Page 22 of Even Vampires Bleed (Even Ever After #2)

Cassiopé

I t takes me another couple of days for me to get out of my funk.

I’m not feeling better, don’t get me wrong, but my mindset has switched, and now I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, either.

I also can’t stay in Notre Dame all day anymore.

I keep seeing Léandre, even if it’s from afar, and my dumb ass keeps hoping to see recognition in his eyes.

I’m too chickenshit to get close to him to double check, though.

I think I’ve cried all the tears I’m capable of, and now I just want to be away.

A bit like I’m doing rehab.

Yep, let’s go on a Léandre rehab.

That’s how I ended up sneaking out today.

Because instead of waking up and feeling like crying, today I woke up angry.

I woke up angry at the world. I woke up angry at a dead man. I woke up angry at a couple of assholes.

And oops, yeah, now I swear.

But I also woke up angry at my best friend and the man I was falling in love with.

Because somehow my brain made it so it felt like it was her fault that Léandre ended up with this microchip in his brain.

I know it’s stupid, because she did nothing for that to happen, and I’ve been trying to convince myself since this morning to no avail.

My brain and my heart are currently at war, which explains why I’m also angry at Léandre. Except I don’t know which one I’m the most angry at: the Léandre I was falling in love with, that left me here alone, or the new one who doesn’t know who I am.

It’s not healthy and I know it, so this is why I almost died—not literally, obviously—going up the Sacré C?ur ’s stairs at this unholy hour.

Why?

Because that’s where the leaders of Libération are hiding. Or more precisely, where they’re hiding under.

Because the Sacré C?ur’s church is a well-known entrance to the catacombs.

And who would better help me kill the woman I believe destroyed my man’s mind than the humans?

They’ve been fighting over the angels for decades now, screaming about a conspiracy.

And for some, it might only be the gibberish of addled minds, but all shifters know they aren’t wrong. The bird shifters aren’t angels, the same way bat-shifters aren’t vampires—even if we do have a taste for blood and better speed than any other shifter.

So here I am, at four in the morning, wrapped in a cloak that’s definitely not from this time period, circling the church in search of an entrance to the catacombs.

Do I look suspicious?

Definitely, but I doubt there are a lot of people awake to witness it.

I’ve circled the church twice and haven’t found any entrance, except for the church itself.

Well, it’s time to sneak in.

I pick the side entrance on the left because it’s going to be slightly more discreet.

There might be little to no witnesses at this time of the night, but I’m not about to show off how I get in and out of anywhere.

Hence the cloak. It’s black and reaches the ground. When I’m facing something, no one at my back can see what I’m doing.

I raise my right hand against the wood of the door for support, roll my pants to my right knee, and shift my leg before raising it to the lock.

It’s an ancient and rustic lock. It looks like, short of oiling it from time to time to avoid corrosion to set in, nothing has ever been done to it since it was installed seven hundred years ago.

It’s old and thanks to that, it’s very easy for me to pick. In just a few seconds, I’m done with it, and the door opens for me.

I ponder if I should leave it open in case I need to run away, but I hear bats—animals, not shifters—at the top of the church, and I know I don’t really need an escape route.

I lock the door after myself and shift my leg back to normal.

Except for the chirping I can hear from the bats, it’s eerily quiet in the church.

It’s still in use for prayers, but unlike Notre Dame, no one lives here. It’s just a church. A very beautiful church, but still just a church.

I make my way to the other side of the church because there is a door that I didn’t see from outside, and I have a feeling it might be the one I’m looking for.

It’s an innocuous door, made of dark wood but without any of the adornments usually found in French churches, so it sticks out a bit. It also has a very brand new and shiny lock that I didn’t miss from the other side of the church.

I shift my leg and drop my hand to the door so I can unlock it, but it opens from the inside. It’s so unexpected that I almost fall headfirst on the newcomer.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me.

He looks like he’s in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He also looks like he wears a scowl like it’s second nature.

I would usually judge him for that, but I’m not sure I’ve smiled a single time since I discovered what happened to Léandre, so I’m not about to throw stones in a glass castle.

“So?”

Oh right, he asked me why I was here.

I have half a mind to lie to him, to tell some well-constructed story to explain why I’m in a church that’s supposed to be locked so early in the morning, but he doesn’t look like he’s here for the church.

With his technical all black outfit, he looks like he’s about to attack something or sneak in somewhere.

He’s dressed like I am. Minus the cloak.

So, I decide to be truthful.

What do I have to lose, anyway? A set of clothes and a really nice cloak?

Yeah, I’ve got a whole wardrobe lost to my old room. What is an extra set, anyway?

“I’m looking for the entrance to the catacombs,” I say, as if I know exactly what I’m doing.

Spoiler alert: I have no clue what I’m doing, but I’m doing it, anyway. That’s what happens when you wake up with vengeance on your mind.

“There are multiple entrances to the catacombs all over Paris,” the man says. “So, why pick the Sacré C?ur?”

He sounds like he’s daring me to say exactly why I picked this entrance, but I’m not going to back down. I straighten my back and look him in the eyes, even if that means I have to tip my head up.

“I’m looking for Christina.”

If he’s not from Libération, that name might not ring a bell for him, but if he is…

I see recognition in his eyes, and that tells me exactly what I need to know.

Rebels don’t go by a full first name and family name—no, they’re just a first name and that’s all.

Christina might not have been in charge for long—Elhyor killed Bastian, the former leader, when he tried to take Angie away a few weeks ago—but anyone in the Libération network knows that name now.

“Alright,” the man says, “wait here.”

He closes the door behind him, and I don’t hear him lock it, but when I try to open it, it won’t move.

The inside must be soundproof.

I don’t really want to wait. It’s not like I have other things to do, but now that I’m here, I can’t wait to start being useful.

Well, let’s open another door.

Except this lock is not an easy one. It has pressure points, and I can’t open it with only one bat hand—foot, or whatever you want to call it.

I have two options.

Shift completely, open the door and get dressed before following the man at the risk that he walked too fast and that I won’t hear him anymore.

Or.

Or I can forgo the dress up part and directly follow him in shifted form. Means I’ll have to be naked in front of Christina and whoever will be in the room at the same time.

To hell with my pride, I’m not waiting.

So I shift, struggle a bit with the lock and follow the man by the sound of his steps.

It takes us a couple minutes to reach our final destination.

I barely pay attention to the messages on the walls or the collection of skulls used as if they’re wallpaper.

I make a beeline for the man I followed and enter the room after him.

My eyes take a minute to adjust to the light inside.

The corridor was barely lit, but this room looks like it could come from one of those gothic romance books that I read. The walls are dark, some of them all black and others are hidden by dark red curtains as if they lead to other rooms.

The room is well furnished, but the same color pattern seems to be everywhere. The desk at the back is made of black wood and the chairs that are on both sides of it are from the same wood with cushioning made of burgundy velvet.

To my right, two men are sitting on a couch that looks like they could be from the same set as the desk chairs.

Facing them—and with her back to me and the man who just entered—is Christina.

I would recognize her long strawberry blond hair anywhere, especially after seeing her on the parvis not so long ago.

“Christina,” the man starts talking without caring that she was already deep into her conversation with the two men in front of her.

She turns to look at him, and I can see a bit of annoyance, but not as much as I would have expected.

“Yes?” she asks, making a movement with her hand in the two men’s direction so they wait for her.

“Someone broke in upstairs and wants to see you,” he tells her. “She knows your name.”

“What do you mean, broke in? I thought we had reinforced all the locks?” she asks, “and why would they want to meet me so early?”

The man doesn’t answer and just gives a side glance to the other two men on the couch. He doesn’t need words to make it be a valid answer.

“Should I tell her it’s going to be awhile?” he asks.

“Yes, tell her that,” Christina answers and starts turning in the other direction.

I think I’ve waited enough.

“I think I’m not going to wait,” I say once I appear human again, even if naked.

All three people sitting on the couches jump in their seats, and the man I just appeared next to looks at me with surprise.

“Who are you? What are you?” One of the men from the couch asks—probably forgetting he’s not supposed to be the one asking questions here.

“Do you want the long or the short answer?” I ask as I fold my arms under my breasts and start to look at my nails.

It’s all a facade to make me look confident—a confidence that I’m not really feeling right in this instant, being naked in front of so many people who are looking at my body.

I’m used to being naked around shifters. We don’t care. We don’t pay attention to other’s nakedness. But those two men from the couch… they’re looking at me as if they would love nothing else than to eat me, and it truly gives me the ick.

“Short,” Christina answers.

Well, I’m going to try. I’m not known for my short answers.

“I need revenge and word on the street is you’re the one who can give me that.”

Here, short, efficient.

“It doesn’t answer any of my questions,” Christina tells me as she looks at me with pinched lips and a twinkle in her eyes. It makes her look both amused and annoyed at the same time.

I have no idea how she manages that.

And of course, the short answer didn’t work for me. I almost want to slap my face but stop myself. I’m still naked and don’t need to look stupid as well.

“Cassiopé, bat-shifter or vampire or whatever you want to call my kind. Also, an expert at opening doors that everyone would want to stay closed and staying unnoticed,” I answer after remembering her initial questions.

Yep, we’ll have to come back for short answers. I suck at those.

“What makes you think I could help you get revenge?” Christina asks.

“You’re still doing raids against the angels?” I don’t wait for her answer. “I want in. ”

“I thought shape-shifters didn’t care for human politics,” the man who inadvertently brought me here says. I can’t help but turn to look at his face to witness the sneer I could hear in his voice.

“I just want the new Michael and Gabrielle dead. Do whatever you want with your politics,” I say with a shrug.

“This isn’t how it works here, miss… Cassiopé?

” Christina pauses but doesn’t wait for me to confirm my name.

“What do you think is going to happen if you kill them? Who do you think is going to take their place? We can’t have them disappear just for them to be replaced.

Because you never know, their replacement could be worse. ”

I’m a firm believer of “ better the devil you know…”

This is the only case where I don’t agree with that motto, though.

I need those two monsters to be six feet under.

I need it like I need my next breath.

Maybe then my heart will start mending.

But I can’t tell them that. They wouldn’t understand. Not unless I’m willing to tell them exactly why, and I’m not ready for that.

I didn’t flee Notre Dame to have to talk about Léandre again somewhere else.

“Then let me help you destroy their system.”