Page 81 of Even Robots Die
I know I said that she is mine and that I even dared to repeat it out loud to Daniel when I entrusted him to take care of her while in Paris.
Maybe it was more of a growl, but oh well, the message was received anyway.
Or so I thought.
Because obviously from the pictures and the bloodstains in two different spots, Florentine was hit, too.
That doesn’t look like a good way to take care of someone to me.
I should probably question my sanity on my way to Paris—I’m taking a considerable risk coming back home, after all—but my mind is too clouded by images of Florentine laying in a pool of her own blood to do so.
I still have the thought to warn Elhyor of my impending arrival, though.
“Cassiopé?” I say as my holo finally connects with hers. “Tell Elhyor to leave Paris.”
She doesn’t question me. It’s like she already knew I was coming, but then her next words are like a cold shower.
“She’s here. The doctor is on his way.”
I don’t need to ask who she is talking about. My daughter has always been way too perceptive, and if Daniel is still alive he probably told her all about how I threatened to make him eat his own balls if he touched Florentine.
Did I forget to say that’s what went with the growl?
But if I thought Cassiopé’s previous words were a cold shower, her next ones freeze my blood.
“She took two bullets, she is not conscious anymore. Daniel tried to explain what happened but he’s not making sense. He lost a lot of blood too.”
“I’m coming,” I tell her before I cut the call and flap my wings faster.
I need to be there. Now.
I have no idea how I manage the feat, but it only takes me about twenty minutes to reach Notre Dame, fueled by desperation.
It’s already too much.
“Where is she?” I yell as I pass the double doors at the entrance of Notre Dame.
My inner beast doesn’t rear his head inside of me so I guess Elhyor flew away like I asked, or maybe my brain is too focused on something else for the beast to take over. I don’t care about the reason, as long as I can focus on Florentine.
I don’t need an answer to my question, though.
I can smell her in the air. It’s mixed with the smell of Daniel’s blood but I could follow her even blindfolded.
The sweet smell of blackcurrant and jasmine carries me to one of the upstairs rooms. It’s one that is used by people when they’re visiting and I have the sudden thought that she should be in my room.
No, no, no.
What Am I thinking?
I can’t think like that.
Obsessing over her is one thing, thinking she belongs in my room, and more specifically in my bed, is a whole other thing.
She could be my daughter. Hell, she’s younger than my very own daughter.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Except I don’t need to ask myself to know what the fuck is wrong with me. I’ve been looking at her, watching over her, even taking care of her in my own selfish kind of way as recently as yesterday. I’ve beenclinging to the smallest thread of emotion that seems to only ever appear when she’s here, when she reacts to me.
