I rub the scars crisscrossing my forearms. My body has changed since I came to Paris in search of Jacob. The muscles I built on labouring jobs have been sharpened by my grisly work. My skin is now a map of Paris drawn in blood.
I’m a mess, not just in my body, but in my soul.
And I can’t leave. I belong to Lucien Vega until Jacob’s debt is paid.
I reach my destination – a small, nondescript shop overlooking a boggy section of river. The sign outside is bright and clean, but there are indications of hard times – rubbish beneath the window, vacant shops on either side with their windows boarded up and lewd graffiti splashed about.
I step inside. The place reeks of dampness. The water must have got in, judging by the ruined furniture stacked beside the door with sales prices affixed – a pittance compared to what such exquisite pieces are worth. A stooped old man hunches over a barrel serving as his counter. There are no customers inside.
“Whaddya want?” The old man doesn’t look up from his ledger as I approach.
“Bonjour.” I draw my dagger from my coat. It’s a special one given to me by Lucien, the blade inlaid in silver. Truthfully, it’s an impractical blade, too flimsy and prone to breakage, but Lucien insists I use it. “I’m here on behalf of Lucien Vega to collect what’s owed.”
I spit a piece of tooth as I wander back along the Seine.
Not my tooth, thankfully. It’s strangely curved and sharp.
The job went south quickly. The old man couldn’t pay, of course. They never can. But he was surprisingly sprightly and tough for his advanced years. His left hook sent me hurtling into his tower of rotting commodes. His right had me seeing constellations.
It was only after I cut him with Lucien’s blade that he became weak enough for me to overpower, and now I have several new scars to add to my collection.
My head thuds.
I reach thepied-à-terreand let myself inside. All is silent. Lucien and his bodyguards are out for the evening. I clean the knife in the kitchen and help myself to some of the bread, ham and cheese I’d purchased at the market yesterday. I left a plate of food for Lucien before I went out, but he hasn’t touched it. I lick cheese crumbs off my fingers and take the plate downstairs.
The temperature drops as I descend the steps to the wine cellar. I grab a bottle from the shelf without looking at the label and make my way to the shackled figure hunched beneath the one small, barred window.
“I brought you some food.” I hold out the plate. A hand reaches out from beneath the filthy blankets and snatches the plate from my hands. One aquamarine eye regards me as Jacob shoves a wedge of cheese into his mouth.
We eat in strained silence until both our plates are clean. Jacob leans against the stone wall. His chains clank together as he raises the bottle to his lips and draws out the cork with his teeth. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I see the strange scars dotting his neck. There are fresh bruises and puncture marks.
Jacob offers the bottle to me with a trembling hand.
“Not for me, brother.”
When you grow up with a man like my father, a man who becomes a monster after a drink, you have but two choices – you either run away so you never have to see the monster ever again, or you become an even bigger monster so that he can’t have power over you. My brother and I each chose our path, and now we are both paying the price.
The hand retracts. Jacob takes a long swig. Even in the pale square of moonlight from the window above, I can see that his forehead shines with sweat.
“The wine here tastes like vinegar.” Jacob makes a face, but he doesn’t stop gulping down mouthfuls of the dark claret. “What I wouldn’t give for a drop of the Pauillac red we used to have at home.”
I hate the way he says “home” fondly, as if there was ever something to love about that place. I know that if I open my mouth to speak, I will say something I’ll regret, so I remain silent.
“Have you ever tried that stuff Lucien drinks, in the dusty old bottles?” Jacob wags his finger at me. “He gave me a glass once. I nearly spat it out in his face. That’s no merlot.”
“I won’t accept anything from Lucien, apart from his money.”
And a night of debauchery in the company of a beautiful, beguiling woman.
I didn’t touch the absinthe Arabella poured, but ever since I laid eyes on her, my head’s been filled with fog.
“That’s right.” Jacob’s lip curls back. “I forgot. You’re here to save my poor, corrupted soul.”
“Not your soul, Jacob. Just your skin.”
Jacob rubs his hand over his injured neck. “And how goes it, Gideon? How many pounds of my flesh have you worked off my debt? Does Lucien get to keep my pancreas?”
“Your debt is nearly cleared.”
