Susanne Matthews's Blog, page 12

Tuesday Tales: From the Word DOOR

 

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Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the blog that lets you be part of a story’s creative process. Hard to believe August has coming to an end.  I’m simply not ready to say goodbye to summer. This week, the word prompt is DOOR. Sadness prevails in France, as our heroine prepares to accept her fate and face it with courage.

Enjoy.

“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” she begged. “Talon will bring the culprits to justice; you know he will.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead the way he used to do when she was a child.

“Go, find your way to your friends in New France. The door’s open to a brand new future. I’m counting on you to keep the Dalbec family name alive. Sadly, their father’s name goes to the grave with him.” He reached for a satchel on his desk. “Talon arranged for these before he left. You have your marriage certificate and baptismal certificates for yourself, Marc, Melda, and Esperance—not a common name for a child, but we can all use a little hope. No one will be looking for a widow with three children. It’s the best way to keep you safe, while I mete out justice.” He handed her a leather pouch. “These coins will help you until you’re settled. There’s another bag of them in your trunk. I know you lost several personal items in the fire, items I can’t replace, but maybe you can when you find your new home.” He swiped at his tears. “Now, no more crying for either one of us. Today, we leave the past and its sorrow behind. Let me say goodbye to my grandchildren one last time, but promise me they’ll know how deeply they were loved by Beatrice and Gerard.”

She nodded, unable to speak, unwilling to cry.

Following him from his office, she went into the salon where Melda played with Lulu, the handmade doll Beatrice and Gerard had given her for her third birthday. Had it really been two months ago? Marc sat on the floor, removing wooden blocks from a birch bark box, a gift from Jean Talon. Espé sat in front of the window, drawing the multicolored ceramic boules used in the game of Pétanque. They all looked up when they entered.

“Mamie,” Melba said using the name she’d given her before, one she and her uncle had decided they could use since there were several ways for children to address their mother. “Look. Espé made Lulu a new dress.” She held up the wooden doll, a scrap of fabric tied around her neck.

That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales.

Enjoy the last long weekend summer has to offer this year.

 

Tuesday Tales:From the Word FALL

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Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. This week, we have a word prompt once more. FALL is one of those words with many different meanings. As I create my scene, I wonder how my colleagues have used it.

From The Price of Courage, we pick up the morning after the fire.

Enjoy!

“I don’t understand why I can’t attend the funeral,” Murielle said. “They were my family, too. I’ve colored my hair, and I’ll be heavily veiled. Surely we can wait to leave for Marseilles after I’ve paid my respects?” She hadn’t revealed her fear that the fire may have been meant to kill her, and that secret ate at her conscience.

Nicholas, looking old and careworn, shook his head, but his words were filled with iron.

“No. I absolutely forbid it. Even if you sat at the very back of the cathedral, someone could recognize you. I won’t take that chance. I’m burying twelve caskets today, one for each of the bodies supposedly found in the ruins of the house, four of which are you, Espé, Marc, and Melda. I don’t know whose bones are in those coffins, perhaps those of the man who killed himself, perhaps deer or small animals, but there will be a cross in the cemetery for each of you come spring and a riot of colors will adorn those graves each fall.” He ran his hand through his loose hair. “I know it chafes, but Talon agrees with me. Anonymity is the only way to keep you safe. Murielle Leroux is as dead as her husband Gaël. I wish I could inter you with him, but I have no love for the new Count de Caen, and neither has Talon. That cross here will give Murielle Dalbec and her children a chance at a better life. Think of Espé. She’s the one who got out of the house and saved the others. She hasn’t spoken since that night, the shock having stolen her voice, and yet, even that can be used to save you. You may not agree, but desperate times call for desperate measures. This is the only way to keep you safe while Talon and I go after the killers.”

“I understand, mon oncle, but I don’t have to like it.”

She’d followed Isabelle’s lead and had used some of Cosette’s walnut stain to dye her hair. While the effect wasn’t as drastic as if had been on the young redhead, it did make Murielle look younger.

“I know,” the old man said. “I appreciate you wanting to be there for them—for me.” He stood, pulling himself together as he did, grabbing a leather thong, and using it to tie back his white hair.

That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

Tuesday Tales: From a Picture

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Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog by a select group of authors that keeps you in the loop as we craft our stories. Each week, we move through our manuscripts adding scenes based on a word or picture prompt. Picture prompts are limited to 300 words. Many thanks to site manager Jean Joachim for providing the perfect picture for me this week.

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I continue with The Price of Courage, my historical romance suspense novel. Disaster has struck, but danger still lurks for Murielle and her uncle.

Enjoy!

“No,” Nicholas answered his chin jutting out. “Whoever did this intended to kill me, not my daughter, not my son-in-law, not my niece, not my grandchildren. I refuse to let them believe for a second that they did. I want all of France to know the extent of their crimes, but I agree Murielle and those who escaped must leave. No one can know they survived.”

“Uncle, please. If we’re to go, come with us,” Murielle begged.

“I can’t,” he answered, looking far older than he had only hours ago. “Le Faucon bleu bound for Martinique leaves the day after tomorrow. I have several casks of wine to be loaded aboard. Among the passengers is Louis Renaud, one of France’s renowned architects, who’s been chosen by the king to oversee the rebuilding of three forts on the island of Martinique—St. Pierre, St. Robert, and St. Sebastien—damaged during the English attack on the merchant fleet in the harbor back in late June. His wife Lucienne, and their seven-year-old twin daughters, Rose and Lilas, go with them. He can be trusted. I’ll arrange for you and the children to travel with them. A distant cousin, Xavier Dalbec, died a few weeks back when he fell off his roof trying to mend it.” He looked directly at Talon. “The old bachelor never married, but perhaps you can change that and get Murielle the necessary documents to claim she’s his widow and those are his children.”

“Consider it done,” Talon said, his eyes hooded, his mouth a tight, thin line.

Murielle shuddered and  looked away. Talon was a good man to have on her side, but he would make a formidable enemy.

“I can only go after the arsonists and wreak vengeance upon them if I know the last of my family is safe.”

That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

Tuesday Tales: From the Word GROAN

[image error]Welcome to another edition of Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog where a small group of authors share their work with you. We’re into the dog days of summer.  As a child and later as an adult, I was always sad to see August arrive, since it meant we had to think about returning to school. Some of you may already have. The nice thing about retiring from my job as a teacher is that now, I don’t have to think that way. Plenty of vacation time left for me.

Today, we continue with The Price of Courage and remain remain at the scene of the devastating fire. Our word prompt is GROAN.

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“Do you recognize him, Nicholas?”

Her uncle, his tears carving gouges in his cheeks, shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen him, but if this bastard is responsible for this, then may he burn in hell.”

“Do you, madame?”

Murielle shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not, my lord.”

Tears of sorrow and guilt ran down her cheeks. She didn’t recognize the man, but there was something about his shape and size that teased her memory. Had he been the one she’d seen earlier in the ruins? Not a ghost but a man intent on adding to their number?

She smothered a groan. Could she have said something earlier and prevented this disaster? If the intent had been to kill her, why not do it then? Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her, thinking her a servant girl on her way home since the path eventually led to the village. Either way, she would carry the weight of what might’ve been on her shoulders for the rest of her life.

If the Chevalier d’Angrignon, the new Count de Caen, had ordered such a cruel and heartless act to protect himself and his lies, then God alone knew who else might perish at his hand. Could she mention this to Talon? But to what purpose? She could never reveal that the Isabelle the chevalier wed wasn’t the de Caen heiress. To do so would destroy far more people than it would help.

Beatrice and the others were dead, but she and three of her family remained. She would take Melda, Marc, and Espé, and leave France on the next ship no matter where it was going. No one could know the four of them lived, and if her uncle wanted to come too, then he would be more than welcome.

Talon spoke before she could.

“Nicholas, until I get to the bottom of this, I think it best we let whoever set the fire think they succeeded in killing all of the members of your family, yourself included.”

Her uncle spluttered.

“Here me out, old friend. If this fire was meant to destroy me, my arrival in Paris will come as an unexpected surprise, and I will do everything to catch the perpetrators. If they think you live and can possibly identify them, since one of their number won’t be returning to them tonight, they may try to silence you—all of you.”

The plot thickens!  Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

Another Year Older: Celebrating Birthdays.

[image error]Happy birthday to me!

Seriously! How hard is it to spell things correctly? My grandchildren have always called me GRAMMA, and yet, even though the name was spelled out, the R is still missing.  They managed to get Jon’s spelling right–he doesn’t add the H–but me? As infuriating as it was for my daughter to open the box and see the mistake, I guess it’s just one of those punches I’ll have to learn to roll with.

A sign of the times, they tell me, when spelling no longer matters. But I digress.

At some point between the moment I went to bed last night and the minute I got up this morning, I turned a year older. In actual fact, we age second by second, minute by minute, day by day. I’m older now than I was when I started this post, and I’ll be older still when I finish it.

Many people celebrate their birthdays; others don’t. Why? The reasons are varied. Some religions don’t believe in exalting oneself, and let’s face it, that’s what you do when you celebrate your special day. Others see the numbers climb and don’t want to be reminded that their best years are over.

Some pagan cultures believed that evil spirits hung around you on days of major changes, like the annual anniversary of your birth. The ancient Greeks, for example,  believed that each person’s birth was attended by the Fates. Clotho spun the “thread” of the person’s life,  Lachesis handed it out, and Atropos cut the thread, giving the person a finite number of days. If the person was born on a day special to a particular god or goddess, that deity had a mystic connection to said mortal.  Lets; face it, the Romans loved to party as did the Persians, so birthdays were a great excuse to overdo. And what about astrologists?

Here’s my prediction from https://cafeastrology.com/birthday/iftodayisyourbirthday.html

[image error]If Today is Your Birthday Forecast for 2019-2020

Born August 1 – New beginnings are in store this year, and you’re likely to enjoy a pioneering spirit. The period ahead is a strong one for enterprise and initiative, as well as publicity or promotion. (I’ve been thinking of trying Facebooks ads for my books)Work or special projects can be exciting and rewarding, and your social life is likely to open up pleasingly, although some erratic elements are possible. The tendency to make changes too abruptly should be watched for…more

If You Were Born Today,  August 1

You are a natural leader and others quite readily look up to you. You love variety and can be quite indecisive at times, but you are tough and determined when you need to be. While most consider you calm and centered, you do have a tendency to worry, particularly about money and security. Even so, you are generous and you enjoy some of the finer things in life. You can be quite successful in marketing and research, amongst other things. Sometimes sarcastic, you quite easily see through falseness, and you much prefer to surround yourself with people who are authentic and honest. Famous people born today: Yves Saint-Laurent, John Carroll Lynch, Dom DeLuise, Jerry Garcia, Sam Mendes, Demián Bichir, Scarlett Bruns, Jason Momoa, Landry Allbright, Jack O’Connell, Max Carver.

[image error]Maybe things are looking up!

Because of the pagan roots, early Christians were directed not to celebrate birthdays in any way. Later during the Middle Ages, Christians began celebrating their Saint ‘s Day, the day dedicated to the saint they were named after.  I wouldn’t be celebrating today since it’s Saint Alphonsus Liguori’s Day., but my day wouldn’t be far off.  Saint Susanna of Rome’s day is August 11–not sure the poor woman had much to celebrate.

Saint Susanna, virgin martyr, refused to marry a pagan relative of the Emperor Diocletian, in 295. Because she said –NO– she was arrested for being a Christian and beheaded in her own home. Apparently, the place became a church.  The church became known as Sancta Susanna ad duas domos.

Here’s the link to the calendar to see which saint celebates the same day you do.

Saint of the Day Calendar

So, here I am, another few minutes older. Wiser? Not sure, but definitely looking forward to celebrating as many more birthdays as I can

 

 

Tuesday Tales: From the Word PLAID

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Welcome back. Hard to believe July’s coming to an end. It’s still hot week, with plenty of gorgeous sunshine. I’m not ready for summer to slip into fall, although, here and there, the signs of its impending arrival can be seen as flowers fade, the weeds and crab grass take over. Soon, the trees will show tinges of red and gold in their leaves.

Today’s Tuesday Tale, a look at works in progress from a small group of select authors continues.  In The Price of Courage, we ache with Murielle and what’s left of her family.

[image error]Talon squared his shoulders. “I knew there would be some unhappy with my return to France, especially those involved in the conspiracy against the colony, but to kill so many innocents … like me, my enemies thought I slept beneath that roof tonight.”

A man screamed startling Murielle. She turned, tears flowing freely. Talon believed himself the target, but what if he wasn’t? What if it had been her and the secret she bore?

The officer Talon had spoken to stepped out of the ruins, dragging something. Was that a body? He dropped the foul smelling burden to the ground next to the carriage.

Murielle wrinkled her nose as her stomach roiled, her emotions and nerves stretched to their limits. The man reeked, the scent reminding her of Caen once more. She pulled her plaid shawl over her face.

“What in the name of the almighty is that smell?” Talon asked, pulling out a scented handkerchief and holding it to his nose.

“It’s fish oil, your grace,” the young man whose epaulettes proclaimed him a lieutenant in the colonial militia answered. “There were several empty clay jars of it over there among the ruins. I don’t think he was working alone, but he’s the only one here.”

“Are you saying he started this fire?” Talon’s voice was deadly calm.

“The blaze was definitely set. Sergeant Prieur has verified that someone boarded up the doors and shutters from the outside, making it impossible for those inside to leave. Given his unseemly aroma, I would say this man probably sneaked into the house once everyone was in bed, spread the oil around, spilling a significant amount on himself. He exited and as soon as he did, another of his conspirators nailed the door shut. Someone threw something inside to set the fire and then fastened the shutters and nailed them closed. Judging from the flames on the second floor and the collapsed roof, he may have started the fire up there, but I don’t see how one man could’ve done it alone.”

“We could’ve questioned him had you not killed him,” her uncle cried.

“Begging your pardon, sir, we didn’t. When he saw that he was trapped, he plunged his own knife into his chest. There must be a cart nearby. There’s no way he carried those jars here on his own.”

That’s it.  The plot thickens. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

Tuesday Tales: From the Word HARDY

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Welcome back. July and summer are in full swing. I hope you’re enjoying good weather. I know it’s been hot, with humidex temperatures around here hovering well over 105 F. But after so many months of cold, I refuse to complain. It seems at my age, it’s easier to cool off than to get warm despite the layers of insulation I carry.  The cold weather will be back soon enough.

Tuesday Tales is a blog where a small group of authors share their works in progress with you.  Each month, we use a picture prompt. Today, I continue with The Price of Courage, and blend the last two picture prompts back into the story. This week we have a word prompt to add in as well, the word HARDY.

Sadly, things have taken a turn for the worse, but life and people were as cruel in the seventeenth century as they seem to be today. Greed remains a mighty motivator.

[image error]Jean Talon helped her into the carriage where she sat beside her uncle, the hardy man she recalled from last evening, now frail and broken, tears coursing down his cheeks.

It took thirty minutes to reach the blaze, the journey by road longer than on foot, but the sky was alight long before they saw the conflagration. The inferno raged, tongues of fire licking at the sky, frightening the stars away.

Talon’s men and her uncle’s servants emptied the stable, releasing the horses, cows, and chickens, knowing there was nothing they could do for the burning structures. Had this been summer and lightning had struck the building, she could believe the fierceness of the fire, but at this time of year, it made no sense.

“Did none of the others escape?” she asked, her gaze drawn to a slight movement in the trees just below the ruins. “There’s someone up there,” Murielle indicated the top of the hill.

[image error]Could it be one of the other children, too terrified to move? Was it the shadow she’d seen moving earlier? A frisson chilled her. If there was someone there, why hadn’t he tried to help?

Talon called one of his men over and spoke to him. The man nodded and walked away.

The blaze roared as something exploded within the walls and the roof collapsed into the house. The pain in Murielle’s heart grew exponentially, almost more than she could bear. No one could survive a fire of such intensity. Gerard, Beatrice, a nameless child within her body, Martin, Mathieu, Millie, and Marie, all gone, just like that.

In her mind’s eye she saw Marie, the intense look on her face as she fed her baby sister; Martin, eyes aglow describing the pony; Mathieu preening this morning, the first day he’d worn breeches; and Millie, her tongue sticking out as she kneaded the bread they’d all had for supper—their last supper. Her family destroyed by fire. Had Gerard forgotten to bank the fireplaces? Had one of the children left a candle burning? Gerard always walked through the house one last time before retiring to make sure everything and everyone was safe. What had gone wrong tonight?

Talon hung his head, his face pale in the red glow in front of them. “As God is my witness, Nicholas, I would never have visited had I known my enemies were capable of something as atrocious as this. These deaths are on me.”

That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

Tuesday Tales: From a Picture

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Welcome back. Well, we’re halfway through July. Why is it summer seems to pass so much wore quickly than winter? Tuesday Tales is a blog by specific authors who carry you along as we develop the plots and create the books we hope you’ll love. I’m continuing with The Price of Courage. This week is picture prompt week, so we are limited to 300 words. Sadly, bad news is often on the heels of good news.

This week, I called upon the talents of my cover artist, Melinda De Ross, to remove the twenty-first century elements from the picture to make it fit even better. Many thanks to Jean Joachim for finding me such a great one!

[image error]Enjoy.

“I tell you Nicholas, the worst thing that can happen to a colony is the disinterest on the part of the Crown,” Talon said, pulling Murielle’s attention to him once more. “The English and Dutch outnumber us, and soon, unless we do something to increase our numbers, the colony will fail.”

He turned to her. “Madame, should you choose to come to New France, I’m certain none of the eager men living there, some with motherless children, would consider you past your prime.”

Murielle laughed. “Thank you. I’ll keep your offer in mind. Now, since dessert is finished, I’ll leave you to your port and tobacco. I’ll see you both at first light.”

Her duties as hostess over for the evening, she left the dining room and climbed the stairs to her room to ponder this new information. It was unfortunate that Talon wasn’t staying the three days as planned. She would’ve liked to learn more about the colony and the mysterious Izzy. She picked at a thread on the embroidered flower on her dressing gown. Going to New France was suddenly even more appealing than it had been.

* * *

Pounding at the door startled Murielle from a deep sleep.

“Ma mie, are you awake?” her uncle cried, using the name he’d given her as a child, the panic in his voice spearing her.

“Yes, Uncle Nicholas, am I late? Is it morning?”

“If only it were,” he said, opening the door. “The main house is on fire. Dress quickly. Young Espé is downstairs. She has Melda and Marc with her. How the poor girl managed to get them out of the house is nothing short of a miracle.”

Murielle sat up. “What of the others?” she asked, knowing from the tears on the old man’s face that the situation didn’t bode well.

That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

Tuesday Tales: From the Word WEAK

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Welcome back to Tuesday Tales. This week, as we continue with The Price of Courage,  Murielle continues to play hostess for her uncle and the surprises abound. Enjoy!

Pouring from the Côte du Rhône flagon, she handed the silver goblet to the man, noting he was both exquisitely dressed and groomed. No doubt he’d bathed even though such behavior wasn’t common at this time of year.

“I have friends in New France, your grace,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “although I doubt you would know them.”

The intendant chuckled. “You might be surprised, madame. The colony may be vast in size, but its population is small. Whom do you know?”

“A seigneur—Guy Poirier—have you heard of him?’

“Heard of him? Madame, Guy is one of my closest friends. How is it that you’re acquainted?” he asked, moving his head so quickly that his perruque danced across his shoulders, the brown curls falling into place as before.

“The seigneur grew up near Caen. He was close to Pierre Gaudier youngest son of the Viscount Gaudier who wed one of my charges. His mother was also a friend.” She’d almost said Isabelle, which would have been a grave error, especially now that a new Isabelle was on the scene.

He sobered. “Such a terrible miscarriage of justice. I had the honor of meeting Pierre Gaudier’s widow, Sophie. One of the things I intend to do while I’m in France is clear Lieutenant Gaudier’s name. He’s a hero, not a traitor, and those who besmirched his name are enemies of the colony, men I would see punished for the crime.”

Murielle claimed the empty chair beside her uncle before her weak knees collapsed. Sophie was safe.

Talon sipped his wine. “Sophie has yet to remarry, but she’s opened an inn with the help of Guy’s mother and step-father.”

“Aline remarried?” she said surprised. “I would’ve thought her past her prime.”

Talon laughed. “Hardly, madame. I made the mistake of saying as much and she disabused me of the notion. She’s quite outspoken and has put me in my place more than once, but the woman is an incredible cook. Now that she’s settled—the inn doing well—she and Henri intend to adopt a couple of the colony’s orphans. Guy brought his fiancée, Izzy, with them from France, a cousine, Isidore Leroux—any relation?”

Murielle almost choked on the mouthful of wine she’d taken. Izzy was the nickname, given Isabelle by Sophie when they’d been young children and the name too big a mouthful for the toddler.

That’s it. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales. 

 

 

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished or Unrewarded! Revised Version Now Available

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It’s done! The last of the books whose rights I reclaimed from my publishers has been revised and released! I paid attention to those who left reviews, added action to set the pace, changed what were sticking points for some and added lots of action packed scenes. The results? An extra 30,000 action-packed words. No Good Deed follows in the footsteps of On His Watch, Fire Angel, and In Plain Sight.

Set largely In Quebec and Ontario, the story is filled with Canadianisms to  give you a taste of the flavor of my country and my hometown. Here’s the blurb:

[image error]What you see doesn’t always tell the whole story.

While escaping from her abusive fiancé, Alexa O’Brien pulls into a gas station only to walk in on a gang-related execution that leaves her alive but severely injured. Alexa swears she saw the killers’ faces, one of which tuns out to be Nicolai Zabat, Montreal’s mob boss, a man the police have been after for years. The problem is her account of the events don’t jive with the facts on record. But, someone did try to kill her, and where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Lieutenant Mike Delorme of the Sûreté Du Québec has spent the last eighteen months working undercover trying to take down Zabat, the man he blames for the death of his wife and unborn child. After his cover’s blown and he’s almost killed a second time, his boss wants him to lay low and gives him a new assignment. The last thing Mike wants to do is babysit a woman whose story is as full of holes as Swiss cheese—but he’s a team player, and if she can somehow help take down Zabat, so much the better. Finding a feisty gun toting brunette in a wheelchair is a surprise, but discovering that her so-called safe house is a carefully crafted prison has him rethinking the situation.

There’s more to Alexa and what she witnessed than meets the eye, and Mike will do whatever it takes to keep her safe, but when the enemy is faceless, doing so maybe harder than he thinks. Personalities clash and hormones collide as they escape from one trap to another, knowing the fate of the world could be in their hands.

Here’s the new opening to the novel!

It’s not the bruises on the body that hurt. It’s the wounds of the heart and the scars on the mind.

  Aisha Mirza

Chapter One

November 25—St. Catherine’s Day

Lieutenant Mike Delorme hissed in a breath, his body a seething mass of pain, fighting not to succumb to the darkness that beckoned. Loud, heavy metal music, the kind of crap he hated, pounded in the background, no doubt coming from the nightclub overhead. Those kids would all be deaf by the time they reached thirty. Another blow to the ribs elicited a groan he fought to stifle. No way would he give them the satisfaction of seeing him beg for mercy. He forced his mind away from the pain.

Today was the Feast of St. Catherine of Alexandria, the martyr and patron saint of single women. His mind flitted to the past. His mother had always made molasses’ taffy using the family recipe handed down by the first Delorme woman who’d chosen to make New France home over three hundred years ago. Now, sadly, he was the last of his line. He would never have the chance to teach his son to pull the taffy the way he and his father had done, their hands slick with butter, pulling, twisting, and pulling again until the rope of taffy was shiny and stiff. Then, Maman would cut it into small pieces and twist each inside a scrap of waxed paper. He could just imagine the sweetness on the tip of his tongue.

Reality brought him back as one of Zabat’s goons struck him again. Sacrament. The bastard didn’t pull his punches. His mind returned to the taffy. No one made it now. There was no one left to follow the recipe—another French Canadian tradition lost to the twenty-first century. Progress could be a bitch.

In honor of the saint, the bar was offering half-price drinks to all the ‘vieilles filles’ tonight. When he’d been up there earlier, until Xavier had called him downstairs and like the fool that he was, he’d gone down not realizing he was walking into a trap, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a couple of divorcées he’d humped in the past claiming to be ‘old maids’—anything for cheap drinks. Nobody really cared how virtuous they were. Did they even remember him? They would probably be warming some guy’s bed tonight—but not his. Never his again.

He could use a good stiff drink right about now. How the hell had it come to this? He tried not to scream, tried not to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were getting to him by thinking of other things than the pain, but a man could only hold so much agony inside.

Peering through a curtain of blood at the man he hated more than anything, his eyes barely open, Mike fought to stay conscious. Where the hell was his backup? A guy could only have so much fun before he didn’t want to play anymore. Anatole should be here by now. Had he noticed him missing?

“I asked you a question. How did you know that deal was going down tonight?” Nicolai Zabat barked, pacing in front of him as if he were the caged animal.

Mike tried to grin at the image playing through his mind, despite the pain it caused. Sooner or later the guy would be just that, another piece of scum in a cage.

Zabat stopped in front of him and leaned forward, his spittle sprinkling Mike’s face.

“I want a name,” he yelled. “Only my most trusted men were in on it. Give me a name, and I’ll tell the boys to stop.”

As if they would. Mike tried to smile. The would-be leader of Montreal’s underworld was pissed. Good. With a little luck, the confiscated merchandize would bankrupt the bastard, stop him from taking over the coveted position of godfather—not that any others in the running were any better.

“The tooth fairy told me,” Mike answered, his voice slurred thanks to his swollen lips. Before he could add anything, Xavier hit him in the face once more, knocking him off the chair onto the cement floor. “Is that all you’ve got?” he mocked, earning himself a kick in the ribs.

A second boot caught him on the opposite side, lifted him six inches off the cold floor, and dropped him again, his head bouncing off the ground before settling in place. That was going to leave a mark.

“Va t’fourrer,” the curse slipped from his mouth, as the room whirled. He tried to laugh, but ended up choking and spitting out blood and another tooth. There was no way he would reveal his inside man. That drug-pushing asshole might be the scum of the earth, but since he’d become a father again, a freaking miracle for a man in his forties with a taste for both booze and cocaine, Four Fingers was trying to clean up his act. He’d made a deal, one Mike would honor to the death—which considering his current shape might not be too far away.

The goon Mike hadn’t recognized yanked him up and tossed him back onto the chair.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that, Detective. In another world, another lifetime, we might have been friends, but here, now, you’re just another piece of garbage, a cop who wasn’t smart enough to mind his own business. You thought I didn’t know who and what you were when you insinuated yourself into my affairs? I’m a frigging Greek god, you stupid son of a bitch. I know everything. If you’re waiting for someone to come running to the rescue, you’re shit out of luck.”

Mike inhaled, the pain slicing into his chest like razor blades. Maudite merde! So, they knew. Someone had blown his cover. How? When? Eight months of hard work gone down the frigging toilet. And if they knew about him, did they know about Anatole? His partner had infiltrated the gang shortly before he had. He hadn’t seen him upstairs earlier, but Anatole kept vampire hours. Ten o’clock at night was too early for him to be out and about. That was why they made such a good team. Mike was a creature of the day, Anatole, a creature of the night, but he’d been down here at least a couple of hours. The man should be looking for him by now.

“It’ll take more than the half-assed efforts of the Sûreté du Québec to best me,” Zabat snarled, clearly annoyed that Mike wasn’t talking. “That shipment was barely a drop in the ocean. Will it inconvenience me? Temporarily, but with you and your turncoat partner out of the way, I’ll double my profits on the next shipment.” He laughed, the sound piercing what was left of Mike’s bravado, almost destroying it.

“Isn’t that how the law of supply and demand works?” Zabat continued, reaching down to pat Mike’s cheek as if he were some kind of pet.

The mocking words danced on the edge of Mike’s consciousness. The man was close enough for the scent of the French cigarettes he preferred and the floral cologne he used to tickle his nose, mixing with the coppery aroma of his own blood seeping out of him. Was Anatole dead or was this just another bluff on Zabat’s part?

“You blame me for your wife’s death, eh, Delorme? Yeah. I even know your real name, asshole. Think I’m the one who pulled the trigger? Think again. I didn’t kill her. You did. The minute you stuck your nose into my business, you signed her death warrant. If she’d gone home that night, like a good little wife, instead of sticking her nose where it didn’t belong—well, you would be home now, wouldn’t you? Sitting in front of the fire, playing with your brat, maybe even holding a second one in your arms. You were warned to stay out of my business, you should’ve told her to do the same.”

“I’ll see you burn in hell,” Mike mumbled through lips so swollen they barely opened.

Zabat laughed. “Perhaps, but you’ll be there long before I will. In fact, I hope you delivered your Christmas present early this year because you won’t make the staff party.” He turned to the men in the room, the ones whose fists and feet had inflicted most of the damage. “Finish off this piece of shit. Load his body into the truck out back. The driver leaves for Toronto at dawn. I’ll have him dump the carcass in the Don Valley. The cop will fit right in—another pig amongst the butchered hogs in Hogtown.” He laughed at his own joke. “Let me know when it’s done. You know where to find me.” Heavy footsteps on the stairs signaled Zabat’s departure.

Mike barely registered the ropes being tied around his ankles. He gasped when he was hoisted feet first, his head striking the seat of the chair, as if he were some damn punching bag. The blood, not seeping from his wounds, rushed to his head, the pulsing adding to the pain. The goons went another round, left, right, left, right, a frigging army on the march up and down his body, each blow adding to his agony. Maybe he would see Thea tonight after all. Would she be pregnant still or would she have had the baby? The priests never quite explained that part. He would give anything to apologize to her, tell her he’d been wrong, but Zabat was right.

He’d failed so many times, he didn’t deserve to go to heaven, not even if he spent half of eternity in purgatory. With each blow, the faces of those he’d wronged materialized in front of him—that young kid he’d shot when the damn fool had pulled a gun on him, that abused woman he hadn’t been able to talk into leaving—the same one they’d carried out in a body bag three days later, Thea and her coworker dead on the warehouse floor, Anatole, barely twenty-six with his entire life ahead of him and dead because Mike hadn’t been able to stop Zabat. The faces moved more quickly, indistinguishable one from the other. He was a man of violence, a man who like Zabat, deserved to rot in hell.

God, he regretted so many of the choices he’d made, the decisions he’d followed, the words he’d never said. If he’d refused to give their marriage a second chance and had let Thea leave him, would she still be alive? Guilt replaced the pain and mercifully, the darkness overtook him as the music blared louder than ever. If this was what he had to listen to in hell, that would be the real agony.

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