The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [132]
It was the scent of roses that called her. She felt the cool breeze on her neck, the sun warming her face. She opened her eyes. Behind her was pain; in front of her was spring. Grey’s garden bloomed around her in deep greens and soft pastels. The apple tree showered blossoms onto the statue. Palest pink roses tumbled down a stone wall.
Claire flinched, the garden shook. Darkness grabbed her and she was in the room. Holz stood over her, blocking out the bulb’s light. The taste of blood filled her mouth. The smell of his sweat burned her nose. She saw his fist driving at her stomach.
Claire gasped, then blinked in the sunshine. She perched on the garden bench, sucking in deep breaths of fresh air, hands gripping the cool stone. Deep inside she heard the wind, stark fingers clawed at her, dragging her back into the blackness. She fought against it and savored the sweet tea scent of the roses, the rich deep smell of fresh earth.
“They look good, don’t they?”
Grey slid onto the bench next to her. He pointed a finger at the roses. “I knew they just needed to feel a lovely spring day.” Grey smiled, his eyes dancing. He wore the clothes she’d last seen him in. His worn leather boots were coated in farmyard mud. “That is all anything really needs.”
Claire tried to reach out to touch his face. She felt a flash of cold. In the darkness, her lungs burned, a part of her knew she was being slowly choked. Lights popped behind her eyes. Her body screamed for air.
Claire dropped her hand to her side, kept her eyes on Grey. She shuddered in the sun. “Thank you, Grey, for this place.”
“This isn’t real.”
A pulse of pain stole Claire’s breath. She fought as pain’s icy fingers tried to draw her back in. The burning lightened. Holz had let go. Far away, her lungs sucked in great gulps of air. “You’re here,” she said.
The firmness of his voice nearly startled her. “No. Neither of us is here. Not yet.” He cupped her face with a hand, enunciating every word. “You have to fight, Claire.”
Claire looked down at his hand, covered in smudges. She couldn’t tell if it was bruises or dirt. She closed her eyes, concentrated on the smell, the sound, the feeling, etched it in her soul.
Pain welcomed her. Claire slid forward as her hands and ankles were cut loose. She half caught herself as she hit the brick floor. There were more voices than before. A hand with bloodied knuckles grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her to her feet. She squinted against the glare of the bulb’s light. Her eyes focused on Holz.
He bared his teeth in a grin, the tendons in his neck bulged out around his collar. “Too bad. You should thank your luck. They are going to shoot you early.”
The words sank in as she was pushed from the room and carried down another long corridor. She heard scattered rifle shots in the distance as she stumbled down stairs and through a doorway in the courtyard.
Claire shielded her eyes against the sun’s blinding glare. The guard behind her shoved and she fell into a crowd of prisoners. Hands, bloodied and torn, helped her to her feet. Head swimming, she examined her surroundings. Soldiers pressed the battered prisoners up against the doorway. Before them stretched an open brick courtyard. Over the high stone walls, she saw rooftops and light blue sky. On the far wall, a line of heavy posts had been sunk into the ground; the stone behind them pockmarked by bullets.
“Américaine,” a gruff voice rumbled.
Claire stumbled toward the edge of the crowd. Jacques leaned against the wall, his side covered in bloody bandages up his chest.
Tears crept into her eyes as she faced