Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(44)

“In which case you’ll need me here,” she pointed out, “so I can drain all the blood from their bodies.”

I stared at her. “Can you do that?”

“I’m not sure.” She winked and bade goodbye to Monsieur Bernard. “Perhaps we should find out.”





The Escape


Lou


Lavender-scented bubbles and warm water were lapping around my ribs when my husband returned later that afternoon. His voice echoed through the walls. “Is she in there?”

“Yes, but—”

The tête carrée didn’t pause to listen or to question why Ansel stood in the corridor instead of in the bedroom. I grinned in anticipation. Though he was going to ruin my bath, the look on his face would make up for it.

Sure enough, he burst into the bedroom a second later. I watched as his eyes swept the room, searching for me.

Ansel had removed the washroom door in an attempt to patch the hole my husband had punched through it earlier, but I hadn’t waited for him to finish. The frame now stood gloriously empty, a perfect showcase for my soapy, naked skin. And his humiliation. It didn’t take long for him to find me. That same, wonderful choking noise burst from his throat, and his eyes widened.

I gave a cheery wave. “Hello there.”

“I—what are you—Ansel!” He nearly collided with the doorframe in his effort to flee. “I asked you to fix the door!”

Ansel’s voice rose hysterically. “There wasn’t time—”

With a growl of impatience, my husband slammed the bedroom door shut.

I imagined a bubble as his face and flicked it. Then another. And another. “You’re very rude to him, you know.”

He didn’t speak. Probably trying to control the blood rushing to his face. I could still see it, though. It crept up his neck and blended into his coppery hair. Leaning forward, I folded my arms over the edge of the tub. “Where have you been?”

His back stiffened, but he didn’t turn. “We didn’t catch them.”

“Andre and Grue?”

He nodded.

“So what happens now?”

“We have Chasseurs monitoring East End. With any luck, we’ll apprehend them soon, and they’ll each spend several years in prison for assault.”

“After they give you information on my friend.”

“After they give me information on the witch.”

I rolled my eyes, flinging water at the back of his head. It soaked his copper hair and cascaded down the collar of his shirt. He whirled indignantly, fists clenched—then stopped short, slamming his eyes shut.

“Can you put something on?” He waved a hand in my direction, the other firmly pressed against his eyes. “I can’t talk to you when you’re sitting there—sitting there—”

“Naked?”

His teeth clamped together with an audible snap. “Yes.”

“Sorry, but no. I haven’t finished washing my hair yet.” I slid back beneath the bubbles with an irritated sigh. Water lapped against my collarbone. “But you can look now. All my fun bits are covered.”

He cracked an eye open. Upon seeing me safely beneath the foam, he relaxed—or relaxed as much as someone like him was capable. He had a permanent stick up his ass, this husband of mine.

He moved closer cautiously and leaned against the empty doorframe. I ignored him, dumping more of the lavender soap in my palm. We were both silent as he watched me lather my hair.

“Where did you get those scars?” he asked.

I didn’t pause. Though mine were nothing compared to Coco’s and Babette’s, I still had quite a few. A hazard of a life on the streets. “Which ones?”

“All of them.”

I risked a glance at him then, and my heart plummeted when I realized he was staring at my throat. I directed him to my shoulder instead, pointing at the long, jagged line there. “Ran into the wrong end of a knife.” I held up my elbow to show him another speckling of scars. “Tangled with a barbed-wire fence.” Tapped beneath my collarbone. “Another knife. That one hurt like a bitch too.”

He ignored my language, eyes inscrutable as he stared at me. “Who did it?”

“Andre.” I dipped my hair back into the water, smiling when he averted his eyes. Hair clean, I wrapped my arms around my shins and rested my chin on my knees. “He got the jump on me when I first arrived in the city.”

He sighed heavily, as if he were suddenly weary. “I’m sorry we didn’t find them.”

“You will.”

“Oh?”

“They aren’t the brightest. They’ll probably show up here by morning, demanding to know why you’re searching for them.”

He chuckled and rubbed his neck, emphasizing the curve of his bicep. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves since the interrogation, and I couldn’t help but trace the long line of his forearm to his hand. To his callused fingers. To the fine, copper hair dusting his skin.

He cleared his throat and dropped his arm hastily. “I should go. We’re interrogating Madame Labelle soon. Then the other one—the thief at Tremblay’s. Bastien St. Pierre.”

My heart stopped, and I pitched forward, sloshing bubbles and water in every direction. “Not Bas?” He nodded, eyes narrowing. “But—but he escaped!”