Chapter 34

34

I do not want a driver for this; Omar is already too involved. I do take my suitcase—I always travel with an entourage of weapons, even on romantic excursions—but I need my own car. The hotel can help us.

"What kind of car are you looking for?" the concierge asks.

I look at Eva.

She smiles. "You want one of those fancy fucking things, don't you?"

I turn to the concierge. "What she said."

The concierge suggests a Bugatti. It takes her an hour to track one down, but she does. It is amazing what you can do with money, how much the world can stretch to accommodate you. I myself have a tendency to overspend, which is why I have to work so much, to keep up with the amateur theatrics of being alive.

But easily enough, Eva and I are steaming down the dark highways of France toward the Pyrenees.

There is nothing like driving through Europe at night. There are castles everywhere—great big swarms of them—and picturesque villages and enough churches to reform almost any sinner.

Europe is better at night because you can see the past so violently. The way it must have been when soldiers made campaigns like ours, fighting for something more substantial than good sex, but probably not as worthwhile. I am a soldier in love's war. I am the walking wounded.

I turn to Eva. The distant lights peel through the car and slide up her body and across her face. Desire winds like a crown around my head, opening up my mind with an illicit light, like revelation.

She is watching me. She is watching me so often that I am starting to feel apprehensive.

"You drive like I thought you would," she says.

I laugh and shift gears. "Do you want to drive?"

"No." She leans back in her seat. "I'm good." She has her arm cocked casually against the door. I wish she were touching me.

"I just want to be clear," I say, firmly facing forward. "I'm not exactly sure what this is."

"Wow, that is so clear."

I smirk. "Well, what do you think it is?" I ask. She lets her shoulders shrug. "I got the impression on the train that you weren't exactly enamored with relationships."

"How did you get that impression?" she says.

"You said, There is nothing worse than two people in a relationship ."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that," I say. She gazes out the window, stuck on a sigh. "Do you really think that?"

Her eyes pinch when she frowns. "I'm not sure." She angles her body toward me. "Have you ever been in a relationship?"

"Actually, no." This is a truth that does not interfere with the lie.

"Why not?"

"Because…" I swallow. "Because there are people who want to kill me, and anyone I love."

This is technically true. I have to be very careful, not just with myself but with Mas. Not even my handler knows about him. Thomas does not know my history either. Or my real name. I changed my identity when I moved to Europe. I was afraid that Thomas might not want to work with me if he knew the whole truth about my past. As hard as it may be to believe, people want their contract killers to be dead sane. Obedient. Efficient. Soulless is a bonus.

"So I can't love anyone." I shift gears again. "Is this turning you off?"

"Do you really think I'm in danger?"

"Not yet," I say, but I do not really know. I do not know how much danger I am in. I have killed a lot of people, and I have to think that one day I will pay for it—and not just through the punishments I give myself.

Sometimes, late at night, when I am not sleeping, I consider that every person I have killed had a life. They had friends and family. They were more alive than I am. I took that away, a cipher turning the living into the dead like me.

I know there are people out there who want me dead. Sometimes I wish they would try me. I should not get away with all the things I do. It should not be this easy, but the network protects me. Sometimes I consider that one day even they might turn on me. If the network has enough power to keep me from being punished for my sins, God knows they could annihilate me.

"Have you ever been in love?" I ask her. The question sticks in my throat. I truly am the most merciless romantic. You would think no one had ever looked at me before.

"I've been engaged."

My nerves tighten. "Where is he now?"

"He died." Oh .

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She stretches, uncomfortable with the conversation. "Shit happens." She tries to keep it light, always.

"Was it recent?" In other words, are you over him? Although I did not miss the way she dodged my question. She said she has been engaged, not that she has been in love.

"Um, it was over two years ago. Actually, it's kinda funny. That's why I was in Florence, for the anniversary. We were both living there when he died."

"Oh." I have a funny feeling. How ironic. She was there to put flowers on someone's grave and I was there to kill someone. Three people actually. What are the odds? "Can I ask how he died?"

"He was killed." A shadow crosses her face, the first true sign of darkness. I want to take it away, to turn her into stardust again. She sinks in her seat. "I guess it wasn't love love, but he was my best friend. He taught me so much. He changed my life. His name was Andrew. Cartwright."

Holy shit.

The car veers. There is no one else around.

"Sorry," I say. "I thought I saw a rabbit."

I try to look normal, but I have no experience. If I thought our reasons for being in Florence were a coincidence, then I do not know what to call this.

I do not need to worry about killing her fiancé. I already did.

I thought she looked familiar on the train. I told myself that it was fate, but it was not fate. It was a photograph. It was Thomas on the phone:

He has a fiancée, but they're a little estranged.

You might think I would have remembered her, but I try not to think about the people I have killed. And I have killed so many people. I cannot really keep track of them all, let alone their friends and family. She looked different in the photo. Her hair was darker and her makeup was thicker and her anger was palpable. She was robbed of her essential life force.

"God, I'm so sorry," I say. "That is just truly terrible."

My jaw is tight. My heart is electric. I feel more sick than usual. I have always known I am a villain, but sometimes it still catches me off guard.

It seems so beautifully apt that I would fall for a woman who I have destroyed. I always assumed that I would destroy her after we got together, but finding out I had destroyed her before has an element of surprise that I appreciate.

I knew my attraction to Eva was hopeless. I should have guessed that I was the reason it was hopeless. Somehow, I always am.

We are driving fast now, steaming through the mountains. The sky is a dark, lonely blue. The exact color of my death, and we are headed right for it.