Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

“Sh-Shalimar. She said my Aunt Celina wanted me to wear it and remember where I came from.”

He pushed me away. “So, you’re Celina’s niece. I assumed you were connected the way Jean-Pierre had been drooling after you the past three days.”

He’d been watching us for that long?

The Devil asked, “When did Shalimar give you the necklace?”

“Uh. . .three or four days ago.”

The other man nodded his head. “That’s why we tracked the codes to here, after arriving in Paris. Shalimar had escaped us in Belladonna and Montreal, but—”

“Doesn’t matter. Shalimar has the other part of the codes and there’s no tracker.” The Devil punched his wall. “They attach together.”

He pulled a tiny, black square out of his pocket. It was barely an inch long and wide. The others stared at his palm. It was what had been in the violin.

“Do you think you should just keep it in your pocket?”

Footsteps pounded outside our door.

“They’re evacuating the building.” The Devil dragged me over to the sofa. “Let’s go. Stick to the plan.”

Everyone changed, pulling off their black shirts and pants. My heart broke, as I saw their cop uniforms underneath.

The first one that was completely dressed and donning a cop hat, cleared away all of their earlier clothes. Another went to the gray loveseat near me and lifted the cushions.

I gasped.

It hid a wooden compartment, the length and width of the loveseat. And an old dead woman was inside. They piled the clothes on top of her and shut the lid. No one walking into the room or sitting down on that loveseat would know that a dead body resided underneath them.

“Here.” A man gave me two bottles of water and a long package of crackers. “Make them last.”

“What?”

He lifted the sofa the same way as the loveseat. Another dead body was in that too. This time, a skinny old man with a balding head.

“Go on.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No. I’m not going in there.”

They pushed me into the sofa.

“No!” I tried to climb out. “I’m not staying in here!”

The Devil slapped me, but he’d hit me more than enough and I was eyelevel with his crotch. I bit at it, clamping my mouth down on the material, and what I figured was his disgusting penis.

I couldn’t grip anything.

He slapped me again.

I fell back.

Another shoved me down into the sofa.

The Devil gave off a wicked laugh. “I don’t have a dick anymore, princess. You have Jean-Pierre to think for that.”

My heart pounded. I was now on top of the dead body. My knees dug into the cold man’s stomach. And no one looked to give me a way out.

And so, I glared at the Devil and spat out the next words. “Did he cut off your balls too?”

“He did.”

“I can tell.”

The Devil raised his hand to slap me.

I didn’t flinch. What was the point? No amount of acquiescing was going to sway this crowd of monsters.

“Let’s go!” Someone yelled from the balcony.

One of the men by the sofa, picked up the water bottles and crackers that had fallen out of my hands. He threw them into the sofa cavity.

The Devil looked at him. “What’s that for?”

“So, she won’t starve.”

The Devil chuckled. “Who cares about that?”

“Don’t you want her healthy for when you kill her?”

“Good point.”

I glared at both of them. “I’ll kill myself before you two. Trust me.”

The guy shook his head. “She’s insane.”

The Devil laughed. “You think Jean-Pierre could find a normal woman to fall for him? No. Something is definitely wrong with her.”

And then he shoved me back in. I hit the wood walls of the sofa, and they clamped the top down.

“No!”

It was like being in a coffin, just one big enough to hold an old man, a small snack, and a screaming woman.

In the darkness, I banged against the wood with my fists. I punched at the surface. I kicked at the walls. I hit and fought against the sofa’s top. Feeling more like I was beating at the world.

In the darkness, I screamed until my voice was hoarse. I yelled. I cried. I pissed myself. It warmed my leg. I had no dignity. No pride.

In the darkness, I found the water bottles that they’d given to me. I drank the first, all in one failed swoop. At the last drop, I realized the water tasted different from regular water.

This isn’t water.

A minute later, my tongue went numb.

What did he give me?

My head fogged like I’d smoked seven blunts in a row.

In the darkness, I shook, and it wasn’t the coffin that did it. It was the liquid in the bottle. It was warming me. It was making me see things. Hear things. Feel things. I spun around over, and over close to vomiting, but never moved an inch.

“Jean-Pierre!”

In the darkness, I scratched out my last will and testament on the wood. I couldn’t see, but I knew the words to be clear and true. My fingertips stung as the wood pierced. My fingertips were wet with my blood.