If you'd like translations of the French used in this story, please PM me.I'd also like to thank Strider and Soup_Lover_9 for their help with everything, and especially the French. You guys are amazing.
Les Femmes Noires One-Shot Contest
Title: Dull Gold Heart
Your pen name: Parrannnah
Characters: Alice, Bella (Belle Noir), Rosalie (Rose D'Or), Edward, Emmett, Jasper, Tanya, Victoria (Victoire)
Disclaimer: I own nothing but La Ville.
There aren't many things in life that get me down. The Red Sox losing, an empty fridge, and a shortage of A&W are things that do. I'm generally a very chipper person, probably because for the most part life has dealt me a great hand. I had loving, supportive parents and a brother who was my best friend; I did well in school and knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was a good detective and an even better investigator, someone who was just naturally gifted at sticking my nose into other people's business. I had a nice house, a nice car, a nice life, and anyone who knows me will reassure you of this fact.
But the news I just received? It got me down. My big brother needed my help to get his slut girlfriend out of jail. Again. It wasn't enough that I not only got the skank out of lock-up, and made her minor possession charges disappear last time, but now he wants me to pay ten grand to spring her from prison? The woman is a tweaker and a whore. She used my brother until he was a shell, getting him hooked on all sorts of shit before I stepped in, grabbed his ass and got the hell out. We moved out of the city and stayed out until two months ago.
Two months ago my fool of a brother got it into his head that he should make The Whore get clean, too. He said it would "solve everything" and "we could be a family." I will run that foul woman through a paper shredder before I ever consider her family. He took off in the middle of the night, hiding the distributor cap from my 1965 red Chevy Nova before he left to make sure I didn't chase his punk ass down and drag him home by his hair, because he knew I would. I don't know how he got there, or how long it took, but if he walked back from our house thirty miles out, he had good reason to stop me. I would have moved us to the other side of the country and locked him up for his own good had I caught up with him. I called him in as missing, put up fliers, checked his last three apartments and his favorite hang outs, but the rat left me hanging out to dry.
I didn't hear from mon frère for two whole fucking months after he bolted, and now I'm just supposed to drop everything and go back into that ugly, dirty Metropolis? Back to the place that stole my amazing, loving brother and gave me a hollow excuse for a man? I didn't fucking think so.
I sighed in resignation, because even as I said no, I knew I'd go back. I had to. I had to save my brother. But I couldn't do it alone, which is why I'm going back into business, this time with a partner. I had an interview with her the next day. Then I would go back, and settle my score with the underbelly of Seattle known only as "La Ville," a cheap knockoff of Montmartre circa the turn of the century and run by the seediest, skeeviest woman of them all, Victoire. A French émigrée, she had brought all the slime of the Paris streets to my city, sucking my brother under her sway through her first-rate Soviet pawn, Tanya – a.k.a the Whore.
There was a debt owed to me, one I was intent on collecting. Watch out, ladies. Alice is coming out to play.
I was up at six the next morning, wanting to make sure I had everything I needed for my interview today. I hadn't worked on a case in a long time. When I left the police department and started my own investigator business I had had more clients than I could count. But when I rescued my brother I took an indefinite leave of absence, wanting to be there as my brother went through the hell that is quitting meth and cocaine cold turkey.
I wanted to make sure I could do this. As a former detective for Seattle P.D. and then a private investigator, I knew what needed to be done. But it was my brother, and I wasn't sure I wouldn't freeze when the time came, so I put the word out that I was looking for an experienced recovery agent. I wasn't afraid of asking for help if it was from the right person.
I didn't know her name, but in my line of work that wasn't unusual. Anonymity was safest for everyone. I rolled out of bed, the red silk sheets sliding softly around me, the gunmetal grey of the clouds making them look like crimson blood pooling beneath my body, caressing my fair skin. I set my feet on the floor and stood up; stretching my hands over my head and leaning back, working the kinks out of my spine. I walked to the chair across from my bed and threw the green silk kimono that was draped across the back over my shoulders, leaving it open.
Padding softly downstairs, I ran my hand along the dark, smooth wood of the banister; the steps cool under my feet. I reached the ground floor of the house, the marble of the grand foyer to my right and the kitchen, living and dining rooms to my left. I started towards the kitchen, my robe fluttering around me as the satin of my nightgown slid against my limbs. I looked at the photographs on the walls of my house, some in black-and-white, some color, and many of them picturing my brother and me over the years. There were a few of just him or just me sprinkled throughout, and a few of our parents, but that was it. Our grandparents were dead long before we were born and both of our parents were only children.
In a normal person's house there would have been pictures of friends and coworkers, but I'm far from normal. When I joined the force I joined the force. It was my life. I didn't date, didn't go out for drinks, nothing. I wanted my detective's shield more than anything and I was going to do anything I had to get it, even if it meant becoming a hermit. Then when I left the force, my firm and the city, I cut ties with everyone and everything so that I could focus completely on getting my moronic brother better.
I entered the kitchen, walked to the stove and got the tea kettle, filling it with water and setting it to boil. I pulled a mug from the cupboard and set it on the counter before grabbing the coffee and French press from the cabinet.
Behind me the kettle shrieked, bringing back memories of the scenes I'd worked in La Ville; the cries of the helpless and the damned ringing out in the dead of night. Mothers who watched as their children were gunned down by drug lords, brothers forced to witness their sisters being beaten and violated because they couldn't pay their bookie, children looking on as their parents descended into a life of secrecy and sin.
They still haunted me, all those I couldn't save, and it made me even more determined not to add my boneheaded brother to the list. I poured the water onto the coffee and let it sit. I finished up my breakfast before pouring myself a mug and walking back upstairs.
I entered my room and opened the closet, staring at the colors and shapes, trying to decide what was the appropriate attire to meet someone like Mademoiselle Noire, as she was called. Should I go for intimidating? Authoritative? Demure? I stared for a while longer before deciding on a pencil skirt in charcoal grey with a fitted cap-sleeved button up shirt in eggplant. I grabbed my stockings and underwear from the drawer and sat on my bed. I fastened the black bra and slid the lace boy-shorts up my legs, put on my garter-belt, stockings are much more comfortable than panty-hose, and rolled the French silk stockings up my legs, taking time to make sure the back seams were straight before slipping into the skirt.
I hated to ruin the outfit with a weapon but needed the protection so I decided to forgo my usual shoulder holster. I grabbed my gun and put it in my purse instead, wanting to be prepared for everything.
I walked to the bathroom to do my hair and make-up, glad that I had cut my habitually long locks short because it took all of ten minutes to have it finger-waved and ready to go. I put on my makeup, keeping it soft with grey liner instead of black and a dusty rose lipstick instead of my signature blood red.
I walked back into the room, making up the big four-poster bed before sliding my feet into my pumps and securing the ankle strap. I picked up my hat and placed it on my head, pinning it in place and rolling down the black net half-veil. I retrieved my clutch and my gloves from atop the chest of drawers under the window and was ready. I walked down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind me. A glance at my watch told me it was 6:45, meaning that I had an hour and a half before I needed to meet Mademoiselle Noire at some place called "L'Oiseau Chanteur."
As I left in my Nova for the meeting, I felt something I hadn't felt since he left me. I felt hope.
L'Oiseau Chanteur turned out to be a sleazy-looking jazz club in the heart of La Ville. I walked in and looked for a table in the back, hoping that by purposely ostracizing myself from the whole five other people there, I would discourage people from bothering me.
Sitting directly in front of the stage were a man and a woman. Weird place for a date, but hey, to each his own. At first glance they seemed like a normal couple, but then you noticed the faded quality of her dress and its overtly sexy cut, and you caught the wafts of cheap perfume floating from the table. Her lipstick was faded and dry; her makeup thick and cakey, but still not disguising the drawn cheeks and picked skin of a meth addict. Fucking tweaker.
Since Victoire had taken control in La Ville the number of drug cartels based out of Seattle had skyrocketed, cocaine being the number one drug of the city. Meth, however, turned into the drug of choice in the underground. Everywhere she went, corruption followed like the ever-present Seattle fog and I was sick and tired of it. She brought wickedness like a disease, and it was spreading. The woman at the table, who I was sure had started out life as a nice girl who wanted a home and family, was a prostitute; the man a john, a customer. What the fuck kind of place have you landed yourself in, Cullen?
I decided I really didn't need to know what the other people here were doing, so I focused on the stage at the front of the room.
There was a man seated behind a piano on the small stage, and an old fashioned 1950's silver microphone off to the side. He was wearing a tipped back bowler hat, a white dress shirt, open vest, slacks and sleeve garters, I shit you not. I was still giggling to myself over the sleeve garters when I noticed movement at the side of the stage.
As I watched, a beautiful woman walked out from behind the curtains, and there was a smattering of applause. She was tall, with hair the color of sunlight, eyes that put summer skies to shame, porcelain skin and an undeniable essence of seduction about her. Jesus Christ, I think even I'm attracted to her. The dress she wore was a deep ruby red, a perfect match for her pouting lips. It fell in long satin waves around her, artfully draped to emphasize the swell of breast and hip while also showing off her trim waist. White, elbow length gloves adorned her arms, showing off her long, graceful fingers.
As she sashayed up to the microphone the pianist gently set his hands on the keys, his nimble, dexterous fingers sinking into the ivory as he played a slow, heavy intro. I recognized the song instantly, even at this reduced tempo; I inhaled sharply, my hands clenching and my pulse beginning to race. My brother used to play that song when he was distraught over the Whore.
It was an old jazz number by Aretha Franklin, and she always sounded proud on the record, almost as if she were bragging. But for some reason, my brother and this woman made it sound like a warning; a lament. Every time he had played it I felt part of me die inside, hating that he felt pain because of that vile Soviet сука.
The songstress slowly slid her hands along the microphone stand, caressing the long silver pole with slender fingers. As she started to sing, she focused her gaze on one of the men in the middle of the room. He leaned forward, a smile spreading languorously over his face as he basked in the glow of her attention.
"I'm an evil gal, don't you bother with me," she crooned, her hand coming up to hold the microphone. "Oh baby, I'm an evil gal, don't you bother with me, 'cause I'll empty your pockets and I'll fill you with misery…" She would change the man in her focus every few seconds, each man looking as if the sun had finally decided to shine on them.
There was a hint of French accent peeking out in her words, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. The song was haunting, her low, smoky voice and the man's simple piano the only sounds breaking the silence of the dark, hazy room. I watched her in fascination, noting that everything she did was sensual, from the way she caressed the silver stand to the way she swayed to the music. She was temptation incarnate.
As the number ended the piano player leaned over from his bench and spoke into the microphone, saying simply "Mesdames et messieurs, permettez-moi de vous présenter la Séductrice."
She kissed him on both cheeks, saying something softly in his ear. She exited the stage and the pianist started playing Mood Indigo by Duke Ellington, a song my father used to play all the time. I lost myself in the music, remembering sitting on my father's lap as he listened to his jazz records. A tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality and I looked up to see la Séductrice standing behind me, hand on hip and looking severe.
"You are Detective Cullen, I presume?" she said, French heavily accenting her English. I stared at her, wondering not only how she knew who I was, but also why she was talking to me. Police of any kind weren't usually welcome this far into La Ville, and they certainly weren't spoken to.
We used to have everything under control but when a major cartel and all of its drug runners suddenly appear in a city, people get scared. They don't see the police as any sort of assistance; they see them as the ones who let these people in. When you throw in the overwhelming number of corrupt cops taking bribes in drugs and flesh, people don't have the trust in authority they once did. Most cops don't even try in La Ville, writing it off as a lost cause. We didn't try to cure the disease; all we could do was keep the infection from spreading.
La Séductrice had apparently had enough of my silence because she said, "Mademoiselle Noire will see you now."
La Séductrice led me down a long hallway behind the stage toward an old wood door. The hall was crammed with props, lights, extra ropes, anything a small club/theater would need. The only sounds were the clicking of our heels and the soft whisper of silk trailing the ground.
When we reached the door, la Séductrice opened it and walked right through. I checked out the room as I walked in, wanting to see if there were other places people could enter or exit. Too many years of finding hidden entrances only after some crazy jumped out at you with a knife and you start to plan your escape early.
When I was satisfied there was only the one way out I finally took notice of where I was. I decided that the room had always been an office for the club manager. It was small, with light wood paneling and built-in book cases along one wall. There were heavy blue velvet drapes at the window to my left, and a thick, colorful carpet under my feet. A large, mahogany desk stood before me with two brocade wing chairs placed before it.
On my right was a woman standing in front of a marble fireplace. She had her back to me, the long mahogany hair flowing down her back a perfect match for the desk. She had on what seemed to be leather pants, a dark blue blouse whose gauzy fabric saved it from being masculine, a black vest and knee-high black stiletto boots that laced up the front. She turned around slowly, and I noticed a belt at her waist with…a giant bowie knife hanging from it. Always be prepared…check.
She was as fair as la Séductrice, but where la Séductrice was gold, Mademoiselle Noire - because who else could she be, was silver. Her skin was creamy with roses blooming in her cheeks; her eyes were a deep brown, her lips full and red. She was as beautiful as la Séductrice but in a more subtle way. Her beauty was one that would be remembered, even when the obvious lookers had faded away. There was an air of confidence about her, an attitude that said "world-be-damned" and warned of a strong willed woman. In earlier years she would have been classified as "a broad," and I had a feeling she'd be proud of it. She was like a romantic/rakish French rogue, her demeanor and style a throwback to a time when being prepared for the worst was considered the norm.
She walked forward and held out her hand. "Bonjour inspectrice. Bienvenue à L'Oiseau Chanteur.
As I shook her hand, squeezing back when she tested my strength, I noticed a plain silver link bracelet on her wrist, a single gold charm dangling from it. I looked closer and realized it was a gold heart, muted and nicked with age and wear.
She told me to call her Belle Noire, but whether that was her real name or not I wasn't sure, nor did I think it mattered. She knew who I was already, so I told her to please, call me Alice.
She nodded said, "Nice to meet you," and walked over to the desk big desk, pushing a button on the phone. A masculine "Oui," answered.
"Damien, if you would be so kind as to bring me a martini, extra-dry, extra-dirty, and extra-olives?" She says sweetly into the phone. She looked at la Séductrice. "For you?"
"I will have a lemon drop," she answered before gliding over to take a seat in one of the armchairs.
She looked at me, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. "And for you, ma petite fée? What can Damien get for you?"
"Scotch, if you've got it," I said. "Glenfiddich, preferably."
She nodded and spoke to Damien again. "Did you get those as well?"
"Certainement. A martini for Mademoiselle, a lemon drop for Rose D'Or and Glenfiddich for la petite fée. Tout de suite, Mademoiselle." The line clicked off and Belle Noire hit a button to switch off the intercom.
"So, Alice," Belle Noire said, "you need a bounty hunter?" She looked up at me from under her lashes, coyly batting them.
"First off," I started, "you can stop with the flirty eyes, 'cause that shit doesn't work on me. If you're really Mademoiselle Noire, I know that the innocence is a fraud, and secondly, I need a recovery agent, not a bounty hunter." I had braced my feet, not wanting to appear weak in front of them. I was angry that I had come in here seeking her help and she had mocked me.
"Pardon, ma fée, but you seem very angry," she said, looking knowingly at me. "Bounty hunter is just another way of saying recovery agent, non? If I am correct, I do not think it is me you are angry with. Allez-y. Tell me why you seek my help, and then I maybe will understand your anger." She settled herself on the edge of her desk and motioned me to the chair. I sat down, perched on the edge of my seat because I was nervous and wanted to be prepared to make a break for it.
So I told them, everything. I told them how my genius brother had found the underground jazz scene of La Ville, fallen in love with it and spent every waking moment sequestered in hole-in-the-wall joints with bad lighting and a worse reputation, playing his upper middle class white heart out. He was mocked and teased by the patrons of these clubs because they asked him how he could sing the blues if he's never had them. Coming from our perfect family and perfect life, he had nothing to go on.
He stopped playing for a while, then, when he lost his art. My brother is one of those people that survives on music. His every thought and desire is to play music, listen to music, write music, and perform music.
"And then one day his music came back, because of her," I seethed, unable to hide my total and absolute disdain for that woman. "He said she was his muse, that she had brought music into his life again. And I was happy for him, in the beginning. Then I met the bitch -- a good-for-nothing, commie ho-bag tweaker, playing my brother like a fucking violin. I love my brother and I love his music, but if the price for him to learn the blues was belonging to that succubus I wish he'd never learned. She's got him wrapped around her little finger, playing him hot and cold, pitting him against her other lovers, making him believe that she loves him. He moved out then, finding a place closer to Force Majeure--"
There was a hiss from the chair, and Rose D'Or sat up quickly, every muscle in her body tensing as a look of pure hatred crept into her eyes. I looked at Belle to see her mouth in a thin line, expression carefully controlled, but animosity was rolling off her in waves. She waved a hand at D'Or, signaling her into silence, but her posture stayed wary.
"Un moment. This has to do with Victoire? Force Majeure, that is her…establishment, yes?"
"If by 'establishment' you mean 'cheap as fuck brothel and bar,' then yes, it's hers," I confirmed, feeling the familiar sense of disgust creep over me at the mention of the club. It was possibly one of the most horrible and revolting places I had ever had the misfortune to visit.
"Merde!" Belle Noire shouted as she stood up violently and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. "Sacrément Victoire! Il faut qu'elle retourne à la pute qui l'a accouché!"
If there's one thing I like about the French, it's their devotion to insults. I don't know what it is but they have the best and most creative swearing. Belle Noire seemed to be well versed in this. I watched at her as she walked, fuming silently. D'Or stood up and walked to the window, her blue eyes blazing with fury and her hands fisted at her sides.
I chuckled. "I take it you two have a history? You French folk don't waste a perfectly good insult like 'go back to the whore who gave you birth' on just anybody."
"Victoire," D'Or spat over her shoulder, "is the scum of the earth." Belle went to her and placed a hand on her arm, drawing her to the side and having a muttered conversation in hushed French. I spoke some French; you had to if you worked La Ville, but not enough to follow. I heard "control yourself" and "calm down and think" more than once, so I assumed Belle was trying to console her friend.
She turned to me and said, "You must forgive Rose's outburst. Victoire has done much damage to her family. Victoire destroyed Rose's family's business when her brother spurned the advances of la salope. She was not known for her ability to take no for an answer."
She sighed, her face showing clearly that whatever she was remembering was painful. "About ten years ago," she began, "Victoire started buying out small buildings in parts of Paris not known for their friendliness and turning them into sordid clubs and salons, passing them off as 'the place to be.'"
The young people of Paris had flocked to her nightclubs, longing for the romance and mystery of la Boehme, but Paris was no longer the center of Cultural Revolution, and when she did not inspire the next Toulouse Lautrec she opted for something else. She wished to create chaos, and she achieved it. The underground collapsed, destroyed from the inside out by one very determined, evil woman.
"After she destroyed the Paris underground with her whores and her drugs, she has the audacity to come to my city and start again? Non. This will not happen." She and D'Or looked at me then, fire burning in their eyes. "Tell us why you are angry with Victoire, ma fée. We need to know."
I looked down, collecting my thoughts without the fiery gazes of day and night bearing down on me. The fire in D'Or's gaze was the fire of undying personal loathing, and it was all directed at one woman. I had never seen hate consume someone so fully.
Belle's gaze was just as fiery, and just as filled with hate, but this hatred was of the idea of evil. She had never been personally touched like D'Or, but her home had been destroyed. There was cunning in her gaze that said I needed to stay sharp around Belle Noir. She wasn't someone to be trifled with. She would be your best friend and the most loyal person of all, if you earned it. She wasn't one to take an insult lying down. She understood the need to sometimes lead by example. I looked up, meeting her state for stare.
"Why am I angry? I'm angry that my fucking brother put me in this situation; I'm angry at that filthy, blood-sucking Russian bitch and her hold on my brother." I gave a grim laugh, noticing that Belle and D'Or weren't the only ones consumed by hate. "I'm angriest with the dirty, corrupt, evil French putain for showing up and ruining my family."
D'Or suddenly stripped the glove off of her right arm and held her out to me. "I will help you with whatever you need, ma fée. Victoire will pay for what she has done."
I clasped my hand with hers, nodding vigorously in assent. I looked at Belle, knowing that to truly do something, we would need her.
She nodded, saying simply, "I agree with Rose. Victoire must face justice." There was a knock on the door suddenly, and Belle strode to answer it, her hand resting on the knife at her waist.
She swung the door open to reveal a man of medium stature wearing a white button down shirt, brown slacks and suspenders. I was assuming this was Damien because he carried a tray of drinks, and I'll admit I was surprised because I had completely forgotten about him, and our drinks.
Damien walked over and placed the drinks on the desk before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. D'Or walked over and picked up her drink.
"A toast," she said, "to the downfall of our enemies."
Belle Noire and I retrieved our drinks, and as we held them aloft a villainous grin graced her face. Enemies? Why do I get the feeling they mean more than the two bummers I'm after? She clinked her glass with mine and D'Or's, but before she drank she raised her glass in a mock salute.
"Brûlez en enfer, Victoire," she murmured.
Burn in hell, Victoire. My sentiments exactly.
It was agreed upon that I go home tonight and pack what I would need. They were moving me to La Ville. Fuck. I knew I should, that I would be able to do more if I was there, but I really didn't want to go back.
I drove home on autopilot, not paying any attention to where I was going. I was focused on how to find my brother. What a dumb shit to run off like that. I was really starting to get mad about this whole "leaving your only family who gave up everything so you could be with a funky ho" thing. I needed to do something constructive with this. I needed to call Emmett.
Detective Emmett McCarty was the closest thing I had to a friend. We had been partners when I was on the force, and if there was anyone I trusted, it was him.
Emmett also had the unusual ability to never let anger cloud his judgment. I had never once seen him lose it. Most of the time, we cops didn't like to get emotionally attached to a case. It made it harder to apply cold hard logic to tough situations. But things don't always go as planned, and once in a while a case would get to you. It would work its way into your mind and under your skin until it drove you crazy. One day you snap, blowing a gasket at the smallest thing. The unspoken rule is that once it's over, you never mention it again. You went back to what you were doing and hoped it wasn't your turn next.
The other advantage of calling Emmett was that he was my brother's friend. They had met when we'd first been assigned to each other and they had hit it off. Emmett approved of Tanya about as much as I did, maybe less since he had been the arresting office for her a few times. Apparently she didn't like going to jail, and she made that fact known. Loudly.
I grabbed my cell phone from its place on the seat next to me and hit McCarty's speed dial. It rang a few times before he picked up.
"McCarty," he said brusquely. Emmett sounded like a gruff cop, which he was, but inside he was all fluff. Poor boy was a marshmallow at heart.
"Its Alice," I said, in no mood to waste time. "What are you doing?"
"Wonderland?" he asked, sounding surprised. "I haven't heard from you in…months. You just disappeared. What the fuck, Chuck?"
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything, Emmett, but I got the fuck out of Dodge and didn't look back. But the stupid kid I call family ran off. Back to La Ville. Back to her," I spat. I head a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
"Shit," he said emphatically. "He went back? What a stupid sonovabitch. You know I love your brother but that son of a gun can be dumber than a bag of hammers."
"When you're right, you're right. Anyway, the reason I called you--"
"Was to hear the dulcet sweet tones of my voice? I'm touched, Wonderland."
I sighed, remembering what a battle it could be to talk to this fool sometimes. "No, dummy," I said, working through my exasperation. "I was wondering if you could run a few names for me. I need to check some leads." Kind of. Belle Noire and Rose D'or were leads. Sure they were. And I'm Marie Antoinette.
"Shoot," he said. "I'll do what I can."
"All right, so these are probably aliases but you might know them. The first is Mademoiselle Noir, or Belle Noire, and the second is Rose D'Or or La Séductrice."
Emmett whistled, and I could hear his desk chair squeaking. He was probably leaned all the way back, the poor chair barely holding up. He said it helped him think. I said he was testing the chairs limit. He said he wouldn't discount that theory.
"Mmmm mmmm. La Séductrice, huh? Ooh boy, she is my kind of woman. What I wouldn't give for--"
I smacked my forehead with my hand. I forgot the first rule of talking to McCarty - never mention a pretty woman. He was liable to get sidetracked for the next hour. I wouldn't say Emmett was a man-whore or anything, but he certainly appreciated the female form.
"Oy! Lug nut, focus here! This is more important than some piece of ass, okay? Now, think. What do you know about these two?"
"Besides the fact that Mademoiselle Noire is the scariest bounty hunter I've ever heard of, not much. I have a few buddies down in Vice and they would probably know more. I'll ask around and call you back."
"Thanks, Emmett," I said softly. "I appreciate it."
He grumbled a little in a half-hearted sort of way, probably turning pink with happiness. He loved helping people out. It was why he became a cop. "No sweat, Wonderland."
I went to hang up, but before I could Emmett spoke again.
"Hey, Wonderland?" he said. "It's good to have you back. I missed you." The line clicked off and I stared at my phone in silence.
Well, well. Maybe I had friends after all.
I was shocked.
Completely and utterly dumbfounded. There had been absolutely no sign of my brother since I arrived, no matter how many leads we followed and then this?
There was a note on the pad of paper next to the phone in the front hallway of Belle's manor. All it said was "Alice, your brother called," with a number scrawled underneath it.
What the hell.
I thought back to the day I had shown up in La Ville, two weeks ago…
I had arrived in La Ville with a sick sense of dread in my stomach. I was moving into a large house with Belle and Rose for the duration of my investigation, and I was in no way at ease with that decision. Well, at least I'll be well protected. I had a feeling that this house was possibly the safest place I could be if I was about to start sticking my cute little nose where it didn't belong.
I had packed up that night after I had finished my conversation with McCarty. Everything I needed fit into two old suitcases and a backpack. I threw those in the car and went to bed. Well, I had tried to. My mind was hectic, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Belle could decide helping me wasn't in her best interest, and without her contacts in the underworld I would never make any headway into finding my brother; I could botch the whole fucking procedure if I lost my temper; and the worst thought? I could be too late. He could be dead.
No. I won't think about that. It's not going to happen. I couldn't endure the idea of my brother dead somewhere in La Ville, encircled by people who didn't care about him, who didn't know that his biggest fear was failure, that his favorite food was my apple strudel, or even his middle name.
I had given up the fight around dawn and stumbled through my morning routine. I'd eaten a token bite of toast in the way of breakfast and jumped in the car, hauling ass into La Ville, feeling like I was already too late. I knew that was irrational, that if I was too late this morning, it had been too late when I called on Belle. There was no need to work myself into frenzy over things that were out of my control.
I'd moved in without incident, and we'd been cooling our heels ever since. Victoire had vanished, as had Tanya, into the hazy backrooms and smoky offices that ran La Ville, leaving no trace for us to find. McCarty had called in a lot of favors trying to locate them but it never worked. Dead ends, everything.
And then my frigging brother calls me.
I grumbled about stupid brothers as I dialed the number he'd left. I knew this would happen. He'd still need money, which meant he'd need to contact me. We hadn't been subtle about where I was and who I was with, figuring we should make it as easy as possible for him to find me.
"Oui?" a woman's voice said.
"Hello, my name is Alice, I'm looking for my brother," I spoke clearly into the phone, listening with all my might to the sounds on the other end of the phone. I could hear glass clinking, the heavy sound of something being dragged across the floor and the grunts of effort. Jesus, bro, where'd you end up now?
I heard the phone switch hands on the other end and mentally girded my loins for dealing with my brother.
"Alice Cullen?" a heavily accented voice asked.
"Yes? Who am I speaking to?"
The voice laughed, a pretty sound, but pretty in the way a model home is pretty: nice to look at, but empty of life. "Oh, come now, Detective Cullen. Surely you can hazard a guess?" her accent was French, that much I knew and she knew me, so that narrowed it down…
"No? Then let me enlighten you. My name is Victoire, and I hold your brother's life in my hands."
I dropped the receiver and stumbled away from the phone, pressing my back to the far wall. Belle walked out of her study at that moment, her white lawn shirt billowing around her as she stopped abruptly, taking in my pale and shaking form.
"Ma fée? What is amiss?"
I couldn't answer, so I pointed at the phone. My mind seemed to have detached from my body and it was noting in a disinterested sort of way that my arm was shaking and I was sweating. Jesus, Cullen, a seasoned pro like you freaking out over a phone call? I hated myself for it, but it was true. My emotions reacted first instead of my head. Because it was my brother I hadn't stayed calm. Fuck. This why I need Belle.
Belle looked at the phone for a moment before picking it up, speaking softly. Her face tightened and her posture stiffened as she found out exactly who was on the other end. There was a terse sort of conversation which seemed to have Belle listening more than speaking and then she slammed the receiver back in its cradle, stalking off down the hall.
I scrambled to my feet, following hastily after her as she walked to D'Ors room and knocked loudly.
"Rose! Trouvez votre frère et rencontrez-moi dans l'arsenal. Nous courons après Victoire ce soir!" She didn't wait for a response, merely turning and grabbing my arm, towing me back down the hall towards the library, my mind slowly working out what she had said.
"Wait, wait! Did you say armory? You have an armory?" She didn't answer me, and I felt like that was a bad sign. I pulled out my phone and dialed McCarty's number.
"Yo!" he said a smile in his voice. I felt bad that I was going to ruin his day.
"McCarty? This is Wonderland. We have a lead on my brother. Get here. Now." I hung up abruptly, seeing that we had reached the library. Belle threw open the doors and walked with single-mindedness toward the large oil painting of Louis XVI that hung on the far wall. She pulled the frame towards her and it swung open easily, revealing…
"Holy mother of God," I said reverently. Behind Louis was a veritable Mecca for weapons enthusiasts. There were guns, knives, and ammunition, what seemed to be a lance and possibly cannon at the back. Belle had started pulling everything she could reach out of the vault and placing it on the floor by her feet.
"Ma fée? Would you be so kind as to help me?"
I wandered over and started to empty the vault, pulling swords and rifles and bandoliers of bullets from their hiding place. I wondered how long she'd been stockpiling, and if it had been for a zombie invasion or something because there was a lot of firepower here. As I pulled gun after gun after gun out of the wall, I started to look at them. If we're planning an attack, I should at least be armed, right? I'd left my gun at home, it being the standard issue cop gun and a bit too big for my small hands. I had been meaning to get something with a better grip but what with saving my brother, getting him clean and then losing him again, it had slipped my mind.
I always figured the right gun would just…make itself known to me. Like Excalibur or something, but without the moistened bint lobbing a scimitar at me bit. I would just know, and it would be perfect.
As it turns out, that's exactly what happened.
I was just pulling the stupid things out of this Mary Poppins bag of deadly weapons when BAM! The skies part, the sun shines and the angels sing the Hallelujah chorus. I looked at the gun in my hand, feeling the weight of it, testing its grip. It was small, weighing in at about two pounds when fully loaded, but still respectable. A 9mm Browning Hi-Power, capable of holding thirteen rounds and feeling as if it was made just for me.
I'd stopped moving as I'd inspected the Browning, and Belle peered over my shoulder to see what had distracted me.
"Ah, I see you have found a gun. Very well, ma fée, but take this also." She handed me a shotgun with holster that laid it flat on my back. "Everyone should have a shotgun. It is hard to miss your target with one, non?" she said pragmatically before going back to the weapons cache.
When we had emptied it of everything (save for the lance and cannon at the back, which she didn't seem inclined to explain) she began to sort through it. Big guns in one pile, handguns in another, swords over there with the knives next to them. When she was almost finished I heard the doors open again and Rose walk in, followed closely by a man who could only be her brother.
His hair was the same exact shade of gold, but there was something…softer about him than there was about D'Or. Some of us seem to carry violence with us wherever we go, unable to distance ourselves from that essential part. We are born to it, and it does no good to argue. This man, however, was not suited to a life of death and destruction and it showed plainly in his carriage and demeanor. He left his back exposed, not bothering to look for exits like Rose had when she had entered, coming to stand with her back to the wall with me and Belle.
But he was beautiful. It felt as though I was drawn to him, like a magnet. A small tug had started up in my chest, trying to pull me inexorably closer to this fragile man. For there was no doubt about it, he was fragile. His shoulders were hunched, but not in the way that is customary for those uncomfortable with their height; no, this man had been broken, and had likely stayed that way for quite some time.
I could fix him. I want to fix him.
The thought took me by surprise, and I suppressed it viciously. I had no time or desire for romance, seeing as the one man I did have on my life was trouble enough, so I contented myself with memorizing his features, giving myself something to think about when all was bleak.
He was tall, despite his slouching, with broad shoulders that led to arms corded with muscle. A man who worked for a living it seemed, this assumption supported by the grease and dirt that marred his clothes. He wore a plain red t-shirt, stretched taut over his broad shoulders and muscled chest, and dark jeans that emphasized his lean hips and long legs. I saved his face for last, knowing that had I started there I wouldn't have made it to the rest of him.
He had the golden locks of his sister, but his were perfect curls in place of her gentle waves. Straight, dark brows framed his eyes, which, while they were blue, were not the summer skies blue of his sister but more the deep cobalt of evening shadows. His nose was straight and proportionate, his cheekbones high and flat. His mouth was a perfect double bow, rosy in his slightly tanned face, full lipped and expressive. I hoped it was given more occasions to smile than to frown, but I knew it wasn't the case.
I knew I had been staring, quite openly in fact, but I hadn't noticed that he was staring back. Our eyes met for a single moment and it felt as if the earth had stopped. The way he looked at me sent blood rushing through my body in a most unnerving way. I'd had lovers over the years, some more serious than others, but none of their caresses, none of their kisses or sweetly whispered words had made me feel like this man did with a single look. I could feel the flush rising up my chest, my heart beating faster, my breasts tightening, and my thighs slick with want.
Thighs slick with want? Really, Cullen, lay off the romance novels. I knew I sounded ridiculous but I couldn't help myself. I wanted this man, in a way so all consuming it terrified me.
I dropped my gaze, studying the carpet beneath my feet. His eyes were still on me. I could feel the weight of them travelling down my body, studying me in the way I had studied him. I stood stock still, allowing him to complete his inspection, terrified to look up and see what he had concluded.
"Jasper," Rose said sharply from her place next to Belle. I watched his progress across the room from beneath lowered lashes, unwilling to give up my study of him just yet.
"Rosalie," he said formally, his English lightly accented. That's right! If this is Rose's brother then…he's the one Victoire wanted. And he said no. This only served to stoke the fire that was burning in my chest. I wasn't at all sure why I was so attracted to Jasper, but it didn't seem like the time to be wondering. There were other matters at hand.
"Jasper, Alice, Alice, Jasper," Belle said by way of introduction. He inclined his head slightly, a smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. I smiled tentatively in return before focusing once more on Belle.
"Alors. This is what we know. Victoire wants money. Apparently, your brother," she nodded in my direction, "owes her a fantastic sum of money for his…drugs. I am sorry, ma fée," she said softly, "I know this is not pleasant to hear."
I nodded and motioned for her to continue. I didn't care why he was where he was or what he had done. I just wanted my brother back.
"We are to take the money to Force Majeure tonight," she continued. "We, of course, will have no money, but we will go. Victoire will pay, and we will retrieve votre frère. Now, everyone must come choose their weapons. We will not be sitting ducks."
I took ammo for the Browning and the shotgun, which I had affectionately nicknamed "Big Lucy" and went to assist in outfitting the D'Or siblings. Rose had picked up what seemed to be a Tommy gun and had it slung over her shoulder and was busy trying to stuff a small Firestar seven-shot down the front of her jeans. I left her to it and went to help Jasper.
He was staring at the guns scattered across the floor, confusion warring with shock on his face. I walked over and stood next to him, waiting to see what he would choose. When he continued to gawk I reached down and retrieved the sawed off Ithaca 37 pump-action shotgun.
"Here," I said brusquely, putting the shotgun in his hands. "You won't have to aim so much with this. It kicks a bit, so make sure it's good and settled in your shoulder. Exhale slowly, squeeze the trigger, don't pull it, and fire." This was all the help I could offer. I wished I had time to properly teach him to use it, but this was the best I could do.
"I…thank you," he said softly. "I have never…held a gun before. I had hoped I never would," he said, shame and anguish mixing in his voice. I lingered a moment longer, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how. I settled for placing my hand on his arm and squeezing gently before walking over to Belle.
I noticed right away that she wasn't carrying a gun. She had a machete and about twelve knives laid out before her on the big desk.
"Let me but collect my things and we will be off, ma fée. And then they will pay."
I hoped so.
We burst into Force Majeure like gangbusters, guns drawn (some of us looking more competent than others) and eyes peeled. Well, Jasper, Emmett, Rose and I burst in with guns drawn; Belle sauntered in after us, her knives still sheathed. There was no one here, or at least not in this room and we all visibly relaxed for a moment. I stole a glance at Belle, taking in the machete in it's sheathe strapped to her thigh, the two long knives in her boots and the pins that kept her hair in place, which I had been told were like stilettos, and not the shoes. There were at least eight more knives on her person, but I was disinclined to guess at their location.
I had asked her early on why she liked knives better than guns. She had paused, taking time to compose her answer.
"Ma fée," she had said, "it is a serious thing, to kill someone. You know this, yourself. You take not only their life, but all the possibilities their life had. You take from the world someone who could have influenced or perhaps been the next great doctor, or philosopher, or poet. There is certain gravity to that action that has been lacking, these years past. Anyone could kill with a gun. As long as you aim for the correct vicinity, it doesn't matter if you're close or not. With a knife…" she smiled absently, the light seeping from her eyes, leaving a void.
"With a knife, it is an act almost as intimate as making love. While any random stab may, with luck, get the job done, to take a man's life quickly and painlessly with a knife is an act that requires thought and skill. Much like any man can technically have sex with a woman, to truly please her it takes a master. It is the same with the blade. There is a skill to taking a life, ma fée, and it is learned at great cost. To be that close to someone, to watch the life leave their eyes, their limbs, knowing it is by your hand that these things happen…the true weight of your action is never lost on you that way, ma fée."
I had never asked again for the reasons behind her actions, unsure if I would like what I heard. I had liked that she had a compelling argument behind her knives, but I didn't like what it said about Belle. The way she had spoken left you in no doubt that she spoke from experience. I knew I could not take a life that close and keep my sanity. I could kill, but I could kill to protect. I didn't kill out of habit and I never wanted to practice enough that knives would be easy. The fact that she could, and did, brought new light to Belle's ruthlessness.
Much to my dismay, there was no one here. No one on the floor, no one on the large stage that dominated the far wall, and no one in the balconies overlooking the stage.
"Well," Emmett said loudly, breaking my reverie. All eyes turned to him, awaiting the conclusion of his sentence. He looked around at everyone before blushing slightly. "Oh, I, uh, didn't actually have anything to say. It was just quiet…" he trailed off, looking embarrassed.
"Victoire is clearly not here. We should move on," Rose said flippantly. She started toward the door when Belle stiffened.
"Do not move, Rose," she said in hushed tones. Rose froze instantly, her eyes glued to Belle. She was crouched slightly, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of the machete strapped to her thigh. My stomach knotted as I realized what Belle had noticed. There was a very faint noise coming through the room. It sounded like singing, but not a woman's voice…
Oh, God.
It was my brother.
I darted forward, trying to get to the corridor that led backstage, only to have Belle grab me around the waist as I passed her. "Non, ma petite fée. Attends!" she breathed into my ear. I held still, trusting Mademoiselle Noire's instincts. My own were so compromised at this point that I had little faith in myself.
I heard it then, the even softer sound that had stayed Belle's hand. It was very faint, yet unmistakable. Applause.
She walked out onto the stage then, her fiery hair making it seem as if her head was wreathed in flame. She was dressed much as we were, in jeans and boots and serviceable shirts. Nothing overtly fancy, but you could see the quality of her garments even from here. Victoire was not one to let a simple thing like a hunting party, for in truth that's what we were, ruin her wardrobe. She came to a stop at center stage, still clapping softly.
"Je dois vous féliciter sur vos instincts, Belle. Je vois qu'ils ne se sont pas fanés au delà, pendant ces plusieurs annees," she said softly.
Belle stiffened beside me, and I knew I had done the same. "I have not had much occasion to use them," Belle replied, her hand dropping from my waist as she walked slowly towards the stage.
"Until you came along, Victoire, and for that I thank you. Had I not been made aware of your presence…well, then I would not have had the need to practice. As it stands, you are lucky. It will not hurt so much when I kill you tonight." This statement was greeted by utter silence, shock evident on all of our faces, and none showing it more than Victoire.
I knew what she was doing. I could see it in the way she casually glanced over her shoulder at me, cutting her eyes backstage. The direction the singing was coming from. I waited for my moment, heart beating erratically in my chest, hands sweating around the grip of my Browning. I felt light headed and forced myself to control my breathing, watching as Belle hopped up onto the stage to continue her conversation with Victoire, which had disintegrated into French insults. She was leading her to put her back to the room, drawing her away from the rest of us. I inched closer to the door, waiting, waiting…
NOW! A nod from Belle sent me sprinting down the corridor, listening with all my might for any sign of my brother. My steps slowed, allowing me to concentrate on the task at hand. I gripped the Browning with both hands, ostensibly to improve my aim should I have to fire, but it was really to keep my hands from shaking. The closer I got to the end of the hall, the louder the singing. I recognized it. It was my favorite…
Oh, I've never known what makes this man, with all the love that his heart can stand, dream of ways to throw it all away. Oh, gravity is workin' against me…
I threw open the door, looking frantically around the small room. There was a stereo in one corner, screen alight, showing the source of the music. Other than that it was empty.
"SONOFABITCH!" I screamed, tearing back down the hall. I burst into the room to see Belle and Victoire still on the stage, now looking at me. Belle's features hardened as she took me in, winded and pissed. She knew he wasn't there.
Tsk, tsk, Victoire, you have been a naughty girl," she admonished, shaking her finger at the woman. "Where is he?"
"Where is who, Belle?" she asked sweetly, her mouth turned up in a wicked smile. She spread her arms wide, "Are your people not with you? Who have you lost?"
Victoire didn't see me coming, but then again, I don't think I saw me coming. Before I knew what was happening, I had managed to get on the stage and tackle Victoire before Belle even saw me. I think so, anyway.
Victoire was on her back, my knees pinning her arms as I sat on her chest. She was breathing like a race horse, I could feel it. One hand wrapped around her jaw, forcing her head up, her chin thrusting forward. I could feel the tendons in her neck tighten convulsively as she tried to swallow, finding it difficult at the angle I held her head at.
The Browning was out and pressed firmly against her forehead. I felt myself exhale, steadying myself for the shot. A pleasant sort of static sounded in my ears, and white noise filled my senses, obliterating everything but the woman beneath me whose life was now in my hands. I felt myself going to the empty space inside me, the space reserved for when I had to kill. I knew from the dawning terror on Victoire's face that all compassion and signs of life had left my features, my grey eyes turning to steel. I looked ruthless, the outside changing to match the inside.
"Now, you are going to tell me what I want to know," I said.
She laughed prettily, which takes a lot of balls when someone is sitting on your chest with the barrel of a gun pressed between your eyes. "Will you shoot me if I do not, petite fée? How will you get your answers then?" The fear was leaving her eyes, the confidence returning to her voice.
"I will show you, salope, how I will get my answers. Belle," I called out, bringing her to my side at once.
"What do you need, Alice?" she asked, scrutinizing Victoire over my shoulder.
"I need a knife. More accurately, I need someone who is very skilled with a knife. Could you help me?" Victoire's eyes grew wide as she understood what I was asking. "Victoire here has indicated a…hesitancy to help me. I need to make it worth her while." I chuckled to myself as I watched Victoire. The fear was back.
"Oh, of course, ma fée, that goes without saying. What would you have me do?" I felt Victoire tense beneath me, wondering what I would ask of Belle. I went over my options; I didn't want her incapacitated, in case she needed to lead us somewhere, but I didn't want her to doubt my sincerity.
I looked at Victoire, my eyes holding her gaze. "Where. Is. My. Brother?" I said slowly, enunciating very clearly, giving her no way to misunderstand me.
She looked back, blue eyes cold as ice. "I. Do. Not. Know."
I back-handed her across the face, hard, moving my hand from her neck in order to do so. A red mark blossomed across her cheek, a perfect match for my hand, and small beads of blood sprang up where my nails had broken her skin. "Where is he?" I screamed. "OÙ EST EDWARD?"
She blinked solemnly at me, contempt and derision written on her face. "Je. Ne. Sais. Pas."
"Are you sure about that?" I whispered as I leaned in close. She didn't speak again, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Very well." I looked over my shoulder at Belle. "Take her finger."
Belle pulled a vicious looking blade from her boot top. A wicked length of steel, some eight inches long and razor sharp, it was one of her favorites. She laid it against her cheek, gazing longingly at it, murmuring small endearments in French. Whether it was just for show, the sight was enough to disconcert me and I felt Victoire jerk involuntarily at the sight of the knife, and of Belle poised above her she seized the little finger on her left hand.
"Are you sure you don't know where he is?" I waited for an answer, saw her waver, and saw her debate giving me the answer before her eyes hardened even more. She was going to gamble, thinking I didn't have what it took to give that order. Thinking torture was beneath me. "No? You leave me no choice, then." I looked up and nodded at Belle, forcing myself to watch as she placed the blade against the pale digit. If I could give the order, the least I could do is watch and acknowledge the price of my words.
She sliced through flesh, the muscles in her arms and shoulder bunching with effort beneath her shirt, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth in concentration but otherwise looking perfectly at ease. There was a grating sort of crunch as she severed bone and tendons and Victoire screamed, a blood curdling noise filled with pain and indignation, her back arching off the floor as pain washed over her. There was a spray of crimson across the front of her white shirt, and in my current state my mind thought it was sort of pretty. You're losing it, Cullen. Get a grip and end this.
I saw Belle surreptitiously place the finger next to her on the stage before gripping the next one, her knife resting casually against it, waiting for my instructions.
I had never tortured anyone before, and I felt something die inside me. Maybe a piece of compassion, maybe part of my humanity, I wasn't sure; I knew it was gone, though, and there was no bringing it back. I resettled my weight on Victoire's chest, putting more pressure on her arms, where they were still pinned beneath my knees, in a half hearted attempt to slow the flow of blood from her hand. It was pooling on the stage, stretching out tendrils in all directions, and part of me was fascinated as it touched her hair, the fiery red mixing with the crimson of her life's blood.
"That could have been avoided;" I said coldly, "but you left me no choice. Where is my brother?"
She whimpered and tears streamed down her face, but she kept her mouth shut. I sighed, really hating that I had to take another finger, but she left me no choice. I nodded to Belle, watched her features scrunch in concentration, her muscles tighten, a small grunt of exertion escaping her as she drew her knife across the flesh and through bone. Victoire screamed again, body convulsing in agony. Blood spurted again, leaving a bloody streak across Belle's face, soaking into her clothes. She didn't seem at all bothered, placing the second finger next to its fellow. The only sounds in the room were my ragged breathing, Victoire's unending whimpers, Belle's mindless humming and the drip, drip, drip of blood as it fell from the point of her knife, little scarlet dots marking the floor at her feet.
I looked at Belle, ready to give the signal.
"Je vous dirai! Pour l'amour de Dieu, du Christ et de sa Mère, je vous dirai," she cried, tears coursing down her face and into her hair. I pulled the Browning back, pointing the barrel at the ceiling.
She sang like a bird then, telling us that he was being held in a warehouse two blocks over. He had been there for two weeks, because he could not pay for his drugs. He was blindfolded, and all of his fingers were broken.
Oh, God, my poor brother…
I placed the Browning back between her eyes, not quite finished. "Emmett?" I called out, not taking my eyes off of the woman beneath me.
"Already on it, Wonderland," he said, a beeping noise indication he was calling something in. "Dispatch, this is Detective Emmett McCarty, we have a kidnapping victim in a warehouse…" his voiced faded as he walked outside, his keys jangling in his hand. He would meet the units at the warehouse and make sure Edward was safe.
"Now, Victoire, there is something else I need to know," I spoke softly, my voice barely above a whisper, juxtaposed against the feeling the room it felt almost irreverent to be speaking so calmly. "Where is Tanya?"
She scoffed, contempt clear in the noise. "Dead. She overdosed two days ago." Damn! I wanted to kill that little bitch with my own hands.
"Jasper! Rose!" I called. They moved towards me, I could tell by the sound of their footsteps. I felt them flank me and I tore my eyes away from Victoire long enough to look at Jasper. "Tie her up," I told him, dropping my eyes as quickly as possible, wanting to avoid the fear and disgust I had seen there briefly.
I knew he couldn't help but see the kind of person I really was, not after he witnessed me torture someone. It didn't matter that it hadn't been my hand to remove her fingers, it had been done on my command and therefore the blood was on my hands. I had never seriously considered my attraction to Jasper and I supposed it was just as well, seeing as he knew now exactly how dark I was. All the same, a small part of me grieved for the lost opportunity.
"Why are we tying her up? I do not understand the need to keep her alive," Rose said scornfully, making no attempt to hide her hatred. From the look Victoire was giving Rose, I could hazard a guess that the feeling was mutual. Suddenly, Victoire surged to her feet, a gun appeared in her hand and a shot was fired. I heard her cry out, saw her switch the gun from her ruined left hand to her right. I didn't see who went down; my focus was solely on the barrel aimed at my chest.
It's a strange thing, knowing with certainty that the person holding the gun will kill you without a second thought. I thought I would be filled with regrets, all of the mistakes I made in my life flashing quickly before my eyes. Surprisingly, only two things came to mind. I wished I had seen my brother before I died. I love you, Edward. No matter what has happened, I do love you.
And I wished I had kissed Jasper.
I stood, frozen, the seconds of waiting for her to pull the trigger feeling simultaneously like hours and the moment of silence between heartbeats. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye but kept my eyes focused on Victoire. If someone was going to try a rescue attempt I didn't want to fuck it up by looking at them.
She had her left hand cradled against her chest, blood still dripping steadily from the stumps of her fingers. She was still crying, still whimpering, and her face was ghastly white, her forehead damp with sweat. The hand with the gun was shaking, but only just. She was in immense pain, that much was clear, but apparently she could manage it.
Victoire seemed to be mumbling under her breath, the words indistinguishable from this distance. Fortunately, she started walking towards me, letting me hear her better.
"Pardonnez-moi mes péchés, Seigneur, pardonnez-moi mes péchés…"
She was reciting an Act of Contrition, one I had said many times over in my life. My mother had been a devout Catholic and both Edward and I were raised in the Church. We had let our faith go in the last few years, but the one thing that had stuck with me was the Act of Contrition, and I used it many times in my life. The words, even in French, were so compelling I felt myself joining her.
"I am truly sorry for every sin, mortal and venial, for all the sins of my childhood up to the present hour. I know my sins have wounded Thy Tender Heart, O My Savior, let me be freed from the bonds of evil through the most bitter Passion of My Redeemer. Amen." I spoke the words quietly, but they were heartfelt nonetheless. I had never lost my relationship with God, but since God had no place in La Ville and had never deigned to visit before, I very much doubted he would descend in my hour of need so I contented myself with saying my prayers of forgiveness and moving on.
I heard the hammer of the gun click into place before she spoke the final words of the prayer, "O mon Jésus, oubliez et pardonnez ce qui j'etait. Amen."
She fired.
Six Months Later…
I walked up the front stairs of the house in the country carrying a large cardboard packing box filled with books.
Jasper followed behind me, his arms likewise occupied. I waited on the top stair, watching our friends and family pull into the driveway.
Jasper had gone down with a shot in the shoulder when Victoire first got up. Rose had knocked me out of the way when Victoire took the shot at me, managing to keep the bullet from entering my heart, instead shattering my elbow. Belle had rushed forward and slammed her knife into Victoire's back before slitting her throat.
"What would you have preferred, ma fée," she had said later, when I asked if the throat cutting was entirely necessary. "I stab her once, only to have her reach for her gun and finish what she started? I think not." It was accompanied with that all purpose Gallic shrug that meant everything and nothing in a single gesture. There was no choice, it said, and I would have done it regardless.
We had developed a tentative friendship, Belle and I, over the months of Jasper's and my recovery. We had been placed in rooms next to each other so when she would visit him with D'Or they always made a point to see me.
It helped that she'd started dating my brother.
Edward had been a mess when Emmett found him, severely dehydrated and malnourished, seeing as he'd had nothing of substance for two weeks and mostly hard drugs before that. His fingers had been broken, but it had been done cleanly, with no intent to maim. He would play the piano again someday, the doctors told him. He had been visiting with me in the hospital one day, when Belle came in. Their eyes had locked, and I had lost them.
It could be worse. At least I knew Edward wasn't going to get kidnapped again.
Rose and Emmett had also been inseparable since the incident, and were seriously involved now. Not so serious as to move in together, like Jasper and me, but serious enough.
I had fixed my regrets, as soon as I realized I wasn't dead. I saw my brother, alive, and I kissed Jasper. Kissed him thoroughly, too, for someone with a shattered elbow.
I knew he stilled feared that dark part of me that had been exposed that day at Force Majeure, and truth be told I did too. Sometimes, when I was all alone, I'd feel that empty space in my chest that had shown up as I tortured Victoire. It felt like it had a mind of its own; a heartbeat; a life force; as if it was just waiting for the right opportunity to grow. I knew I'd opened a door that couldn't be shut, ever, but I hoped to God I'd never have to walk through it again. Something told me, though, that it would never be that simple.
He had asked me, once, if it was entirely necessary. Did I really have to resort to torture? I didn't want to, knowing how much it would frighten him, but I told him the truth.
"Jasper, at that point, my brother was all I had in this world. I was prepared to carve my name into her flesh, repeatedly, if it would get her to talk. I would have skinned her alive, and I would've done it very, very slowly, if she would've told me where he was. I would have roaster her on a spit, drawn and quartered her, cut out her still beating heart and held it in front of her eyes if it would've worked. I was prepared to kill her in the most painful way possible for what she had done. And Jasper? I would've enjoyed it. It would've made me unbelievably ecstatic to brutally slaughter that woman. Be glad I left it at cutting off a few fingers."
It was true; I had debated the whole way over to Force Majeure how to go about getting the information I wanted. The cold, logical part of my brain had been trying to decide the best and most effective way to do it. Should I make it quick so she was more inclined to tell me? Or should I make it horrifyingly painful so as to discourage lying. Truth be told, had I found Edward in that back room, I would've just shot her. She wasn't walking out alive as far as I was concerned.
It scared me, how easily I had debated my options. It terrified me that I would've killed her without a second thought. But the thing that kept me up at night? Knowing, without a single shadow of a doubt, that I would not hesitate at doing it again, for any of the people I now cared about. I would protect them, no matter what it cost.
As I watched the rag tag group of individuals that were the people I cared about walk towards us, I realized that maybe La Ville had been good for something after all. True, it had robbed me of my brother, but in return it had granted me not only the original brother, but also an extra one, an amazing man, and a couple of sisters to boot.
Life was by no means simple, or any less dangerous than before; how could it be? But I was content in it. Emmett and I had opened our own private investigator business, Rose still sang as La Séductrice, but in a classier part of town and Belle…well, I'm mostly sure she'd given up her illicit activities, but unless I asked Edward directly I wasn't sure I'd ever know.
I felt a sense of peace drift slowly over me, a fog of good feeling blanketing the house and the people near it. This was my home, and I had defended it with everything I had.
I could ask no more of myself.
Please review! This story is an entry into the Les Femmes Noires contest, but I loved writing it and if you all like it I would consider extending it into its own story after the contest.
This is the link to the rest of the entries--http://www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/Les_Femmes_Noires/73127/--they're fantastic.
Force Majeure