Reynaud's Redemption, стр. 22

Maxwell’s brows rose. “Cindy, sir? Are you sure?”

Cindy… White sundress fluttering past her knees, modest cleavage, soft, blonde hair pulled back into a low, demure ponytail. She was docile and compliant when he made love to her, letting him take control as her gentle moans goaded him on.

“Yes, Cindy will do.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

After a while, Baptiste opened the folder again then retrieved a small laptop from his top drawer. He entered the information into the database on the computer, flipping each page at completion. When he was done, Baptiste gathered the papers and put them into an envelope in a file cabinet behind his desk. Returning his gaze to his laptop, he frowned.

“Dammit.” He shook his head and snatched the phone up again. “Maxwell! I need those—”

The door flew open.

“I have the monthly reports from Maison Douce, Mr St John,” Maxwell said, extending the pages toward him.

Baptiste shifted his eyes to the receiver then back to Maxwell before he returned it to its cradle.

“Thank you, Maxwell. You are efficient, as always.”

Maxwell left the room with a nod, and Baptiste added the information from the sheets and hit save. He stared at the completed graph on the screen and smiled.

“Now that’s more like it.” The pleasure in seeing the final numbers started to fade as other thoughts entered his mind. “When was I last at Maison Douce?” he mumbled. When comprehension dawned, his lip curled.

“Oh, yes. François dismissed me from his presence like a common servant,” he grumbled. Rocking his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, perhaps it is time I went back over there. Someone has to put that old man in his place,” Baptiste muttered and picked up the phone. “Reggie, bring the car around.”

A short while later, Baptiste walked up the stairs at Maison Douce, and the door swung open.

“Good afternoon, Mr St John.”

Baptiste raised an eyebrow as he passed the man, greeting him. “Who are you?”

“I am Jacques, sir. I was sent over from your other establishment, the houses at Cynthiana Winery. Per Maxwell I am to run le Maison Douce until further notice,” he explained with a crisp bow.

Baptiste nodded and continued across the floor. “Have you been apprised of the happenings of this house?”

“Yes, sir. Maxwell has informed me of my duties.”

“Very well, you may return to them,” Baptiste said and continued to the staircase. He took the steps quickly. The flunkies he saw on his last trip were at their stations again. When they spotted him, they jumped to their feet to greet him. Baptiste acknowledged them with a curt nod but nothing else as he entered. No one sat in the outer room of François’ bedroom. He crossed the bedroom. Michael, a young, mediocre magic user, sat in the corner wearing headphones. Baptiste caught his attention and jerked his head, gesturing him to come to the outer room.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Michael said, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Status, Michael,” Baptiste said, ignoring the pleasantries.

“François’ magic continues to fade, sir, but the fire still burns with intensity inside him.”

Baptiste rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “How much longer before he expires?” he grumbled.

Michael lifted his hands in an unsure gesture when he shrugged. “It’s hard to say, Mr St John.”

“You’re a fire user, aren’t you? Can’t you tell?”

Michael shook his head. “Though his body weakens, he is an elder. His magic remains strong. It could be today, next week—even next month.”

Baptiste took a long, deep breath then exhaled. “Fine. I’m going to talk to him. Stay out here until I return.”

Michael nodded and Baptiste went back into the bedroom. Everything was exactly the same inside, including François’ appearance. He moved closer to see if the older man was asleep.

“Have you come back to inform me of another death, young Baptiste?”

Baptiste squeezed his eyes tight at the sound of François’ pet name for him. The sound grated on his nerves whenever he heard it, equivalent to someone’s nails scratching on a chalkboard.

“No, François, I came to talk to you,” he answered as calmly as he could.

François chuckled low. “I see. We really have nothing to discuss, mon ami. Your pretense to chit-chat does not cover the real reason you have come. And I have a notion as to what that may be.”

Smug, patronizing, old fool.

“Do you, now?” Baptiste said, pulling the chair closer to the bed. “What, pray tell, is the reason then, old François?”

François turned in his direction. Though his face showed deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, they were minor in respect to what a human would look like after being alive for two hundred and fifteen years, though very few tended to last more than ninety years.

“You tire of waiting for me to die,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Perhaps you have come to put a pillow over my face to hurry me along,” he added with a soft laugh.

“Don’t tempt me, old man,” Baptiste warned through gritted teeth.

François’ mirth did not cease. “You could do that and relieve yourself of the burden of caring for me, but you won’t. You will whine, grunt and release your fury on whoever gets in your way. However, you will wait because you want what I have.” François looked away from him and settled back onto the pillow. “I’m afraid you must continue to wait. I am not so inclined to depart from this world just yet. Be on your way, young Baptiste. I am not dead yet.”

Baptiste’s anger was instantaneous. With a growl, he leaned forward and grabbed François by his shirt collar, yanking him from the bed to meet his gaze.

“Yes, I do tire of waiting for you to die, François, but I will wait no more,” he said, emphasizing his last words with