All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [165]
Which way?
Her front pocket buzzed, startling her. Her phone.
Who would dare call now? Henry, trying to cajole her into further discussion? Lucia, wanting her back . . . but it wasn’t time yet to reconvene. Or Cecilia with some new emergency at home?
Feeling a flutter of precognitive alarm, she pulled out the slender black phone . . . but hesitated. The icons indicated there was no service here, no satellites overhead to bounce a signal.
So how was her phone ringing?
Warily, she pressed the TALK button. “Hello?”
“Audrey, my darling . . .”
It was Louis.
The control Audrey had so carefully collected shattered at the sound of his voice. It was rich and dark, and without a trace of remorse for his countless deceptions.
“Did you get my gift?” he asked. “I do hope you remember Venice. It meant so much to me.”
As if she could ever forget . . . the only time anyone had ever fooled her so completely.
“I know you’re still there,” Louis continued. “I hear you breathing. Ah, you’re still angry at me. I don’t blame you. Tell me, though, what did you do with that egg? Dash it upon the floor? Throw it in the Dumpster?” He chuckled. “You know it was priceless. At least, in sentimental value.”
“Yes,” she finally answered. “To all your questions.”
That was not entirely true. Yes, the egg’s sentimental value was beyond measure, as was its monetary value. And while she had thrown it in the trash, after the children and Cecilia went to bed, she had retrieved it.
It was foolish to remember their time in Venice.
“My dear,” Louis cooed. “I wonder how we can care so much for each other, and yet find so much pleasure at this torture? Why we cannot speak about how we feel? But”—his tone brightened—“that is not why I called.”
Audrey gritted her teeth. He was toying with her! Making a game of her emotions.
Her hands balled to fists. No. She would not let him get the better of her.
Audrey did not understand how he was connecting, but she suddenly understood where he had gotten her number: Eliot’s stolen phone.
As if reading her mind, Louis said, “I want to talk to you about the children. First, this business about Eliot’s phone. Don’t blame or punish him. He is a lamb among a pack of wolves. Borrowing his phone was only so I could reach out to you.”
Audrey took a deep breath and felt a bit of her control return. While every word Louis spoke was a potential lie . . . this was a rare opportunity to find out what he was up to.
And how she could stop him.
“Speak plainly, Louis,” she said. “What is it you want?”
About her, the snow fell thicker and the temperature plummeted.
“I . . . I do not know,” he said.
For the first time, Audrey heard a hint of uncertainty in his voice, something possibly even bordering upon sincerity.
“I find myself oddly unmotivated by self-interest,” Louis mused. “Or rather, I’m more interested in finding a way to protect Eliot and Fiona while gaining all the usual advantages. It is most curious. Besides you, I have never even considered the well-being of another. . . .”
“You want to protect Eliot and Fiona?”
Audrey voiced this as a question, but it was not entirely directed at Louis.
A long time ago, she, too, pondered what was best for them without any other considerations. That was sixteen years ago. She had loved them all. The dream of a family, her and Louis and the children, it was still a possibility then—something resembling a normal life—the twins not in constant danger, not forever tested, and not inevitably marching toward bloodshed and war.
She had had hope—
—until she realized what and who Louis was, that his love for her, despite all his promises, was a charade.
For no Infernal had ever truly loved. And certainly none had ever loved an Immortal.
All contrivance.
“No, Louis,” she whispered. “I don’t believe you’re capable of thinking about anyone