The curse of the wolf

The hero of the day

*Anaïs*

I am waiting for it, anticipating it in a weird way. I am holding my breath, expecting the pain, the impact, and the eternal nothing that will no doubt follow.

I can’t stand to look at the man leering at me, and the black hole of the gun pointed at me. So I close my eyes and brace myself. At least I saved the little boy.

But nothing seems to happen. It is like being frozen in time. There are still sounds around me. People are moving, crying, and screaming, but it is like they are coming through a long tunnel. All sounds are weirdly muted.

However, the smells seem to have become more potent. There is coffee, pastries, and blood, or I assume the metallic sweetness assaulting my nose is blood. There is a weird electricity in the air, making my skin tingle and the little hairs on my body stand up.

Then another scent hits me. It’s warm and spicy in a nice way. I feel like I know it but can’t place it. Then I hear the shots, two of them, but I still feel nothing. How can I feel nothing? Am I already dead?

My eyes flutter open, and I see someone in front of me. A wide chest in a dark hoodie. I raise my eyes from his chest to his eyes. They are hazel, kind of tormented, and seem to be full of worry as his lips form the words. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” I say, blinking in confusion. It just seems such an odd thing to ask at this moment. But I answer, because his expression looks like his sanity depends on my answer.

Another shot rings through the room. The man’s eyes seem to grow wider, then he stumbles forward like he has been pushed hard in the back. A large hand shoots out, grabbing my shoulder as if to steady himself.

“Get down,” he says, his voice sounding strained. Then he is pushing me to the floor, as yet another shot rings out.

When he turns, I see four bloody flowers bloom on his back. He has taken the bullets meant for me. A total stranger saved my life and is probably going to die because of it.

Then everything suddenly happens quickly, and I am not really sure what is even going on. It is like my brain can’t catch up to the sudden change in tempo. He can’t be attacking the terrorist, can he?

I hear two more shots, and to be honest, I am kind of just waiting for my savior to collapse. For the shooter to once again stand in front of me, gun at the ready. The thing is, it doesn’t happen. Instead, he turns back towards me, and I see the shooter behind him, laying on the floor.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, like he is talking to a skittish animal. “Don’t be scared.”

I look up at him from where I am sitting on the floor, wondering why I would be scared now that the shooter is no longer a threat. There is worry in his eyes, and I wonder if he expects me to fear him, but why would I? “I am not scared.”

“Good.” I notice how one side of his mouth goes up a little higher than the other as he smiles. “Here, let me help you.”

Expecting him to just pull me to my feet, I hold up my hand. Instead, he squats down, slips his arms under and around me, and stands up with me nestled in them. I am wondering how he has the strength, considering that he is injured.

I have never had the desire to be carried by a man; actually, I often find it slightly condescending when done in books and movies, and Mathis sure hasn’t offered. But at this moment, in this situation, there is just something about it that makes me feel immensely protected. Like I belong in his embrace.

As he carries me outside, I hide my face against his shoulder, not wanting to see the people who are strewn across the cafe floor, like a kid’s discarded toys that someone grew bored with.

Breathing in his warm scent is like a balm to my soul. It should be a weird discovery to me, considering he is a stranger, but I do not have the energy to worry about such trivialities right now. I just enjoy it.

He steps aside right after exiting the door, letting armed special police storm into the cafe. They have acted fast and done their best, no doubt, but they are still too late. Too late for many of the victims and too late to stop the shooter. Someone else handled that.

Then he gently puts me down and looks like he is actually about to leave without a word. I grab his arm, hearing how my voice is shivering. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You are a hero.”

“I need no thanks,” He says softly, brushing a lock of my hair behind my ear. “And I do not need anyone to know what I… did. I am not a hero.”

“Please, at least tell me your name,” I halfway beg him. For some reason, I can’t stand the idea of him disappearing.

He sighs softly, and that haunted look is back in his eyes. “You may think of me as Griff.”

“Griff,” I mumble, like I am tasting the name. It somehow fits him.

I know it seems weird, given the whole situation, but I can’t help but notice how handsome he is. He has a very masculine appearance, with the dark hair that curls slightly at the ends and a well-kept beard. But there is also a boyish charm to him, despite his serious expression.

“They will think you stopped the shooter… please just go with it., He says softly, his eyes darting around, and worry lines forming on his forehead.

He makes me look around nervously, too. “But why? It’s not me who should be praised.”

“It’s for the best,” he simply says. “You saved that boy, so you deserve to be hailed a hero, anyway. See it as the only thanks I want.”

The way those hazel eyes seem to smolder with so many barely restrained feelings; looking into mine, looking into my soul. I can only nod.

His hand shoots up, his thumb and forefinger grabbing my chin lightly in a gesture that somehow seems loving. “Be careful with your heart, sweetheart. Don’t let him break it.”

Before I can ask what he means, he is gone. It is almost like he dissolved into the crowd, like he was never really here.

But I know he was here, and that he saved me and probably a lot more people. How can I claim an act of heroism that isn’t mine? How can I steal his thunder, even if he asked me to?

It turns out I don’t have to claim anything, merely go along with it when someone points at me, naming me the hero. I am about to deny it when a woman with a little boy nestled in her arm approaches.

“Ma’am, thank you so much,” she says, tears brimming her dark blue eyes. “Henri here tells me that you saved him. I… I was in the bathroom. I didn’t leave him. Thank you.”

I recognise the boy as the one calling for his mother. “I never thought you abandoned him. I am so happy he found you. It was nothing really…”

“It was everything,” she says in a tone so grateful it makes my throat close up with emotions. “You are a true hero.”

And it is like no one really asks me if I truly did this, or wonders how an average size woman managed to kill an armed terrorist. Maybe they are just looking for someone to praise. For an outlet for their relief.

Someone from the police asks a few questions, but mostly they just praise me and tell me what an amazing thing I have done. That I do not have to worry about having killed the man. He deserved it. I did the right thing.

Mathis is suddenly by my side, looking all proud. I am not even sure where he came from or when he showed up. But I am kind of grateful to have someone to lean on, even if it is him. My legs are starting to feel like jello.

“Can we go home?” I ask him.

He stops his tale about how he had taught me to handle myself in a dangerous situation and smiles at me. “Of course, my dear”.

And then he leads me away, telling people to make way for the hero of the day.

I suddenly realise big fat snowflakes has started falling, absorbing the blood, covering Paris in a layer of purity again.