Page 171 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“I guess.”

Camille stares at me like he would like to object to the phrase I guess on principle.

I keep going. “If I’m really leaving with you, then I want to say goodbye.”

Henri studies my face for several seconds, then something indulgent passes over his expression again. “Very well.”

My heart thunders.

One of the men releases Camille’s shoulder but does not cut his restraints.

Henri stands.

The movement is slower than his gestures have been, reminding me that for all the power packed around him, he is still seventy-seven years old. He braces lightly on the cane until fully upright, then holds his free hand toward me. “Come.”

I look at the hand.

This man wanted to own my grandfather.

He murdered Camille’s mother.

Destroyed Camille’s father.

Terrified his lover so badly he ran across an ocean and spent twenty-three years waiting for ghosts to catch him.

And now he is holding out his hand because he believes I belong to him too.

I take it.

Henri’s fingers close around mine, warm and human.

That bothers me.

Monsters shouldn’t feel human.

He helps me stand, his grip firm and proprietary. Camille’s gaze drops to our joined hands, and something raw and unguarded twists his features—a flicker of betrayal before the mask slams back down.

I almost mouth *I’m sorry*.

Henri releases me the moment I’m steady. I take one step toward Camille, then another.

The broad-shouldered gunman shifts his weight, but Henri raises a single finger without looking back. “Let him.”

I stop in front of Camille. He looks up from the floor, one eye nearly swollen shut, the other dark with pain and something else—dread. Blood has dried in a stiff, rust-colored crust along his temple and cheek. A fresher cut still glistens near his eyebrow, beading slowly. His hair is matted with sweat and stuck to his forehead. His arms are wrenched behind him, plastic biting into his wrists; the angle is all wrong, pulling his shoulders into a strain that must be agony.

I want to reach out, smooth his hair back, wipe the blood from his face. My fingers twitch at my side. I don’t.

“Hey.”

His good eye narrows. “Do not ‘hey’ me.”

“I’m trying to say goodbye.”

“No, you are not.”

My heart stutters. Henri is behind me; I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical pressure between my shoulder blades.

“Camille.”