Page 26 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Sébastien
I would have asked what Frank’s sorry unconscious hide was was doing in the damn van, but as soon as I locked eyes with Q’s chartreuse glare—I saw it in an instant; Frank busting in on the rescue, him blurting out something unintelligible to Dennis before sloppily shooting petit-Denny in the shoulder.
Not one of us could mistake Frank’s intentional missed shot. If Frank had wanted to shoot any of the infiltrators—he would have been able to put a bullet between every set of eyes that he took aim at.
For this reason alone, Q spared him and spirited him away with us.
Even if it had been a momentary lapse of reason—and Frank or Rook or whoever the fuck he really was, is totally lost to the Windmill, it’s more dangerous to leave him behind than to bring him along as a potential conduit for information or a bargaining chip.
Caz keeps his focus on getting us away from the so-called Country Estate while Q rushes to bind the unconscious Frank—cuffing his wrists behind his back, then binding them to another set of cuffs at his ankles so he’s hog-tied, his whole body bowed, a duct tape gag across his lips with a quick blindfold fashioned from a torn scrap of canvas.
As soon as Tin-tin finishes with Frank, he makes his way to Denny to help him stop the bleeding from his gunshot wound.
For my part, I lift Louise’s frail form into my lap as soon as we scoop her and the others into the van and begin to sob. My lips press against her forehead in a silent prayer of thanks for her life, for her return to us.
“Sébastien,” she croaks weakly, her lips feathered and split with dehydration, before she passes out in my arms.
Our escape had been narrow, but just enough for us to burn rubber between the estate’s access road and the drop point where we stashed an off-road vehicle to traverse a particularly tricky bit of back country between us and a lesser known system of rural and fire roads that would take us back toward Goosewing Lake.
From there, a boat would carry us surreptitiously across the northern border into Canada—where we would depend on more of Q’s professional contacts to help us place more distance between us, the Windmill, and the Feds.
Once we are settled out of the country—we will re-connect with Doctor Perla in hiding.
Upon boarding the boat, we shared a tearful reunion—Louise barely able to hold on to consciousness in her state.
Dennis is lying on the far end of the massive bed, his breathing slow and even—a clean bandage fixed over his wounded shoulder. Luckily, the bullet passed through with minimal damage—a near mirror image of Frank’s wound that we had tended in the cabin on the very lake we cross now by moonlight.
He is still bound and gagged—locked in the tiny head attached to the crew quarters. He’d briefly woken—fighting furiously against his bonds, so I dosed him with more of Caz’s night-night juice—allowing him to be blissfully out of sight and out of mind for the time being, no matter how briefly.
“You’re safe with us now,” I purr, low and soothing as Quentin and I help to pour broth between Louise’s parted lips, Caz seated behind her—Louise propped with her back against Caz to help keep her weak body upright, his calming theta scent helping her to get the steaming broth down.
She is too weak to speak, crying happy tears through her staggered sips and gulps, drifting off almost as soon as we manage to get her to swallow down a few cups of the nutritious broth and some bottled water mixed with powdered electrolytes.
For now, Louise lies sleeping—eyes moving slowly beneath her closed lids as Quentin, Caz, and I keep vigil at her side.
“I can’t believe she’s actually back with us,” Caz breathes reverently, his body curved beside hers in the blankets—her hands clamped over his wrists in a death grip even as she sleeps—as if she were worried he wouldn’t be there when she woke.
“It does seem almost surreal,” Quentin sighs dreamily from the other side of Louise, his own eyes drifting closed as he burrows his face into her hair on their shared pillow. His whole body eases as he breathes in her scent—iris, green apple, and the barest whisper of pink pepper.
I’m about to add my disbelief to the collection, but there’s a low metallic thump from deep in the ship, and I know immediately that the sound is of Frank’s making.
I sit up from my place curled against Caz, carefully unwinding my fingers from the toss of Louise’s hair as I struggle to my feet.
“I’ve got it.” I hold up my hands—picking up my gun and my pack of 27s from the nightstand—Caz and Q shooting me worried looks.
“Are you sure?” Even though Q’s exhausted, he’s already half sitting up—ready to provide backup.
“Please, you and Caz take rest with Louise right now, eh?” I wave them off, tucking my piece into the holster at my lower back beneath my black t-shirt before pulling an overstretched hair tie off my wrist to tie my hair back. “I can handle Frank Stone—or whoever the fuck he is nowadays.”
I open the door to the tiny bathroom we’ve stashed Frank in; about the size of two phone booths squished together and tiled from floor to ceiling; a toilet, a shoebox-sized sink basin, and an adjustable wand showerhead.
Not much for someone bound at the wrists and ankles around the toilet to get into trouble with—but Frank has still managed.
While he clearly wasn’t trying to make a break for it—there is a smear of blood on the tile wall where Frank clearly gave his head a good enough strike against it to put a split in his brow. More likely than not—it was the source of the loud metallic thump that brought me down here.
He blinks up at me blearily, blood running into his right eye as it threatens to swell shut.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I snarl, placing a cigarette between my lips, pulling my gun from its holster.
“Louise is trying to sleep—she needs her rest,” I growl, shoving a cigarette between Frank’s lips with one hand—pressing the cold metal muzzle of my gun to his right temple beside his bloody brow with the other.
“You and I are going to have a little chat on deck,” I bite out, brandishing the keys to his cuffs and ankle shackles on the ball chain around my neck.
Frank bobs a single nod to show he understands, holding the unlit cigarette between his lips—deadly still as I reach around the back of the toilet to unlock the shackles around his ankles.
He draws his legs back, allowing me to re-attach the ankle shackles once his legs are no longer wrapped around the toilet.
He does the same with his wrists—my gun pressed against his head all the while.
Once he’s re-cuffed, I help hoist him by his collar—the muzzle of my gun pressed against the back of his head—as I force him to the upper decks.
In the cool night air, the water lapping quietly against the hull—we sit beneath the stars and the moon overhead, their cool blue light casting long shadows over the deck, the glowing golden rectangle of light from the cockpit above us not reaching our faces, drawn in long dark shadows.
“I know the others are invested in keeping you around, for information—for possible leverage,” I sigh, leaning in to light Frank’s cigarette—his face momentarily illuminated by the bubble of warm firelight before I sit back and light my own.
“But I’m going to need you to set a few things straight, or I’m going to put you down, Frankie, right here—right now,” I growl, my gun in a single hand grip resting on my right knee as I take a drag of my cigarette.
“I don’t know how long I have before he shows up.” Frank shakes his head, bringing his cuffed hands to his mouth to tap the feathery ash from the end of his cigarette. “Move me away from the edge. I won’t jump overboard—but I can’t promise that he won’t.”
My anger threatens to boil over. I place my cigarette between my lips and reach my newly freed hand for Frank’s bloodied collar.
“Who the fuck are you talking about, putain ?” I bark, yanking him toward me and away from the edge of the boat and the dark waves breaking around the bow. “I don’t have patience for this cryptic bullshit,” I bite out, dropping him onto his knees on the deck before me.
“Tell Caz to look up Patrick Castle, Castle Security based out of Winter Hill—” Frank begins to explain—but his eyes roll back into his head, his jaw going slack, his burning cigarette dropping from between his lips as he begins convulsing; his legs turn to jelly beneath him, his dead weight nearly drags me down to the deck with him.
It’s only now—Frank’s body shuddering as the whites of his eyes glow under the moonlight, his head turning to the side as I stand over him frozen with shock and confusion—that I see the silvery lavender feathering of scar tissue just at the top of Frank’s left ear.
The most minute of breaks in the tiny arc of scars.
A bonding bite!?
Just as I’m worried that the long feathered ash from the cigarette still stuck between my lips will drop onto the struggling Frank—he goes still, eyes closed—breath slowing almost to a stop.
I let go of his lapels, his body slumping fully to the ship’s deck as he lets out a low, dry chuckle.
“What the fuck is this little nibble, eh?” I snip impatiently, pushing the toe of my boot under Frank’s shoulder—pushing him into an upright sitting position with my foot as I pull my gun from its holster.
But when Frank sits upright, I can tell that something isn’t right—hands still cuffed behind his back, his legs butterflied, the soles of his bare feet pressed together, the chained shackles at his ankles jingling slightly—as he comes to a sitting position.
“Easy, easy!” Frank groans—wincing as he rolls his neck, blinking away whatever episode he just emerged from.
“I asked you about the fucking bite on your ear, putain ,” I warn him, taking a step in so that the muzzle of my gun is practically against his forehead. “I wouldn’t test your luck right now, Frankie.”