Page 11 of The Darkest Oath

He thought her smile was meant to be playful, but there was a hidden warmth behind it, something genuine that stirred a place in him long frozen. It was nothing like the raw intensity he had felt for Amée, but there was a familiarity—a spark of life where there had been only emptiness for so long. It stirred his heart with a soft beat of light, a flicker in the darkness that had claimed him for centuries—a dangerous light.

He laughed in surprise at himself. Six hundred years, and he thought he had seen it all, felt it all. But she—Élise—was different. He had seen pretty girls before and even flirted once or twice, but it always ended the same. They aged. They died. And he remained ageless with empty arms, forever separated by the sorceress’ curse. His laugh faded.

“What is so funny, Rollant?” Élise asked with eyes lit with the fire of the speech she had just given.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “My apologies, Mademoiselle. You have taken my words from me,” he said, wrestling with the smile that wanted to grow.

“When is your next meeting?” he asked, steadying himself.

“In a fortnight,” she said. Her eyes dulled. It was most likely a lie.

“Here?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’ll see you then,” he said with an even-tempered voice and backed away from her. Something tugged at his chest, urging him to stay, as he turned to go. But he reasoned with it and forced himself to the street.

She would age. She would die, just like everyone else. Her life would be like the morning dew in his, and he wouldn’t be in the city long enough to care what happened to her with the bruise on her shoulder or what became of her speech.

He wouldn’t let himself.

Yet, as he disappeared down the Rue de Charonne, the memory of Élise’s smile lingered. He shook his head to clear his mind of whatever feelings had overcome him while inside.

“Of all people,” he muttered. “Why her? Why now?”

He shut his eyes tight, wishing to banish the image of Élise’s face, which he could see clearly, and replace it with Amée’s since it had been reduced to a blurred outline. He swallowed the lump in his throat and wanted to feel nothing again.

He determined he would only be there as long as necessary to fulfill the King’s command and nothing more. Élise was just another pretty face, and Amée was his love. The one he longed for. The one who loved him for all forty years after he returned home from the Second Crusade and deprived her of any semblance of a normal life.

He palmed his face, the temporary giddiness in his heart replaced with a solemn, bitter sense of duty.

“Forget Élise,” he whispered. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and headed to the inn up the street, chin down and walking with a forward lean, fighting against the harsh winter winds.

He cleared his mind and focused on the chanting and the people’s response to the crisis. He had witnessed the French people were indeed restless, and only time would tell if they would act on rebellious words or seek revolution. He had a month to gain their trust and determine when the rumors would come to fruition.

CHAPTER5

The Weight of Possibilities

FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1788

Élise watchedRollant exit theAu Pain Rouxbakery. Gabin and Yves flanked her. She flinched at Gabin’s heavy arm that fell across her shoulders. She thought he would pull her aside and up the stairs to his cramped living quarters, but instead, he shook her.

“What are your thoughts about the stranger, dove?” Gabin asked her out of the side of his mouth. He had seen her interaction with Rollant, and she hoped he did not have any suspicions of her attraction to the man.

Her nose turned up. “He has a kind heart; I’ll give him that,” she said with a brief pause. “But he is too well-dressed, and his lingering perfume . . .” She trailed off, reminding herself of its earthen aroma of old wood and candle smoke that had made her want to embrace him. A stab of guilt pressed on her heart as Gabin had cared for her the past few years. “Or perhaps it was just his musk. Either way, he said he had just returned from the Americas. A navy man. Maybe that is why his clothes are too neat.” She added for effect, “Born in Nice.”

Gabin’s grip tightened, pressing harder into the bruises he had given her. She caged her whimper and looked him in the eyes.

Yves broke the unspoken jealousy in Gabin’s gaze. “It’s your call, Élise. You spoke to him the most.”

The others who had not left yet gathered around her as she pondered her conversation with Rollant. They exchanged glances, and concern was etched on their faces. They feared he was also an informant.

Malo asked, “Do you want us to follow him?”

Élise shrugged and gestured to Gabin. “It is Gabin’s call. He is our leader.” She hoped it would buy at least a few fewer slaps that night.

Gabin barked. “Sylvian, Olivier, Yanis—see where he goes, see what he does.”

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