Red Rainbow by G Johanson (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

pretending, Florence. I suspected this would turn volatile, but I was still looking forward to the opportunity to be myself.”

“It’s the tone which is more the issue. The threat stands, but I will kindly give you one more warning if you reach that point again. Which you won’t as you’re going to be cordial, aren’t you? Carry on,” she trilled, pretending to be enraptured by him like all the rest.

“I don’t seek conflict with you, believe it or not...”

Florence gasped at this and he understood why. César had genuinely not been looking for an argument when he planned the meeting. He’d been annoyed at being kept waiting, but it wasn’t just that. She’d bulldoze through him if he let her – and she was hard to stop. By standing up to her to a degree, he stood a chance of gaining ground as well as losing it. His own ego dictated this stance too, however unwise. The world was a pushover for Nosferatu’s grandma to feed on; the Love Phantom was not a victim. That remained the case, but his overzealous need to prove this had seen them get off on the wrong foot again, the onus now on him to get things back on track or it was a silent meal – but neither of them would be able to manage that.

César continued, “Our resistance is different to yours. We have to do things unnoticed where the effects aren’t immediately apparent or could be down to fate over human intervention. Anything more and they kill our countrymen.”

“In America, we would call that the milquetoast option. You go to war with them there’ll be casualties, obviously. That’s how you get rid of them. The only way. Tolerate bugs in your house, and you’ll have a swarm on your hands.”

“It’s not that easy when you’re outgunned. We call ourselves – my suggestion, I doubt you’ll stifle your mirth. We call ourselves the Foundation. The work we are doing behind the scenes is setting the foundations for what is to follow, the new republic. We make the ground beneath the Nazis unstable on an imperceptible level. We don’t blow things up – we have, but that was an accident. One of our members has the ability to set things off whether he wants to or not.”

“That name fits you because you let them walk all over you,” she sneered with disdain.

“That’s the lot of an occupied people. They think they are on solid ground and in control but...”

“Pssh. You can keep that name. Me and Hilaire are the Firmament.”

César knew she’d react this way. She adopted the kill first, seek more victims later (and not much later), balls-out kill all Germans approach. That was not for him. His approach was more about saving lives, hers with taking lives. That simplified their respective agendas – he was nowhere near as pure as that made him out to be, Florence not that corrupt, but it captured the gist of their missions. He didn’t bite back, instead choosing to explain his reasoning more and try to make a breakthrough with her.

“It’s hard to plot murder in a world where everyone is nice to you and nothing majorly bad has ever happened to you.” Even the war and his exceedingly brief time as a POW were easier for him than for others, preferential treatment seemingly his birthright. Any time dark clouds loomed, somebody cleared the sky for him.

“You can still see the suffering going on around you.”

“You’re right, and that is a big motivation for me.” It felt like an exaggeration as he said it. It wasn’t an outright lie as it was a factor in his resistance. Wanting things to return to normal so that he could get his old life back was a bigger and more personal motivation – she didn’t need to hear that. “Is that truly your motivation? I’m not criticising you for that, if it isn’t. I believe we’re both products of our backgrounds. Yours has understandably made you hard, mine less so. Would you be offended if I talk about your past, your father?”

“Go for it.” She seemed interested to hear his take on this.

“People look unfavourably on those related to criminals. Your father was a prolific murderer and cannibal. I can’t imagine the stigma you must have faced, unfairly, especially cruel considering what you’d already lost. Your mother and grandfather,” he clarified, both of them victims of Emile Cahen.

“Indeed. Father said – I discovered this from a letter he sent from the asylum to my other grandfather, who raised us. He said ‘Part of your daughter lives inside me still. Send the children to visit!’” Florence laughed out loud at the absurdity of this, the request highlighting her father’s insanity. “Oddly, he never allowed us to go. I was curious at times, but I never went. It would have got back to Grandpa and Lionel; it wouldn’t have been worth the aggravation.”

“You kept his name – before you got married, I mean.”

“Of course. It was a good name. A little matter like cannibalism and patricide doesn’t negate that. If I could go back, I’d not change it at all. Lionel still has it now. If you think I’m trouble, you’re lucky he’s not here.” Her older brother had crossed the Atlantic before her and never looked back.

“Does he have any powers?” Father and daughter showed that it ran in the family.

“Does an impetuous temper that would put Greek Gods to shame count? Otherwise, no. Not that he’d ever let me know, I’d be the absolute last one he’d tell. I have to say that he did his job as the protective older brother zealously in our early years. He shielded me from most problems growing up. Some kids called me names, he saw they went home without their front teeth. The boys were less keen to kiss them then. He missed all of my weddings. He’ll never tell me why, so I can only assume he can’t stand the