Kiss The Flame: A Desire Exchange Novella (1001 Dark Nights)

He doesn’t take the bait. But he doesn’t vanish either. And he’s had long enough to make his necessary mark on the suitcase.

  “One of our radiants—his father sent people looking for him,” she finally offers.

  “I see,” Bastian says quietly.

  “Ryan Benoit. You remember Ryan Benoit, don’t you?” This accusatory question hits its target; Bastian lowers his gaze. Did he also flinch? She can’t be sure.

  “Of course I remember, Ryan,” he says quietly. “I remember all of you.”

  Radiants. He still has trouble with this word, given he didn’t come up with it. So she decides to hit him with another word he’s sure to find far more troubling.

  “Your children, you mean,” she says.

  To this, Bastian betrays no response. He’s never been able to refer to them as his offspring or anything of the sort; never been willing to claim them as family. No matter how kind he is to her, Lilliane is sure he regards her and the other radiants as nothing more than unfortunate accidents, the necessary downside of his incredible magic.

  “Anyway,” Lilliane says, satisfied to have struck two blows in a row, “it was a bit of a mess, but it’s all worked out now.”

  “You’re sure your secret’s safe? Despite this incident?”

  “We provided their ringleader with the same service we provide all of our clientele. She was quite happy with the result.”

  Lilliane cocks her head in the direction of the suitcase. Bastian pops it open.

  Inside are six cushioned slots just large enough for the jars she brings him on a regular basis. Four of the slots are empty. But the golden radiance swirling within the two glass jars she did bring is strong enough to illuminate Bastian’s face, an illumination that fills his hollow eyes, turning his pupils and sclera into vague gold outlines and not much else.

  “Alexandra Vance,” Lilliane says, tapping one jar. “Emily Blaine,” she continues, tapping the one next to it.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bastian says quietly.

  “What doesn’t matter?”

  “Their names. Who they came from. One batch is as good as the next. In the end, it’s all the same energy. The bravery to face your heart’s true desires. Once I add it to the candles, it finds who it needs to find.”

  “I see. And what about my candle, Bastian? The candle you sold me. Did it find who it needed to find?”

  For a second, she thinks he’s about to vanish just to avoid answering this question. But he’s staring past her into the night sky, head cocked like a dog’s at the sound of a whistle. She follows the direction of his gaze and sees three Mylar balloons rising into the night sky over Jackson Square; they’re stamped with congratulatory expressions in bright letters: CONGRATULATIONS! AMAZING! GOOD WORK!

  Bastian doesn’t normally respond to an environmental intrusion in this quick and reflexive way. Something about these balloons means something to him. And when his entire being flickers, it seems to startle him as much as it does her. He looks down at his chest, checks the security of his grip on the suitcase’s handle.

  “Bastian,” she asks quietly.

  “It seems my services are soon to be required,” he says meekly.

  And then he’s gone.

  It’s the first time she hasn’t seen him disappear of his own accord.

  Summoned, she finally thinks. He was summoned. And he couldn’t control it. He had no choice. The sight of the man she holds responsible for her interminable fate rendered so suddenly powerless leaves her speechless. It almost makes her anger vanish as quickly as Bastian just did.

  Almost.

  6

  LANEY

  “So….” Michael says.

  “So,” Laney answers. Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

  It’s a text message from Cat.

  Status update?

  A horse drawn carriage clatters past them. In a high, barking voice, the driver recounts the history of the house and courtyard in which Perry’s resides while Laney and Michael stand in front of the restaurant’s entrance like awkward teenagers, the carriage passengers gawking at them like they’re artifacts themselves. The Mylar balloons bob in the air just above Laney’s head, the end of their strings tied around her right wrist. When the carriage finally moves on, they’re left with boisterous knots of tourists filing past them in the direction of Bourbon Street, folks who don’t have to worry about being awake for work or class in the morning, folks eager to burn the midnight oil in a city where the bars never close.

  “Late for another date?” Michael asks.

  Laney realizes she’s been rudely staring at the phone in her hand.

  “Yeah, I’ve got like seven tonight. Clients mostly.”

  “Clients?” Michael asks, barely able to contain his laughter.

  “Yeah. I’m real popular with the rest of the faculty too.”

  “Oh!” he barks. “You went there. You totally went there.”

  “It’s a friend of mine,” Laney says. “She’s checking up on me.”

  “Okay,” Michael says. “Write her back. Tell her we got off to kind of a shaky start, and then after that, we played it safe for the rest of the meal and talked about stuff like our favorite TV shows from childhood and the weather. And now we’re standing outside the restaurant and we’re both thinking that while this would probably be the safest moment to call it a night, we’ve both had a little champagne, and we just had a ten minute discussion about whether or not an adult can use those baby wipes on himself on a regular basis without being called OCD. And so we’re both afraid that if we end the date now, we’re not going to make another one because every time we think of the other person we’re going to see a toilet or a baby’s butt or something.”

  “It sounds like you’ve had a lot more champagne than I have,” she says.

  “It sounds that way, but it’s not technically true.”

  “This is true. Still, it’s a little long for a text message.”

  “Well, what does she want to know?”

  “Status update.”

  “Well, tell her it’s going well. Tell her the story about Brooke isn’t something I make up just to get into my student’s pants.”

  “I thought we were past that.”

  “We are. Sort of. Anyway, don’t tell her all that. Just tell her that we’re both a little tipsy and we’re going to take a walk through the Quarter to try to sober up. Which will be cool. ’Cause we’ll be the first people in history who have ever tried to sober up in the French Quarter. And—”

  “You have become a man of many words tonight, Michael Brouchard.”

  “Become? I lead a discussion section, Laney.”

  “True. What should I tell her for real?”

  “Tell her we’re going to be on crowded, well-lit streets the whole time if she’d like to follow us from twenty paces.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s going to follow us.”

  “She kind of already is. Isn’t that her right there?”

  Laney follows the direction of Michael’s pointing finger and finds Cat waving at them from across the street as drunken tourists weave to avoid her. Her laptop and purse are slung over one shoulder.

  “Cat Burke, right?” Michael says. “I taught her last year. We called her Cat Nap. One guess why.”

  “Hi, Mister Brouchard!” Cat calls from across the street.

  “It’s Michael, Cat. Just Michael. I’m a grad student. I don’t teach high school.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cat answers, then she sees Laney’s glare and her smile fades. “CC’s closed!”

  “Okay,” Laney answers.

  “Uhm…I’m gonna go to Café du Monde. Maybe get some coffee.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Laney says. “You go have some coffee.”

  “Oh, I see!” Cat calls back. “Now you can’t wait to get rid of me.”

  “Or you could just stop talking,” Laney replies.

  “Bye!”

  They watch Cat hurry off down the crowded sidewalk. W
hen Laney turns to face Michael, he gives her a crooked grin, his barely contained laughter causing the nostrils on his Roman nose to flare.

  “I didn’t ask her to do that,” she says.

  “Do what?”

  “Wait around like that.”

  “She’s protective of you. I’d say that’s a point in her favor.”

  “Earlier she said she wouldn’t come and get me if I didn’t promise to have sex with you tonight.”

  “Another reason I’m a Cat Nap fan!”

  “Let’s walk, mister,” she says, taking his hand in hers quickly, casually, before any of them can consider it a moment or a turning point. And suddenly they’re walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk toward Jackson Square as if they’ve done it their whole lives.

  “I have an idea,” Michael says.

  “Shoot.”

  “I saw it on a TV show,” he says.

  “Which one?” she asks.

  “Not saying.”

  “What?” she cries.

  “No, seriously. You’ll think I’m a giant nerd.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t meet you tailgating. You’re my teacher.”

  “Fine. It’s from a Doctor Who Christmas special.”

  “Oh, wow. That is nerdy.”

  “It’s a great show!” Michael whines.

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Then don’t judge. Please. I’m feeling really judged right now.”

  “I’m just teasing.”

  “I feel so vulnerable,” he says in a meek, small voice. “Is this how women feel all the time?”

  “Keep it up with the sexist jokes and the last you’ll feel of me will be my hand coming out of yours.”

  “I’m not a nerd,” he whines.

  “Yes, you are. And it’s kind of what makes you sexy.”

  “Good. ’Cause where I come from, nerds weren’t considered sexy.”

  “Well, where I come from, there weren’t any nerds. Just crystal meth dealers. And in my book, sexy men have teeth and they don’t think the wires in their house are talking to them.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. So what was this…uhm, Doctor Who-related idea you wanted to run by me? Time travel?”

  “You have seen the show!” Michael cries.

  “Maybe one episode. I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t seen all the Christmas specials like you have. Nerd.”

  “Never mind,” he mutters. “It’s a stupid idea.”

  “Oh, my God. Don’t do a baby voice. Now I feel terrible.”

  “Okay. It goes like this. We ask each other a series of questions. But the person answering can only answer with one word.”

  “What about the person asking the questions?” Laney asks.

  “The question can be as long as you want. But the answer can only be—”

  “One word!” Laney finishes for him.

  “That’s right.”

  “Got it. Who goes first?”

  A gang of drunken frat boys are heading straight for them, and for a second, she fears they’re going to have to separate to let them pass. But when she starts to pull her hand free from Michael’s, he tightens his grip and at the last minute, the frat boys realize they’re up against an iron wall. They part on either side of the determined couple while Laney savors Michael’s resolute grip, the raw evidence of his determination not to let her go over something trivial and inconvenient.

  “You first,” Michael says. “We’ll do five-and-five.”

  “I get to ask five questions, then you ask five?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay—”

  “Also, no follow-up questions,” he adds.

  “Wait. What do you mean?”

  “I mean an answer can only be one word. If you want clarification, you have to ask another completely different question.”

  “All right. Let’s start before you make any more rules,” Laney says.

  “And no yes-or-no questions.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “It’ll make sense once we start playing. Trust me.”

  “If we start playing.”

  “I’m done making up rules. I promise. Hit me.”

  “Okay,” she says. “What will you be doing with your life in five years?”

  There’s a few seconds of silence between them, punctuated by sounds of their footfalls and the balloons rubbing together in the air behind her.

  “Loving,” he says.

  Her heart races and her breath catches and the restraints of the game become instantly clear and make her dizzy. Loving who? Loving what? Loving how? Loving…her? But follow-up questions aren’t allowed. Leading yes-or-no questions are also out.

  “Where do you see yourself living?” she asks.

  He starts to answer, then stops himself, probably because he was about to break one of his own rules.

  “Italy,” he says. He grunts in his throat and purses his lips. She wonders if the answer’s more specific than he liked, but rules are rules, after all.

  “What’s the one thing you can’t do without?” she asks him.

  “Food,” he answers.

  “What’s the one thing you can’t do without aside from food, water, and shelter?”

  “Follow-up question,” he says with a low growl.

  “I’m allowed one each round.”

  “That’s a new rule.”

  “That’s right,” she answers. “It’s my rule.”

  He grunts.

  “Love,” he says.

  One question left. This round, anyway.

  “What was the first thing you thought when you saw me?” she asks.

  “Finally,” he answers.

  His simple, elegant answer knocks the wind out of her. Can he feel her come close to losing her footing? They’re paces away from Jackson Square, and he hasn’t missed a step.

  “My turn,” he says. They’re passing through the deep shadows under a townhouse’s second floor balcony, but she can hear the hint of a smile in his restrained tone.

  “Ready,” she says, even though she feels anything but.

  But by the time they’ve entered Jackson Square, he still hasn’t asked her a question, which leaves her wondering if he’s done with this game. If his final, dizzying answer was all the pretext he needs to take her face in his hands and—

  “What’s your biggest fear?”

  “Failure,” she answers without a second thought.

  And as the word just hangs there, suddenly the limitations of the game infuriate her. She’s aching to give a more specific answer. To tell him what kind of failure she means. But refusing to give into this urge forces her to question it, and suddenly all her qualifications, her desire to specify and narrow it down to one kind of failure seem full of duplicity. She’s always wanted to do everything perfectly; that’s the long and short of it. When people tell her there’s no perfect way to do anything, she usually blocks out their words with a plastic smile and a series of nods.

  They’re walking along one side of the cast-iron fence girding the center of the square and hung with cityscape paintings and caricature sketches by the street artists who have set up shop along the flagstones. She can already smell the horses lined up along Decatur Street. But Michael’s grip feels lackluster all of a sudden. When she glances down at their hands, she sees he’s holding her hand just as tightly as he was before. It’s her own thoughts and fears that have made him feel suddenly faraway. Maybe that’s another point of the game—to give the most honest and authentic answer, and then force yourself to remain present in your own skin.

  “What do you want most in the world?” he asks.

  “Security,” she says.

  She sucks in a deep breath, tightens her grip on his hand.

  “Is this hard for you?” he asks.

  “No yes-or-no questions.”

  “Sorry. Give me a sec.”

  A second passes. Then another second passes. Then another…

  “If you could live anywhere
in the world, where would you live?” he asks.

  “Italy,” she answers.

  His hand jerks in hers. He makes a low throaty grunt that sounds satisfied.

  When they reach Dumaine Street, he pulls her to their right and suddenly they’re walking past a long row of horse-drawn carriages sitting idly at the foot of the square. They’re also walking away from the bright lights and green awnings of Café du Monde across the street, where Cat currently waits for her somewhere amidst the crowd of camera-toting tourists with shirtfronts dusted by the powdered sugar that’s slipped off their beignets with every bite.

  Two more questions in this round.

  He’s sure taking his sweet time coming up with them.

  “What’s the one thing you can’t live without?” he asks.

  There’s no rule against asking a question that’s been asked of you, so she decides to answer.

  “Truth,” she says.

  Not love, she realizes. He said love and you didn’t say love. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe you don’t have to have exactly the same answers for him to… She doesn’t want to finish that sentence. But she does anyway. In her head. About a dozen different times. For him to want you, kiss you, need you, love you.

  “Describe your family in one word,” he says.

  “Distant,” she answers.

  They’re heading back in the direction of St. Louis Cathedral, and for some reason this side of the square is quieter. Maybe because the shadows offered by the oak branches overhead are longer and darker.

  “Your turn,” he says quietly.

  “If you could be anything in the world right now besides a teacher, what would it be?”

  “Artist,” he answers.

  “If you could be any animal in the world, which one would you be?”

  “Eagle,” he answers.

  “Really?”

  “No follow-ups. You’ve got three more.”

  Her heart races. Her face feels hot.

  “If you could do one thing to me right now, what would it be?” she asks.

  The cold metal of one of the fence posts presses up against her back, and that’s when she realizes he’s taken her into his embrace. His hands, his powerful, kneading hands, grip her waist, making the loose fabric of her dress feel as insubstantial as a blush of humidity. He brings their mouths and bodies together with the hunger of a hundred class sessions, a hundred long looks, a hundred fevered daydreams. As soon as she tastes him for the first time, she realizes the real question isn’t whether or not the passion between them is wrong or right, but how long would they be able to resist it?