Page 5 of The Butcher

The words were in Latin, but the meaning was unclear. I couldn’t tell if my assailant understood what that meant or if he was just as bewildered as I was.

There was a silent standoff between them, a tension that rose like flames from a newly lit bonfire. The bar was normally loud and boisterous with chatter and laughter, but now it’d gone deadly quiet—like a graveyard.

The asshole with the machete moved, slashing his weapon down like he would hack Bastien to pieces.

I screamed in terror and moved for one of the empty bottles behind the counter.

It happened so fast that I wasn’t sure exactly what transpired, but Bastien made the other man’s face bloody and wrested the machete free. He slammed the guy’s face down on the counter, not once but twice—and broke his nose. He pinned his head to the top of the counter and looked at me. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

I slammed the bottle down on his head, and it shattered into pieces.

“Nice swing.” Bastien let go, and the man dropped to the floor in a pile of broken glass and blood.

The other two rushed to the door to split when shit got real, but Bastien got there first and punched one so hard in the face he slammed into the wall and collapsed on the floor. He made a series of moves on the other guy, blocking the arm holding the machete before slamming his elbow straight into his head and knocking him out cold.

When he was done, a strained silence enveloped the bar, everyone still too afraid to move or speak.

Bastien walked across the hardwood floor and the broken glass, back to the counter where I stood. He pulled out his wallet and rifled through the euros that were stuffed into it, and as if nothing serious had just happened, he asked, “What do I owe you?”

The bar closed and the police came. They asked Bastien a couple of questions, but it seemed like they already knew him because they didn’t ask who he was. In fact, they treated him like a superior.

I stepped outside into the cold, the air wet from a drizzle that had just passed through. The pavement was wet from the recent rainfall, and a few people were on the street because no one ever slept in this city.

Bastien came outside a moment later and looked me over. “You alright?”

“A little frazzled, but I’m fine.”

He continued to stare me down with those piercing blue eyes. “It’s okay not to be fine.”

My eyes flicked away, touched by the softness he was showing when he had been so ruthless a moment ago. “I know it is.”

“Where’s your apartment?”

I normally wouldn’t give out my address to a stranger, but he somehow felt like anything but a stranger even though I only knew his first name. “Rue Coquilliere. By the Louvre.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“I’m okay?—”

“Come on.” He took the lead, stepping into the empty street under the bright lampposts, moving past a building that had stood the test of time and survived the Second World War. “We have a conversation to finish.”

We walked down the wet pavement together, side by side, but nothing was really said. He seemed to be a long-term resident of the city because he knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what street to take without looking at his phone for guidance.

“How long have you lived in Paris?”

“All my life. You?”

“Same.”

That was the extent of our conversation. We passedLoupon the corner and walked down the path where the restaurants were located beneath my apartment. There was a small road for cars, but only taxis pulled up to the area. Right now, it was deserted, all the restaurants closed except forAu Pied de Cochon.

He seemed to know it was one of the few restaurants open all hours of the day because he checked in with the host and asked for a table outside. The second we sat down, he lit up a cigar and blew the smoke into the air. We were the only ones outside because it was either too cold or too late.

He offered me a cigar.

“No thanks.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I lit up and felt the hit of nicotine the second the smoke hit my lungs.

He gave a subtle smile before he held his cigar between his fingertips. “You don’t strike me as a smoker.”

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