Page 17 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Léon’s heart beat like a drum, care and curiosity turning into compulsion. He found himself back in front of the cottage, sliding under the first window, and to the only spot he knew had a crack he could hear or see anything through clearly: the front door.
Down he crept, keeping enough distance that he wouldn’t cast a shadow through that opening, hoping he was close enough to get some idea of what was going on in there.
And indeed he was…
A set of wheels went whirring past, Émile’s feet running by not a moment later, and then the kidnapper after him, and another happy shriek from Émile. Then the man’s voice, jovial, “You can’t keep it if you can’t catch it!” Then the smaller footsteps again, followed by a cracking sound, then tears. Émile’s cries loud and sending Léon into near panic.
Before he knew what he was about, he’d rammed his shoulder hard into the door, and with the work he didn’t realise he’d already done on the hinges the last time he’d hit it, the entire piece of wood burst out of its fastening and came crashing down on the floor with an enormous bang.
The sight he beheld unsettled him perhaps a thousand times more than whatever he might have been expecting. There knelt the kidnapper, little Émile on his thigh, a hand on his sore knee, and the other arm wrapped around him.
Léon’s stomach turned in on itself at the sight of the man with his hands on his brother, and his body moved more efficiently than a well-oiled guillotine as he stepped forward, grasped Émile and wrenched him behind himself with his left arm, raised his right, and knocked Henry flat on his back with a fist to his jaw.
Léon leapt on him, readied his fist again, and got another great blow into his cheek before Émile’s full body landed on him, pushing him off target and onto the floor, where he was forced to use his arms instead to prevent his brother smashing into the wall, such was the volition of the attack. Léon pushed the boy off roughly, clambered halfway to his feet, then copped a kick to the chin that sent him flying back against the wall. He barely registered the pain as he grasped at the rough wood to steadyhimself, ready to murder the man who stepped towards him now, fists clenched, only for Émile to slam two hands into the attacker’s chest and shove him back.
Fear of the man’s retribution for the act took place of Léon’s anger, and he leapt forward to move Émile aside, but the man had stopped. He’d taken three steps back, breathing hard, eyes like knives, but he stood well away. A tense quiet ensued, the two men breathing hard, looking daggers at one another, then he moved to a wash basin. Léon kept one eye on him, and another, astounded, on Émile, who almost immediately rushed into Léon’s arms to be pulled close against his big brother.
Henry held a wet cloth to his bleeding cheek, his hand shaking, watching the pair. His distance allowed Léon some small idea of the kind of room he was in. It was, all things considered, a nice room. Nicer than the shack he and Émile lived in. It had a fireplace, tidy and warm. It had comfortable-looking beds. And it had food. It took Léon a few moments to even grasp what he was seeing, because it had so much food. Foods Léon had barely set eyes on since he was a child. Foods produced for people who weren’t Léon, who weren’t of Léon’s class. And Léon searched over the man’s previously tidy dark hair, his shirt, open across a fine chest but embroidered with a care and elegance about the collar and cuffs, and his breeches, made of some material rich and clean, then a ruby ring glinting on his little finger. This man… This man was wealthy.
And exactly what sort of sick bastard was he, with his food and his toys and the way he’d befriended Émile?
“What did you do to him?” The nauseated words spilled out of Léon’s mouth, tears at his eyes with the enormity of the idea.
“Nothing.” Henry’s head shook, his spare hand raised, and he spoke, for the first time in Léon’s presence, gently and seriously. “I didn’t touch him.” He moved a hand to indicate a toy cat,wind up and flat now, lying on its side. “He slipped. He slipped. I didn’t… I told you I wouldn’t.”
Léon would kill him. He’d beat him to a pulp. When he was done, not one shred of his once-handsome face would be recognisable. But he wouldn’t do it in front of Émile. He’d take him home, then return with some men and take care of this situation once and for all. He grasped Émile’s wrist and walked to the door, only to hear the words over his shoulder, “I’m sorry, I can’t let you leave.”
Léon turned back with the sort of smile that was thanking the man for making trouble, so he had an excuse to pulverise him right then and there. But that smile slipped, slowly and irretrievably, on sight of the pistol that was aimed directly at his face.
12
STANDOFF
Léon’s shout of “Run!” rang loud, and Émile was thrown through the doorway, Léon’s arms and body blocking any shot Henry might have taken at him. Which he never would have taken in the first place, but Léon clearly didn’t know that, and Henry had to admire his bravery in the face of the firearm. Léon didn’t even need a second to think about it—he was fire and protective fury and barely a spark of fear. But Henry held the gun on him all the same, despite the muscles in his arm weighing heavily in refusal as the green eyes narrowed on him.
“Henri!” came the boy’s reprimand from behind Léon.
Henry held his aim. “Émile, come here.”
Obediently, the boy attempted to slip under Léon’s arm to go to Henry’s side. He was caught and restrained by Léon, half shocked at Émile’s behaviour, half horrified. He seethed at Henry, “You’re not having him!”
“I told you,” said Henry, every nerve on fire in the tense standoff, “you can have him back tonight.”
“Do you think I’d believe that?” Léon’s eyes were wide, terrified, his grip white on Émile’s arm, and he looked at Henry with a revulsion—a sickened, pure hatred—that made Henry feel almost as ill as Léon seemed to be. Léon gestured a shouldertowards the side-table, heaving with food. “This isn’t a set-up for one night. Do you really think I’d believe you intend to bring him back to me?”
So perhaps he’d overdone it with the culinary bribery… Léon had a point. A small one. “That’s just… I needed to feed him, didn’t I?”
Émile struggled in Léon’s grip, but Léon neither faltered nor lowered his gaze from Henry. “Are you planning to sell him? Or is it that you wish to keep him?” He added, with a disgusted shake of his lower lip, as though he could barely say it, “For yourself?”
Henry’s grip loosened on the gun as he began to catch on—to realise the places Léon’s mind had already gone—as a sick disgust grew in his chest. “It’s not like that?—”
“Let me go!” Émile snapped, digging nails into Léon’s unrelenting hand. “You can trust him!”
Léon yanked him back sharply. “He’s not your friend, Émile. He’s tricking you.”
“No!” cried Henry, bolting forward as if his proximity to Émile could in any way help the situation. “No, no! No, I simply kidnapped the boy. I didn’t—wouldn’t?—”
“You stay the hell away from him!” Léon shouted.
