Page 16 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Henry slipped a finger across his throat in an urgent, ‘cut it out now’ kind of mannerism, but that was the exact same second Léon’s desperate eyes finally found the one small hole in the curtain that allowed him to see the movement—what was, to him, a clear and targeted threat directed at his little brother.
“I’m going!” Léon shouted. “I’m going. Oh, please don’t hurt him. Or the kitten. Please! He’s been through enough.”
Relief filling every inch of Henry’s tense body, he called back, “You’ll get him tonight. Return to your home and wait there,and I’ll bring him to you. I won’t touch…” Henry couldn’t stop himself from saying it. “I won’t touch a hair on his head.” Not very scary. He needed to be scary. He corrected, “Unless you piss me off! Then it’s off with his head!”
“Émile…” Léon wept, hands covering his face.
“And the cat’s head too,” Henry yelled callously.
“All right.” Léon backed away from the house, but still called out, “Promise me. Promise me you’ll bring him tonight.”
“Yes! Fine! Whatever. Go away! Quickly!”
Henry flung a beleaguered hand towards Émile, who squealed, “Please go. I think he’s going to take an eye if you don’t.”
“Oh my god!” Léon cried, retreating in horror.
Henry watched him stumble and sink into the greenery, then trudge off and out of view, more broken even than he had been before.
He rounded on the boy at once. “What the hell was that? He’s going to hate me now!”
Émile shrugged his little shoulders. “I’m pretty sure he already hates you.”
“Well, that’s just great. Now I’ve got no chance of-of-of-of…” Henry blustered out. He threw a hand up as if to enunciate what he couldn’t actually say to the boy, which was that for whatever reason, starting with his unprecedented attraction to Léon, all his sympathies were becoming entangled in Léon’s emotions, and now he really didn’t want Léon to hate him at all, because…
Henry let out a long sigh.
He would never see that man again. Not once. Not ever. He wasn’t worth worrying about.
Henry gave a nod, to himself more than Émile, stood a little taller and said, “Pack up. You can keep all these things. I’m taking you back to him tonight.”
11
LÉON HAS OTHER IDEAS
Léon crouched at the base of a tree, arms wrapped around himself, shaking. He was too stunned to give in to the emotional overwhelm and let himself fall apart. Too dismayed, but also too desperate for action. There was no chance he’d leave his little brother alone with a deranged villain like that.
He looked back over his shoulder at the cottage, half expecting the curtain to be twitching, or for the kidnapper himself to walk out, waving his knife in the air like a lunatic. But not a sound emanated from the place—not a movement was to be seen.
He edged over onto his hands, then skirted the cottage at a distance, staying low and keen like a hunter. He made his way around to the windowless back of the small building, and, measure by measure, from tree to tree, he crept closer, then pressed himself against it, listening.
The floorboards creaked within, a slow pacing, heavy—that of a full-grown man. Another crunch here and there, lighter. Émile? Or someone else? Léon pressed fingers to the wall, his ear to the wood.
There was clinking, as bottles being moved around. Banging, but not the aggressive sort. Something being pushed into the very wall he leaned against. And voices. Voices soft and not angry.
He heard the loud crack of the footsteps moving fast and a sound from Émile like… laughter?
It couldn’t be.
The boy had been terrified only moments ago…
Léon was no fool, and Émile was a certified scamp—he was under no illusions about that. But this dawning idea… It couldn’t be possible. There was no way Émile was enjoying this…
No, the only answer was that the poor child was playing along. Trying to calm his attacker. Fighting for his life, with all the wiles Léon had raised the boy to have.
He strained his ears for the voices, trying to make out what words he could, but it was all a muffle and a mumble. Dropping to the ground, he searched for a gap between the floorboards and the walls through which he might observe them. A strange sound ran along the wooden floorboards, a whirring sort of noise, familiar, but odd from his vantage point.
Throwing caution to the wind, Léon worked his way around the cabin to the nearest window and eased himself along the wall beneath it, hoping the glass might allow him to hear better. It still wasn’t enough, and that whirring vibrated along the floor again. Another laugh ripped out of Émile, then the sound of the kidnapper’s voice, just as deep and resonant as it had been the night before. Then Émile squealing, but not as though he were scared.
