“Bedtime.”
My fingers tighten around the book.
“A little longer,” I plead.
His head shakes. “It’s after midnight. They will be here tomorrow.”
Here.
In this cold, dark place so far from me. Alone in their tombs.
“We can’t leave them here,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t come closer. He stays where he stood when he revealed the surprise. Like he can’t bring himself to.
“Why won’t you come in? You haven’t even seen them.”
A crease forms between his brows. “They are dead,mon amour.They are not in there.”
He’s right, of course, but the remark cuts. I feel the impact. It lands straight between my breasts.
“But they’re here,” I try to explain.
“They are not.”
The anger is sudden, a surge of hatred that boils up from my toes. It scorches through my veins to vomit off my tongue.
“Then why did you bring them?” I’m on my feet. The book slaps down on my empty seat. “Why do this if you’re going to be so cruel?”
“For you,” he retorts with no mercy. “Because you asked.”
Fire blooms in my chest with a ferocity that casts a thick veil of tears between us. The outline of him smudges to a blur that only clears with a blink and the rupture of the dams, sending the hot treks down my cheeks. My head is buzzing too loud for proper thought when I charge past him.
“Lenora!”
I don’t stop, barely pause when I throw back over my shoulder,“Va te faire foutre, connard!”
Never.
Never in my life have I sworn at another person. I wouldn’t dream of it. I certainly would never to someone I care about.
But he started it.
He gave me such a kind gift only to hurt me with it. He was cruel. Callous. A mean child tormenting the wounded.
He could have simply said no. He could have said later. There were a dozen other responses he could have given and … yes! I know they’re not in there. Hadn’t I spent hours listening for a hint of anything from inside? I know they’re gone.
I’m not crazy!
But to be treated like I am, like I need to be pacified.
I wipe the tears as I run deeper through the catacombs. The uncharted corridors, frail from years of disuse and age. Every board dips beneath my feet, becoming a game to see which might finally give.
“Lenora!”
Marcus is right behind me, voice thin in the distance, but everywhere with his echo. It weaves through the damp stillness, smacking me between the shoulder blades. Propelling me to pump faster. Heart hammering.
I round a bend and dive forward. Bare feet slap on stone, and I don’t stop to consider where the soggy carpets went.
