Jane Vows Vengeance

“You’re taking the whole business with Joshua rather well,” said Jane. “I don’t know that I would be as calm about the whole thing if the shoe were on the other foot.”

“I’m probably not as calm about it as I look,” Walter admitted. “But I figure I’ve waited this long to be married to you, so I can wait a little while longer.”

Jane stretched out beside him on her side. Walter turned and put his arm around her.

“I haven’t made it very easy for you,” Jane said.

“No,” Walter agreed. “You haven’t.”

Jane took his hand and held it to her chest. “Why do you put up with me?” she asked. “There are dozens of women who would want to be with you and wouldn’t be nearly as much trouble.”

“Only dozens?” Walter said.

“At least two,” Jane joked.

Walter kissed the back of her head. “Maybe,” he said. “But none of them is you.”

“I just hope I don’t disappoint you,” said Jane.

“I don’t see how you could,” Walter told her. “I already know everything about you and I’m still madly in love with you.”

“You didn’t know about Joshua,” Jane reminded him.

“True,” Walter said. “But I do now, and I’m still not disappointed. There aren’t any other husbands floating around, though, are there? One I can handle. Maybe even two. But any more than that and all bets are off.”

“There’s just the one,” Jane said. “And I told you, he doesn’t really count. Only you do.”

“Then I think we’re okay,” said Walter.

I hope you’re right, Jane thought.

She’d begun to wonder if she might be able to get away with never telling Walter that she was a vampire. If Crispin’s Needle was real, and if she could find it, perhaps she could make herself mortal again and he would never have to know what she’d been. Of course, Miriam could always tell him, but her story would sound incredible. Jane didn’t think Miriam would risk it.

Tomorrow they would be in Paris. With some luck she and Lucy would get to Eloise Babineaux’s house and see if the Needle was there. Again Jane remembered the voice in the elevator. Someone was on her side, even if she didn’t know who it was. And she had the key—whatever the key was for. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

Almost too easily, she thought. But she pushed the thought away. Everything was happening for a reason. That was all there was to it. She was meant to find Crispin’s Needle. It was her destiny. Everything in her life had brought her to this point, and she was poised on the brink of a life-changing moment.

Or you’re just making an ass of yourself, a voice in her head said. That’s a distinct possibility.

“Oh, shut up,” Jane said.

“What?” Walter mumbled. He had drifted off to sleep. Now he rolled onto his back and started to snore.

Jane turned off the light. Outside the window the moon was visible, a half circle that glowed with silver light. Jane realized that the clouds that had covered the sky for the past few days were gone.

The storm is over, she thought. Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day.

Chapter 17

Sunday: Paris

It’s said that the only people who don’t fall in love with Paris at first sight are those who have no souls. Jane, who very much did love Paris, wondered if the opposite was true. Although the city was not yet bursting with the warmth and colors of springtime, it was on its way. March had brought with it sunshine and hope, and this was reflected in the buds on the trees and in the faces of the people on the streets, who walked here and there with a renewed sense of purpose after the long, cold days of winter.

The flight from Edinburgh had been, thankfully, completely uneventful. Having left very early, they’d arrived in Paris in time for lunch and were now about to visit the first of their two destinations in the city. Chumsley, whose selection it was, had kept them completely in the dark as to the location, herding them all onto a bus and saying nothing as they wound their way through the narrow streets of the city.

Eventually they had passed into the Fourth Arrondissement, which everyone on the bus discovered when Genevieve Prideaux told them as much. She was very excited about being back in her own city and was pointing out all of the things she thought they should notice as the bus passed by them.

“There is the Hotel de Ville,” she said loudly. “And of course you don’t want to miss Notre-Dame de Paris.” She made similar remarks regarding the Place des Vosges, the Pompidou Centre, and both Ile de la Cite and Ile Saint-Louis. When no one responded to her attempts, she settled into a gloomy sulk, occasionally muttering to herself in French.

“And here we are!” Chumsley announced as the bus came to a stop. “Follow me, ducklings.”

They tumbled out into a narrow street lined on both sides by shops with a decidedly unmodern appearance. Jane felt as if she’d stepped back in time at least a century. It was a pleasant feeling.

“We are now standing in the middle of what is known locally as the Pletzl, or the Jewish Quarter,” Chumsley told them. “The beginnings of this community date back more than six hundred years, and it’s one of the most interesting parts of the city.”

“Oui, oui, oui,” Genevieve said. “The Jewish Quarter is tres interessant. But there is nothing of architectural importance ici.”

“Why is she going in and out of French?” Walter whispered to Jane. “It’s like switching back and forth between two radio stations.”

Jane covered her mouth to hide a giggle, but a bit of it escaped nonetheless. Genevieve turned and glared at Jane.

“I am delighted to tell you that you are mistaken,” Chumsley said to Genevieve. “There is a great deal here to see—if only you know where to look. Now if you’ll just follow me.”

He led them down the street and turned right, into an even narrower lane with even less impressive buildings than those they’d just passed by. Jane, looking around, found herself wondering if perhaps Genevieve wasn’t right in her assessment of the neighborhood. It certainly seems very ordinary, she thought.

Chumsley came to a stop in front of a boucherie. The window was filled with various meats, and there was a postcard-worthy quaintness to it, but there was nothing to set it apart from the hundreds of other boucheries in the city. Even the black-and-white cat sitting on the step and licking its paw seemed familiar, as if it were a prop placed there by a set decorator instructed to create a “typical Paris street” for a film shoot.

The door to the shop opened and an elderly man emerged. Short and stout, he wore a white apron over a long-sleeved blue shirt and tan pants. His white hair was full and thick, and his dark eyes were bright. He smiled broadly and hugged Chumsley tightly, kissing him on both cheeks.

“My old friend,” he said in heavily accented English. “It is good to see you again.”

Chumsley turned to the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to my friend Daniel Halphen.”

Daniel nodded. “Welcome to my little shop,” he said.

“Daniel is being uncharacteristically modest,” said Chumsley, earning himself a chuckle from the old man. “His shop is actually one of the most fascinating places in all of Paris.”

“What about it is so fascinating?” Bergen asked, saying what was on all of their minds. “It looks to be a perfectly ordinary butcher’s shop.”

“And that is what it’s supposed to look like,” Daniel said. “Come. I will show you.”

He went inside and beckoned for them to follow. As they filed into the small store, Chumsley said to Ben, “I