Loving the Enemy (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 0)

by Charmaine Pauls

  “I’ll survive.”

  She moved for the door, but he grabbed her wrist.

  “Come in, at least, and meet Katia. Karim warned her we’re coming. She would have already prepared a bed.”

  Lily looked at up the building. All she wanted to do, was get away, but Ali had helped her and she didn’t want to insult him by rejecting his hospitality, even if he was the grumpiest man she’d ever met.

  Freeing her arm, she said, “I don’t want to impose.”

  His smile seemed forced. “It would be rude not to go upstairs and have a drink. Knowing my cousin, she would have cooked a meal. Just check it out. If you don’t like what you see, you’re welcome to sleep in the street. What do I care? But I have to tell Karim that I honored my promise to bring you to Katia’s door. Karim will not be pleased if I leave you out in the night. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Fine,” Lily said, giving in reluctantly.

  They got out of the truck and walked to the main entrance. Ali rang a bell to which a female voice replied, and then they were buzzed in. They went up two flights of stairs, and stopped in front of a red door. A middle-aged woman dressed in a pink two-piece suit with stockings and black heels opened the door. Considering the hour, her attire surprised Lily. Who wore a suit and stockings in the early morning hours? Katia had black hair with a dull shine. It looked like a bad dye job. Her eyes were lined with kohl, and her lips painted red.

  She invited them in with a jovial wave and embraced Lily, but offered Ali nothing more than a slight nod. Her apartment was a mix of old-world luxury and decay. Judging by the faded velvet curtains, well-worn Persian carpets and lumpy Renaissance lounge seats, she once had a lot of money. Hanging on to those waning tokens of wealth was like clinging to an illusion. It made her home and everything about Katia seem false.

  “Sit down, dear,” she said to Lily, moving her to the couch. “I’ll get something to drink. Do you like mint tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Despite Katia’s friendliness, Lily didn’t feel welcome. She didn’t want to stay. It was only for a cup of tea, to be polite, and then she’d be on her way.

  Ali glanced back at her over his shoulder as he followed Katia to the kitchen. Lily deposited her bag on the seat next to her. A spring jabbed her in her bum, and she shifted her weight to find a more comfortable position. Her body ached from the long drive, and she was tired to the bone. Katia and Ali’s hushed voices drifted from the kitchen. They were speaking in French. The words ‘lock her in’ caught her attention. Her fatigue evaporated, making space for alarm. She got up and moved quietly down the hall.

  “And how will you manage that?” Ali said, his voice reaching her from the kitchen. “You can’t keep her against her will.”

  “I’ll slip a sleeping pill into her tea. When she wakes up, the broker will be here. He was very interested when I told him about her.”

  “We’re not in the human trafficking business. I don’t like this. It can backfire.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Why not just trade her to her family for money?”

  “No family can match what we’ll get for her on the slave market.”

  “I don’t like this. What if somebody starts looking for her and the trail leads back to us?”

  “Nobody’s going to look for her. Karim says her passport is fake.”

  “But sex slaves have to be trained. It’s a complicated process that takes a long time. She has to be broken. I’m telling you, we’re getting into something too deep for us to handle. If we sell her to someone and she’s a disappointment, our heads will roll.”

  “Stop worrying so much. No wonder you’re a pesky little man with hemorrhoids. I know of a buyer who likes to break them in himself. And he likes them young. Especially the light-skinned ones with blue eyes. Her hair is a problem, though. We’ll have to dye it. He likes blondes.”

  “Who?”

  “The Turk.”

  “The Turk? Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you know what you’re getting us mixed up with?”

  “Money.” She snickered. “There. It’s ready. Take this tea to her. And make sure she drinks it all. Wait. Let me stir it some more.”

  Lily had heard enough. She rushed to the lounge and grabbed her bag, then made her way to the door on shaky legs. She opened and closed it quietly, and ran downstairs.

  Escaping was almost too easy. She kept on looking back over her shoulder to see if Ali and Katia were following, but nobody came rushing from the building. Lucky for her, she never told Ali or Karim she spoke perfect French. Their ignorance saved her.

  A few blocks away, she stopped to mentally kick herself. She had been too trusting. If Katia and Ali had decided to tie her up, or if they had pointed a gun at her, she could have ended up as some Turk’s sex slave. A shudder ran down her spine.

  A group of loud youngsters rounded the corner. Lily asked for directions to the train station, and made her way there. Adrenalin still pumped through her body. It was only at the station that the shock set in. She vomited in a trashcan in the dark parking lot until there was nothing left but bile. She lay down on a bench, her body covered in cold sweat.

  When she felt stronger, she sat up and took the smartphone from her pocket. She switched it on. There were no messages, but several missed calls, all from different numbers. An insight hit her. What if she could be traced via the phone? Without giving it another thought, Lily threw the phone on the ground and stomped on it with her heel. It crunched under the weight of her boot. She dumped the pieces in the trash, rinsed her mouth under a drinking fountain, and walked into the building.

  Lily stood on the platform, feeling lost and defeated. She had come this far. She could make it. In the future, she’d trust her gut. No more Karims and Alis. When a train pulled in, she got on, not caring that she didn’t have a ticket, or that she didn’t know where it was going.

  A conductor woke her up a couple of hours later and threatened to hand her over to the police, but finally only threw her off the train at Avignon. From there, she caught a ride with a farmer who shared his sandwich with her, and dropped her eight hours later in Saint-Malo, in the far north. She looked around. She needed a place to rest. She was too tired to carry on tonight. Tomorrow she’d take a road, any road, and go to wherever it took her. With her fake passport she could find a job, and even better if she could find something that paid under the table, so that she didn’t have to leave a trail. All she needed was a quiet, secluded little town, and then she’d work hard at building that white picket fence house with the puppy running in the yard. She didn’t care what Jacob said. She was no longer her father’s daughter. She was Mary, a girl with a new life.

  Recalling a small cathedral a little ways up the road, she started walking back from the way she had come. It was fully dark now, but instead of scaring her, it made her feel safe. She could disappear into the darkness. It kept her invisible. It was a blackness she could get lost in for a few hours, where nothing seemed real and the truth was only a dream.

  When the graveyard came into sight, she took the pedestrian gate and followed the path through the headstones. To her relief, the church door was unlocked, as many of the country ones were. Her steps echoed down the center aisle. The building was cool inside, a welcome relief from the summer heat outside, and it had a strange smell, almost like chalk. Lily chose a bench in the middle of the cathedral, from where she had view on both the main and the side door, and lay down with her head on her bag.

  Although no lights were on, the interior was illuminated by the moon that shone through the stained glass panes. She stared at the arched ceiling, each corner adorned with the face and wings of an angel. She wished she could stay here forever, sleep here every night under the watchful faces of the angels and the gargoyles that guarded the pewter. And then a thought struck her. Maybe she could.

  Lily jerked awake in a cold sweat. It was the same nightmare, except that this time Jacob faced her, pointing
his revolver at her while the man with the filthy breath held her by the hair. She took a shaky breath and fought not to relive the dream in her conscious mind. It was bad enough she had to do it subconsciously.

  The day was starting to grow light. Her back ached and her body was stiff from sleeping on the hard bench. The soreness between her legs reminded her of what she had lost. She thought about Jacob waking up in the bed in the camper, but pushed the image from her mind. She stretched and got up. She first went in search of the bathroom, which she found in the basement, the door unlocked. Then she took out the knife, and knelt in front of the candles, of which none was lit. Considering it was such a small village, maybe no travelers stopped to light candles, and the townspeople would do it when they attended the Sunday mass. She tried to remember which day it was, and realized with a jolt that she had no idea.

  Turning her attention back to the task at hand, she pushed the knife into the slot of the moneybox that held the coins people paid for the candles. It wasn’t hard to force the lock. These boxes weren’t built to withstand theft attempts. The fear of God alone was enough of an anti-theft device in a place like this. Retrieving the coins, she glanced up at the statue of Mary.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  She shoved the coins into her pocket, and wiped the inside and outside of the box clean with a T-shirt she took from her bag, something she had seen on television, and then sneaked back into the village. In front of the bakery, she spotted a bicycle leaning on a lamppost. Looking around, she took the bike and pushed it out of sight before she got on and headed for the main road. At the cross, Lily stopped. There were four signs for different villages she didn’t know. She chose one and started cycling.

  At midday she stopped in the shade of a tree to eat an energy bar and to fill up the water bottle from a nearby tap. By evening, she arrived at a small village with a few shops around a central square. With the coins from the church, she had enough money to buy a pie from the bakery, which she ate on a bench that overlooked the fountain. By nightfall, she had found that village’s church, and did the same thing she did the night before.

  The following morning she washed herself as best as she could in the church restroom basin, and shampooed her hair. Before the first cock crowed, she had robbed the church and was on her way to the next.

  It took her a week to crisscross a network of country roads that took her farther east, to a village called Huisnes-sur-Mer. Cycling into the village, she sought out the church first, since it was almost dark. As all the others, this one had a graveyard that surrounded it, but it was much bigger. She pushed her bike through the gate, the wheels and her shoes crunching on the gravel.

  “Can I help you?” a voice called out.

  Lily jerked. A man wearing a black robe and a white collar slowly straightened from where he knelt in front of a grave, a shovel and watering can next to him.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  He dusted his robe and studied her. “Are you visiting a grave, or did you come for a confession?”

  Lily recovered quickly. “Neither, I’m afraid. I’m looking for a job.”

  “Ah.” He walked to her. He had intelligent gray eyes and thin, red hair. His eyes twinkled. “And you were going to ask the dead for one, were you? Or maybe you were going to pray, asking God to lead you to a job.”

  She looked around and spotted a back gate that gave access to a dirt road. “Actually, I was just taking a shortcut.”

  “Ah,” he said again, following the direction of her eyes. “That road leads to Paul Moreau’s farm, and I’m afraid you’ll find neither job nor shelter there.”

  She was weary, and her bum was hurting from being in the saddle all day. “Isn’t there a rule that says priests must give anyone who knocks on their door shelter?”

  He placed his hands on his hips. “Now where did you hear that?”

  “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  He raised a brow. “You mean the old movie?”

  “The book.”

  “Mm.” He scratched his head. “Well, that’s fiction young lady.”

  She sighed and shrugged. “It was worth a try.” She turned her bike around.

  “Where will you go?”

  “To the village.”

  “There is a hotel.”

  “How much per night?”

  “Two hundred, I think.”

  She whistled. “Wow. In that case, I’m moving on.” It was her bad luck that this church had a priest. The others seemed deserted.

  “Wait,” he said, “what kind of job are you looking for?”

  “Anything.”

  “I can make use of someone helping out with the cleaning, and tending the graves.” He looked at her from under his red eyebrows. “But it is a rather somber job for a well-read young lady.”

  “Seems fitting.” Maybe looking after the dead would be her penance for all the deaths she was responsible for. “I’ll take it. How much do you pay?”

  He scratched his chin. “A hundred Euro a week. But it does include room and board,” he added quickly, “and confessions.”

  “Deal.”

  “Are you a member of the church, child?”

  “No. My parents never went.”

  “Well, we’ll have to baptize you first, then. I’m not allowed to take in a non-believer.” He shrugged apologetically. “That’s the only rule laid down by my sponsors, I’m afraid.” He waved his hand in the air. “They paid for the restoration.”

  “Don’t I have to be Catholic to be baptized?”

  “God won’t mind.” He walked back to the grave and gathered his tools. “Let me show you the accommodation.” He led her across the yard to a double story stone house. “This is the parish. And here,” he opened the door to a small flat that was built on the side, “is your quarters.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll let you settle in. Come over at eight for supper.” He extended his hand. “Let’s shake on your new employment. I’m Father Brice.”

  “Mary Franklin.”

  “Congratulations, Mary. You’re our new churchyard keeper.”

  She nodded gratefully and watched Father Brice enter his house. Leaning the bike against the outside wall, she walked into a small kitchen with a wooden table, two chairs, and a gas stove. Pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls, and crockery was stacked in a sideboard that stood against one wall. She drew her finger over the table. It was covered with a thick layer of dust. Nobody had been living here for a while.

  The kitchen opened onto a small bedroom and bathroom. There was nothing more to the flat. It was perfect. The room held a single bed and an armoire. The bathroom was modern with a shower and tiled floor. It seemed recently done, not like the rest of the stone cottage that exuded antiquity. The flat needed a good scrubbing. And she looked forward to it. The physical work would be a good metaphor for starting over, with a clean slate. It would also help not to think of dead people, and of Jacob.

  Chapter Nine

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  Stupid, stupid girl. Jacob raged through town after town like a mad man. He never allowed his emotions to reach the surface as he searched every nook and cranny. In one week he had covered all the towns on the major route north and east, but there was no sign of Lily. He stood in the main road of Louis Trichardt, contemplating his options. This was as far north as he could go without crossing into Zimbabwe.

  Damn her. She was no match for the men who were after her. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. The one minute she had given her body to him, and her trust, and the next, right after he had made that comment about the picket fence, she was gone. If his contractor knew he had lost his prisoner, he was toast. And without someone to protect her, he didn’t dare to think what could happen to Lily.

  He had called the smartphone she had taken from every phone booth he came across, but the phone was always off. His hacker, who was tracking the chip, couldn’t give him a location. All he confi
rmed was that the phone hardware had been destroyed. It didn’t help that every town from here to Musina was sold out of phone cards. What the hell was wrong with this region? He needed to get hold of more money, and a phone. First, he needed a computer. He only had an hour before the link he needed to access wouldn’t be valid any longer. That was the maximum time his hacker could secure. After that, the risk of the virtual virus being discovered was too big.

  He spotted a gift shop. It was a small outlet that wasn’t busy. He crossed the road and entered the store. The woman bent over a computer behind the counter had to be in her mid-thirties.

  “Hey,” Jacob said, putting on his best smile.

  She didn’t look up immediately. She finished what she was reading on the laptop, and then turned to him with a bored expression that changed the minute her gaze ran over him.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a prepaid cellphone card. Where can I buy one?”

  She shook her head. “Sold out. Transport strike. You won’t find any for miles.”

  That’s what everyone kept telling him. “Thanks. And I’m looking for a souvenir for my mother.”

  She got to her feet and pushed her breasts toward him, the reaction he had been hoping for. “What does she like?”

  “I was thinking … this.” He lifted a photo frame with the name of the town from a shelf next to him. “With a photo of me. What do you think?” He made it sound as if her opinion meant everything.

  “I think that’s brilliant,” she cooed. “She’s going to love it.”

  Her eyes were all over him and he hated it. The only eyes he could tolerate were Lily’s.

  “You think so?”

  She nodded enthusiastically and took the frame from him. “Shall I ring it up?”

  “Please.” He leaned with his elbows on the counter while she rang up the ugly frame. He noted the mobile phone. “Can I ask you a big favor?”