Page 386 of The First Taste
I plunge the car down toward the tall, white sandstone buildings. They are one a grid, each perfectly placed, not quite skyscrapers but impressively tall, nonetheless. Around them are clusters of squat buildings, dense at the center and growing sparser as the city fans out its hands toward me.
I feel almost giddy as I push the car faster and shift into fifth gear. It’s liberating, being free from Hades for a few minutes and flying down the highway at a breakneck speed.
I zoom right past a gas station without a moment’s hesitation. Forgetting all about people hunting me down, I make a beeline for downtown Monaco City.
No one that is looking for me will find me. Not in the short time it takes to grab aspirin and maybe a fresh baguette from a nearby corner store.
I grin to myself as I fly by most of the sparse clusters of gas stations and banks. At length though, I cut my speed down, twisting my mouth as I look around. I speak a little Cajun French. I know how to ask for the restroom or where the nearest library is.
oùsont les toilettes?oùest la bibliothèque?
Basic high school French taught me that. But I can’t for the life of me remember the word for pharmacy in French. All I can think of ispharmacia, which I’m almost certain is Spanish.
I stare at the signs as I pass them, slowing the car to a crawl. Horns blare behind me, making me panic a little.
Parapharmacie Édouard.
I slam on the brakes, jerking the little coupe into a spot outside the plain khaki building. Several cars honk their horns. But I pay them no mind. Instead, I grab my purse, containing my car keys, my huge stack of euros, and the gun Iborrowedfrom Hades.
I’m already halfway up the sidewalk, my eyes focused on the busy front door of the pharmacy. My nerves jangle unexpectedly as I reach the door…
But inside, the hustle and bustle of the store is almost calming to me. A cashier rings up a short line of people at the front register. There are orderly rows of shelves, people talking on their phones, an older lady explaining to a young male employee…
Well, my French isn’t that good, but I assume that she’s describing what she’s looking for.
I sigh, my lips pressing into a contented line. Shining shampoo bottles and full-sized posters for cosmetics call my name as I pass by them, looking for where the aspirin might be.
To my right, I see a restroom. Vaguely, I feel the need to relieve myself. So, I stop there first, washing my hands and taking a long time to look at myself in the mirror.
I look stressed and a little tired. Not to mention the fact that now that I’m not behind the wheel of the car, my hand aches quite badly.
Taking my hair down, I spend a minute gathering it into a neat ponytail and pinning it back in place.
I leave the restroom, bumping into a stack of pill bottles left haphazardly on a tray used for restocking items. The top tray begins to tip, and I lean forward, catching it before it crashes to the ground.
Frowning, I grapple with the tray. It’s wide and gray, made of flimsy cardboard. I’m trying to right the tray when I hear a voice.
“She’s on this block somewhere.”
A chill runs through my veins and I freeze. That’s not just any voice.
It’s Constantine’sunmistakable Cajun accent, speaking English.
“Fuck. I don’t see her anywhere,” he says. “I’m telling you; she is wily. We have to catch her unaware, you feel me?”
Oh god.
Ohgod. They are definitely talking about me.
I start shaking, my eyes widening, my pupils dilating. My heart thrums a wild tattoo against my ribcage. My mind flashes to a faraway beach. Maddie’s blood on the coarse brown rocks of the beach, already beginning to wash away as the tide rolls in. Her hand, gone pale against the dark sand, lying sprawled out as if she were trying to reach for me.
“We know she is on this block, monsieur,” a man’s voice answers.
I can only swallow.
“What about the bakery next door?” Constantine suggests. “Persephone's skinny ass never could say no to an almond croissant.”
His accent makes the phrase sound like al-MOND CROIS-sant.
