Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

Thank you, God. Thank you, for bringing me back to him.

At first, our conversation was rushed statements of how much we’d missed each other. Next, we discussed the pain of being away from each other. And then he asked the hard questions, the ones I didn’t want to answer. He asked about the Devil.

I told him everything—the couch compartments, the slapping, the cutting, the torture of Shalimar. I confessed it all, doing my best to not cry.

Still driving, Jean-Pierre moved his right hand and held mine. “Don’t worry about anyone coming for you. I have more men and—”

“I know I’m safe with you.” I tightened my grip, scared that we would get separated from each other again. “I’m always safe, when I’m by your side.”

He slipped his thumb along my wrist. “I’ll never leave you alone again.”

“You can’t promise that.” I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

“I do.”

“Don’t.”

“Then who?”

My heart ached. “Blame Aunt Celina. She stole codes from her boyfriend, that died. Ones that controlled nuclear weapons.”

“Kazimir’s babies? That’s what all of this was about?” He gripped the steering wheel hard. “And she thought that she could just mail them to your house in Belladonna and no one would get them? Even if my men had been there and hers, they would’ve been killed.”

I swallowed. “Now she knows. Leo is dead, along with Shalimar, her mother and her sister…so many people are dead because of…codes.”

Silence filled the car for a few seconds.

And then Jean-Pierre ended the quiet. “People will go after Celina, now.”

“I know.”

“They will also come for us.”

“Due to the Lion’s lover being kidnapped?”

“Yes.” Jean-Pierre cleared his throat. “I may have. . .kidnapped her, thinking Kazimir had taken you.”

“I heard.” It was hard not to keep a smile off my face.

“You think that’s funny?” He quirked his eyebrows, speeding up fast and guiding us with precision into another lane. The vans struggled to keep up. He frowned, slowed down, and then turned back to me. “Why are you grinning?”

“I… I guess I’m just trying to find the funny parts to this.”

“That’s a good way to not drown in the darkness. Were there any other funny parts?”

“Besides talking to a unicorn… no.”

“Unicorn?”

“I was drugged.”

His soft expression hardened, as he turned back to the road. “Who did it?”

“He’s dead now.”

“He’s lucky. Who killed him?”

“I don’t remember anymore. Maybe the Devil. He kept killing his own men.”

“He always did. It increases the pot, when the job is done.”

I blinked as a cold shiver ran through me. “So many people killed others.”

He gritted his teeth.

“But there was a unicorn that would come and talk to me. I would pet him. At first, I was mad that he was talking to me, but. . .this is stupid.”

“No. Things are making sense.”

“What?” I asked.

“You were petting something in the van.”

I cringed. “When? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Damn it. When are the drugs going to wear off?”

Is this all an illusion?

I looked around. “I’m in the car now?”

“Yes. You’re here with me.”

I let out a long breath.

He slid his thumb along my palm. “We’ll find out what they gave you. We’ll make sure everything is okay. I’m here. Don’t worry.”

I’m still petting Uni. I don’t remember. Maybe it’s a habit now. I pet the air. That’s not normal. I have to pay attention.

“Eden. . .” Jean-Pierre lowered his voice. “You went through a lot. Let me take care of you.”

“Okay.” I squeezed his hand back. “You’re injured too. Let’s take care of each other.”

“We will.”

There was more to say, but I couldn’t find the words. Lots of fear lingered in my heart. Everything had finished, but still my body trembled. The Devil. Kazimir. The Russians were all gone, but still I felt them in the car, crowding the space.

I noticed myself petting the air and stopped.

Uni wasn’t there.

It’s just a nervous habit then. . .maybe.

“What’s wrong, reine?”

“I’m. . .” My words left me. I touched the large bandage on my face with my free hand. The hand that was clearly swollen. I couldn’t bend my fingers. My index and middle were twice the size of the ones on my other hand. They looked back at me, fat, and with a reddish tint. I went back to touching the bandage, knowing the ugly scars that lay underneath it.

Will they heal back to new? No. How could they? But would they be less of scars?

When Kazimir’s doctor finished stitching the lines and showed me a mirror, I’d cried. The scars started near the top of my right ear, sliced down my face and cheeks, and stopped at the corner of my mouth. Four jagged lines across my right cheek.

Every time I would look in the mirror, I’d remember the Devil.

Would Jean-Pierre see the devil too when he looked at me?