Iniquity (The Premonition, #5)(66)

My mind is buzzing with thoughts of Xavier. He should be somewhere close. I’m supposed to meet him by the bridge. My scattered thoughts and prayers hurtle through my mind, making me flinch as Emil’s fingertips brush my hair away from my nape. He bends and presses his lips there. I don’t move, but my pulse races with fear and loathing.

Emil lifts his lips and sits beside me on the piano bench with his back to the keys, facing me. “You play so beautifully, just like an angel, Simone.”

“Do you believe in angels, Emil?” I ask. I can’t even remember formulating the question, but it’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“Of course. I have one beside me.”

“I mean real angels.” I shouldn’t be speaking. It will upset him.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“If there were angels, you wouldn’t exist.” The truth I never meant to say.

“The world needs me to rid it of its imperfections.”

“Who are you to judge anyone?”

“I’m the one with all the power.”

His hand rests against my skin, rubbing my cheek. He moves his hand downward. My fingertips touch the fabric of his trousers. I glide them up the length of his thigh, watching his pupils grow larger until my fingernails bump against the supple leather of the holster of his sidearm. Emil’s hand cups my breast. A soft gasp whispers from me before I swallow back the bile in my mouth. I skim my hand over smooth leather, feeling the transition from warm hide to cool metal. My heart hammers in my chest.

Emil reaches to the back of my dress. He deftly slips the ivory top button of my collar through the eyelet. I feel sick. Our eyes are locked on one another’s. I touch the handle of his gun. The second button on my dress springs free of its eyelet. I ease my arm back, heavy gunmetal slithers against leather. With my shaking thumb, I push the safety off. Finding the trigger with one finger, I use my other hand to pull back the toggle of the pistol. It slides back into place.

Emil’s hands have stilled, recognizing the sound of me arming his Luger. “Do you intend to shoot—” I push the barrel against his ribs. The trigger clicks as I pull it, but nothing happens. It doesn’t fire. My eyes leave his as I fumble with the toggle once more. It’s in the up position, indicating that there are no bullets in the magazine. I cock the toggle anyway and try to fire the pistol. Again, nothing happens, except that the toggle springs back to the up position once more. I lift my eyes to Emil’s. He’s amused.

“We’re running low on ammunition. I gave my cartridges to Axel so he could dispose of the staff. I am, as you see, out of bullets.” I can’t seem to swallow. I stare into his cold, blue eyes. “I thought you loved me, Simone.”

“I don’t,” I hear myself whisper. “I hate you.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No. Not even close.”

The violent crack of his backhand across my cheek sends me toppling from the bench. Landing hard on the floor, I pull my heels up to me so that I have a better chance of rising fast. His Luger flies from my hand, spinning to a halt underneath a table.

“Pity,” Emil says. “I love you. You’re dear to me.”

My palm cups my throbbing cheek as I look up at him. “You love to torture me. It isn’t the same thing.”

He rises from the bench, towering over me. “It is to me.” He lifts his cane from against the side of the piano. The silver wolf head shines in the light from the window. “You’ve grown rebellious. Why is that? It’s as if something has given you hope. Is that it? Do you hope, Simone? Do you believe you will be liberated by my enemies?”

I don’t answer. I’m afraid that he’ll see the truth on my face though. I did hope. I placed my hope in a British soldier who has abandoned me. I rise to my feet with my hand on the nearby table. Backing away from him, he watches me move. My clumsy hand stumbles over the table, knocking over the kerosene lamp, breaking the top of it off. Emil’s eyes go to the growing stain of liquid as it pours out. I retreat from it, my feet walking backward toward the doors to the hallway. Emil goes to the table, catching up the broken bottom of the lamp. He looks in my direction. Flicking his hand at me, the oil from the lamp soaks the front of my dress, splashing onto my face and arms. I close my eyes, trying to avoid getting it in them. Blurrily, I try to wipe it from my face with the back of my sleeve.

“Do you hope, Simone? Do you pray to be rescued? Do you wish for someone to take you from me, now that we are in retreat? Do you believe that I will ever let you go?” He sets the broken lamp back on the table. A matchbox rests next to his hand. Running his fingers over it, he snatches it up. Blood drains from my face as he opens it and withdraws a matchstick. With trembling knees, I force my feet to move.

Driven by terror of the madman behind me, I stumble into a chair, toppling it over. I put my hands out, trying to feel my way across the room while my red-rimmed eyes burn with tears. Managing to find the doors, I fling them wide. The hallway is quiet. Empty. My hands go to the plaster wall and follow it to the kitchen. The scraping sound of a dragged foot follows me as I cross the stone floor. I fumble for the latch of the back door, finding it I fling it open. Leaning heavily on the railing, I descend the stone steps that lead to the cobbled drive.

The hazy shapes of soldiers crowd around at the end of the drive, loading the rest of their belongings into trucks in preparation of the evacuation. I avoid them, switching direction toward the carriage house. The wooden sliding door looms ahead. I hear Emil following me. In desperation, I throw all of my weight into the task of rolling the wooden door open on its glide. A diagonal sliver of light cuts the darkness inside. The space has been cleaned out. There are only a few bales of straw in the loft above. The cobblestone ground is dank beneath my feet. A blackbird flies onto the beam of the high ceiling. Rushing in, I roll the door closed. I try to throw the bolt, but Emil opens the door from without. He calls to his men outside, telling the soldiers to go on to the next location without him—he’ll catch up with them. Truck engines rev and softly fade as his men depart.