Chapter Eight

CAMPBELL

 

After a long soak in the tub, I put Justine back in bed. She was happily drifting in and out of consciousness in the water, and it’s better for her to rest instead of trying to stay awake. Her breathing falls into the even rhythm of slumber within a minute, so I turn the lights off and move my laptop to the corner desk, far enough that the patter of keys shouldn’t be a disturbance.

Samuel delivered on time, but the expense reports cover six years, which leaves a lot of reading to catch up on. By some mercy, the pages are in English, filed away under the American embassy’s other paperwork. Victor’s last listed address is at the bottom: a basement-level apartment in Montmartre, near the center of Paris. Zooming in on the street view doesn’t give me more than an alley and a few windows.

Something’s off. A man on Marchand’s salary could afford a much nicer place, and I doubt he was taking Natalie to some alley-side flat at the end of the night. Of course, it’s possible she brought him home, but most people with control issues prefer to keep their partners corralled in familiar spaces.

Halfway through the expense reports, my phone buzzes. I’m expecting Sofia, but the number is unknown beyond the French country code. Frowning, I connect the call and duck out of the bedroom before Justine can stir.

Natalie’s panicked voice breaks across the line. “Campbell, please say it’s you. Please, he’s—”

“It’s me.” I keep my tone firm but empty of feeling. Startling her will only make this worse. “Is he with you?”

“No, not right now. He—” She’s on the verge of hyperventilating but manages to spit a curse at someone else nearby. “Get away from me, you oaf. If you were actually protecting me, this wouldn’t have happened!”

One of the cardboard-cutout security guards she hired, surely.

“Natalie, I need you to focus. What’s going on?”

“Victor broke into my apartment.” Trembling glass meets marble, followed by the soft hush of a tap being turned on. “He… Can I send you pictures? I can’t say it.”

Good thing Justine is asleep. “Go ahead.”

For a minute, all I can hear is Natalie’s quickened breaths punctuated by clicks of her phone camera. The photos load in one at a time, but there’s nothing to see but red. Dripping red, congealed dribs and drabs in ephemeral shapes until I make sense of walls and furniture. This much blood soaks through your gloves, through your mask, until you taste nothing but hot iron—trying to comprehend how many bodies it takes to spill so far and so deep—

Do your fucking job, Specialist.

“—in the bedroom.”

Natalie was talking. I ground myself with a clenched fist, pressed hard enough against my thigh to bruise. “Say that again, Ms. Wagner.”

“I said, he left this in the bedroom.”

Another picture loads. Not as gore-drenched, but this time, the centerpiece on Natalie’s sheets is a pig’s head, tongue lolling out of its mouth. That snaps me alert, dispelling the haze of static trying to settle over my mind.

It’s animal blood. He could have hit up any number of butchers in Paris for the supplies, including the head. Considering his earlier threat to Natalie, translating the message is simple. The crude scrawl in French along her headboard, less so.

“Excuse my ignorance, but what does ‘tu m’as manqué’ mean?” I ask.

“Missed you,” Natalie answers, distant with horror. “It’s everywhere, Campbell. I was only gone for an hour.”

If Victor was stalking her, he would know the moment she left. “Do you have cameras at the apartment? Any security footage?”

Her frustrated exhale is heavy with tears. “I do, but when I tried to pull up the recording, everything is blank. Like something cut the cameras before he got here.”

Irritating, but not unexpected. Countersurveillance falls under basic tactics for a man with Victor’s expertise, and disabling security with no guards around is dead simple. “The first thing you need to do is go to a hotel. One that the embassy has approved and swept before.”

“But my apartment—”

“I know, Natalie. There are professionals that can clean that up, but your safety is what matters the most. Staying there is dangerous. You need to be somewhere with witnesses that checks everyone who comes in the door.”

Natalie chokes down another sniffle. “All right. What about the security firm?”

They’re useless. I don’t say that out loud, but beyond being bodies to get in Marchand’s way, the guards don’t have a chance if he actually makes a move. Except this isn’t my job—Natalie paid me to get rid of Marchand, not to keep her safe.

My eyes fall toward the bedroom, where Justine is sleeping soundly.

I shouldn’t care. I can’t, really, not in the sense where there’s an immediate line from feeling to conscience. The connection is scarred over, something I have to work open so it doesn’t freeze completely. Intervening with Natalie now makes it far more likely Marchand will recognize another player has entered the game, which could make him that much harder to kill clean.

“Are you there?” Her voice shakes, wounded, as if she’s the one Marchand bled out across the room with a thousand cuts.

Justine sounded the exact same way the first time she told me about Richard.

“I have a phone number for you to call.” Even if the contact info isn’t exactly the same, it should forward Natalie to the right place. “For a bodyguard—real personal protection. She’s not an agency. She’s a one-woman expert.”

“Better than a whole firm?” Natalie asks, incredulous.

No harm in being honest. “Alexandra saved my life more than once. I wouldn’t recommend anyone else for a situation this volatile. She’s ex-SF too. Victor’s tactics will be familiar.”

She also promised to pick up if I ever called again. It’s been six years, but it would take far more than that for her to break a promise.

“Give me the number,” Natalie says, slowly weaving her composure together. “I’ll pay, no matter what the cost is.”

I have no idea what Alexandra charges these days. They can work that out between themselves—the Wagner account will survive losing a zero. “One second.”

After texting Natalie the number, I put the phone back to my ear.

“Call her and say Campbell sent you. But for what I’m about to say next, don’t repeat a single word,” I caution. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Alexandra what happened to your apartment. She’ll find a trustworthy cleaner. Someone who can leave the place looking untouched and check for surveillance devices. He might not be able to bug your burner phone, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave something there tonight.”

Natalie lets out a sob. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“You have a lot on your mind right now.” To put it mildly. “Wait until you’re at the hotel to call Alexandra, just in case.”

“Okay.” She cycles through another deep breath, stabilizing. “Thank you so much.”

Her gratitude slips off me like oil on water. “You’re welcome. Good night, Ms. Wagner.”

Who knows where in the world Alexandra is right now, but she’ll contact me whenever her plane lands. I can get her up to speed on Victor, and if anything turns up at Natalie’s place, she can forward me the evidence. Filing with the police would be pointless—even after something so grotesque, they would investigate this as a domestic dispute—but every time he lashes out, I have a chance to get closer and seal the deal.

I linger in the hallway, watching the sunset play through the glass in Justine’s painting room across the way. Her canvas is off to the left, inches out of view, and curiosity guides me across the threshold.

I had been too distracted by getting my hands on Justine the day of the charcoal sketch to actually take a look at her work. Cast in a veil of red and gold by the window’s light, my body is a swathe of fluid black lines and negative space, sprawled out and open to the viewer. Lying against the pillows with limbs askew, a serpentine tension appears as the outline reaches my shoulders, coiled tight and waiting.

She put the most detail into my face. I stare into a stygian mirror, expression locked in a moment of longing. With only charcoal and the stark white canvas, Justine brought my eyes to life by carefully smudging dark lines into gray, pupils a pointed dollop of black in the center of each iris. Subtle shadows dance around my jaw and cheekbones, every quiet detail joining together to create an energetic reality.

Is this really how she sees me? I look…happier than expected.

Nothing like how I felt a moment ago, staring at the pictures Natalie sent. The flashback was a brief, sickening lapse, something that hasn’t happened in years. The anniversary always causes issues, but getting locked up out of the blue stopped a long time ago—or so it seemed.

A palette knife draws my eye, perched on top of Justine’s paints. I could test it again, draw a little blood to see if the same thing happens twice. If I get distracted while going after Victor, there’s a real possibility it could get me killed. I’m good, but he’s a man who has trained to survive almost anything.

The handle is old and polished, restored by someone’s keen eye. I bring the blade on the inside of my forearm, angled to the nook of my elbow. A single stab would do it, quick and direct as a needle.

Yet the thought summons no action. My hand is still, frozen at the perfect angle. It’s not as if I haven’t put a barrel of a gun in my mouth before, so why does this have to be so goddamn difficult—

I drop the knife back on top of the paint. “Fuck’s sake.”

This is an episode.

Annihilation has had my number for a long time, but so far, I’ve managed to refuse picking up the call. Unfortunately, years of practice doesn’t make the sudden intrusion any less of a shock. It isn’t sorrow or guilt, just the singular notion that it would be so much easier if everything ended here and now. Why wait?

Tearing my eyes away from the glint of steel, I leave the room before the blade lures me in again.

Justine’s eyes are still closed, but she lets out a pleased noise when I slide into bed behind her, turning to slip an arm around my ribs. Her body is warm from slumber, gentle and forgiving in a way I can’t even begin to deserve. Yet I’m too selfish to refuse, burying my face against the wealth of her hair and breathing in deep.

My guns are in the lockbox. Lucky that I put the nine-millimeter away after shooting with Justine instead of keeping it holstered. That crate might as well be a casket chained to my back, dragging with every step, but without the weight, I forget why I’m here. The notion of opening the lid and seeing everyone’s nameplates there keeps me curled up in bed, refusing to move an inch.

Time loses its edge. I’m not sure of the hour when Justine stirs, bumping her bare thighs against my jeans while kicking off the sheets.

“How long was I out?” she asks, tone hinting at embarrassment. “The last thing I remember is you drying me off.”

“A while.” My throat aches, dry and stiff. “How’s everything feel now?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life,” Justine admits with a laugh, drawing her palm up my spine in a slow caress. Her smile fades when she leans close enough to see my face. “Are you okay? You’re frowning so hard it looks painful.”

Am I? “Natalie called. Marchand broke into her apartment.”

“Jesus.” Justine rises out of the tangle of sheets, brushing her hair out of her face. “Is she safe? She’s still alive, right?”

“Yes, but scared out of her skin.” I brace myself up against the headboard. Collapsing is easy, but going down and out for the night will only make me feel worse in the morning. It always has. “He did a number on the place. It was pretty grotesque.”

She grimaces. “What kind of grotesque?”

I have the pictures, but considering what they did to me, there’s no way I’m going to show them to Justine. “Animal blood all over the walls and a pig’s head in her bed.”

Her expression warps from disbelief to disgust. “Does she have to stay there? I know guarding her isn’t your job, but—”

“I gave her the number for a bodyguard.” The words snap out of me, far harsher than intended. “Sorry, I’m not…”

When Justine’s hand cups my cheek, I realize I was staring past her shoulder, off into the shadows. “Hey. What’s going on?”

How can I explain? No one else has ever been with me when something this unsettling happened, not since I was hauling around a rifle for the PMC. Most of them didn’t care anyway; mercenaries aren’t united by patriotism, they’re united by money, and whether or not I blew my own head off didn’t factor into how much everyone else made.

Two people did give a damn, though, which is the only reason I’m here at all. Ulysse was one of them.

“Having a rough night.” Each word is scraped together, fighting the kneejerk reaction to shut down and go completely silent. I have to try. “When Natalie sent me pictures of her place, it flipped a few bad switches. Memories.”

Sympathy shines in Justine’s eyes, and I loathe that it frightens me. If she looks deep enough, Justine is bound to see the monster I pull a mask over every day. The true beast, starved for slaughter. Nausea climbs up my throat, but I swallow the acid back down, leaning into her touch.

“I’m sorry I was asleep.” Her thumb travels the line of my jaw, trying to smooth out the tension there. “Is there anything you do that makes it better?”

“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper.

Answering the question is far more difficult, but the fact that she’s asked at all is a tender balm. Of course Justine understands—it’s not sympathy, it’s empathy. Years of pain drove her to kill, too, even if I played the true instrument of Richard’s destruction. It was well-earned revenge, but Justine’s scars utter the same lies as mine—that we deserved our undoing.

“Stay with me.” The words are wretched and pleading in my ears, but there’s no escaping the raw truth. “Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Justine leans forward and presses a kiss to my brow. “Do you want to relax in bed? If we go downstairs, I could make you something to eat. I bet the garden’s a dream by moonlight.”

“Does that involve you putting clothes on?” The joke is weak, but if I don’t start deflecting, I’m going to break entirely.

She laughs anyway. I devour the sound, greedy for its heat. “Maybe just a robe.”

Justine lets me walk in her shadow while she finds said robe, a slip of black silk that she ties loosely around the waist. Her hand seeks mine, fingers squeezing tight on our way to the stairs. My body is running on autopilot rather than any real intention. It’s difficult to ground myself like this, but I have to bear down and wait out the worst.

She sets a glass of water in front of me once I sit, then flicks on a light over the counter to search around in the cabinets. After a foray into the fridge, Justine starts setting out ingredients, including a cut of pork Ulysse was kind enough to provide.

“How do you feel about spice?” she asks, then clarifies with a smile. “I mean the kind that burns your mouth a little.”

“It’s good.”

“Good.” Justine returns to the counter and grabs the largest knife in the block. I avert my eyes, looking out at the garden instead. “It’ll be a few minutes, but I know exactly what I’m making.”

I expect more questions, for curiosity to prod at the inflamed wreckage of my mind, but Justine remains a calm presence beside me. There’s the occasional comment to herself between steps, and once the knife gently clatters in the sink, I can bear to watch her again. She balances a few bowls over a pan on the stove, trading out seared strips of pork for a mix of vegetables, then a thicker sauce with the warm, sharp tang of garlic and chili. Everything goes in together at the end, a pleasant sizzle filling the kitchen with white noise before Justine splits the dish between two plates and sets one in front of me.

“My grandmother would rightfully haunt me if I called stir-fry in this kind of pan authentic, so let’s say it’s inspired by Sichuan instead.” As she takes the seat next to me, Justine’s calf brushes against mine. “Mom used to make this blazing hot whenever I was upset growing up. She said it would get all the tears out.”

A keen burn comes with the first bite, but it’s hot and satisfying. Justine was merciful in comparison, and I wolf down the entire plate, ignoring when my eyes water. Her own appetite is more measured, and she keeps one hand resting on my knee between forkfuls. By the time we’re both done, the disconnect isn’t gone, but it’s in the range I’m comfortable with. Muted awareness is far better than an abyss trying to eat me alive.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Justine asks.

I shake my head. She already knows the source, and retreading old pain is exactly what got me so worked up in the first place. “Talking doesn’t really help. But we can go out to the garden if you want.”

Justine pushes her plate away from the counter’s edge. “Mm, I think we should wander back to bed. Sleep does wonders.”

That it does.

I’m gently warned to leave the dishes for later, so we go up the stairs together. She tugs at my shirt once we’re in the bedroom, eases it over my head, and kisses me as a reward once it’s gone. Without protest, I let her undress me, then silently return the favor by drawing the belt of her robe open.

Once it falls around Justine’s ankles, she pulls me into bed. Held in her arms, I’m gone in seconds, forsaking consciousness for a fraction of peace.