Page 93 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“Not just an unthinking arm of the law, then?” The bitterness of it surprised Léon as much as it did Henry.
But it didn’t take Henry even a second to understand. “I’m sorry I said that to you. I was angry. I was trying to upset you.”
“You did upset me.”
Léon rode onto the bridge slightly ahead, so Henry caught up quickly. “I knew I’d messed your life up. I knew if you got caught for helping me, they’d probably kill you. But I also wanted you.” A fast flash of green eyes, wary but caught. “I think I wanted you to hate me so I wouldn’t drag you any deeper. Like I’ve done now.”
His newly stacked defences holding, Léon replied only, “I don’t like it here.”
“Please give it a chance.” But all the tension of Paris was seeping into them, the very horrors of the streets silently invading their minds and bodies, as ghosts of the dead. It was already what Léon had expected, but not Henry. He had no other plan, no backup, no Reims to escape to. Henry had only the elusive promises he’d built the mirage of his future on. If he could but show Léon what he saw, that this mess was simply the labour pains that any new and great society must push through, then he’d have it all.
Hoping he might influence Léon’s decision in his favour, he stretched his arm out to indicate a row of grand establishments standing tall on the far side of the Seine. “It’s just over there.”
Léon didn’t take his meaning, assuming he was referring to some landmark, like the many others he’d pointed out along the way. “Hmm?”
“My father’s house. Just through that little archway.”
‘That little archway’ stretched four storeys high, was built of stone, and sat between two enormous mansions. The gigantic wooden gate beneath it, which reached at least one and a half of those storeys, did nothing to settle Léon’s qualms about what it hid, though it did strike him as a possible safe vantage point to wait out the violence of the streets should they need to.
But clearly this part of town had been saved the looting and destruction other areas had suffered. He wondered why, guessing, somewhat cynically, that such homes would likely be prized by the victors of the revolution, whatever their backgrounds, as worthy booty.
42
TOWNHOUSE DE VILLIERS
They approached the townhouse with a sense of grandeur and foreboding. The streets on this side of the river were eerily quiet. It was ever so in the wealthier neighbourhoods of any city, one might say. But it was more than that. There was a feeling the buildings were holding their breath, a quiet that was too quiet, a bit like when Henry was about to punch Léon in the face in the Witches’ Tower.
Arriving at the gate, Henry slid off Destroyer and pulled free a loop of keys. He’d kept them in his luggage all the years he’d been on the run. He’d had copies made for his sister, then spares made again. All night he’d kept them in a pocket against his chest, and now he slid one, warm from his skin, into the keyhole. It turned with a satisfying click.
Henry looked up at Léon with never before seen excitement. He pressed a hand to the gate, pushed, and with the cracking sound of wood hitting wood, he met impenetrable resistance.
He took a step back, as though the gate had just verbally offended him, then pressed two hands to it and tried again.
It barely budged.
Bracing himself against his back leg, Henry put all his effort into it this time, getting nothing more than a vague squeak backto his, “You fucking piece of shit!” and his, “What kind of a fucking gate are you?” and his, “I’ll make you into firewood, you bastard!”
Léon remained on Azazel, who rubbed her cheek against Destroyer’s as though she were whispering in his ear, probably at Henry’s expense. But Léon’s mind was on his brother. “Does that mean they’re in there? Have they barricaded it?”
Trying to quell his anger at the decidedly inanimate object, “I suppose. But why would she do that?”
“There,” said Léon. He climbed down from the horse and walked to the edge of the gate. Just breaking through the wood was a row of sharp metal dots—the ends of nails stamped deep. “Looks like they’ve nailed themselves in.”
“Okay.” Henry passed the tip of his tongue over his lips. “All right. They must have had their reasons. Probably smart. I guess we’ll just have to rattle the gate until they let us in, but…” He glanced up at Léon, the darkness of their ride through Paris still hanging over them both. “Come with me.” He turned sharply and made to walk away.
“The horses?” Léon called.
Henry regarded the animals for a moment, as though he were reading their minds, then, “They’ll take care of themselves.”
With a scrunch of his brow, Léon ran a hesitant hand down Azazel’s neck before deciding to chase after Henry. He’d turned down a narrow passage a few doors up the street. It was dark and dank, barely more than the width of Henry’s shoulders.
With a sharp tsk, Léon stepped in, then found both hands caught, slapped down on Henry’s waist, and himself pulled, full-body, in for a kiss.
In a panic, he shoved Henry off, casting frantic eyes around for onlookers. But there was no one. They were standing in a fortress, surrounded on three sides by blank walls, towering several storeys over them, hidden away from all of Paris. Takingin his surroundings, or lack thereof, Léon calmed, particularly when he found Henry’s delighted face. “What are you so pleased about?”
Gingerly, flirtatiously, Henry caught his index finger and pulled him close, finding Léon deliciously yielding. “I haven't kissed you for hours.”
Hours. Hours since those fingers had sung across the back of his neck, hours since those beautiful lips had been his. Léon let the first kiss fall beneath his ear. “Are you sure we’re safe here?”
