Page 12 of The Butcher

I sat in the council chamber, upon a throne that Louis XIII had sat upon himself, in Luxembourg Palace, a sprawling estate claimed by the French Republic in the late seventeen hundreds. It was the place where the Senate gathered, where the president of the Senate lived in one of the pavilions on the property.

My knife was on the pedestal in front of me, the hilt carved into the seal of the Republic.

I sat there and waited, Antoine and Luca on my left and Gabriel and Mael on my right, me in the dead center.

One of my hands stepped into the room. “They await your judgment, Butcher.”

I gave a slight nod, ushering them to come inside.

Their wrists zip-tied behind their backs, they were dragged into the council room, a place where King Louis had once held court. The windowsills were made of gold, the ceiling was seventy feet high, painted champagne pink with a chandelier in the center.

Two of them didn’t fight, but the one in the middle did, as if there was any chance of escape.

The hands dropped them in the center, in front of the pedestal that held my knife.

They were already bloody from the beating they had received from my servants, their eyes bruised shut, their noses broken. One of them lay with his head to the floor, knowing it was over. The one in the center was ornery, staring at me like I was the one on trial.

I stared back at them, my cheek propped against my closed knuckles, looking at them like the vermin that they were. “On Tuesday evening, you attempted to rob Silencio with machetes—and threatened a girl behind the counter.” The crime was petty compared to most criminals I dealt with, but no one was above the law. “You know the law—Homines ex codice.”

“I didn’t hurt her.” The one in the center had a face now that his mask had been stripped away. He was a young man, probably someone who just needed to get by and had decided to steal from the rich.

“You threatened her with a knife—and called her a bitch.”

“It wasn’t personal?—”

“You know the law.”

He let out a scream. “I didn’t touch her!”

“You cased the area before you hit it. You could have picked a different place, picked a bar run by a man, but you chose that one.” I said it simply, casting judgment the way I had a hundred times, taking no pride or regret in my position. “The first French Emperor of the Senate hereby condemns you to death.”

He pushed to his feet and attempted to flee, but one of the hands shoved him to the floor again. “I didn’t touch her. I didn’t rape her. I didn’t traffic her. You’re telling me I deserve the same punishment for greater crimes?”

I rose to my feet and approached the pedestal that held the old knife, a weapon that Napoleon had carried while he was emperor and during his exile on Elba.

“It’s not fair!” He tried to get to his feet again to rush me, but the hand kicked him to the floor.

“You didn’t just pick the wrong bar—but the wrong girl.” I gripped the knife and brushed my thumb over the handle before I looked to my fellow Emperors. “Is this punishment just? Or perhaps I’m unable to see clearly…”

Gabriel looked at the others, and a silent conversation seemed to pass between them. “If she was untouched, then perhaps the carve is more appropriate. Everyone who gazes upon them will recognize your mark. They will know that justice was served.”

I considered his words before I slowly turned back to the C-level criminals at my feet. One of them was shaking uncontrollably. Wouldn’t be surprised if he pissed his pants. These amateurs would ordinarily be beneath my attention. “Then they shall be carved.” I nodded to the hands.

They moved to the three men on the floor and forced them upright, their hands yanked back to expose their faces.

I went for the one in the center, my thumb pressed against the hilt as the tip of the knife rested against his cheek.

His panting turned hysterical, and he hyperventilated right before me, knowing, like so many others, he would bear mymark and all would know he’d been punished by my hand. “It wasn’t personal.”

“I know,” I said as I pushed the knife through his skin. “And neither is this.”

I walked into the office of the pavilion at the palace, a great mahogany desk on the thick rug. Outside were the gardens, statues and carved bushes for the public to admire during their tours of the grounds. Most of the people were foreigners who would never understand our politics, no matter how many tours they booked.

Even our citizens didn’t understand it.

Raphael Boucher sat behind the desk, the President of the Senate, the next in line for the presidency if President Martin were to become incapacitated. I took a seat in front of his desk as he finished up his phone call, a lit cigar between his digits, his wrist relaxed. He finally hung up and shoved that cigar into his mouth.

“Thought you were trying to quit.”

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