“The hotel,” Augustine said, his voice returning to its usual, low tones. “We’ll evaluate our condition at the hotel.”
Dree clung to him as the adrenaline in her blood subsided, and the only thing left was fear. “Who were those guys?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll find out.”
When they got back to the hotel room, Dree went into the bathroom and washed her face and hands with hot water and soap, scrubbing up to her elbows with thick suds. The soap might not have been institutional strength, but any soap that makes good, thick bubbles has enough surfactant to be antiseptic. She didn’t think she’d gotten any blood on her, but even an herbal-smelling bar of hotel soap will kill all bacteria and most viruses, including blood-borne infections like HIV.
When she went back out to the living room, Augustine was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed easily and his arm resting on the sofa back, quietly speaking a language that she didn’t understand into his phone. He wasn’t raging, but his measured cadence sounded like he was explaining to whomever was on the other end of the line exactly how he was going to eviscerate them if they didn’t do what they were told. The anger was in the way his teeth bit each consonant of the words he spoke.
Dree picked up Augustine’s hand that was lying on the back of the couch and tugged on it. Dark crusty spots and streaks peppered his skin.
He shot her a dark glance and didn’t budge from the couch.
She said, “You’ve got blood all over you. You need to get it off, now.”
Augustine allowed himself to be led while he continued his quietly scathing explanation of whatever was going to happen to the guy. Dree could see his teeth far too often as he precisely enunciated certain words that probably related to pain and death.
When they got to the bathroom, Augustine held his phone between his ear and his shoulder, rolled up his sleeves, and soaped up his arms.
Dree told him, “Make sure you get your face, too. There’s a spray of blood over your cheek and nose.”
With that, Dree went back to the bedroom and rifled through her gym bag. Apparently, the hotel staff had washed her gym clothes and scrubs and folded them into her small bag because everything in there was fluffy and smelled great. She threw on some sweatpants and a tank top, going braless because she’d been cooped up in underwires for days.
Augustine emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and drying his hands and arms with a white towel. The blood on his face was also gone. The white towel wiped over the tattoo on his forearm, hiding and revealing the three shields and Celtic knot between them.
The devastatingly quiet language he was speaking now was French. Dree could pick out a word here and there, although he was speaking it amazingly fast. He seemed to be speaking more softly, too.
He sighed and hung up the phone.
“Did you find out who it might have been?” she asked.
“Our assailants were speaking French,” Augustine said, “so it makes sense that they were associated with a French organization, probably. Maybe.”
As he was standing in the living room of the hotel, holding his phone and talking to her, his skin drained of color under his tan.
“Augustine?” she asked. “Are you feeling all right?”
He staggered to a chair two steps away and collapsed into it, holding his head in his hands.
Dree sped across the room to him. “Are you dizzy? Chest pain, especially the left side? Headache, numbness, or tingling in your limbs?”
“Dizzy,” he gasped and lowered his head farther, dropping it between his knees.
Dree grabbed his arm and slapped two of her fingers on his radial pulse in his wrist. She could count his pulse over six seconds, timing it in her head, and carry on a conversation. “Are you spinning, or is the room spinning?”
“Um.” He was blinking rapidly. “The room.”
His heart rate was a hundred and seventy beats per minute and thundering in his veins. His blood pressure was probably sky-high. “Do you have problems with tachycardia or high blood pressure? Did you have a fever this morning?”
“No,” he said, gasping for air.
“Panic attack,” she said. “Do you have a diagnosis of panic attacks?”
“Some assholes just tried to kidnap us!” Augustine said. “Panic is a perfectly rational response to nearly getting thrown in a van and held for weeks on a rusty tanker ship!”
Dree frowned. “That’s the second time—”
Augustine lifted his head enough to grab ahold of her and clutch her to him. “I’m okay. We’re back here at the hotel. We didn’t get kidnapped. We’re fine. Blue curtains, ivory wall paint, bust of Victor Hugo in the niche. Traffic from the street outside, the sound of your voice, air conditioner hum. The smell of roses from the table, and the scent of the hotel’s herbal shampoo in your hair.”
