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"Tchah." Janette tossed the International Herald Tribune onto a nearby chair where it landed on top of The Guardian and Le Monde. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The humans were fighting again and, she was sure, there were vampires hovering over the battlefields like the tasteless vultures she had always refused to become.
The hours passed much more pleasantly here on la Rive Gauche, sitting at a table in her own café under the Parisian stars. She bowed her head to acknowledge the extravagant kisses blown at her by group of young boys and girls. Ah yes, life was good, here at her sidewalk table in the cinquième arrondissement.
She reached for her cigarette, only to stub it out in disgust when the vile smoke teased her nostrils. It was past time she stopped indulging in that particular vice. Perhaps, she considered, admiring the parade of passers-by, cigarettes were not the only vice she should leave behind with her old life.
"Buy the lady a drink?"
The question, asked in the patois of her childhood by a vaguely familiar voice, triggered Janette's protective instincts. Even as she swung around, she clamped down on her body's impulse to flash fangs.
Elbows resting on the wrought iron fence that separated the café tables from the pavement, he smiled at her. That nose, those eyes, that horrendous hair. He could be only one man. Methos, her memory supplied, along with a string of other, temporary, names.
Because he was an immortal and, as with vampires, it was bad manners to use a name from a past encounter, she asked, "And you are?"
"Adam."
"Janette," she said, holding out her hand.
"My lady," he said, holding onto the railing as he bowed over her hand, kissing the back and lingering over each of her knuckles.
"Only you... Adam, could make a sarcastic statement with a kiss." She retrieved her hand, and gestured towards her table. "Join me."
"I heard there was trouble in Toronto." Methos slouched back in his chair, picking at the paper label on his beer bottle.
Janette shrugged, a liquid movement of one shoulder, and sipped from her glass. The sudden change from their previous, desultory, conversation had her on alert. "Some men, no matter their ages, are unable to leave the habits of their youth behind."
"Isn't that the truth," Methos muttered. His bark of laughter had a faint edge of bitterness
"Toi aussi?"
"Oui," he admitted. "Although the challenge has become addicting."
"That it does, mon vieux." Janette considered for a moment, watching the traffic on the Seine and failing to prevent herself from remembering the blood-soaked loft that had drawn her out of hiding and spurred her into action a few months earlier. Then, lifting her glass in a toast, she added, "To keeping our addictions from becoming fatal."
After that, their conversation wandered to other topics, became more desultory and less personal. Methos ate and drank. Janette sipped her vin de sang. And the world continued to pass by in front of them.
She was just returning from handling a minor incident in the kitchen — if her young chef had not been so brilliant, she would have tossed him out on the street — when she saw caught sight of Methos through the window. There was something furtive about the young man who was leaning over her table and whispering to him. Unfortunately, they seemed to be done with their business, as her vampire hearing proved and, by the time she had managed to escape from a group of appreciative and inebriated British tourists, Methos was alone.
"A franc for your thoughts," she said, taking her seat once more.
"Not worth much more than obsolete currency," he responded. Then his eyes narrowed and his gaze pinned hers. "You saw."
"Keeping anything secret takes a certain amount of... dedication."
Straightening up, Methos put his bottle down and took Janette's hand between his two. His thumb stroked warmth into her palm. "According to my sources, Interpol is now helping Toronto with inquiries about their missing detective and coroner."
Janette sighed, but schooled her expression into neutrality. "Interesting, but I no longer have connections with that town."
"We both know how well that goes in this day and age."
"I will survive. As always."
"Of course, you will." He rose, still holding onto her hand. "If the fallout touches you, I know someone who can help." Before she could say anything, he continued, "I know you have your own connections, but mine are a little more unorthodox."
He leaned down and kissed her palm then her mouth. Oh, was he as good as she remembered. Better, perhaps. And then he was gone.
Fingering the card that he had tucked into her hand, she smiled as she settled back into her chair.
Locking up after the last of her staff, Janette moved back through the café. She picked up the two chilled bottles that had been left for her and headed for her office. Walking into the curtained alcove behind her desk, she entered a sequence of numbers into the keypad.
Her flat above the café was quiet and dark, but not empty. The blinds had been raised and lights from the street and the boats on the Seine reflected off the walls, ceiling, pictures, and mirrors.
"Did you have a good night?"
Turning her head, Janette made out the form huddled on the couch that faced the wall to wall windows. "The café was busy, and I met an old friend. So, yes, in that way, it was a good night."
"Anyone I know?" Natalie's eyes flashed gold for a moment.
"No, just an old friend. One I haven't seen in a long time." Janette placed the bottles on the table, noting the waiting glasses with relief, and sat down on the couch. She busied herself pouring a glass for each of them. Not that she was hungry, but Natalie was more likely to drink enough to feed her fledgling hunger if Janette joined her.
"One of us?"
"Vampires are not the only ones who live beyond the allotted mortal span."
"We're not? Nick never said anything about others. Who are they? What are they?" Questions spilled from Natalie. This one piece of new knowledge had succeeded where all of Janette's previous attempts had failed, awakening something inside Natalie that had crawled into hibernation when she'd been brought across.
Topping off Natalie's glass, Janette kicked off her shoes and curled up in a corner of the couch. She began to explain about immortals and her first, abrupt, encounter with a young ruffian running from a butcher who was waving a cleaver and yelling at anyone who'd listen to stop the thief.
Eventually, both bottles were empty and Natalie's laughter died away. "It's hard to imagine, so many immortals out there, and all those beheadings." Her expression became more thoughtful. "At least they only kill their own kind. Although that begs the question of how they can call themselves 'immortal', doesn't it?"
"None of us are truly immortal." Janette stared out the window, watching the clouds scud away from the almost-full moon. "Mortality waits, even for us. All it requires is a walk in the sun."