by Evelyn Glass
We get to the bottom of the hill just as the fire tears away some rafters and part of the roof of the cottage caves in. Tiles slide into the overgrown garden and shatter. The fire spits and hisses. The bricks are charred black and heat emanates from the cottage. Flickering hands dart out of the windows, the glass exploding in the heat, and lash out against the brick. There’s a crash as more rafters are torn and one of the walls collapses inward. It looks like it’s being eaten from the inside. Dry leaves in the garden, close to the windows, burst into flames and in a matter of seconds the entire garden is ablaze.
I stand just beyond the gate, watching as the flames engulf the house.
“What . . .” Felicity’s tone is numb. “What happened? An oven fire?”
“No,” I breathe. “Bear . . .”
I step forward without thinking. The flames hiss as the final rafters are consumed. The rest of the roof collapses; another wall totters. I step back, shielding Felicity with my body without thinking.
Bear is in there. I see the old man on his back, covered in smoke and being eaten alive by flames. The urge to charge in and save him, or at least reclaim the old bastard’s body, would overpower me if Felicity wasn’t here. But I have more to think about than Bear or myself. I need to protect her. She’s more important than all of it now.
I’m sorry, Bear, I think, turning away from the cottage.
I scout the other cottages. The next one over, about a quarter-mile, has a pickup truck outside. Right. My instincts kick in. If Mr. Black’s agents are here, they could be watching us right now. Or maybe they’re scouring the area. I don’t know, but I have to get Felicity out of here. That much is certain.
I take her by the hand and walk toward the pickup truck.
“Do you think he’s dead?” Felicity asks, walking quick in an effort to keep up with me.
My head pulses with rage. They killed Bear, I think, struggling not to clench my fist lest I crush Felicity’s hand. They killed Bear!
“Yes,” I say. “I think he’s dead. He was a mean, tough old bastard but even mean, tough old bastards burn.”
“What now?” Felicity says.
“We get you out of here, far away from whoever set that fire.”
As we walk, memories of Bear are thrust into my mind, despite my efforts to keep my head clear. I remember feeling lost and alone on the streets. The other kids were scared of me, because when I fought them, I hurt them bad. I didn’t feel good about it, not then, because it meant they left me alone. I was wandering the streets one night when I collapsed against the door of a Chinese takeout place. My belly was aching and it only occurred to me when I collapsed that I hadn’t eaten for five days. My head felt like it was going to explode. I was too young for all of it, but I was sure I was going to die. The customers in the takeout place ignored me. The owner began walking around the counter as if to shoo me away. And then this vending machine of a man, scarred and grizzled, stepped into his path.
“Don’t touch the boy,” he said, his voice strong, unwavering. “Don’t you dare touch the boy.” He stood over me. “Hungry, lad?” I barely managed to nod, and he scooped me into his arms and carried me up to his apartment. It was the first time in my life I had ever been treated kindly by anybody.
I shake my head, shaking away memories.
Keep her safe. Just keep her safe!
But Bear! Bear!
“Stop it,” I growl under my breath.
“What?” Felicity says.
“Wait here.” I let go of her hand, approach the driver’s side of the pickup, and smash the window with my elbow. The glass shatters and I reach in and unlock it.
“Come on,” I say, waving Felicity over.
“We can’t take this,” she says.
“We can and we are.”
There must be something in my voice which frightens her. She looks at me uncertainly.
“Get in,” I say.
She nods and climbs into the passenger seat. I get in, tear out the ignition panel, and begin hotwiring the car. I feel Felicity’s eyes on me, but I don’t have time to set her at ease right now. My only job is to keep her safe, make sure Mr. Black’s agents—the fucks who killed Bear—don’t get their hands on her. After this, I couldn’t give up Felicity even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. It’s me and her against the entire damn organization now and they’re stupider than I thought if they think I’ll give her up easily.
The wires spark and the car thrums to life. In the rearview mirror, a man wearing overalls and a wool cap runs into the garden, waving his arms and screaming in French.
I ignore him and step on the pedal, the truck coughing away from the cottage and toward the hill.
We need to head to the village, pick up supplies, and then be on our way. Get back to the States, pick up my funds, and then . . .
I can’t think about and then right now. Right now is enough to worry about.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Felicity
He just stole that man’s truck, I think, gazing across at Roma. It’s not just that, either. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn bone-white. He mutters under his breath fiercely, and I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. “Bear . . . kill the bastards . . . they’ll pay for this . . . keep her safe . . .”
It’s the first time since I met him I’ve seen him like this, as though he’s on the verge of losing control.
“Roma,” I say, as we trundle up the hill. “Roma, you need to calm down.”
He’s driving too fast and the suspension on the truck is shoddy. There are no seatbelts and we bump up and down as though just waiting for the chance to go flying through the window.
“Roma,” I say, and he glances across at me.
“Oh,” he breathes, relaxing his hands, and takes his foot off the pedal slightly.
The truck slows down as we reach the top of the hill, the village clear in the startling sunlight.
“Oh,” he repeats.
Then he steps from the truck, paces to the tree we met at last night, and punches it. Not just once, though. He punches it half a dozen times before I climb from the truck and jog over to him.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
Splinters of wood fly away from the tree. His knuckles turn red with blood and the place he punches becomes a massive dent in the bark.
“Roma,” I whisper, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Roma, stop.”
At my touch, he turns to me, chest heaving, an animal. Blood drips from his hands onto the grass.
I knew he was tough, but I’m shocked by this side of him. I’ve never seen such mad rage in a person before.
I touch his face. Hot, like he has a fever. A fever of fury, I think.
“Calm down,” I say, stroking his cheek. “Calm down and let’s just focus on the next step.”
He watches me for a long moment, his face torn, and then he nods and paces toward the car.
A trail of dripping blood follows him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Roma
I am showing Felicity a side of myself I never wanted her to see. As we drive, clambering down the hill, bumping in the seatbeltless seats, I look out of the corner my eye at her. She stares straight ahead and you wouldn’t know she’s scared except for the way her lips tremble, like she’s just seen a ghost. Or a madman hitman, or a psychopath.
I think of our sex on the hill—sex! It’s such a damn small word for what we shared. Women have normally been tools for me. Willing tools, make no mistake, but tools all the same. They see me, with my muscles and my killer’s eyes, and they want a piece of me. And I’m more than willing to let them if it means I get a few hours of release. But with Felicity it was much more than that. We weren’t just fucking. It wasn’t just sex. Strange, but I feel like I know her better after what we shared. You’re beginning to sound like a woman, a voice whispers. I ignore it. I don’t care.
And Bear . . .
I grip the steering whee
l harder, feeling the scabs on my knuckles stretch and tear. Bits of bark and wood cling to my bloodied knuckles like tiny pieces of shrapnel. Bear is back there, burning to death—probably already dead—and I’m driving away from him as fast as this old beat-up can will allow. I think of Bear’s smiling face as he hands me a beer or pats me on the back or laughs without reserve. I think of his strong hands as he reaches toward me with a jab whilst sparring. Bear was the only man I ever knew who I could call Father. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t.
I want to stop the truck and explain everything to Felicity. But I feel like there’s something between us that wasn’t there before. It isn’t until now, when the air is tinged with awkwardness, that I truly appreciate how easy it’s been with us, how few games we’ve had to play, how we immediately sunk into kindness and affection in a way I never thought was possible outside the movies. I glance across at her. I see her look at me with her bright green eyes, a tiny motion, and then she faces the front mirror again.
I sigh and we bump ahead in excruciating silence.
Punching the tree was stupid. It’s the sort of thing a rookie does, losing his cool like that. It’s not the sort of thing a trained killer like me is supposed to do. I’m meant to be ice. I’m meant to be carved from something hard and grisly. I’m supposed to be a blank sheet of rock which nothing can touch. I’ve never lost sleep and I never dreamed I’d lose sleep. I could put a bullet in a man’s head and then sleep like a baby half an hour later. But now . . . Felicity, Bear, all of it, the roiling madness. She has opened up something inside of me and I can’t close it. Years of suppressed rage and sadness pour from me.
Okay. Just think this thing out. Stop with the emotional bullshit.
With an effort, I thrust the emotions aside. I can’t get rid of them completely, not like I used to, but I can push them to the periphery of my mind. Mr. Black and the agency, it is clear, are tracking my movements. They’ve been tracking my movements this entire time. There are a few reasons why Mr. Black might do this. Perhaps he doesn’t trust my abilities. I doubt this; I’ve done enough killing for him, but it’s difficult to know when it comes to the shadow-coated Black. Another possibility is that this contract is so important he needed to monitor it. Perhaps his allies—whoever they are—wanted updates about how it was going. Or, and when this idea enters my mind I feel like roaring in rage, Mr. Black knew that Bear was somewhere in this area of France, but didn’t know exactly where. Maybe he thought there was a chance I would sneak off to see him, and when I did—
Which means he used me as a goddamn pawn to get to Bear. Which means Bear’s death is my fault.
But if they think they’ll hurt Felicity, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ll kill every fucking man who tries to lay a finger on her.
“Roma.”
Felicity’s voice is soft.
I stop the car just outside the village. A rain-and wind-battered sign reads off the name of the village, a jumble of letters which mean nothing to me. The sun is rising higher and I see a few people leaving their houses wearing bright, colorful flowing dresses and robes. From within the village somebody blows on a trumpet.
I turn to her, praying not to see shame and resentment in her eyes. There is neither, just confusion.
“Yes,” I say. My voice is strained.
Slowly, like a person reaching toward a skittish animal, Felicity moves her hand toward my face. She touches my cheek, strokes my skin, and looks deep into my eyes. Her hand is so soft, too soft for a face as hard as mine.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Everything is going to be okay. We have each other.”
We have each other. She has no clue how hard that hits me, a buckshot straight into my face. I’ve never had a woman before, not like that. I never imagined I could.
I reach up and trace her fingers with my hand, caressing them.
“We have each other,” I repeat, staring into her eyes. And then: “Felicity, don’t be scared of me. You never have to be scared of me.”
She swallows, and then nods. “I’m not scared of you,” she says. “I trust you.”
I take her hand, bring it to my lips, kiss her palm. “We’ll find a store and get some supplies, and then we’ll get you Stateside. We’ll get you safe.”
Another trumpet sounds from within the village.
“I think there’s a festival or something going on,” Felicity says.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Felicity
The festival is in full swing by the time we park up on the outskirts of the village. People charge by us dressed in all the colors of the rainbow. Long, flowing fabric which flutters behind them like capes. Roma looks over the roof of the car at me, teeth clenched, but there’s a smile at the corners of his lips. I think what I said to him has calmed him down. I’m glad. I don’t want Roma to be angry. Angry. Consumed with rage is more like it.
He walks around the car and takes me by the hand.
“Let’s get through this madness and find a store,” he says.
“Do we have money?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his blue eyes dark, and I know he’s planning to rob the store. I saw him steal a man’s car, after all. I want to stop him. I don’t want some innocent French shop owner to be the victim of our situation. But the smell of smoke still lingers in my nostrils and I know that we need to get out of here.
We walk farther into the village. The crowd grows thick. We’re not even on the main street, but there must be at least two-hundred people milling around, screaming in French and dancing from foot to foot. Trumpets blast all around us and children run around giggling. I notice one girl with a flower in her hair, her dress blue and red. She grins up at me, reaches into the folds of her dress, and offers me a flower. I take it and she skips away, giggling. Nobody approaches Roma.
“What is this?” Roma asks, but I can hear in his voice he’s not expecting an answer. I have no clue, anyway.
We make our way to the main street, a wide-paved, cobblestoned road lined with shops and stalls. The stalls have covers pulled down and all the shops are unlit and closed, their doors bolted shut. Roma lets out a shaky sigh and we walk into the crowd, searching the stores for an open one. “Might have to break in,” he muses.
Before I know it, we’re in a large square. A wooden stage has been erected in the center of the square and trumpet players stand upon it, marching up and down, blowing so hard their cheeks turn red. Small children run around them holding long sheets of fabric, painted just as colorfully as everybody’s outfits, making it look as though the trumpet players are lost in a mist of paint.
Then the crowd turns as one. Roma and I turn with them. A procession of people march up the street. Roma and I watch, bemused, as around three-hundred people march up the center of the street. We’re so confused and stunned by the strangeness of it all that we don’t even notice when another procession approaches from the opposite side. They march like soldiers, cutting straight through me and Roma. On reflex I let go of his hand. I’m swept to the other side of the street in the mayhem. I look over moving heads, half moving down, half up, but I can’t see Roma. I listen for his voice, but there’s nothing, just the trumpets and the cheering and the giggling. Balloons float up toward the sky, an air rifle is fired, and the balloons explode in a shower of color.
“Roma!” I call, but my voice is eaten up in the loudness of the festival as though in a vacuum.
I turn on the spot. He can’t be far from me, but the crowd is dense, packed shoulder to shoulder with people. Wherever I stand, I am brushing up against somebody. I’ll wait for the procession to pass, I think, but it goes on seemingly forever. I watch it for around a minute and then I realize why. The marchers swivel at the end of the street and walk back up. The same on the other side, too. A constant sea of marching legs and bobbing heads.
Somebody touches my shoulder. I turn, expecting it to be Roma, but even before I face the person, I sense that it’s not. Their touch is too soft. A huge, smiling F
rench woman wearing a billowing dress grins down at me. She shouts something in French and then takes me by the arm and leads me away from the crowd. I try to pull away from her, but she’s so caught up in the frenzy of the festival she doesn’t even notice. My muscles ache and my head whirrs and this woman is much larger than me; I can’t pull myself free.
She shouts and shouts and pulls me down a side street, down another, and down another until we are in a labyrinth of alleyways. She leads me around the back of a baker’s store. The scent of baked bread drifts up my nose, my belly grumbling. I yank my arm from the woman, wondering: What the hell is this? Where’s Roma? Seriously, what the hell is going on?