Marcel’s lips moved swiftly, his hand sketching a cross from head to heart, shoulder to shoulder. She mirrored it—and jumped out the moment the door was flung open.
More Nazi jeeps rolled up behind them.
Marcel, jumping out behind her, shouted something, but it took her a long moment to process it.
“Run!” He shouted it again and again, tugging her into motion.
She pivoted, coiled, released. Prepared to keep pace with him as he took off.
Her hip gave out. She stumbled to the ground. More voices rose, bullets singed the air, and her head slammed down. She could hear nothing but thunder. See nothing but Marcel’s green eyes, wide with horror, as he spun away from freedom... and tried to get back to her.
Twenty-Nine
SOMETIME
SOMEWHERE
There was no time. No day. No night. No metronome to keep the beat and count the seconds. No knowing whether he’d been strapped to this chair for a day or a week.
Marcel’s shoulders screamed from the way his arms were bound behind him. His eyes burned from the single lightbulb that had been glaring at him for all of eternity.
No day, but he could feel the Light hovering there beyond his shoulder. No night, but he knew the sweet breath of peace when he closed his eyes. No metronome, but music floated through his mind in time with his own pulse.
They wanted to break him. And he knew he, in himself, wasn’t strong enough to withstand it.
But God was. Christ in him could endure any torture.
And he knew every word he spoke could endanger Zelie. So he’d said not a word. Not a single word.
The door behind him creaked open, and Marcel clenchedhis teeth to keep from wincing. A mistake, that—his aching jaw throbbed.
Heavy footsteps, too familiar, echoed, and he braced himself for a fist in the ribs. That had been the goon’s greeting every other time those steps sounded. But then another set... softer. A folder slapped down on the table across from him. The chair scraped its way out, then back in.
“Leave us.”
At the familiar voice, Marcel’s eyes flew open, even as the grunt obeyed. The door slammed again behind him, and Marcel could only stare at the man sitting at the desk.
Lothar stared back, muscle in his jaw ticking. His black tie was perfectly knotted, the cap with its horrible insignia on the table beside him. He didn’t open the folder. Didn’t lift the pen sitting beside it. Just held his gaze.
Was that hope that swelled up inside? Was God making a way out of this?Please, Lord.Please. He’d never wanted the man for a friend, but how many times had Zelie reminded him to take whatever allies they could find?
Lothar had proven himself an ally before. He’d fought for the boys in the orchestra, for their exemption. He’d done nothing more than ask those few questions after he’d seen Marcel with Anne. Seen Zelie outside the auditorium.
Maybe, just maybe...
“You’ve made a fool of me.” Lothar’s voice was a blade, piercing the bubble of hope. Never, in the year and a half since they’d met, had the man ever sounded so cold. So...official.
Marcel said nothing. But he knew. Knew those other favors would now be called in. Knew the very fact that Lothar had offered friendship before would be Marcel’s undoing now.
A finger tapped against the folder. “When I saw the images circulating last December of the Bellerose woman, when I realized that’s who I’d seen outside your studio... I wanted to believeit was coincidence.Not Marcel,I thought.He would never get involved in something so stupid.And then I thought,Or even if he’s involved with her, perhaps he doesn’t know what she is. Such a pretty face, after all. Perhaps he was beguiled.” He blinked.
Marcel blinked back. And prayed, with every wordless scream within him, that God would accepthimas the sacrifice and not demand her too. That Lothar would focus his wrath totally, completely, on what he’d see as Marcel’s betrayal.Please, Lord.
Lothar leaned forward a few inches. “Were you beguiled, Marcel? Is that what happened? Is that her role in all this, to seduce men into joining the Resistance?”
Was he really willing to believe that, or was he just laying some new trap? Marcel didn’t even blink this time. Just thanked the Lord that Emile not only hadn’t named him, he’d insisted on being anonymous—otherwise, he’d never have remained free this long. Not if this man had known all along who Zelie was, had seen her so near him. The family connection too would have been too much to overlook.
Lothar’s nostrils flared. “Then I find you in Paris with the sister of a man executed for espionage. A man you knew, called a friend. Notes stacking up, but I didn’t want to hear the chord they played. I tried to deny it. Tried to warn you off. Yet what do you do? Do you take a position at an orchestra, like you promised you would? Do I read your name in the papers, telling me when your first concert will be?No.” He slammed his hand onto the table.
