Page 18 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“This has gone far enough!” Henry shouted back. “Look.” He brought the gun up slowly, away from Léon, then raised his other hand in surrender, pushing it forward in a shaky, calming motion. “I’m putting it down.”
“Léon!” Émile, wrist aching, shoved at his brother, but Léon only watched Henry tensely as Henry placed the gun on the dining table, the hold on Émile never loosening.
“I need those keys,” said Henry, searching Léon’s eyes, glassy, red, and scared. “And I need you to stay out of my way until I use them. I swear to you, that’s the only reason I took him. I would never… What you’re thinking— It’s absurd.”
“It’s not absurd,” Léon returned.
“No. Okay, you’re right. But it’s not me. It’s not. I wouldn’t do that. I know you don’t trust me?—”
Léon laughed, sharp and hysterical, and only stopped when Henry cut over him with, “Léon.” It was a blade in the spine, hearing his name on that man’s lips. The fast logic of his mind told him of course he knew his name, he’d had his brother for the entire night, had known where to find him to steal him away, but it was so obtrusive, so familiar, that it halted him in his tracks. Henry’s head dipped, and he shut his eyes tight, taking a deep breath before saying softly, “There’s someone I need to get out of that prison. Someone important to me. I would never have done this, would never have crossed your path, had they not taken… them.”
Léon wanted—needed—it to be true, for his own sanity. Yet he held still, his horror not allowing him to even notice the red scratches Émile ran down his arm in his fight to be free. “Who?”
Henry ran his tongue across dry lips. “I can’t tell you.”
Léon let out a loud scoff and walked straight out the door, dragging Émile with him.
“Don’t make me shoot you!”
Léon didn’t pause when he heard the threat. He was striding directly for the forest, Émile running after him to keep up, crying, and Léon didn’t even throw a glance over his shoulder.
“Léon!” Henry yelled. He snatched the gun off the table, dashed out the door, and took aim at a tree trunk just above Léon’s head. The bark exploded with a shower of sharp splinters all over Léon’s back, and he dropped, cradling Émile beneath him, arms around the boy like an iron cage, staring back at Henry in terror.
Henry’s lip rose in cruel defiance. “Don’t make me shoot you dead in front of him.” The slip of Léon’s shoulders, the last ounce of fight in him ebbing away as he realised defeat, turnedHenry’s stomach, but he kept that rod of steel in his back, his arm extended, and he made his eyes just as dark and ruthless as he could manage. “Get back in the house. Now.”
13
CAPTIVE
Henry stalked back and forth across the creaking floorboards, gun held tight in his hand. Léon sat tense and silent in a chair, watching him. Émile remained close by, just over Léon’s shoulder, fiddling with the tips of his brother’s thick hair. It was dark in that cabin, with the curtains drawn and Henry having failed to think to light a candle as he watched his grand plan falling apart right in front of him.
Léon hated him—that much was clear. Léon, who was an executioner and a servant of the law, who would dash his plot to pieces if he set a foot back in town long enough to get word to one other person. And town was where Henry needed to be. And how was he to get in there without Léon in tow?
Émile took quiet steps to the side-table where the piles of food remained, almost all sugar, just like a desperate idiot might buy to keep a small child quiet. He took a choice piece from the spread, laid it on a plate, and placed it in front of Léon as a sort of peace offering.
Léon glowered at it, loathing so concentrated in his eyes that Henry was surprised the thing didn’t melt in shame. “What’s this?”
“Cro… Cro…” Émile attempted.
“Croquembouche,” Henry supplied.
“It’s good,” Émile mumbled. “Hen?—”
“Haven’t I taught you better than this?” Léon snarled. “Accepting treats and trinkets from a man like that?” He eviscerated Henry with a singular glare, then picked the small cake up, plate and all, and hurled it against the wall, a puff of cream bursting out, smearing itself into the rough wood, slapping down on broken shards of crockery. Yet not a second later, he took a miserable Émile’s hand up in apology, making no eye contact with either him or Henry, but curling the rough little fingers around his own and up against his chest with a protective tenderness in perfect opposition to the violence of his last act.
Henry watched him out of the corner of his eye.‘A man like that.’He had only the smallest inkling of the kind of people Léon came into contact with in his work, and had no doubt he saw Henry as amongst the worst of them. The comment had cut him to the quick, but the fact was, whatever horrors Henry thought Léon to be familiar with, his foulest imaginings wouldn’t have scratched the surface of the realities Léon had seen and heard.
Some days, Léon relished his bloody work. And even as he sat there, staring at the darkening shadows on the curtains as the afternoon wasted away, Henry could never have known how vivid was the image in Léon’s mind of Henry’s head splatting down onto that wooden scaffold, taken off with Léon’s own darling axe. He definitely would have given his head to the crowd to toy with when he was done.
Henry broke into his deliciously gory musings with the result of his hard thinking. “I’ll have to tie you up.” Léon’s face turned up in alarm, and Henry rushed to soften the blow. “I’ll let you stay with him. Here. Overnight. At dawn, you’ll be released. But I can’t allow you to leave this place tonight.”
“If you touch me, I will tear you to shreds.” Léon stated it coldly and clearly, and Henry didn’t doubt his ability to do exactly that.
“I bet you would. That’s why Émile’s going to tie you.”
“He won’t,” Léon replied, tilting his head with a cocky smile. It looked good there, and Henry hated to have to wipe it away.
Thankfully, Émile did it for him. “Don’t worry. I’ll feed you. We have everything we need.”
