Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

when just simply tapping his resources for a boost against her. That was the woman Hilaire aligned herself with, the vulture with an insatiable appetite. At least Ephraim had given his lifeforce freely (so she claimed, anyway). César had not. This was murder most foul if he didn’t make it. He had to make it – Hilaire could not be responsible for his death, she could not take his body back to Chablis.

“It’s not my fault if this goes wrong. Rescue missions do sometimes. The dinner did get heated, but the best ones do, don’t they? We were still able to sort of bond over shitty schooldays. There would have been future arguments but other common ground found too.” Florence was speaking quicker than normal as she made her excuses. That was a bad sign, Florence showing signs of worry. Hilaire wasn’t questioning her motives. She believed that Florence hadn’t intended to seriously hurt him. But intentions meant nothing here, only results. They delivered César Vadeboncoeur back to Scrambler’s home hale and hearty – or breathing, at least. Nothing else would do. Execution mattered, not effort.

“I don’t care what happened at your stupid dinner. Here and now is what...”

Hilaire trailed off this time due to Patience appearing at the door more panicked than she had been on the walk here. She’d come good upon seeing César, the tonic of his presence strengthening her. That tonic had run out. “He’s not breathing.” Patience was struggling to breathe herself as she shared this.

Florence shook her head in denial, walking backwards as she waved her hand in front of her face. She continued to retreat. She’d fucking done it again. History repeated itself, they made the same mistakes without learning a thing. Those caught in the crossfire suffered.

Hilaire didn’t follow her. What would be the point? Revenge? There was potentially malice in it, all sorts of queer feelings for the Love Phantom floating in that twisted mind of Florence’s, but Hilaire accepted this was just another accidental homicide in Florence’s catalogue, another death she’d regret for a bit and joke about down the line. Maybe within weeks. Hilaire stood in the cell doorway and looked at the body. Patience was right, he wasn’t breathing, total cessation of vital signs. Scrambler continued to sob against the wall. She wanted to tell him not to cry, that too many Frenchmen and women would have cried in here, to not give them the satisfaction. She could not say this as she was too close to tears herself. What a terrible, terrible waste. They’d done this to him by interfering. She’d done it to him, Hilaire feeling as responsible as Florence, if not more so. She should have known better.

She had to right this wrong. Telekinetic impressions on his chest did nothing. She’d be cracking ribs and his breastbone if she went any harder. She had the option of using telekinesis as a surgical tool, Hilaire fancying she could make a small coin-sized wound in César’s chest without butchering his body (and that was all he was now, a body, all life gone from it). But then she would need Scrambler to stick his finger into the wound to touch his heart, possibly for several minutes to kickstart it. He didn’t seem in the right state of mind for that. She quickly realised it wouldn’t work anyway. Scrambler broke things. He didn’t fix them, he didn’t make damaged things work again. Rollo could have pulled it off if so inclined, though the sparks from his fingers usually took life rather than restored it. The operation was off and she was left with nothing.

“Stay here,” Hilaire ordered Patience. She jogged down the corridor and went round the corner. There was nobody else down here save the shells – the dead shells now – of the Gestapo guards. No other prisoners were housed here, perhaps down to César in some form, either by negotiating their releases or the Gestapo didn’t want to risk any prisoners coming into contact with their precious guest.

She felt alone. Truly alone without hope. Which made this the perfect time to call out into the wilderness. “If my friendship with Luc meant anything, I beg you, bring him back.”

Hilaire patted her face after making this desperate plea. Composure. She walked back to the cell at a measured pace. It either worked or it didn’t. There was nothing else she could do but what she had done. He stayed dead or he came back. She took her place at the cell door again, watching as Patience tried to offer Scrambler a supportive hand, his shrugs becoming increasingly violent.

Time was crawling. Did a minute pass, or was it closer to two, this scene unchanging? Hilaire had begged for help from the abyss, from a force that only took and never gave. She had wasted her breath. The Love Phantom was dead and Death wouldn’t hand him back...

Hilaire had not seen César’s face beyond a fleeting look from two storeys down before this sighting of him tonight. As those eyes opened again, she noticed even amidst the flickering light that they were different colours. He looked completely dazed, totally out of it. But there was a heartbeat, he was breathing. Hilaire kept looking at Patience until she finally turned round to look at her, Hilaire gesturing with her eyes for her to look at César. Patience gasped and told Scrambler to look over too. He wasn’t dead, just scaring them with a good impression.

“I’ll kill him myself if he does that again,” Scrambler said, still not ready to abandon his place at the wall. César did not reply, his eyes closing and then very, very slowly opening again. “Okay, okay, I won’t kill him. It might be the floor instead of the sofa.”

“That’s a better threat, isn’t it?” Patience said to César. Nothing back. “I think Scrambler may even make you one of his famous sandwiches.”

“They sound interesting,” Hilaire said. “This isn’t the place for him to recover.