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Addie LaRue has never had to worry about secrets ; nobody has ever been able to remember hers.
Nobody but him.
He does not count, she tells herself, as she steals, and manipulates—as she survives the only way she can. The only way he has left her.
He does not matter, she tells herself, as he visits her again, year by year.
He is not real, she tells herself, even as she sees him before her — sees him in the blues of the sky and the sea, in the woodlands and in the background of every mirror.
He had chosen himself to be her everything, that one July night, but somewhere along the years, Addie thinks that she has chosen him, too.
Even if the curse lifted, and she was free— free to be remembered, to be Adeline La Rue and nobody else—she cannot imagine life without imagining Luc.
Paris, May 1942
For a girl without a home, France has always been the closest thing to it.
Paris now is a far cry from the Paris she had found herself in as a mere girl — it is as impossibly foreign as somewhere so familiar can be.
The beauty still remains, for the most part, but there are flaws.
She holds her breath for every soldier she sees, even as she knows— she knows— that they cannot hurt her. Nobody can.
Still, they have hurt. They have turned her childhood home, her place of refuge, into a place she can barely recognise. The parisians that had once been so alive are now cautious in their own homes. They walk the streets they have known their entire lives with a caution, as if the cobblestones themselves are watching them.
The ghost of his words inside her mind have echoed often— this isn’t war. It’s only a skirmish. But this is war, she is sure of it. Too many have died for even him to regard it as anything but.
Still, every war ends. She has seen these streets before, in the shadows of war; she is the only person living who remembers that particular war, and, one day, she will be the only one to remember this one.
Sooner or later, everybody forgets, or death forces them to. Addie knows that better than anybody.
“ Bonne soirée!”
A thick, German accented voice calls out to her — a soldier.
She knows that she should be friendly; should smile and wave and go back home. She knows that no argument has ever been worth the trouble, even if she is the only one who will remember.
Still, she cannot stop herself from glancing at the man with disdain, letting him notice, before she looks away again.
She knows that she has made a mistake when she hears his footsteps behind her — even more so when the soldier is grabbing her and pulling her into an alleyway, hands around her throat.
She cannot help the shiver of revulsion at the look in his eyes, at the thought of what a man like this could do if she were not herself.
But she was not anybody else. She was Adeline LaRue.
Before he can do anything to her — and she knew that he wanted to, with nothing but pure rage in his gaze— he is on the ground, clutching at his side in agony.
She does not remember what she did to put him there, but she knows what she wants to do, and so she does it; she kicks him, hard, in the chest, and if he screams, she cannot hear it over the sound of her own heartbeat.
He reaches out a hand to pull her down with him, and she merely brushes it off, kicking him again and again until all she can see is red — a deep red that trickles from his nose, his mouth, his face, and she can do nothing but think it beautiful as she kicks him once more.
There is so much blood, too much blood, and, for once in her life, she aches to see more.
For a second, she sees Luc in his face, yet she does not stop — if anything, she feels another flood of anger, a wave of rage that makes her scream and kick him again, and, finally, he stops trying to fight back. He does what can only be described as surrender, and she should stop, should not hurt a man that cannot defend himself, but she is insatiable—she cannot stop, even as her logical brain screams at herself that she should.
It is only when she loses her balance and stumbles onto the wet floor that the trance seems to break.
Addie has never lost control before. Not like this.
The man mutters to himself — meaningless words brought on by delirium, she is sure. She has heard it before; has seen the effects of the dying mind. She has seen many people die in her hundreds of years on earth, and she knows that he is dying.
She knows that if she leaves him here, he will think it a dream. He will die and believe, as he is drifting away, that he will wake up as soon as his eyes are closed—because he will not remember the girl that killed him.
Addie knows all these things, and yet she still gets up from the floor—and she walks away.
She walks, and walks, and walks, for what feels like hours, until she is standing by the Seine.
Do you miss me, when you are not here?
He is there. She knows he is — it is not the first time she has felt him lurking in the background, far away in the darkness. She has wondered many times how often he has been there, out of reach, watching ; on her worst days, she has hoped that a part of him is always there with her.
I am here, with you, more often than you think.
She does not flinch when she feels that familiar darkness grow closer, nor when the darkness reaches out a gentle and rests it on her shoulder.
He has always felt both hot and cold — has always been a walking paradox, and she feels it now, feels both the rush of warmth his touch sends through her, as well as the sudden chill of a winter’s evening.
“My Adeline.”
For the first time in her life, she wants to be his.
She wants him to be responsible for what she has become—she doesn’t want to be just Adeline anymore, she wants to be his Adeline, wants to be the thing he has created rather than the girl she once was.
It is selfish and cruel and inhuman to shy away from what she has done, and it is what he has made her.
It is what she has made herself.
She is not frightened as his touch travels up to her face—not ashamed as she leans into the warmth of him. She should be ashamed, but she is not, and he smiles as he whispers into her ear.
“You are not human, my Adeline. Not anymore.”
She is not human.
He is right. He has always been right about her, because for all the pain, all the missed opportunities, she appreciates the beauty more— the beauty she would have never seen if it hadn’t been for him.
No human should be able to see so much — no human should miss so much and still be unsure if they would want what they missed back.
No human would want him the way she wants him.
“Please.”
Addie doesn’t know what she is begging for, anymore. Perhaps she is begging for forgiveness. Perhaps she is begging for mercy.
If he had asked her for her soul—had pushed her a fraction more, as he had always dared to do—she was sure, for the first time, that she would say yes. That their dance, now hundreds of years of old, would end on a cold night by the Seine—Adeline a murderer, and Luc her accomplice.
But he did not.
He never did what she wanted him to do, and still she craved his company more than she craved her own name.
There was a sudden sense of falling and then she— they —were back where she had been before. The soldier was on the floor before them, and she knew, instantly, that he had died in the time it had taken for her to walk away.
All that remained of him was a body; pale and unmoving.
This was her doing, her design, and yet the only thing she could will herself to feel was jealousy.
Luc tutted, stepping away from behind her in order to inspect the body. She could do nothing but stay still, even as he clicked his fingers and the body started to do what could only be described as dissolve — it faded away in a wave of black mist, and she could only stare in horror as the evidence of what she had done faded away into his darkness.
It was nothing like when he had taken Beethoven’s soul. He was not brutal like he had been that night — the mist he conjured was gentle. Kind.
She realised, through her daze, that it had been her who unleashed brutality.
Well, my darling… are we so different now?
Those were the words he had asked her that night before he had cast her out on the streets, and she heard them now, even as he turned to face her, more than a hundred years later.
“You made quite a mess.”
His tone was not disapproving — it was as soft and rich and addictive as it had always been, and she relished the sound, even as it sent a shiver through her body.
“I—I didn’t mean—“
He shook his head, eyeing her with a gaze that made her feel as if she would perhaps be the one to dissolve next.
“He will not be missed.”
No. A soldier like him would not be missed. But that did not mean it was her place to kill him.
That had always been Luc’s work—his darkness. He had been the one to deal in death and punishment and pain, and she had always been one of his victims.
Hadn’t she?
She let out a small whimper as she felt him thread a finger over those seven freckles that had solidified her existence through history — the only reminder of her through so many years of arts that he had never erased. It should have felt wrong for him to touch them that way, but she leaned into the touch all the same.
As he spoke, he planted a kiss on her forehead, and she was sure she could feel him linger — feel him hesitate against her, even as his words faded into the darkness along with him, and she was left alone in the alleyway.
“You amaze me, Addie LaRue.”
She realised, much later, that it was the first time he had ever called her Addie.