffee, and warm up. But all the storefronts were closed this time of day, their gates down. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  Caitlin stood there, shivering, wondering what to do next. Suddenly, to her shock, she heard a noise at the door. There was the sound of several heavy bolts unlocking, and to her amazement, the door opened.

  There stood a small, petite woman, who looked to be in her 90s. She stood there proudly, standing erect, staring up at Caitlin disapprovingly with her sea-blue French eyes. They looked as if they’d witness the creation of the world.

  The old woman snapped at her. It was something in French, which Caitlin did not understand.

  “I’m sorry,” Caitlin replied. “But I don’t speak French.”

  The woman merely stared back, cooly.

  Caitlin worried she might close the door, and thought quick.

  “I’m a friend of Aiden’s. He sent me here,” she said in a rush.

  The woman stared back coolly, expressionless, with a slight frown.

  Then, suddenly, she took a half step back, and began to shut the door.

  Caitlin could not believe it. She was not going to let her in.

  Desperate, she stepped forward and stuck her foot in the crack before the door could close.

  “Please. You don’t understand. I just traveled half the world to get here. I’m just a mother who loves her daughter very much. Who’s concerned for her. You have a book I need. A very rare book. Please. I have nowhere else to turn.”

  The woman stared back at her for what felt like forever, then slowly, her expression softened. The woman looked warily both ways herself, then gestured her in.

  Caitlin quickly hurried in from the pouring rain, and as she did, the woman slammed and locked the door behind her.

  Caitlin stood there, in the low, arched-ceiling room, the rain slamming against the windows, and a puddle of water quickly forming beneath her feet on the ancient wood floors. She looked down, embarrassed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  The old woman handed her something soft, and she realized: a towel. She was touched. She dried her hair, so grateful, then dried her face and neck.

  “Take off your coat,” the woman ordered.

  Caitlin was shocked: she spoke English. And she cared.

  Caitlin peeled off her dripping coat, and as she did, the woman placed another dry towel over her shoulders. Caitlin rubbed it, drying her shirt.

  “Thank you,” she said, so appreciative.

  “It’s warmer here,” the woman said, as she led Caitlin to a small fireplace on the opposite side of the room, inside of which was a raging fire. Caitlin walked to it and held out her hands, relishing in its heat.

  Caitlin looked around, surveying the cozy room. It was dimly lit by candle sconces and bedecked with rugs and cozy, antique sitting chairs. What caught her eye most, though, were the bookcases: she saw at a glance that there was an abundance of riches in this small room. She was astonished. It was a treasure trove of ancient, rare volumes. She felt as if she’d stepped back in time, to a lost world.

  “I’m looking for a very rare volume,” Caitlin said. “I’m not even certain it exists. Vairo’s De Fascino Libri Tres. I am looking for the other half of a missing page.”

  Slowly, Caitlin reached into her bag and removed the folder and the torn page. She held it out, and the old woman’s eyes widened just a bit as she examined it.

  After a few moments, she handed it back to Caitlin.

  “Do you know it?” Caitlin asked. “Do you have it?”

  “F
orty years ago, I took in a collection of the most obscure and rare editions of occult titles,” the woman said, her voice scratchy and barely audible over the crackling fire. “I didn’t want to, frankly, but my late husband insisted. I’ve never liked the energy off of those books. I walled them off, so that no one would ever know they were here. Including myself. I’ve had some very unsavory types come looking for them over the years. And I’ve always denied their existence.”

  The old woman suddenly crossed the room, reached up and pulled a light fixture on the far wall.

  To Caitlin’s amazement, the stone wall suddenly slid to the side, to the sound of stone scraping stone. It revealed a secret room.

  The old woman stepped in, raised her candle, and lit several candles sconces inside the room. As she did, Caitlin could see that it was jam packed with rare books, stacks and stacks of them. There was barely room to walk.

  “If I have what you’re looking for,” the old woman said, as she came back out and faced Caitlin, “it’s in there.”

  If? Caitlin wondered. Her heart sank as she took in the room: it was massive. There were thousands and thousands of titles, all unorganized, throw in random heaps on the floor. Her professional eye told her it could take weeks to go through them all. She didn’t have time.

  “Do you have any idea at all if you have it?” Caitlin asked. “Do you have any idea at all where in this room it might be?”

  The old woman shook her head.

  “It was forty years ago,” she said, “and even back then, I barely glanced at them. You’re going to have to find out the hard way.”

  Caitlin took a few tentative steps into the room, ducking as she went beneath the low arched stone, and as she did, the woman turned to her.

  “When you’re done, knock three times.”

  With that, the old woman pulled the lever and suddenly, the door slid closed on Caitlin.

  Caitlin stood there, amazed, scanning the mountains of books, and wondering what she had gotten herself into.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sage crossed his bedroom, gathering his things, packing up ancient artifacts he hadn’t looked at in centuries. He was finally ready to leave this place, his family, for good. He had a large opened suitcase on his bed, and rifled through items, deciding what to let go. He held up a small ivory tusk off his desk, remembering when he had found it five hundred years before. He examined it, then set it down, deciding not to bring it.

  As he stood there, by the window, he glanced out, and looked at the Hudson. In the early morning light the water sparkled. In the distance he saw the island he’d spent the night on with Scarlet, the two of them having fallen asleep, clothed, in each other’s arms. It had been innocent, but the most beautiful night he had ever spent on this planet. He could not stop thinking about the moment they woke up together, watched the dawn break together, the sun rise over the Hudson. It had seemed to rise right over them, as if they were in the very center of the world.

  Waking with Scarlet in his arms had given him a feeling of being restored that he hadn’t had in years. It made him feel whole again, and it gave him, for the first time in a long time, a reason to live.

  They had decided to run away together. Scarlet had decided it would be best to keep up appearances for now, to go back to school in the morning, to face all her friends, to see them one last time, and then for them to leave that night, in the cover of darkness. They made a plan to meet after school, at the big dance that night, and leave from there. They would leave this town, find some place in the world where they could be alone, away from their families, from everyone who wanted to tear them apart. There was nothing Sage wanted more: if these were to be his last few weeks on the planet, he wanted them to be worthy ones. He wanted to live for himself for a change.

  Scarlet had even talked about the two of them taking off right then and there, at dawn. Sage had wanted to, too. But he thought it would be more prudent for them to leave at night, in the cover of darkness. Scarlet also wanted to have closure with her friends, and Sage wanted a little bit of time to gather his things, and to internally say his goodbyes to his family. Of course, he could not tell him he was leaving. But maybe there was still a small chance he could convince them, get them to change their minds about Scarlet. After two thousand years together, they owed it to him to at least hear him out. If he was successful, maybe, just maybe, they would let her go, and the two of them could live out their final days here in peace.

  Deep down, he knew it was a lost cause. His family’s mortality was at stake, after all. They would, he knew, go after Scarlet with everything they had. After tonight, after his deadline was up, they would hunt her down and kill her.

  So as a contingency plan, Sage gathered everything important from his room. He had a feeling that, after today, he would never be back here again. And that was okay with him. He would miss his family, after all this time, but he knew there wasn’t much time left to live anyway, and he wanted to spend his final weeks how he wanted to spend them—not how his parents wanted him to spend them. Enough was enough. There were no punishments they could inflict on him now that would be worse than the punishment of not being able to spend time with Scarlet.

  He hoped that Lore would not be foolish enough to try to attack Scarlet. After all, they all knew it would be useless to kill her without her voluntarily handing over the necklace. But they could be impetuous, especially Lore—and with just a few weeks left to live, who knew how they might react.

  “You always were a hopeless romantic,” came a voice.

  Sage spun around and was surprised to see, standing there, his sister, Phoenicia.

  She stood there, staring at him disapprovingly in the doorway, slowly shaking her head.

  “Such a sap,” she said. “Always have been.”

  And what are you? he thought. Afraid to fall in love? You’ve had your guard up for centuries. Where has that gotten you?

  He ignored her, crossing the room, picking up a framed piece of sheet music, signed by Beethoven, and putting it into his backpack.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Going somewhere?” she asked.

  He pored over his bookcase, taking out a first edition of Shakespeare’s Macbeth and inserting it into his bag.

  Phoenicia suddenly crossed the room, reaching him with lightning speed, grabbed his wrist, and snatched the book from his hand. She slammed it down on the tabletop, and scowled at him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

  Now he was annoyed. He frowned back.

  “What business of it is yours?”

  “Everything that you do is my business. Everything that goes on around here is my business. Especially now. You’re so cavalier, as if nothing matters, as if we have all the time in the world. We’re all counting on you. Have you forgotten? And here you are, in another one of your romantic escapades, as if you haven’t a care in the world. You can fool mom and dad, but you can’t fool me. I know you could care less about getting the key from her. I know that you’ve fallen in love with her. You don’t care about any of us. You will die, and you don’t care about that either, do you?”

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he felt a rage building. That was so like her. His entire life she had plagued him, always the first to point out his faults—or her perception of his faults. She was a cynic, that was her problem. She didn’t believe in love at all.

  Sage had given up trying to answer her centuries ago. She would never understand anything when it came to love.

  Especially now. How could she possibly understand about Scarlet? How could he explain to her the way Scarlet made him feel? The way she looked in the morning light? Her grace? Her sensitivity? Her kindness? He could barely understand it all himself.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said.

  “I want you to say that you will get the key. That you will do it now!”

  She stared back at him
with intensity, but he slowly shook his head.

  “It’s a myth,” he said. “Don’t you see? We’re destined to die. All of us. Our destiny has always been two thousand years. And nothing we can do will change that. Attacking some poor girl is not going to change your life.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to protect her unless you thought it was all true. That she really was the one.” She narrowed her eyes further. “I’ll be that she even offered you the key already—and that you said no. You did, didn’t you?”

  He looked at her, blushing. It was uncanny how she could always read him.

  “What do you care?” he said. “What are you going to do? Kill me? We’re all dying anyway.”

  She shook her head in disappointment, and as she did, suddenly he saw something he had never seen before, in all his centuries of knowing her: a tear forming at the corner of her eye.

  “After all this time, do you even care at all about me? Or yourself?”

  He softened, feeling bad, and realizing he couldn’t lie to her anymore.

  “Phoenicia. You’re my sister. I love you. I really do. But I’m sorry. She’s worth all of it and more to me.”

  Phoenicia narrowed her eyes in anger.

  “Is this girl, this stranger, worth even more than me?”

  Her face reddened as she turned and stormed out the room and slammed the door behind her.

  Sage knew that wherever she was going, trouble would soon follow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Scarlet walked through her high school halls in a daze, hardly aware of where she was. She felt as if she were walking on air. She couldn’t stop re-living her night with Sage; his energy still lingered with every step she took. For the first time, she was hardly bothered by all the kids around her, swarming in every direction, she could barely hear the noise. She didn’t even care. Because now, for the first time she could remember, her heart was full. She was madly in love with Sage. Completely obsessed with him.