The Mistress
Page 103
Then the guns went silent as death, and she smelled death in the room. Copper and smoke.
But whose death? She feared opening her eyes. If she kept them closed, then she would never know the answer to her question. If she opened her eyes she would see who had died and she couldn’t face that, not yet. Someone held her in his arms, held her tight. She decided to keep her eyes closed and stay there.
Forever.
35
THE KING
The men shot wildly in their confusion and Kingsley killed the guards before they even saw who it was who brought death to their doorstep. Kingsley rushed toward Søren and Nora but soon had reason to regret that choice.
Marie-Laure wrenched the dagger from her leg and came at Kingsley with it. She thrust it through his side. He grabbed her, trying to restrain her. In such close quarters he couldn’t get a shot off without hitting himself. The gun clattered to the floor. She clawed at his face, fighting him like a wild animal. She managed to fight her way out of his arms. Dropping to the floor she grabbed the gun and aimed it at the corner of the room—right at Søren’s back.
From his pocket, Kingsley pulled out the razor blade. When she tried to kick Kingsley away, he sliced through Marie-Laure’s hamstring. She howled in agony and the gun fell from her fingers.
Panting and bleeding, she lay coughing on the floor.
Kingsley brought his hand to his side.
Blood...so much blood. He’d been hit. No matter. Pas de problème. One more wound. He’d add it to his collection.
Gazing around the room he saw the carnage. One man dead on the floor.
Two men dead on the floor.
One woman on the floor...still breathing.
Kingsley knelt at Marie-Laure’s side.
“You always were one for temper tantrums,” he whispered in French as his sister lay on the ground twitching, blood pouring from her thigh. “One tantrum too many.”
He laid his hand on her forehead, wiped a drop of blood off her face. After all these years she was still beautiful, his sister.
“We should have died,” Marie-Laure whispered, “you and I. We should have died on that train when Maman and Papa died. We should have died together....”
“We did. The whole Boissonneault family died that day. I’m only the ghost of Kingsley Boissonneault. You’re only the ghost of Marie-Laure.”
“I don’t want to be a ghost anymore.”
Her back arched, her face contorted in agony. Kingsley shushed her gently and pulled her close. Her hand gripped his arm hard and she dug her nails into his skin.
“He didn’t love me...” she whispered. “My own husband.”
“But I loved you.”
She nodded and breathed in deeply. It was her last breath.
“Merci.” She whispered that final word and left Kingsley behind a second time.
36
THE KNIGHT
The moment Wesley realized where Søren had gone and where Kingsley was going, he knew he couldn’t stay in the house and wait for the world to end. He raced after Kingsley, knowing he would be putting himself in the gravest of danger. But that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Only saving Nora mattered.
He parked the car almost at the front door of the house and ran inside. Not knowing the layout at all, he could do nothing but run everywhere, searching every room. Finally he found the room, the library, and the bloodbath that it had become.
Kingsley knelt at a woman’s side. Blood seeped through his shirt. But he was vertical, breathing, alive.
One miracle.
“Nora!” Wes shouted. He called her name again. And a third time. Louder every time.
A large man with a gun lay on the floor, obviously dead. A few feet away lay another, smaller man—also dead.
Two miracles.
At last he saw something, someone, lurking in the corner of the room. A man dressed entirely in black.
Søren. Alive. Unharmed from what Wesley could tell.
Søren knelt facing the wall, his back to the room. As the guns had fired, as the bullets had flown, Søren had ducked and covered out of harm’s way. But he wasn’t out of harm’s way. He would kill the man himself for his cowardice, for letting Nora—
“I’m here, Wes,” came Nora’s voice, still and small and coming from seemingly nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Where are you?” he called, rushing around, looking for her. Had she been shot? Was she hiding somewhere?
Slowly Søren started to turn and Wesley rushed toward him.
“Søren, where the f**k is Nora?” Wesley demanded, more furious than he’d ever been in his life. If he’d hidden while Nora had gotten hurt, he’d kill the priest with his own bare hands.
“I said I’m here, Wes.” Now he saw her.
She lay curled in the corner of the room, tucked tight into the fetal position, entirely unexposed to the battlefield all around them. Søren had shielded her from the bullets with his own body. With her head against his chest, with her eyes closed, Nora had never looked so alive, so beautiful.
So safe.
37
THE ROOK
Grace stood at the window of the house and prayed. She hadn’t done this in years, hadn’t given her faith any thoughts at all. Two days in Søren’s presence had turned her devout as a nun. She had no thoughts anymore, no fears. Her mind had turned into nothing but one prayer that she repeated over and over again until it became like the chant of the medieval monks.
Deliver us from evil...deliver us from evil...deliver us from evil...
But whose death? She feared opening her eyes. If she kept them closed, then she would never know the answer to her question. If she opened her eyes she would see who had died and she couldn’t face that, not yet. Someone held her in his arms, held her tight. She decided to keep her eyes closed and stay there.
Forever.
35
THE KING
The men shot wildly in their confusion and Kingsley killed the guards before they even saw who it was who brought death to their doorstep. Kingsley rushed toward Søren and Nora but soon had reason to regret that choice.
Marie-Laure wrenched the dagger from her leg and came at Kingsley with it. She thrust it through his side. He grabbed her, trying to restrain her. In such close quarters he couldn’t get a shot off without hitting himself. The gun clattered to the floor. She clawed at his face, fighting him like a wild animal. She managed to fight her way out of his arms. Dropping to the floor she grabbed the gun and aimed it at the corner of the room—right at Søren’s back.
From his pocket, Kingsley pulled out the razor blade. When she tried to kick Kingsley away, he sliced through Marie-Laure’s hamstring. She howled in agony and the gun fell from her fingers.
Panting and bleeding, she lay coughing on the floor.
Kingsley brought his hand to his side.
Blood...so much blood. He’d been hit. No matter. Pas de problème. One more wound. He’d add it to his collection.
Gazing around the room he saw the carnage. One man dead on the floor.
Two men dead on the floor.
One woman on the floor...still breathing.
Kingsley knelt at Marie-Laure’s side.
“You always were one for temper tantrums,” he whispered in French as his sister lay on the ground twitching, blood pouring from her thigh. “One tantrum too many.”
He laid his hand on her forehead, wiped a drop of blood off her face. After all these years she was still beautiful, his sister.
“We should have died,” Marie-Laure whispered, “you and I. We should have died on that train when Maman and Papa died. We should have died together....”
“We did. The whole Boissonneault family died that day. I’m only the ghost of Kingsley Boissonneault. You’re only the ghost of Marie-Laure.”
“I don’t want to be a ghost anymore.”
Her back arched, her face contorted in agony. Kingsley shushed her gently and pulled her close. Her hand gripped his arm hard and she dug her nails into his skin.
“He didn’t love me...” she whispered. “My own husband.”
“But I loved you.”
She nodded and breathed in deeply. It was her last breath.
“Merci.” She whispered that final word and left Kingsley behind a second time.
36
THE KNIGHT
The moment Wesley realized where Søren had gone and where Kingsley was going, he knew he couldn’t stay in the house and wait for the world to end. He raced after Kingsley, knowing he would be putting himself in the gravest of danger. But that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Only saving Nora mattered.
He parked the car almost at the front door of the house and ran inside. Not knowing the layout at all, he could do nothing but run everywhere, searching every room. Finally he found the room, the library, and the bloodbath that it had become.
Kingsley knelt at a woman’s side. Blood seeped through his shirt. But he was vertical, breathing, alive.
One miracle.
“Nora!” Wes shouted. He called her name again. And a third time. Louder every time.
A large man with a gun lay on the floor, obviously dead. A few feet away lay another, smaller man—also dead.
Two miracles.
At last he saw something, someone, lurking in the corner of the room. A man dressed entirely in black.
Søren. Alive. Unharmed from what Wesley could tell.
Søren knelt facing the wall, his back to the room. As the guns had fired, as the bullets had flown, Søren had ducked and covered out of harm’s way. But he wasn’t out of harm’s way. He would kill the man himself for his cowardice, for letting Nora—
“I’m here, Wes,” came Nora’s voice, still and small and coming from seemingly nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Where are you?” he called, rushing around, looking for her. Had she been shot? Was she hiding somewhere?
Slowly Søren started to turn and Wesley rushed toward him.
“Søren, where the f**k is Nora?” Wesley demanded, more furious than he’d ever been in his life. If he’d hidden while Nora had gotten hurt, he’d kill the priest with his own bare hands.
“I said I’m here, Wes.” Now he saw her.
She lay curled in the corner of the room, tucked tight into the fetal position, entirely unexposed to the battlefield all around them. Søren had shielded her from the bullets with his own body. With her head against his chest, with her eyes closed, Nora had never looked so alive, so beautiful.
So safe.
37
THE ROOK
Grace stood at the window of the house and prayed. She hadn’t done this in years, hadn’t given her faith any thoughts at all. Two days in Søren’s presence had turned her devout as a nun. She had no thoughts anymore, no fears. Her mind had turned into nothing but one prayer that she repeated over and over again until it became like the chant of the medieval monks.
Deliver us from evil...deliver us from evil...deliver us from evil...
