He sidestepped an older woman out with her white fluffy dog. The dog gave a bark of irritation when he got too close to its morning shit. He walked backward, sending what I figured was an apology in French to the ankle biter.
“Once your morning release is disturbed, it leads to being costive.” He said this without a hint of humor. “To answer your demand. I do not know. Honestly. I have had time to think over the mystery she brought to me. She asked me about the color of my eyes.”
“If you wore contacts.”
He grinned. “It seemed a bit strange to me too. When Olivier first told me a dancer wanted to ask me about Àstrid—” He shrugged. “She was a dancer too. I figure,ordinaire. But I do not know much about the woman. Just that she had a love affair in America. The man forced her to return. She arrived pregnant. After the child was born, she died of heart failure.”
It took him a moment to realize that I had stopped walking. He did a double take, coming back to meet me.
“What is it?” He asked, sticking his hands further into his deep pockets.
“Emory.”
Àstrid Nemours, the dancer from Paris, France, and Emory Snow, the man I bought the house from on Snow, from Natchitoches, Louisiana. The old Emory had mentioned her more than once.
“Oui,” he said, answering to his name.
It wasn’t him that I referred to. Scarlett must have found out. I met his eyes. Those eyes belonged to Emory Snow, the man in Louisiana.
Leave it to Scarlett to uncover a secret from long ago, pursue it, and then somehow connect their story to ours. That’s why Àstrid’s name was a trigger for her. Her curious nature was going to get me killed one of these days.
Emory’s neck whipped around, throwing his arms up in surrender. Five masked men charged forward, screaming in French.
“Translate,” I ordered.
He did so, in a frantic push of words.Put your hands up! Put your hands up! Get in the alley. They want us to get in theruelle!
“Tell them no.”
At this point, the five stood directly in front of us, still shouting, still motioning toward a darkened alley off the beaten path. Emory had given in to the panic, his replies coming half in French, half in English. He tried to answer them and me at the same time.
I couldn’t understand a word except for the name Olivier Nemours. Emory pleaded with them, continually mentioning his name, using it as a weapon.
The man in the middle replied with voice like a whip. Emory became silent.
He swallowed hard. “Oui.”
Then they charged us.
The man in the middle pistol-whipped Emory and teeth flew from his mouth. We’d need to save some of them to put back in, I thought with a clear head.
The other four surrounded me. All muscle-necks who smelled of onions and bouillon cubes. Fists like iron clubs. The name “Fausti” clear enough from one of their French mouths.
I wasn’t coming out of this without a scratch, but I’d fall fighting.
The last thing I remembered was the feel of hot blood spilling across my face, and smiling inwardly, knowing that the five had left as torn up as me. I had carved an X into one of their chests with the knife at my ankle before the boot of another landed the final blow.
* * *
It was the pitiful moaning that woke me. I tested each arm; all in working order. Legs. All straight in that regard too. Ribs were sore but would do. My stomach was full of acid and blood. The tang of it invaded my mouth.
Face,not so good.
One eye had completely swollen shut and the other would only crack enough to see out of. A stitch or two above the brow would be needed. My tongue roved over a busted, swollen lip. At least all of my teeth were in order.
Teeth on the cement; the thought made me sit up. The world spun before it settled. The back of my head must’ve taken a blow.
“Emory.”
