Read Online URIEL: The Price (The Airel Saga, Book 6) (Young Adult Paranormal Romance) by Aaron Patterson, Chris White - Free Book Online
Authors: Aaron Patterson, Chris White
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flavor than fatherly rage, though.
After having had a week to mull things over and do a little of his own research, John decided that Dubai was the place to start. He would meet his contact—he did not inform him of the visit; some things were better to do without announcement—and then retrace his steps to find out where the Bloodstone went and who was trying to kill him. Airel was in a coma because of all this. Someone is going to pay.
He glanced at his carryon. The book was tucked away in there safely. No need to get it out right now and read it; he had already read it ten times at least. The dirty compulsion was strong, though. I need a cigarette myself, come to think of it. John looked around the lounge. There was a man seated across from him who was smoking. He had an expensive look to him. “Hey, buddy. Bum a smoke from ya?”
The man looked up. Annoyance flashed across his features, but he reached into his suit coat pocket and fished out a blue pack of Gauloises anyway. “Oui. Vous voilà.”
John stood and walked to him, taking the proffered cigarette from the Frenchman’s casual hand. “Merci.” He stooped as the Frenchman lit it for him. He stood, took a long drag, and nearly choked. That’s really strong.
The Frenchman smirked acidly at him and shrugged. “Liberté tojours.” His shoulders bounced once or twice in light mirth.
John turned back toward his seat, giving him a limp salute. “Vive la France, buddy.”
The Frenchman gave a not-impolite little snort. “Americain, yes?”
John sat. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“What brings you to the continent?” he asked, his English actually quite good. “Business?”
John thought about it before answering. “You could say I’m seeing the sights. I’m on my way elsewhere.”
The Frenchman took a drag and then exhaled. “Ah.” The hand with the cigarette traced an arc in the air before it came to rest at his side.
What is it with the French? They do everything with artistic flair.
“Than it is business.”
“You’re reading me like a book. Well . . . you might as well know the title. Name’s Jim.” Hey, close enough. Maybe he’ll buy it.
“Pierre-Henri.” Pierre stood and then reached to shake John’s hand. “Pleasure. May I?”
John moved his carryon aside. “Oui. By all means, please.” He took another drag and felt nauseated. Perhaps this is the price of a friend. “And you? What brings you to Amsterdam, Pierre?”
Pierre looked at him with a flash of caution. “It is business, mon ami.”
“Good.” John nodded, “So we’re both just a couple of bull salesmen.”
Pierre laughed.
Yes, John thought, friend-making strategy 101. He could usually get a laugh out of someone. Perhaps he could get more out of “Monsieur Moreau” or whoever he was. “So you headed home now?”
“Oh no, no,” Pierre said. His face became darker now. “No, frère Jim, I can never go back there. France is on fire, as I am sure you know.” He took a drag. “I flee to safer climes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” John said. “So is it Dubai, then? Or Stockholm?”
“Dubai, Jim—you are very smart. Not everyone knows this. It is one or the other now, is it not? And I am afraid my Swedish is not so good.” Pierre smiled, and it was tragic.
John was struck in that moment. His conscience was unusually wide awake. “Pierre, I gotta shoot straight because I feel like I can trust you. There’s something in your eyes that tells me you’re a quality person. I’m just not sure who I can trust these days, so I lied to you about who I am.” John extended his hand once more. “John Cross.”
“Ah,” Pierre said, shaking his hand. “I see.” His face registered that gears were meshing behind the scenes and that he was thinking things over. “Your business in Dubai—it is very serious, is it not?”
“Yes, Pierre. It is very serious.” John considered things for a moment. “Thanks again for the cigarette.”
“You
After having had a week to mull things over and do a little of his own research, John decided that Dubai was the place to start. He would meet his contact—he did not inform him of the visit; some things were better to do without announcement—and then retrace his steps to find out where the Bloodstone went and who was trying to kill him. Airel was in a coma because of all this. Someone is going to pay.
He glanced at his carryon. The book was tucked away in there safely. No need to get it out right now and read it; he had already read it ten times at least. The dirty compulsion was strong, though. I need a cigarette myself, come to think of it. John looked around the lounge. There was a man seated across from him who was smoking. He had an expensive look to him. “Hey, buddy. Bum a smoke from ya?”
The man looked up. Annoyance flashed across his features, but he reached into his suit coat pocket and fished out a blue pack of Gauloises anyway. “Oui. Vous voilà.”
John stood and walked to him, taking the proffered cigarette from the Frenchman’s casual hand. “Merci.” He stooped as the Frenchman lit it for him. He stood, took a long drag, and nearly choked. That’s really strong.
The Frenchman smirked acidly at him and shrugged. “Liberté tojours.” His shoulders bounced once or twice in light mirth.
John turned back toward his seat, giving him a limp salute. “Vive la France, buddy.”
The Frenchman gave a not-impolite little snort. “Americain, yes?”
John sat. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“What brings you to the continent?” he asked, his English actually quite good. “Business?”
John thought about it before answering. “You could say I’m seeing the sights. I’m on my way elsewhere.”
The Frenchman took a drag and then exhaled. “Ah.” The hand with the cigarette traced an arc in the air before it came to rest at his side.
What is it with the French? They do everything with artistic flair.
“Than it is business.”
“You’re reading me like a book. Well . . . you might as well know the title. Name’s Jim.” Hey, close enough. Maybe he’ll buy it.
“Pierre-Henri.” Pierre stood and then reached to shake John’s hand. “Pleasure. May I?”
John moved his carryon aside. “Oui. By all means, please.” He took another drag and felt nauseated. Perhaps this is the price of a friend. “And you? What brings you to Amsterdam, Pierre?”
Pierre looked at him with a flash of caution. “It is business, mon ami.”
“Good.” John nodded, “So we’re both just a couple of bull salesmen.”
Pierre laughed.
Yes, John thought, friend-making strategy 101. He could usually get a laugh out of someone. Perhaps he could get more out of “Monsieur Moreau” or whoever he was. “So you headed home now?”
“Oh no, no,” Pierre said. His face became darker now. “No, frère Jim, I can never go back there. France is on fire, as I am sure you know.” He took a drag. “I flee to safer climes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” John said. “So is it Dubai, then? Or Stockholm?”
“Dubai, Jim—you are very smart. Not everyone knows this. It is one or the other now, is it not? And I am afraid my Swedish is not so good.” Pierre smiled, and it was tragic.
John was struck in that moment. His conscience was unusually wide awake. “Pierre, I gotta shoot straight because I feel like I can trust you. There’s something in your eyes that tells me you’re a quality person. I’m just not sure who I can trust these days, so I lied to you about who I am.” John extended his hand once more. “John Cross.”
“Ah,” Pierre said, shaking his hand. “I see.” His face registered that gears were meshing behind the scenes and that he was thinking things over. “Your business in Dubai—it is very serious, is it not?”
“Yes, Pierre. It is very serious.” John considered things for a moment. “Thanks again for the cigarette.”
“You
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