Aubrielle's Call

by Bowen, C. Marie

  “Let me see.” Henri held his hand out for the telegram. “At least they’re both well and leaving for the French Riviera. It sounds as though they would like for you to join them.”

  John handed the telegram to Henri. “François and Billy plan to leave Paris. I suspect they have information about the war we do not.”

  An uneasy tingle on the back of John’s neck intensified, clawing its way down his spine. He gasped as a sharp shiver shook the foundation of his soul.

  Dear God, no.

  Movement inside the club ceased. Held captive by an ancient curse. By a call.

  Aubrielle.

  The waitress beside their table had lifted a glass of wine from her tray. Her motion froze. Her smile, fixed and unmoving.

  The violinist held his bow poised above the strings, halted in mid-stroke. The music silenced.

  The dancer’s twirl hung suspended. Her toes dangled several inches above the wooden stage. Glitter spun away from her dress and hung motionless in the air.

  Inside John’s head pain expanded, crushing all his other senses.

  Then movement resumed. Sound returned. The agony in his head diminished to a single blistering point on the side of his skull. He blinked at Henri through panicked tears and came to his feet, gripping the table as a wave of dizziness washed over him. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Are you ill?” Bonet sat forward.

  Marcel came to his feet and searched the club for an immediate threat, then stared with concern at John.

  Henri’s hand steadied John’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Aubrielle.”

  * * *

  Aubrielle wiped the wineglass dry and put it away in the cupboard. Without pause, she reached for a plate and ran her dishtowel over the wet ceramic.

  Mae had retired to the living room after dinner. By unspoken agreement, whoever cooked did not have to help with the dishes.

  Instead of the music Aubrielle preferred, Mae had tuned in the National News. The war declared last fall had finally begun in earnest.

  John’s fear of the war must have affected her. She startled and dropped Mae’s plate when a knock sounded at the back door. The platter shattered into shards at her feet.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Yes, Tante Mae.” She peered through the open curtains on the door.

  A man waited on the landing. His back to the glass.

  “Who’s at the door?” The chair squeaked in the front room.

  “I can’t tell.” Aubrielle tossed the dishtowel over the clean dishes in the sink, wiped her hands on her apron and looked again through the glass.

  The man turned slightly and their gazes met. He waved apologetically and shrugged. The dark mark on his chin and neck were visible in the light from the hall.

  “It’s a customer from the park.” She’d trusted strangers from the park before, and the memory still burned. Aubrielle hesitated. “Should I see what he wants?”

  Mae came down the hall and studied the man through the door. “I don’t see why not. Perhaps he wants to place an order for tomorrow morning.”

  The man smiled and waved at the women through the glass.

  Aubrielle stepped forward, unlocked and opened the door. “Bonsoir. Puis-je vous aider?”

  * * *

  “I’ve got to go.” John shrugged off Henri’s hand. “Something’s happened to Aubrielle.”

  “How would you know that?” Henri asked.

  “Marcel, you’re in charge until I return.” Bonet slid from the booth with the grace of a much thinner man. He tossed Henri the keys to his car. “You shall drive. You know the quickest way.”

  The three men threaded their way around the tables and rushed through the back rooms. Maurice Bonet parked his vehicle close to the rear entrance.

  Henri turned the ignition. “Ready?” He glanced at Maurice.

  “Oui. Allons-y!” Maurice moved to the middle of the back seat and leaned forward between John and Henri. “Mae is with young Aubrielle.”

  Henri couldn’t drive fast enough for John. The stinging needle above his brow throbbed out the seconds. “Here! Turn here.”

  Henri took the turn a bit too fast, and the tires squealed. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, but the windshield remained dry.

  The car slid to a halt in the middle of the ruelle behind the bakery. The back door to Mae’s home stood open.

  John raced up the steps and into the house.

  A smear of blood marked the wall. A plate lay shattered on the kitchen floor.

  Maurice huffed into the house behind John. “Where are they?”

  Over the voice of the newscaster, they heard a muffled thump.

  John tried to open the washroom door, but the latch wouldn’t budge. “Mae?” he yelled. The sting on the side of his head told him Aubrielle was gone.

  Another muffled thump, and John stepped back, kicking the handle and shattering the frame. The door swung open.

  Maurice pushed past John and fell to his knees beside the bathtub.

  A knotted dishtowel had been forced into Mae’s mouth and tied behind her head. Her nose bled over the white cloth. She lay on her side in the tub. Her hands tied behind her back. Her furious eyes rimmed with tears.

  Maurice untied the gag, tossed it aside and worked the knotted twine around her wrists.

  The urge to follow the point of pain marking the path to Aubrielle tore at John’s mind as his sight locked with Mae’s.

  “He came for Aubrielle, John. He forced her to tie me up.” Her fierce anger faltered, and she uttered a sob as Maurice lifted her to her feet. “He had a gun.”

  “Who had a gun?” Dread punched John in the stomach. He knew. He knew.

  “I don’t know.” Mae clung to Maurice as he helped her from the tub. “Aubrielle said she knew him from the park.” She hugged Maurice then her eyes went wide. “He had a birthmark or scar on his neck and face.” Her hand trembled as she held it to her neck.

  “Karl Reimer. Le salaud.” Henri pressed past John and handed Maurice a washcloth. “Where are you going?” He called at the empty doorway.

  “To get Aubrielle,” John replied over his shoulder.

  “John. Wait.” Henri followed him onto the back porch. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. Maurice and Mae need you here. I can find Aubrielle.” He started down the steps, then turned to Henri. “If you can leave Paris, do so. Go south, like Billy said.” He reached out and grasped Henri’s hand.

  How much can I tell him? What will he believe?

  “France will surrender to Germany by midsummer. There will be German troops in Paris, Hitler himself, by this time next month.”

  “John, how can you possibly know this?” Henri gripped John’s hand, his brows drawn together in dismay.

  “I just do.” He returned to the porch and wrapped Henri in a hug. “Take care of yourself,” John whispered. “Take care of Mae and Maurice.”

  “You won’t be back?” Henri called. “John?”

  Seized with a sudden premonition of horror, John ran down the steps.

  Nescato or Hitler. Which would be worse?

  It didn’t matter. Whichever evil Karl raced toward would mean Aubrielle’s death.

  I can’t lose her now.

  He hesitated at the gate and looked up at his apartment window. There are things I need. He dodged past Bonet’s car, rounded the building and took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. From beneath the bed, he pulled the two Thompson submachine guns. Both had a half magazine remaining. He rolled the weapons in a sheet.

  He opened the top dresser drawer and stared for a moment at the hand-carved box beside his gun and holster.

  The box is too big, but there are things I can’t leave behind.

  Inside were his ships papers for John Larson, and his identification papers for the British citizen John Locke. He slid both into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  He picked up the leather bag and weighed it
in his palm. The treasures it contained were irreplaceable, links in a chain trailing back across centuries.

  An engraved silver band Alyse had worn for over 40 years. A brass key, with the number seventeen, etched into the head. The tarnished key to the house in Denver and more.

  He shoved the pouch into his trouser pocket, along with a handful of francs, and then replaced the lid on the box. He checked the gun clip then slid the revolver beneath the belt at the small of his back. The leather holster he wrapped around the sheets and carried the weapons bundle out the door.

  In the alley, Maurice helped Mae into his car. “I am taking her to the hospital. She fainted after you left.” He eyed the bed sheets and holster in John’s arms. “Make him pay.”

  “I intend to.” He bent and looked through the car window at Mae.

  She rolled down the window. “Bring her home, please, John.”

  “I’ll try to come back.” He pressed his lips. “But if we can’t get back to Paris, I’ll take her to safety. I promise. Thank you, Mae. For everything.”

  Mae covered her mouth with her hands and nodded, unable to speak as tears raced down her cheeks.

  “Bonne chance, John Larson.” Maurice gave his shoulder a pat then moved quickly around the car.

  “I’m going with them,” Henri said.

  “Here.” John dangled his keys from his fingers. “Take these. Let the butcher know I’ve left. Take the food and clothes if you want them.” He paused and gave Henri a meaningful stare. “There’s a box in the dresser that means something to me. I’d like for you to have it.”

  “Thank you, John.” Henri took the keys. “Good luck, mon ami.” He folded himself into the car’s back seat and closed the door.

  John watched Maurice drive down the alley and turn onto the street. As soon as the car wasn’t visible anymore, John raced between the buildings toward François’s truck. The old vehicle remained parked across from Mae’s bakery, fueled and maintained should François or Billy return for it.

  John slid the sheet-shrouded submachine guns across the truck’s bench seat and climbed in. The old vehicle roared to life while a bee-sting compass-point pounded urgency against his skull.

  CHAPTER 33

  The scarred man forced Aubrielle to kneel on the floorboard of the back seat of his automobile. He ran the cold barrel of his gun along her neck then laughed as he pushed her head to her knees. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut until I say otherwise. C’est compris?”

  Her wrists, tied together with the same coarse twine he’d forced her use on Tante Mae, were sticky. Her hands smelled of blood. Mae’s blood.

  She couldn’t get the image out of her mind. The constant reproach repeated in her mind.

  I knew better than to open the door. I knew better. I knew.

  As soon as she had, the man stepped past her, and struck Mae hard with his fist. It slammed into Mae’s surprised face, knocking her to the floor where she lay still, bleeding from her nose and mouth.

  Before Aubrielle had been able to manage more than a gasp, the man held a gun to her head and began giving orders.

  Folded over her knees, she watched the brief slant of light illuminate her tight prison before it moved back into darkness, until the next streetlight.

  The carpet beneath her nose reeked of spoiled wine and urine. Nausea twisted in her stomach.

  Why had he taken her?

  There were other men in the car. The driver and a passenger in the front seat, her and the marked man in the back. The three men spoke sparingly, mostly grunts of acknowledgment or brief questions about direction. They headed north.

  Once the light from the streetlamps ceased, and the cab remained dark, her kidnapper spoke, as though he read her mind.

  “You must wonder why you’re here.”

  Amused laughter came from the front seat.

  Aubrielle swallowed. The pain along her thighs and back from the uncomfortable position made it hard to take a full breath. She shook her head.

  “Come now. You have questions. I know you do.” He gave the leather seat beside her ear a pat. “We are out of the city. Sit up here with me.”

  She attempted to straighten her spine, to raise her shoulders, but the muscles in her back seized and cramped.

  “She tries my patience already.” The marked man grabbed her arm and yanked her up, wrenching her shoulder.

  Her legs straightened as he pulled her onto the seat by his side. Her limbs felt dead and disconnected from her body, appendages too heavy to lift. The cramping pain in her back and shoulder masked the touch of his hand on her breast. Until he pinched.

  She gasped and tried to pull away, but her legs wouldn’t move. She could only bend forward.

  He pushed her down on the seat, her head near the door, and ran his hand up her leg.

  Even in the darkness, she was close enough to see there were no handles. No way to open the door or window. No way to escape.

  He yanked her skirt up and ran his hands over her hips.

  “Stop it. Stop.” Aubrielle kicked out, and tiny stinging knives flashed along her legs as blood flow returned.

  He grabbed one of her legs and flipped her onto her back, putting her ankle between his ribs and the cushion. He pushed her other leg against the back side of the front seat with his foot, spreading her legs wide.

  “If you’re going to fuck her we need to stop. Bruce will wreck trying to watch.” The passenger turned in the seat. “Besides, I want cette petite chatte, too.”

  “You said we weren’t to kill her,” the driver said.

  “No. We can’t kill her. He can’t follow us if she’s dead,” the marked man replied.

  “How will he know?”

  “He’ll know. The baroness told me he must find her when her life is threatened. He can sense her.”

  “If we’re not going to kill her—”

  “We’re not, but Baroness Nescato will. She’ll gut this little French fish like a flounder.” His hand ran up the inside of her thigh, and he flipped her full skirt over her face. “Make no mistake. Her life is in terrible danger.”

  “No!” Aubrielle screamed and kicked wildly. She freed her leg from beneath his shoe and swung it toward his head.

  He knocked it away and laughed again.

  She batted the skirt from her face and used her elbows to drag herself away from him across the seat.

  He held one of her legs pinned between himself and the seat. He leaned over and ran his tongue along her naked thigh.

  Aubrielle shrieked and hit his head with her tied hands. “No. No. No.”

  “So feisty.” He grabbed her wrists and yanked her upright. “I like it when you scream.”

  The car careened off the road for a moment, bouncing along the ungraded shoulder, then back onto the gravel.

  “I told you we need to stop. Once we all have our turn with her, we will continue.”

  “He’ll be coming,” the scarred man said, and licked his lips. “He always comes for you, but you wouldn’t know this, would you?”

  The car slowed. “If we go too far we’ll run into French and British troops.”

  “We only need to keep ahead of John Larson. Once our panzer division makes it through the Ardennes, they will sweep across France to the channel, separating us from him. How Larson reaches this little bitch after the baroness has her is of no concern to me.”

  “What does the baroness want with her if she’s only going to gut her?”

  “Nescato doesn’t want this little bitch. She wants John Larson or whatever name he’s using now. The baroness confided to me she has searched for this man for nearly two thousand years.”

  The driver turned down a dirt road as they laughed from the front seat.

  “You said this baroness was a young beauty. She sounds like an old hag.”

  “A very old hag.”

  “She’s a witch and never ages, just like her mate, John Larson.”

  Aubrielle’s adrenaline fueled thoughts could ma
ke no sense of their conversation.

  John’s mate? Two thousand years old? A witch would gut her?

  Panic robbed her of rational thought.

  The vehicle stopped, and both men in the front seat got out. The back door opened, and the marked man slid out of the car, his grip never lessening on her wrists.

  Aubrielle fell to the ground as he dragged her from the car, but he yanked her back to her feet. “Walk.”

  “Up in the headlights, so we can watch.” The one they called Bruce walked ahead of them.

  Karl gripped her above the elbow and pushed her ahead of him to where the driver waited.

  When they reached the light from the headlights, he spun her around and ground his mouth down on her lips so hard she tasted blood. Then he shoved her backward.

  Aubrielle stumbled, desperate to stay on her feet.

  Rough hands grabbed her and yanked her wrists up and over his head. When he straightened, both of her shoulders popped. Her back to his stomach, she dangled down the man's chest. Her tied wrists secured behind his neck, her toes barely touching the ground. He pulled her tucked shirt out of the waist of her skirt and ran his calloused hands up her bare skin to her breasts.

  She could smell his fetid breath at the side of her face.

  His fingers slid beneath the elastic of her brassiere and pulled up, freeing her breasts to his hands.

  She kicked him and screamed as he bit down on her ear.

  A single gunshot echoed in the night, and her assailant froze.

  In front of her, a bullet hole appeared in the side of the driver’s forehead. He stared back into her eyes as he fell.

  Her attacker shoved her arms from around his neck and pushed her to the ground. “Where? Where?” He dodged out of the beam of the headlights and into the darkness.

  Aubrielle didn’t see where Karl went or hear his response if he made one. She balanced on her elbows and knees as she stared into the eyes of a dead man. Panting with terror, her vision spun, and she lowered her forehead to the dirt, her bound wrists stretched before her. “Sainte mère de Dieu, protégez-moi!”

  “John.” She whispered his name, unsure if it was a prayer, a wish, or a talisman against evil, she only knew he was out there. If she could stay alive, he would come for her.