Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Von Eberstein’s eyes narrowed. “I think I won’t. I think I’ll have my men pay her a little visit and leave the doors open so you can listen to her scream.”
She was here then—nearby. He strained against his bonds. “I said leave her alone.” Desperate, he had to convince him he was desperate. It wasn’t hard to do, even as hope sparked.
If this worked, this plan spiraling into place like harmonies in counterpoint, they’d probably kill him.
But they might let her live. Might let her go.
Von Eberstein straightened, rounded the table, opened the door.
“No. No! Leave her out of it!” Marcel screamed.
The door closed again. Fingers curled into his hair, gripping the roots, and used it to force his head back, so that he was looking upside down at the man who’d once called himself a friend. “Give me your call sign, Laurent.”
He made a show of struggling, grunting, but when Von Eberstein shouted at the door to get the woman, he cried, “Noah!”
“Wait!” A command for the soldiers outside. The hand let go. Von Eberstein reappeared in front of him, leaning in close. “Noah.”
Marcel looked down, jaw clenched, as if he was ashamed of himself. And he heard the music soar.
They had no way of realizing Alliance knew what they had dubbed their organization. No way of knowing Blanchet had let the name slip. No reason to think he’d invented the name on the spot to further their idea of him being in charge.
If he was Noah, then all the animals in the ark would answer to him. If he was Noah, he was the one they wanted. If he was Noah, having him meant cutting the head off the hydra. No one had ever mentioned a Noah, of course, but they’d chalk it up to him protecting himself in their communications.
He really didn’t like that nasty little smile on Von Eberstein’s lips. “Interesting. No animal name for you?”
Marcel averted his face.
“Clever, clever, clever. I imagine you know a great many people, don’t you, from all your travels? Your tours? People in positions of power—people with wealth.”
He knew museum curators. Artists. Fashion designers’ assistants. He knew violinists talented enough to reach over and play their neighbor’s instrument with their own bow, pianists who would play jazz in rebellion, baritones who would drop a line an octave just for the fun of it.
“And Bellerose—what’s her call sign? Or shall I go ask her myself?”
Had they not yet? Please, God, protect her. He lifted his head and met the man’s eye. “She doesn’t have one. She’s just . . . just Zelie.”
He expected to have to convince him of it. But Von Eberstein threw back his head in laughter. It sounded so familiar, relaxed, jovial. It sounded like Lothar.
But this had always been who Lothar was. “Of course not. It’s as our man said—she was only playing a role. He indicated she had no other name, but I wanted to be sure.”
He bent down, pulled something from his boot.
When he rose again, a knife glinted wickedly in the light from the bare bulb overhead.
“I think . . . I think you will unfortunately not survive interrogation. I can’t have you telling anyone how I warned you, can I?
” His voice dropped to a whisper. He flicked the tip of the blade with his fingernail, studying the edge.
Marcel should have felt fear. Dread. But it was victory singing through his veins. He didn’t want to die—but better him than Zelie.
Von Eberstein straightened again, stepped closer. “But before we make things so permanent, I’ve found it’s always entertaining to find just where to cut someone. Hm?”
Marcel couldn’t help the quickening of his breath. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. It will be a moment of pain. An hour, even a day. Then it will be over.
He closed his eyes, pictured Zelie’s face. The eyes as blue as a summer sky. The way she laughed as she hugged her children. The way she cried over each sacrifice.
Von Eberstein’s voice came from inches away. “The woman you would die to protect? She’s been playing you for a fool, just as you’ve been playing me.”
His eyes opened again, and he knew well his denial was burning in it. But then, that’s what he would expect to see. What he would want to see.
Von Eberstein laughed again, tarnishing what should be a joyful sound with darkness. “Do you know what she carries in her pocket, Noah? A love note. From . . . can you guess? Greenfinch.”
He said it as though it would be a low blow, one that would rip him apart. Because of course Noah would know who Greenfinch was . . . but Von Eberstein didn’t. And he’d never used any name for her on his notes, in case of this very thing. He’d always drawn a shooting star.
But Von Eberstein would expect a response, so he roared.
Roared at the injustice, at the knowledge that he wouldn’t ever get to marry Zelie, grow old with her, be a father to her children.
He’d never get to watch her grow with a child of his blood or give Elise another lesson on the piano.
He’d never get to look Blaise in the eye and tell him, “I did as I promised. I protected her.”
But he prayed the boy would know. Prayed Elise would keep learning. Prayed Zelie would never forget how much he loved her, even when, after the war, she moved on. He prayed she’d remember him, at least, as the one who helped her see she was worth loving.
His shooting star.
Von Eberstein was chuckling when Marcel panted back to silence. “Such passion,” he chided. Then, louder, “Heines!”
The door opened, those dreaded steps sounded.
“Untie him. Let him get the feeling back in his arms. I think . . . yes. I’d like that concert before you die, Laurent. Some much-needed entertainment for all my men. What do you say?”
Was he serious? All this, and then a final gift too? He would get to touch a piano one last time? Marcel smiled, knowing it would look bitter simply because of his bruises. “As long as I get to choose the songs.”