1 - Welcome to London, Buttercup #3
Directly behind him, with both knees bracing his weight and one solid arm wrapped around the victim’s throat, there’s another man.
Well, he looks about my age, with rain-slicked hair flattened against his head, and heavy-lidded eyes - dark, stormy, and full of burning rage.
The kid at the mercy of his chokehold fights with every ounce of strength he can muster.
The struggle is pointless, though. His grip is unshakable.
I’m not sure what possesses me to do so - perhaps my inner photographer, or maybe blind idiocy - but I lift the device, zoom in and snap a quick photo. Luckily, my phone’s been on silent mode since the flight over. That distinct click of the camera could have cost me my life.
The man standing in the middle toys with something in his hands. When the object catches a sliver of light, my face pales. He’s wielding a knife. Throwing it up in the air, far too casually, and catching it by the handle on its way back down.
“Ez, I think Fionn needs a hand with his trousers, amigo.” His voice is steel.
“Clarke! No, fu— “
The kid thrashes around like a crazed animal, bucking, snarling, limbs flailing uselessly.
From my left, another person emerges from the shadows, a cigar dangling from his mouth as if he’s stepped out of a 1940s film noir.
He stalks forward, bending down in front of the broken boy, kicking his legs in a desperate attempt to end the torture.
In less than the time it takes to blink, cigar man swipes his trousers, leaving him butt naked and quaking.
“Ugh. Kids pissed his pants,” he grimaces, dropping the garments in disgust.
“Fionn, Fionn,” Clarke clucks condescendingly, as if he’s talking to a mere child. “You should know. You mess with what’s ours and you don’t get to walk away breathing.”
He paces back and forth, slowly, deliberately, a cat toying with a mouse before it delivers the final blow. “You didn’t just mess though, did you? You broke her beyond fucking repair. And for that, you’re gonna get my special treatment.”
This guy is psychotic. Categorically insane. But his companions all laugh as if they’re in on some sort of twisted inside joke. Sweat rolls down the back of my neck, merging with the rain. I need to get the hell out of here.
“Hold him down,” Clarke demands, crouching low to the ground. “And give him something to bite down on. Not going to lie, this is gonna smart.”
Cigar man nabs the soiled boxers and gags him.
Are they going to? No, that’s barbaric. They wouldn’t, would they? They are. The blade glints in the moonlight. The stench of nicotine hangs in the air like a silent warning. And the scream rips from my throat before I even know it’s there.
“What the—?”
All three of them spin, leaping to their feet. But I’m gone. Tearing down the stairs at breakneck speed, my toes barely touching the ground.
Shouts erupt into chaos behind. Heavy footsteps crash down on the stone steps like a rolling thunderstorm.
“Find her!”
A deafening crack. Loud. Fatal. And I know it’s over. For him, at least.
I bolt into the night. The rain is a brutal force-field, slamming against my face, stinging my eyes and obscuring my vision.
The streets dissolve into nothing more than a haze of lights and colour.
My lungs are burning; legs are screaming and I’ve sliced my feet up worse than a butcher’s cutting board.
When I’ve gained enough distance, and the familiar shop shutters come into view, I force myself to slow down, taking a moment to catch my breath. I can’t decide whether to cry or throw up that ratatouille all over the pavement.
What did I just watch? What did I just witness?
Witness.
I’m a witness to a brutal, bloody murder.
Blinding lights from a vehicle up ahead burn into my retinas. My hand goes up, shielding my face from the onslaught. The car comes to a stop beside me, and the window rolls down. My body crashes into one of the shutters with a loud clatter.
“Miss Rousseau. The streets of London are not safe at night.”
A huge sigh, caught somewhere between relief and collapse, whooshes from my constricted lungs.
“Nico,” I cry, exasperated, wasting no time swinging the car door open to clamber inside. “What are you—?”
He raises his palm, cutting me off to strip off his leather jacket. He drapes it over my shoulders, rubbing the material against my skin, towelling off some of the excess rainwater. My entire body trembles, every muscle quivering as if I’ve been struck by a jolt of high-voltage electricity.
“Your father was worried,” he explains, reaching over to belt me up. “So, I came looking for you. What happened?”
“I got lost.” Telling barefaced lies is second nature to me.
The subtle nod is evidence he’s savvy to my dishonesty. But he doesn’t push the subject.
I stare at my bare feet. Stained with streaks of red and black.
“Cordelia,” Nico’s voice is edged with concern. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I almost laugh out loud. Because I’m pretty sure that kid will haunt me for the rest of my life for not stepping in to help. If they don’t find me first.
You see. The reason those Louboutin’s were my favourite; Dad had them custom-made for my 16th birthday. Custom-made with ‘CMR’ embossed on the scarlet heel...
My initials.
Cordelia Maeve Rousseau.