Page 55 of Heathens
I don't say anything to Salem the entire seven-minute walk back to his studio. He's just down the street from L'As du Falafel in the Marais—a stone's throw. As he unlocks the gate and leads me up five flights of stairs, I swear I can still smell fried falafels and meat.
“Home sweet home,” he utters, opening the first door on the right.
I step inside. It’s a studio—the tiny kitchen is to the left, and then a bathroom. To my right is a small desk next to a full-sized bed. There’s a balcony, too, that might fit half of a person.
My framed photograph hangs above his bed, right above a small, wooden cross.
The place smells like him—incense and soap. Clean. As I look around, I realize it’s the opposite of my apartment. Where I filled every nook and cranny with knick-knacks, throw pillows, flowers, and art, Salem seems to have minimalism down pat. Three pairs of shoes sit next to a wardrobe, and on his nightstand are a couple of books. His kitchen is nearly empty, too. Just a tea kettle and some bananas. A stack of mail on the breakfast bar. And that’s it.
“It’s sparse,” I say, giving him a teasing smile.
“It’s small,” he answers, crossing his arms and walking over to where I’m standing—right next to his bed. Every footstep closer sends awareness rushing through me. “Lonely,” he adds, stopping mere inches from me.
“What’s going to happen with you and the church?” I blurt, needing to know. “Does Auguste know I’m—”
“Father Monsignor, until tonight, was my closest friend. My mentor. My second father,” he says slowly, as if in a daze. “I needed some time to process everything. So, no... he doesn’t know how you’re connected to him. He didn’t see you tonight. I’d like to keep it that way.”
I stand up straighter. “But—”
“Lily,” he interrupts. A command. “He will not come near you.”
My skin tingles as I look up at him. At the man I’ve gotten to know over the last month—the kind, pious man I met that night just a few hundred feet away.
That man is gone.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, crossing my arms and clearing my throat. Salem quirks an eyebrow and takes a step back. “Auguste has a son.”
“I figured he had children,” Salem says, furrowing his brows. “He hinted at it several times.”
I nod. “Yes, well...” I pause, swallowing. Here goes nothing. “His son is Benedict.”
As Salem digests my words, his hand moves to his mouth and he rubs it, sighing and looking down. I expect him to piece everything together, go pale, lean against the desk. I expect him to ask me to leave. I expect him to call the police—knowing what he knows, knowing how much time I’ve spent with Benedict.
Knowing how the blood lust runs through my veins, black and muddy and persistent.
What I don’t expect is for him to tilt his head up, lock his crystal blue eyes on mine, and smile.
I continue my confession. “I found him several weeks ago, and... though I was watching him, I ran into him unexpectedly. I—I feel nothing for him,” I add, wanting him to know that more than anything else.
“You’re psychotic,” he murmurs, but his smile doesn’t leave his face. In fact, all of this seems to have delighted him to no end. “So dating him was all a ruse?”
“To get to Auguste,” I say quickly. “I didn’t really have a plan—I never plan anything—but all I knew was that I would befriend Benedict, get to Auguste, and, after figuring out where Evelyn is... kill him. Or at least make him pay for what he did.”
“What about the police? Why didn’t you get them involved?”
I shrug. “They—they don’t understand. Plus, he trickedme.He tookme.He took Evelyn, and he ripped our lives out from under us. He's mine. He deserves so much worse than the twenty years he'll get. Unless we can find every single girl he kidnapped or even a good chunk of them, we won't have enough evidence to lock him up for life.“
Salem’s face really does pale this time. He reaches back and steadies himself on the desk chair.This is it. I’ve gone and scared him off. I’ve ruined everything.
“Have you and Benedict...” he trails off, standing straighter as his pupils darken with whatever thoughts are running through his mind.
I shake my head adamantly. “No. Not even close. We kissed once in his apartment, but it didn't get any further than that.“ It was true. That day in his apartment, I stopped anything else from happening and left. Salem grips the edge of the chair. His knuckles turn white, but he doesn't react in any other way. “He beat them,“ I add, my voice hoarse. “Auguste. He beat Benedict and his deceased wife. He was abusive.“
Something passes over Salem’s face then—something stony and hard and dark. Straightening his posture, he reaches up and unbuttons his shirt. Slowly—every so slowly—he pulls the stiff, clerical tab collar out from his shirt and places it gently on his desk. Looking up at me, his eyes skewer me to the wall. For a second—just a brief second—the look terrifies me, in the best way possible. The shadows behind his eyes—shadows that laid dormant for years, possibly—cause me to swallow thickly. He glances at his collar and then back at me, as if that symbolic motion is supposed to speak volumes. Cracking his knuckles and his neck, his eyes narrow ever so slightly.
“I want to help you.“ The words are almost a growl; he's so angry. So driven.
When I met Salem, he was wholesome, good, virtuous. And deep down, I believe the most important parts of him still are, and always will be. But damn, I had no idea he could unfurl such a primitive man—a fucking savage disguised in clerics.
