Chapter Twenty-Two—
He would kill him.
The fine misting of water collecting on the cloth before him let him know he had spoken the foolish words aloud, but René focused beyond it, imagining the views rolling far too slowly behind the carriage’s window even if he could not seem them.
The tangle of
He would kill him. He would kill him.
His chest was heavy, his throat crushed beneath large, cruel fingers, and René had to open his mouth once mouth, extending his tongue as though the sweetness of country air during a rain might reach him here.
His lips remained dry, and he felt himself turning back to the circle of water his breath had left on the heavy cloth laid down over the carriage window. His fingers crept over the lacquered wood of the wall until he could feel the stiff fabric against his palms, and he leaned in, trembling at the cold in his hands as he licked away his fear.
The mutterings he had only just forgotten startled him into glancing back when they suddenly stopped, and he found himself staring into the eyes of that child. The boy that had followed him here, that sat opposite him and talked of plans.
Madmen were fit only for the prisons or the graveyards. René looked into eyes that seemed nearly the same shade of earth as James’, and narrowed his eyes, unsurprised when the boy dropped his gaze and once more began his yapping. Only then did René turn back to the window, to what he was not yet able to see.
His hand remained at the sill, and René shivered to see it, the collection of white bones wrapped only in a layer of paper. He had the look of death now, and he had dared to touch James, and wrap those fingers around the solid heat of him. His belly turned, the acid rising to his throat before he swallowed it and clenched his teeth to keep it down.
He had grown so white. The life had bled from him on his ship for all that James had thought him saved. It had bled from him long before he had tasted the spirit of James Fitzroy, and it would never be returned to him.
It was a lie, the blue and purple of the lines under his skin. They beat yet with blood, fast and quick now with the end so close, good only to pound in his cock as he fucked James. Good only to take James’ life from him, he had thought, though James was mad enough to think otherwise.
Both mad then. And he had drank too much of James to bear his madness too.
Rustling near to him, at his side, and though he could not see, René put one hand to his belt and whipped around. Reaching out caught him a handful of the stupid boy’s coat, and he shoved it backward, smiling as the child flew back onto the opposite seat. The boy glared, but remained far from him, and René felt his gaze leave the child and return to his hands as they fell back to him.
“Sit.” One word was enough, as though he spoke to a dog. And what else was the boy, to trail at James’ heels, to follow him with no concern for himself? Pathetic loyalty that only a king ought to have commanded, and yet James had earned it with just a mouth of sweet words and kind hands. To fall to his knees meant only his wasted, foolish prayers for others crossing his tongue, his palms clean for all his knowledge. It was their tongues that remained profaned, glued to their teeth with bitterness.
His sharp eyes cut into the startled figure across from him, and then a glare answered him, an eager and too-smart mouth continuing to move. Perhaps the boy was a dog. Perhaps he would be quiet when shown his true nature, James’ loyal dog, a little, hairy thing the ladies kept in their skirts to keep the rats away. René knew his lips curved into a sneer at the ugly length of hair falling into the boy’s streaked face, the cheeks already growing plump and red under James’ guidance, the shoulders that did not bend. There was little of the girl in him now.
His own lips were red, he had bitten them, and now could taste the steel of blood even if he could not see it. And biting would make them swell, sweet and ripe for the taking, and he let them part, let the boy watch as he extended his tongue to wet them, lowering his head all too easily.
Pretty enough, when Mademoiselle had done it. Beautiful, when René had stolen it. A look to make Marechal kill for him, a look to make stubborn Englishmen stumble over their own feet. And now a child’s eyes were growing wide, interested and curious, and, of course, attentive. He would look this way at others now, at James, at any who would harm him.
And on some it would not work, and René gasped, the very air seeming harsh in his constricted throat. In his belly, rising, was sickness, but there was no relief of the pressure around his neck, he raised his hands though they were too weak to help him.
Already they were shaking, and he ignored the rasp of his breathing, louder now then the boy, and clasped his hands together, fingers curled so the child would know him no believer.
The insane ramblings of a madwoman, cursed by the devil’s seed. Putting faith in a dusty room and a ragged book and praying to a dead man to forgive her for loving the taste of cock so much. And no pretty looks would cure that ill, and no amount of blood would ever make the praying cease, and if the boy thought that it would someday be ended, if he dared to think someday he would be safe and the devil would leave their house he was a fool. A stupid, ugly little vessel who had not yet had his fill of pain, who had never seen real beauty.
He was not kneeling, but the floor remained hard against his knees, hurting, and he thought he might fall forward, hands out did not matter, begging did not matter, there was no salvation for him.
Round-eyed and silent now, the child watched him, and René let him watch, wondered if the boy knew his fate.
He was trembling, a weak little child shaking before the fierce, black gaze of another, and the vomit was at his teeth now, held back only by will. Others did not yet know of damnation, and would not ever, if only they realized that there would be no salvation for him.
He would kill him.
Cold metal grazed his palms, and René clenched his fingers hard, uncaring of the pain as he squeezed the blades at his waist, unsheathed unlike his sword. If they sliced him he did not feel it, and did not care.
What had that fool done? If René were to turn his head now, the collar of his coat would be stiff against his cheek, not soft as he once imagined. But if he turned, he could smell the faint rosemary scent he had used to ease his way into James. Hints of sweat and the wax of candles that James had kept lit for him.
He had woken to this scent on the pillows in his arms, under his mouth, and he had let his lips move, form a word that was pleading and desperate. And his cheeks had burned with shame to hear it go unanswered, to feel the cold of what James had been so pleased to term their bed.
His heart thundered even now in his chest, and René twisted his hands against the sharp blades tucked into his belt, showing the child what real pain meant, what this meant, that James had chosen this. Blood would stain James’ coat, the long, red coat of a thief and killer that Mirena had given him to wear, still muddied and wet from the field. But James had forgotten it, careless of a colour that was not his own.
Had she given him the black frock coat of the truly devoted, it would have warmed his shoulders now.
It was René’s sin, to let it come to this, when there was no salvation for him. His sin, committed with a panting, hungry look, and his punishment was before him, outside the cloth covered window, approaching with every breath the boy dared to take. Words would not stop the devil himself as they had with someone so much weaker.
James’ wicked, clever tongue had thought to demand promises of him. Strange, piercing words softened with kisses, making him think of the child when he had wanted so desperately all of James’ heat beneath him. His mind was not so dizzy now that he could not guess James’ choice in that moment, a purpose absent from his sweet face as he had twisted and panted at René’s touch. A face of innocence that held lies behind it, but they would not save him.
James had left him to sheets colder than the wet
You will not send me from you. He had said it aloud, and shivered as he burned for it in their empty, icy bed. James Fitzroy had not broken his promise. René had lain still and remembered, and bled, his pulse quick under his skin, loud like the noise downstairs.
In the child there was the rain that the clouds above promised, incessant storms that would not silenced. They would not leave him, and he had opened his eyes at last to hear the panicked rush of feet so near his door. Thundering, raging, they would not be quiet, they did not sneak and peer around corners, and René had moved at last, put out his hand, stretched his fingers wide but finding nothing to ease his fear as the doors had been pushed open.
He exhaled roughly, pulling away from the vision and tightening his grip on the weapons lining his belt now. The boy would not cease talking, like James he could not stop his mouth. But he remained sitting, no longer fluttering mindlessly from wall to wall like a bird trapped indoors. Tighter than his grip now, René had reached out and yanked the child to stillness, forced him to speak low when he would shout. He followed orders well, James’ little dog. The pet he had left for him.
His stomach turned to regard the white, smoothly curving cheeks on the face before him, near him as the child had cursed in his foreign tongue and pounded with small, stinging fists. Here the boy would stay, and he would come no further.
“You are bleeding.” Serious, quiet English shaped the rosy mouth, left it in a startled, frightened circle, wider than even the dark pupils of his eyes.
The scent of blood was heavy in the air between them. An uncomfortable warmth with so much chill pressing down on them from outside, and René thought of battle, though no quicksilver flashes of impatience crept into his middle now. His hands were steady as he opened them, regarded the crossing lines dripping steady red down his palms to his wrists, staining white cuffs. His blades were sharp, and thirsty, but could not yet drink.
He blinked, for he had felt no pain, and had thought himself already drained of blood. There were thin trails across his lap, on his belly, and if he moved, they would smear the fine red of James’ coat with this darker crimson and turn it black.
“Y’must put something to it, stop the bleeding…” He would not be silent, with his frowns and his worries for James, his hope for an end for this.
“He is already tainted, for our wishes,” he addressed the child, spoke to James’ precious Ben and saw the life drain from the face, understanding whatever tongue René spoke now and feeling the thrust of the blade down to his soul. “Words won’t stop the Devil.” It was foolish to voice such madness, to say things aloud when no one here would know his meaning, no dark eyes to light with secret knowledge before turning away. The Devil was not a hulking, desperate man seeking to ease his lust with a smooth young body. “How would you stop it, with your mouth?” He did not bother to raise his voice at the slight figure across from him, only watched the form flinch and pull away, saw as the chin lowered and eyes fell to the floor.
His Maman had been right, for the Devil was here, in him, falling to the same dirty floor with each drop of thick blood and only when it was gone would there be any hope. The child could not know, filled with the stupid promises of a foolish Englishman.
James. René watched the shifting light play across his hands, wondering if the blood would thicken, or continue to spill. His mouth was dry, but there was no wine in the carriage, and none in his belly to ease the sting.
There was no need for James to do this thing. No need, but he had chosen it. Tricked into this decision no doubt, by a scheming fop with deceiving, dark eyes searching for escape. Or perhaps it was what they had prayed for together, James and Maman, in their shared house of sin, crawling on their knees on the floor. A man cannot stop the Devil with words, and James could not, would not wield something sharper, whatever madness the servants spoke of.
If Mirena had given him a weapon as a gift than René would find her, and with the last of the blood in him, he would kill her. He had foolishly dreamt of James in the cloak of a Templar, had known him strong of will with every determined press of lips to his, but James would not do this thing. René had set this course, pulled James from his beloved books, and now James would seek such exile.
He would curse it if he went further in his madness. There was no need to come here, nothing mattered but James.
René could not recall when he had last eaten, and was suddenly grateful for it at the arcing pain through his middle, bending him over until his face was in his lap, his blades wishing to tear into his stomach. He gripped his knees, uncaring of the blood, forcing a smile at the feel of knives in his chest, knowing he deserved the feel of fangs. He had felt them before, still held the memory of flames swallowing him whole, and knew he trembled to think of who had stroked and cooled his flesh.
The carriage rocked and lurched, slowing, and René ignored the child’s intent silence, pulling a hand from his leg to hold to his throat, squeezing as though it might still the sickness. The carriage would go faster, but at the sound of his fist pounding at the wall it only shuddered to a halt, jarring their bones with the suddenness of the stop.
René frowned at the soft gasp from the boy, the fear the boy had no reason to know. It was James’ fault, this sickness, and he swallowed though it would not keep down the fire burning his insides.
“We’re here,” the boy announced, as though it was not certain already, as though they could not lift the curtain and behold the sight for themselves. But where else would James have gone in this country, when a church could no longer keep him held to the earth?
With the sky at his back, he would rise to Heaven. And this stain would send him streaming down.
He could no longer keep his sickness down, clenching his jaw at the hot, sour burn of his vomit. On the back of his tongue now, and he gagged, coughing up onto the floor, hearing the boy’s frightened cry at the sight.
“Do not look!” René ordered when he could speak, putting a hand to the door, curving his fingers over the slick, cool surface. He felt again the railing along the deck, his hands drawn to the place where he had last had James, James gone from him with only a handful of gold to ease his travels.
He could not fight it the second time, and used the bloodied coat sleeve to wipe his mouth, panting and weak with the child to witness. The child would look even when told not to. The child would always look, peering through the darkness with the light at his back, too slow to realize he could also be seen.
The stink of this would be on his breath, the taste on his lips if James should kiss him again. Always there, and James would wonder how he had ever found them sweet. He would remember how René had watched him crouching on his knees on that cursed English ship, ignored his silent pleading for the life of their worthless captain. And he would turn to the child, and see the sin in his eyes. And still he had looked.
The air was cold in his chest now as René sat back, pulling away the curtain to stare up at the house before them. Bright, gleaming light stared back from every window, every pane of glass made to shine as though the king himself had walked through the doors.
It had been grey and cold when he had first burst into this house, shadows obscuring the decaying walls and thin curtains. What pale sunlight had been granted them had seen fit to alight only on James, yellow and flickering in his foolishness. Now there was no place for demons or angels to hide.
He was here. The Devil himself in the house he had made for himself and his family, lit up for his arrival.
René’s eyes dropped to the entrance, then beyond that, pulling in a rough breath to see the other carriage in the street, poorly dressed servants still attending to tired horses.
The family Saint-Cyr was desperate, and René would make them
beg for this, curled on their hands and knees on the floor they could not
afford to cover with rugs. The house and
name sold to
He shivered, alone and waiting in the dark of a strange ship. Not all could be saved. James was a fool.
His mother had known this, even in her madness she had seen the truth of it in him, knew it to be in his blood. The same blood sticky on his fingers now, that she pretended to drink in the church he had paid for. Maman plumper and cleaner than he had last seen her, but her gaze the same. She waited, and prayed, and God had given her James for this.
His empty stomach churned in the wake of the thought, the same illness burning at his throat, and René closed his eyes, squeezing them closed tight and crushing the curtain in his grip as he fought the need to be sick. If he waited, if he did not move and did not think of anything other than the slow rocking of the floor beneath him he would not gag.
But of course this floor did not move, and no hand pressed him to this seat. Only a child sat with him, a boy with wide, curious eyes, too young to shave the soft skin that others had found so pleasing.
“Dinnae look much of the devil now.” The shrill voice was defiant, trembling, and René felt his eyes narrow. He could not recall turning to face the child, and was not pleased to see himself being studied. The boy’s fear was obvious in the force behind his words, the darting glances out the window, to James. But still the child did not move, trapped here as René was. He knew what lay in that house. “They all said ye were, when first we saw ye.”
When he had killed their captain. René’s lips did not twist into a smile, and he did not say the words aloud. He was cold when he finally did speak, his lips sore as though he had bitten them. “And James?”
The small body could not be still now, shaking a fear that only James would have been allowed to see before. There was danger and yet René would not move, and what frightened the devil kept the boy in his seat. Feelings of love no match for a past already full of such men. Ben turned glassy eyes away, to that same window, his jaw working as he swallowed and gritted his teeth, and René could not guess at what thoughts allowed him the distance to speak, but finally let his lips curve to imagine, waiting for the boy to lie to him.
The bitter smile left his face as the child turned back, looking at him with his chin raised and his gaze the straight, clear gaze of another.
“He never did.”
No he had not, not to René at least, and not before the
child it seemed, and if not then, then he had said it to no one. He had merely
waited, confirming his hopes far before he had dared to say his dreams aloud. It is my gift.
René closed his eyes to the sight, reaching up to his chest for what he already knew was gone. James had taken that as well, his hands closed around a pistol, and his chest cold with the weight of René’s crucifix.
He lifted his arm and opened his eyes at the sound of his blood hitting the floor between them. Only a dream, but still his heart raced. The child continued to stare, and René pulled in a harsh breath, the air cold in his dry throat.
“You will not go in this place.” He said the words slowly, and saw the James in that face fade away, replaced with anger. He was prepared to argue, this boy, this one would fight and not tremble against a wall, and René shook his head, swinging out with his hand.
The blow hit the side of Ben’s face, turning his head and leaving a bright smear across one downy cheek, already flushed and pink. René’s hand was stinging, his arm shaking and weak just from that, but he was frowning and getting to his feet, rising to bend over the child. There would be no time for tears and anger, there was none now but he would not have James know this grief. Ben could bear the mark of him, a reminder of this.
René leaned down, his hands gripping the slender shoulders hard enough to have the boy frozen, to feel the shaking form beneath him, but René did not release him, and Ben turned his bright gaze to him, waiting. He did not turn and cry, as weak and white as the mother who had last held him, he did not deserve the same fate. “This will be the only blood to touch you.” He was panting, and Ben seemed to feel the same pressure at his chest, unable to fully breathe with his father’s hands wrapped around his throat. “You will be here when James emerges.”
His wounds still burned, the force of his slap pounding in his palm, and he wondered if the child could still feel it in his body, or if only his mind would retain this pain. His own had shadowed him, dark in his belly until new pains had replaced it. The only time Peré had ever touched him, gripping, crushing hands handing him to another, shoving him away.
René did not let go, only sliding his hands up to the pale, scared face, knowing the child would see the devil in him now, with his white skin and uneven hair, spots of his blood touching everything. “I…I w…will not let you remain damned for this,” he murmured, uncertain what language possessed his stuttering tongue; no clue was granted him in confused, watching eyes. Strands of brown hair fell down to protect such frightened innocence, and René used his thumb to brush them away.
“You will not kneel anymore.” The order came in English, from trembling lips hot against the child’s cold skin, and then his stiff limbs were moving, pulling him away and pushing out onto the gray mud of the street.
It was slippery under his feet, grasping at his legs, and he shivered as he went forward, not sparing a glance for the grooms as he tried the doors and found them open. Not even fully closed in his haste to arrive here, but René shoved the thought away as he entered the great house.
One hand went to his belt as he passed slowly through the antechamber, the other closing tightly around one of the interior door’s handles.
There was no sign of the servants that had been ordered to light every candle, and René thought of Mirena’s warnings about servants and rats, always anticipating disaster. He exhaled, wishing he were a child and might pray under his breath as he pushed open the door, even if this one held no strange sounds behind it.
It had been the crash of pottery hitting the floor that had woken him, his sleep restless and feverish without Maman nearby to soothe him back to sleep. His room had been dark, only thin, wavering traces of light sneaking through under his door—candles burning brightly in a hallway as though someone else were afraid of the shadows.
He blinked at the glare of the room now, wanting to shield his eyes from the glow of countless candles reflected off bare surfaces and cold floors.
For a moment there was no one, and then he could hear the shouting, drawing nearer, louder; Etienne Saint-Cyr’s voice, and René’s fingers seized on the hilt of his short sword, his breath slow and dragging.
“James.” The whisper was too weak to reach him, could not with so little air in his chest now. The stars were already glittering at the edge of his vision, as though his head still ached, as though the fits would come again and he would wake somewhere else in this sore body, sand in his stretched mouth.
But as if he had been heard there were footsteps, even and quick, and then his eyes beheld the pale skin of Etienne Saint-Cyr, wearing only pantalons and a thin shirt to receive James, white arms marked with dark bruises as he reached up to him, black eyes wide and pleading and weak under James’ strength. Still, his fingers spread over the planes of the broad chest as he was forced backward, and James stepped into the room, hair as gleaming as the gold at his ear slipping from the tie at his neck, shimmering around the frown that cast the sinners from Heaven, fierce eyes revealing no mercy in his heart for the burning flesh of heretics.
His knees were sick with the need to bend, to make him fall before this, and it was only the pain twisting in his belly that would not allow it, the sight of a Saint-Cyr falling before the flaming sword; the gaze that met his crying out for salvation.
“James!” His voice cracked on the word, his throat last wetted by his own vomit, and his fingers slid down the hilt to the blade, sharp in numb skin. He had thought to name him a pet; this terrifying angel sent to torment his dreams, had dared to want its love and had turned it into this. He would kill for James, had killed for James, and would bleed for it. His soul was already black. But James could not do this. He could not allow it.
James did not hear him, would not be called to heel now, and René wondered if he were already a ghost in this house, unheard and unknown but for the similar eyes fast upon him.
“Où est votre raison maintenant?” Etienne Saint-Cyr was speaking, whispering quickly though James seemed to have no need of quiet, and René ducked in response to that care, glancing beyond the stairs and over his shoulders. The source of the Saint-Cyr’s fear was close then, and René let his lips part to draw in shallow breaths.
James blinked at his friend’s words, as though he had heard them before, whispered in some dark space known only to them two of them, but did not pause until he had reached the foot of the staircase. He stopped of his own will with an ease that revealed the strength James had only wanted to conceal before.
The white lines of his hand were before René’s eyes, streaked with something dark and gleaming that he ignored, wondering when he had put out his hand at all for James to take, when James had grown too large to be held in his palm. It looked like a child’s hand next to his terrifying figure now, and René lifted it to his mouth, wetting his dry throat with his blood, his chest growing colder with each breath.
“…Votre foi?” It was Etienne who spoke, tripping over the words as though he had never said them but the need had forced it from him regardless. A bitter salt like seawater along his lips, René pushed them out as well, English as difficult now as Parisian might be for James.
“Your faith, James?” James who always spoke of humility, who claimed God was in all and begged so often for life, now had shoulders that did not bend as he turned to follow the sound. There was no pleasure in his gaze to see René, sweeping hard eyes over his shivering body before flinging a hand to wipe Saint-Cyr’s touch from him.
The carvings in the door were hard at his back before René allowed his eyes to leave James, glancing once again to Etienne Saint-Cyr, seeing him stumble backward before he caught himself. Saint-Cyr looked around once, quickly, and then stepped forward once more, at an angle, his hand at his side as though he wished he were armed, the muscles in his forearm flexing underneath the milk-white skin, sharp next to the large bruises that his shirtsleeves did not hide.
René tightened his grip on his knives as his stomach twisted, recognizing the healing shades of purple and brown on those arms, on the face and neck. They did not come from this house. Fresh, they would have been almost black on skin so soft and untouched, as dark as the shadowed, cramped space below a ship’s decks. Bruises forming over bruises that were never seen, never allowed to heal and fade, would never have been if not for the interference of another, someone stronger.
“René.” James spoke at last, his lips moving as though he had perhaps been speaking all along, his language one René did not know and could never learn. “You should not be here.”
Childish whispers, low and frightened intruded on his thoughts, left him staring and blank at James’ words, looking away to where his brother had darted a glance before, to the cracked door, the black eyes watching this, wide with confusion. Their skin too, was pale, waves of hair unbound around untouched faces as though this had roused them from bed. They left the door to shield them, she did, when she had not seemed so frightened of James before. But this James would not blush for her, would not allow her to touch even her little fingers to his arm and so she stood there, stupid and helpless as though unknowing of his purpose in coming to this place. And the other, the other simply watched, as quiet as René should have been.
His sisters, James had named them, as though it were true, as though it mattered next to this. They knew what kind of devil swam in their veins, as did the Etienne that James would not have him kill. How long they had hidden there would not matter, they could not escape this anymore than he could; His sisters, as they claimed him now, could expect no rescue.
“It is you who does not belong here.” He turned away from faces that meant nothing to him, and felt himself moving from the doorway, his steps those of a child as he drew all eyes to him. He lifted his arm and turned from the light of a thousand candles hit his face, smoke singing his nose. But his words, he could hear them above the angry, panicked cursing, above even the beat of his heart.
Why, he had asked once, with his blood hard in his ears, as sharp on his tongue as his strange words to James, but those around him stilled as James stopped his forward motion, and without looking, René could feel James’ eyes on him—no longer hesitant as he had first learned them, bur regarding him with knowledge that should not be there.
Such light was not for this place, and René frowned, swaying as he kept his eyes on the ground, smooth marble marred with black drops, splashing circles of taint onto a costly floor. A quickly drawn breath hissed through teeth somewhere, startling, and René blinked, wondering when he had last breathed, when last the air rushing past his lips had been sweet.
“René…” James wept his name, his voice rich and heavy, thick with a rain René had tasted before, and he recalled the sweet at last, an eager mouth offering him pleasure, his own mouth numb from James’ kisses, the ache pressing inside of him.
“James.” That voice was too full of feeling for him, for this, and though it could not be James who would ask this of him, René lifted his head, his throat rasping and dry when he tried to speak.
“You are bleeding.” As though it mattered, James had truly stopped at last, trembling slightly as though he wore no coat and felt the cold. Strange, when heat was stinging in René’s cheeks to see James watch him so carelessly before others, and he would have looked away if James had not raised his chin and swept his eyes closed.
There were lines marring James’ handsome face, his ugly glasses hiding hard eyes, and René suddenly felt the need to be away, amidst nothing dark waters, only the sun warm at his back. He curled his fingers easily around the hilt of one blade and watched James exhale, knowing that when they had spoken of this so long ago, James had not welcomed the blade pressed into his hand.
He wore no blade now, and René blinked, dragging his eyes down to the belt James had taken, a match to the stolen pistol waiting at his hip, half-hidden in the red of René’s coat. The silver was dull next to his radiance, but only a fool could not see it, could not see his intent, and the Saint-Cyr son was a dog but no fool. And still he thought to reason, when none of them were alone in this house, as persuaded perhaps by past words as René had been. His own mouth was moving, forming words to bring James’ eyes back to him, and he would please James now, suck his cock before the family James wanted to give him if it would make James leave this place.
“Please.” There was no sort of plea in the word, not with Saint-Cyr staring at René, only a frown crossing his face now. It was a pretty face, seeming as innocent as the ladies hiding behind nearby doors now if not for the wounds of his eyes, the curse in their colour. The sick throbbing at his wrists increased, but René held onto his blade, glaring back at the slender figure only a step from James.
“Devotion to your Papa?” Eyes that knew of pain did not make him flinch, and he twisted his mouth into a sneer to ask the question, pushing out words though his chest held no breath. His brother lifted both eyebrows, an affectation of surprise and innocence that belied that sharp smile slashing across his face. He said nothing to that, did not defend his honour or demand blood as any son, innocent or guilty, should have done. He did not move at all, and René wondered if he would have been so still, down in the hold of his ship with René’s sword at his neck.
He had not, he had been fevered, but if it had not been for James, Etienne Saint-Cyr would be nothing more than a corpse tossed onto the steps of this house, paler than he was even now, the hard misuse of many hands leaving only his face untouched.
That bruise still marked one cheek, red streaked unevenly around the lips, a healing tear, and René shook his head, looking away when the red seemed to grow brighter, when candlelight flickered around dark edges, giving swollen flesh the shape of a hand.
It took a strong man to hold another still, unless the figure was slight, or bound and long forgotten by those who might have interfered.
“James…” He would have been nothing but a child, younger than that boy outside, he could have done nothing. He had not learned to fear the dark, had never been left to the mercy of the shadows, would never leave someone else there when he could have saved him. Shadows had no mercy, but James would bring the light.
His eyes were closed suddenly, they must be, but René turned his head from his brother. His hands were cold, his palms seeming empty no matter how tightly he curled his fingers.
“James, we must leave this place…” His mouth was sticky, trapping and holding the words that he wished to say, the questions. What had been passed between them, alone on his ship when he had been mad with fever, when he had walked everywhere but below the decks knowing the lick of heat on his skin was to be his for all eternity?
He had no weapon. He would not stay here in the dark without his sword, not again.
“He is not well.” The cool voice held a note of pleasure, as sickening as perfume splashed into fresh water, and René opened his eyes, his gaze on James, who dared to look at him with such concern. The other one knew he did not deserve it for he was smarter than James. Even the boy was smarter than James. They all knew exactly what René had done.
“You will not deal with the Saint-Cyrs.” The tightness in his belly spoke of more sickness, and he had lied when he declared they had taken all of his blood already. He could feel it along his teeth, the itch as it dried on his skin. He shivered, and then James was moving, striding to him, pushing René hard to the door and reaching for his hands.
They were dark, thick with blood under his fingernails, drops falling slowly from his fingertips before James turned them over to expose his palms, his wrists just visible underneath James’ coat.
“Sweet Jesu…” Words James only spoke in pleasure were harsh between them, raw as James’ touch to the wounds, but René yanked his hands free, staring upward to find James’ eyes.
“Whatever you swore to her, you must not do it.” He had begged in his fever for a hand to pull him back, but begging was not praying no matter how James might wish it so. He had not prayed, wasted strength falling to his knees for a God who would not forgive him. He had deserved to burn as he burned now, his flesh blistered and oozing with his sickness. He deserved nothing now, but still he dared, reaching up with cold fingers to stroke the lines of James’ face, unsurprised when James flinched from him.
“Her?” Disgust turned James’ eyes from him, and René scowled, swallowing bile and blood. James thought this a matter of jealousy, of tormented dreams and visions of laced bodies. There was no love here, only an ugly need, and he was a fool to think otherwise.
“Not for you!” The scream cracked his chest in two and sent James’ reeling back, looking as ignorant as he first had, eyes wide and arms shaking from the weight of a weapon. No longer. That James was no longer, and he could not speak to ask for him, his insides dry and wasted as his strength slipped from him. His body fell against the door, his gaze traveling up to find James and then darting away, beyond their shocked, frightened faces. “God in Heaven…”
He could not allow it, and turned his eyes to the movement flickering at the edge of his vision, the impatient flip of a silk coat, the shine of new buckles, announcing his presence.
The servants were gone; they were always knew when to be gone, smarter than he was, no matter what Maman said. But when the whims struck him, it was best to be elsewhere, to vanish into dark corners, hearing the click of his heels as he passed, moving only when Maman’s doors had closed behind him.
There was nothing of her in him, and he wondered how James had even known her for his mother. He had not asked if she had spoken of him, but if James had looked, he had found no trace of the darkness in her that he had first seen in René’s eyes.
A black so dark that once someone had sworn he had a strange, foreign blood in him, that had given his ship its name. He had laughed to see it written there, knowing the truth if they had not. Black and bright as they stared at him, but granting him no reflection.
Candlelight shimmered on the steel of his sword, only the tip dulled with his blood as he swung it wide in warning. James and the others moved back, startled, but the man did not move, only standing still at the foot of the staircase behind them all, watching. Today the short sword was an iron weight but René kept the end up even with the ache, staring down the length of the blade into dark eyes that matched his own.
He wanted to be sick and would not. He would not, and neither would he fall, not in front of this, with those around innocent of the danger.
His hand was trembling, shaking with ill health that Père had always seen as fear in such a weak boy. He wished for Maman when the shaking would not stop, but there was no one to soothe the visions away; she had been sent away as well, left to madness and dreams of the fate of her son. He had shared her horrors, when he had been allowed to close his eyes at night, waking to wet cheeks.
René looked up though there was no hiding his weakness, his belly twisting to see that this fear had told James the truth when he had seen it in her eyes. Fear that left them all silent now, bowing before the beast in their house.
“Father…” The son spoke first, one hand rising gracefully in front of James as though to acknowledge his father’s arrival. He seemed as if he would hold James back. James who had not moved, who would not move, not before René.
“You will not…” It was a child’s voice that cracked, quivering with unsaid prayers as René looked up, lifting eyes from memory to study the white face, blinking to see the stains of red that had not come from a pot of rouge. Hard and angry, stretched over thin, powdery flesh. There was no need to raise his eyes, and René felt his brow heavy with a frown and shook his head, swaying unsteadily when black swirled around him. He stamped a foot and the dizziness faded, his vision clearing again. “You will not move, Father.”
It was not confusion that drew arching brows down, or curved red lips into a pretty smile as his eyes traveled on to take note of the ridiculous scene they made, hesitating only on James but not slowing even for his own flesh. He seemed to take no interest in the presence of his daughters behind the door, his smile only growing sharper, revealing teeth. Unstained lace fell around his fingers as he lifted one hand to wave at the iced form of Etienne Saint-Cyr, no jewelry to flash in the unceasing light as he pointed.
“That is my son.” The chest rattled as he drew in a breath to sigh, a herald of life not buried by layers of brocade and velvet. Rich padding could not disguise the thin fingers, the sickly white next to the full red of his mouth where no paint had been needed. His shoulders would also break with the weight of age and sin, and any pleasure James felt in the sight of him would fade.
It was not pain at the thought that tightened René’s throat, making him choke on his own spit, not when James would leave, not when he must make him leave, and he brought his eyes back to the wrinkled, marked man who stood before them.
He cast no shadows over him now and yet his breath was cold, an ill wind that brought no rain, brought nothing but the shudders to his small body. How he had twisted up his lips into a sneer at that, a sneer that not even his dog of a son would have dared to make, even before René had made him share in the fear of darkness. And the dog stood still before James, not turning to look at anyone while this figure, this strange, small figure watched them.
René blinked away the dizziness, accustomed to such spells after months of aching bones and weakness, startled only by the sudden pounding of his heart, tense muscles keeping him on his feet.
What trick was it that he beheld now, when it was only the black, merciless eyes of a raven that gleamed with knowledge as they gazed upon him. As though it were nothing to see his sold off bastard returned and bleeding at his door.
If he thought himself safe in his home surrounded by his ignored children then he was a fool. René allowed himself a deep breath that brought more bile with it and then tightened his hold on his sword, narrowing his eyes as he stared down the slick, wet edge of the blade.
It was in James Fitzroy to feel pity while his own soul remained empty. And it was for that that he stayed upright on his shaking limbs and did not blink, and did not direct his gaze to where it wished to rest forever. There was only the edge of gold allowed at the corner of his vision, his eyes meeting another pair so black like his own, carefully reflecting back nothing when they glanced to him. He turned away from that sight as well, his dry lips cracking apart to know himself under scrutiny.
Perhaps this man did not know which bastard had him in sight now, or perhaps they came to him in dozens, knowing that none with his eyes could deny their parentage.
“You are not dead.” His stare held no light as it left him, as it went back to where it should not be, and René felt his fingers slipping, feeling at last the loss of the blood now staining the marble at his feet. The chill had reached them, a sigh of disappointed breath that left them as thick and stuttering as James’ tongue.
His eyes would close despite his wishes, slow to open again, and he was left in the dark, turning his head until he found the red of light. It was James, and he could not open his eyes now, not with his limbs trembling and his knees urging him to the floor.
“You bring…this…to my house?” The voice spoke, words stabbing down through René’s shoulder to his chest, creeping inside his wounds like sickness that would turn his flesh to black, the demand wet at his ear. He could not breathe, could not breathe not matter how he tried, and the fingers curled into his skin until he felt his eyes throbbing, his gasps louder then the heels scraping and kicking on the wall behind him. His heels, he thought, but that could not be, he would not, but his cheeks were hot and damp.
He wanted to feel the tears on his face, and moaned when his hands would not quit their hold on red, the shining red fabric that would not give beneath his hands. It was rough on his palms and still he could not let go, and he wanted to cry out when even the red began to turn dark and his head was falling. He would be in this house no longer.
It burned through his lungs like smoke when he stood too near the fire, searing his dry eyes, and still he had to breathe, had to, and when the hands at his throat suddenly eased, it hurt, the pain of his body on the floor nothing to what was tearing inside of him with every gasp.
“I owe a debt… It is a matter of honour.” The silken insertion was as low as a servant’s voice, interfering only with careful and planned humility, and it was bitter on René tongue though he had not spoken the words, his legs aching with the urge to straighten. His lips moved, but he could not speak, and the beat of his blood in his chest was loud and unsteady, drowning out the angel that called his name.
He was not dead. The beat was fast and unforgiving, not allowing him to forget. He was not dead though he had prayed to die so many times, called out to Maman’s God in the language the priests used to speak with Him, begged his own tongue, prayed aloud and when his mouth was full. God hated him, he had known it with every man at his back, and God was punishing him at last for his sins and would not let him die.
He still hated him, for giving him this and letting him know this Hell was for what he had done to the angels sent to him. He had allowed this to happen after he had been offered his chance at salvation.
“You will not touch what is mine.” The warning against further transgressions had come as he had lain there, curled with his knees to his chest, the impression of those hands still warm at his throat. But the grin had fallen from Father’s face to his see his bastard laughing at being thrown down to the floor. He would smile now as well, laugh to the cold marble that would soon warm with his blood.
René’s eyes opened wide as his hands fell with fingers stretched and empty, his shudder strong enough to make his shoulders curl into his body, around the pain that pierced his side. Always pain for him, and he was nearly smiling already to feel it, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head back.
The creature he could have called brother had moved, standing at an angle to James, their shoulders nearly touching. He no longer held his hand up in warning, and his eyes gleamed as he watched, his mouth pressed tight. The golden glow had not faded when René had opened his eyes, the light coming from James now streaked out over Etienne Saint-Cyr, and René could feel the dust of ashes sticking his nose, harsh in his throat.
He did not know if the others hiding behind the door could taste it as well, but he pitied them as he dropped his head to his coat and breathed in the scent of oranges and rosemary.
He knew without turning to look that Father was still smiling, an unpleasant twisting of painted lips, that he thought this would frighten the peasant James, when not even his son flinched from it any longer. Somewhere in the dark where there should have been nothing but pain an accord had been reached between the strong blood of this house and James Fitzroy, and the father would have no say in it.
His eyes burned as he kept them open, staring at the
defiance that James had brought here into this house, disobedience that would
earn them all pain. There were no bent shoulders now, no soft poses as they
waited without a word, and René’s head snapped at up at the noise when Saint-Cyr
chose to at last answer them.
“You return with nothing and now demand payment.” He dismissed words of honour with a wave of his hand, his limp wrist lacking he grace that should have been in the movement, that would have been in the motions of a younger man. The contempt of a king was a sharp as the sword itself, a reminder of the cost of failure. They would heel, would know their place, and yet the dogs would not cower. The women stayed behind their door, and yet they still gasped at the dismissal of a debt of honour.
There was no honour in being cast off and thrown to Hell. The trembling returned to his body, his shoulders weak to think of the fate awaiting them for this, for every moment they did not bend there would be punishment, death unless they ended it now. And he could not allow that, not for those who did not yet know real sin.
Innocents that he had knowingly brought to this; he had not cared about the bravery of a child staring with hate-filled eyes at the man who owned his fate, or the courage of a fool offering silken challenges to a madman when he stood unarmed. Even the women risked much by remaining so near to this danger, risks they could not possibly know. He had not guessed the cost of his act as a child, but he had known his guilt before he had ever laid eyes on her, the sickness in his birth, and he had known there would be blood.
She had not stayed in his bed long, no longer than the others, but René had chosen her and he had brought on his own banishment. And James who had not killed Deniau would not follow him to that. He would not. In this, God would be merciful. René had kept the child from this place and for that God must be merciful.
“I will not allow it.” Through his teeth, the words were too quiet to carry around the room, the barest whisper, and René flexed his fingers, seeking out and finding the crossing hilt of the knife at his waist. His swords had disappeared into the abyss at his feet, and he left them for the devils to take, grinding his teeth at the pain in his movements.
“I will not allow it!” The stabbing at his shoulder made his words harsh, but he lifted his chin at his father’s gaze, staring back into his old face, wrinkled with sin. He would bear this, but if God refused him than he would commit sins to blacken Heaven and the very name of God until the last of his blood finally dripped from his body.
“I will not allow you to have this one.” He could not breathe, his words coming too far apart for him to understand, but James would hear him, opening his mouth to protest in shapeless noises as though unknowing of his value.
One dark, slender brow arched upward, creating lines in the layers of thick powder, the painted lips parting to expel a breath that had the sound of a laugh. It should have burned beneath his skin, but his flesh was numb, and the laugh was weak, trembling with hidden fear.
He sought to send his eyes elsewhere, tried to deny the blade René had offered him, and looked instead to his claimed heir.
“For what is there this debt?” The voice that should have been smooth was rough, reaching up too loudly to the ceiling above as though he needed all of Paris to hear, and if the son answered it was too low for René to hear, not enough to draw his eyes from his fate. Every line on the handsome face marked a sin, and no powders would hide it from his eyes. “If you were so foolish as to trade with them for your life, they can have it or bring me something useful, or send them back to gutter.”
Across the room, James betrayed his weakness with a noise low in his throat, but René did not look to him, knowing he would see only disgust.
His head went back, and felt the force of the door against the back of his head, raw on old injuries, and stared through the wet sting of tears at his blood.
“Aye, we hardly belong here.” James who had at last been silent spoke again, and it was as though the madman’s soul were still splashed darkly across his hands, his fingers curled around Deniau’s knife. He had stood there in the growing pool with angry eyes glittering all around him, shaking with the force of a strange emotion. He was not shaking now, standing as tall above Etienne Saint-Cyr as he first had when René had come into this place.
“James…” He whispered the name, his protest catching in his tight throat when he was ignored.
He was not trembling now, and René felt his body grow still as well, his breathing stalled in his chest next to his trapped, dying heart that would not beat. This was the vision she had seen in her pathetic church, and how she had prayed to see him enter, the light seeking him out and denying him even a shadow. It clung to each strand of hair that he had tied away from his shoulders, flickering over the strong lines of his frowning face. Beyond the glass, he could not see into the brown eyes, but he knew they were not turned to him, just as they no longer looked upward.
“Do you fear me to tremble so?” The terrible voice had demanded an answer, echoing inside his skull despite the attempt at gentleness, and he was a fool not to have known this before, not to have seen it when he had let the taste melt on his tongue. He had lied, denying him even as he had opened his legs and his mouth and given James all he had wanted. He had done this, ignored the truth of the creature in his bed and brought them all to this, and the silver tightening in his belly spoke of more death to come. It flashed behind his eyes, sparkling and sharp like the thousands he had known before and would not know again after this day.
“James!” He called out the name knowing that he would not answer, his gaze narrowing to only the firm line of the rose-coloured mouth. It did not open to speak to him, and the spirit was draining from him, settling heavily in the legs that no longer wished to hold him on his feet.
“We do not belong here. None belong here save you.” So quietly he spoke, René could still feel the shivering breath at his neck, his lips burning with the need for another soft kiss.
“Then you ought to leave…” He could hear the words, the fever in the voice when it should have been cool, and sighed a warning that would not be heeded. But there was no one else to speak it, no one else allowed to speak before this. They all waited in silence as René should have, looking to James as he moved at last, sliding aside the stiff lining of a stolen coat to reveal the silver of the pistol.
The renewed pounding of his blood hurt, pushing him forward with his hands out, forgetful of the blades still caressing his palms.
He had asked before, and James had refused this. He would not stain himself now; he would not if there was mercy even for a sinner. The other had begged this too, and yet he said nothing in this moment, as James closed his hand around the weapon and pulled it free.
“There will be no dueling with such as you. I will not earn such dishonour.” Had the scion of this house spoken with such defiance as his father did now, knowing himself helpless before fate? They should have cowered in the dark and begged, and he was mad to condemn now, as this unbending figure stood before him in his home and offered no escape.
He had no time for the fear shaking the old body now, the fear of this James that kept them all in their places, that made the weak want to fall to their knees. René was breathing carefully, counting each cold, dry rush of air that passed through his mouth, looking across to study the hard line of James’ jaw, the firm lips that showed no sign of indecision.
“You are concerned with honour?” And James seemed to be trembling, moving oddly in the blurred scene in front René’s dry eyes, moving so that even when René blinked there was only the quivering traces of gold that surrounded James as he swept forward another step, his voice rising. “You?”
“Father!” The cry came from the space behind him, the voice high with alarm and fear and yet no one came forward, no one matched the next slow, deliberate step James took so they might stop this. Perhaps they did not wish it to stop.
René forced his gaze to the son, to Etienne Saint-Cyr, who stood with a closed mouth at James’ back, one hand out behind him as though this would keep his sisters locked in their far room. His eyes he kept on their father, his chin lifted as he waited for that man to speak, as though he knew something that the rest did not.
Whatever had been bargained between them, down below the decks of his ship, it held no weight here. René clenched his teeth to know he had said the thought aloud, but did not look away. The word of a Saint-Cyr was nothing, and James was a fool to have offered his own, the mad, prudish Englishman who had judged him on board his own ship for seeing justice done.
The sword had taxed his strength then, made him weak though he had stood tall, and yet it was the man behind him who worried for the sake of those who needed protection. James had not known René had wished no harm to the boy, and yet he had left him that morning, slipping out like a thief before dawn, leaving the boy to René’s care as he did this thing.
As long as he had thought the child safe, he had stayed in that house with the man who had sold him to pirates and killers. His dignity had meant nothing next to the child’s happiness, and yet he had left the boy to do this, left with no hope of returning.
“It is good, then, that I have no wish to duel this day.” James spoke to a quiet room, reason and calm terrifying in his level voice when so many others could not free their tongues to respond, bile burning at their throats. And it was not René who answered him; it could not be, with his heart pushing the breath from him, his body bent in a posture of pain.
“James…” The name did not grant him James’ attention, and the tall form did not bend. “The boy, James…the boy is not here. He is safe.” For once the boy would obey, did not James understand? He knew his place, and there was no need for this action. “James, let us leave.”
He felt eyes on him, not the eyes he wished, but eyes of gleaming back, too many for him to face, and still he raised his head, staring down those who did not understand what would soon be laying at their feet.
But James turned to him as well, blinking as though there were still dreams behind his eyes, confusion drawing his brows together for one long moment as though he did not know that child at all. And then his mouth opened, his lips pale and dry.
Whatever words he wished to say were not for René it seemed, as he turned away, his frown deepening for one moment as he faced the beast—a foolish, weak old man, who snorted and made a show of chuckling, his laughter as colourless as James’ unbitten lips.
“You refuse to see.” It was James who accused another of blindness, as though most did not pray for the blanket to hide their eyes, as though the thin planes of glass across his nose did not shield him from the truths that clung to the skin and burned like hot wax. And if those had failed it was a sin for James not to have told him, to have kept the light away from him as he had watched and feigned ignorance and held him in those arms. Whatever James dreamed of had been kept from him, whatever he imagined that could not be true and this would not matter. It was James who did not see.
“…But you will.” It was madness, and yet Rene felt himself stretching on his toes for the touch of those words, not imagining the tickle of warm, sweet breath at his ears as though James did speak for him after all though his eyes were elsewhere. His shivers were too strong for the others not to notice.
His thumb stroked lightly over the pistol as he held it, as though he treasured having it, and René felt his stomach tighten to remember that first gentle, surprising touch to his cock, the gasp that had come from James’ mouth to learn of his own pleasure.
“You did not listen to the cries of your children.”
His hand was empty when he brought it to his mouth and pressed his skin hard to his lips to keep the sounds inside, and they dried to dust on his tongue. It was the other who spoke, murmuring nothing at James’ back, a protest that he had not cried, the brave, true son. But James was deaf to his pleas, and it was René who shook his head at the reminder of what he had done.
James meant to wound them all, and yet a mention of his boy had not cracked the hard shell of gold that surrounded him, had not even slowed the careful, measured breaths that came between each quiet, calm word.
“Those who love you, you abandon. You leave your own blood used and broken behind you.”
“What did she ask of you, James?” His voice was cracking and he was again a boy fallen at his father’s feet, but he did not care when the others were dumb with fear and worry. He would still speak as whips ate his flesh and demanded more. “What did she tell you?”
“She?” James barely whispered and angled his head only slightly toward him, as though he waited on another word that René had yet to speak. Too many thoughts pounded inside his skull as René tried to search his mind, feeling as ill as a man who had had nothing but too much wine for months, wishing suddenly that he had eaten at James’ urging the night before, that he were still in his bed, James underneath him as he dreamed. His mind gave him nothing but that, glowing red with warmth, and he could not stop to think, and could not find what it was that would bring this to another ending. But it was on him, James was his, James would only heed him, if only he could give James what was needed now.
“Who are you?” It had taken the man too long to muster the strength to ask the question, and he asked it too loudly, his voice quavering in the silence that followed. René turned to follow the sound, his eyes too big and too round, and saw another whose eyes were the same.
It was not his gaze that flinched away, and yet his vision spun around, streaked with the yellow light of this room, of unnatural sunlight, and found himself seeing brown English eyes so far away, staring at him as though he could see his thoughts and was ashamed to know them.
If another had not claimed the Englishman’s attention then, he might have fallen there, and foolishly, drunkenly pleaded for forgiveness.
He stumbled though he stood upright, the force in James’ eyes urging him to the floor, making him shake like the old man awaiting judgment now. He could not answer the demand in those eyes, did not even know what answer to give.
“You left a child to the dark.” James turned from him, and yet his trembling would not cease, his body begging for the end but twisting away, his hands closing over his middle as he wondered why he did not feel the wet heat of his guts slipping out into his palms.
“James…” the name was dry, rasping, and others echoed it, proud voices echoing his pain. James would not. He could not speak of what he was never to know, what he could not know of. There had been none left alive to tell him, René’s own hands had assured that.
He had fallen into the fires, had been left to fall for so long, and his lips had moved when the cool waters had been poured over them, streaming down across his cheeks, cold on his neck.
“A child…” James’ voice rose, and René thought he fell back, white ceilings far above him, as white as snow, as chill and sweet as the water that James had allowed him to drink. Oh, God, he could not close his eyes to this though they burned. He had dreamed in his madness, and James had heard his screams. “A child left alone with nothing but wicked men for protection.”
The name was buried beneath black waters; James had no right to speak it. René felt the blow to his chest, at his back as though his father held him fast to the wall once more. The air was sucked from his mouth, leaving only the tang of his blood on his tongue though his sticky hands went out to his sides. He was empty, of blood, of life and breath, and so it could not be him who moaned when James said no more, revealing with his silence afterward that he knew enough.
This was not his place; it was for René to list the charges, to know the crime and to dance away as the heart’s blood sprayed out. It was his place to feel the steam rising from the blood that would stain his blade, to lay in the dark of night and pray for morning. This was not for James but James would not stop his slow steps forward, and again René wondered what the others had demanded of James to make him do this, now when he knew each childish act and every vile sin that René had committed.
His face was hot, and he lowered his eyes, seeing his steel laid at his feet among the splotches of dark red. An empty man could not hurt, and he felt the beat of his heart at his wrists suddenly, a fierce throb that seized all of him. He cast his gaze up and sought out James and found he could not meet the eyes of the man who turned in his direction.
“René.” How calmly James spoke his name, so calmly, and as before, as always, René felt his heart leap from his chest and his belly tighten. Up from his wrists through his arms his blood was pounding, rolling waves of pain that reached his shoulders, sharp at his healing wound before they descended into his chest and stomach, down into his bowels. His legs gave way too before this James, but he did not cry out as his knees hit the hard marble.
Others gasped, his sisters behind their door, Etienne Saint-Cyr moving as though in another time he might have come to René’s side, but not James, and not the man whose blood James wanted this day.
“Who are you?” Their father spoke softly now, fear and not respect keeping him quiet, fear of the man who had brought his forgotten bastard to his knees without even pulling out his pistol. And this man, this strange Englishman who kept his two weak sons at bay, this man knew of things that he had thought long dead and rotting. He had asked twice, and the hunger for knowledge must be as deep as his desire for escape, making him foolish. “I am not a rich man.”
His kept his chin lifted as he offered the truth, perhaps the only truth he knew, his words cold as he bargained, and René knew without looking that James would be smiling, a cruel twist of his mouth that he had learned only from the Saint-Cyrs. René had brought him to this sins of this house, had let James try to kiss them from his lips, as bitter and oily as rouge. It was a taste James had learned well, and René laughed to realize what it meant, the sound loud and startling.
Their father had never been forced to await another’s mercy, had never begged to escape what could not be avoided, and he could not know there would be no quarter given here, that James had never cared for the treasures offered him.
“You are unrepentant.” His laughter ended abruptly. James’ voice was rough, thick with words held back. “You value nothing.”
René’s eyes opened wide, turning his head up despite his body’s shaking to see the disgust in the muddy English eyes, flinching when he did not see the shining plea for kindness that he had first seen in them.
Only the gold in his ear sparkled in the light, gleaming as James raised his head. Candlelight flickered off his glasses, turning his eyes to flame, and then his shoulders went back to leave him as straight as he had once stood over René, trembling with a rage so strong it could not be hidden. Now he did not shake, and his hand did not form a fist.
His fingers curled tighter for one moment, and then he was pulling the pistol from the sash at his waist, extending his arm and lowering his head to aim straight before him. His hold did not waver despite the pistol’s weight, and René heard his own breathing, uneven, wet gasps as he realized that for this James had the strength and would not falter.
He could not permit this to continue. It was not James’ soul that would hold this mark, the burden was not for James any more than it was for the child and he would not allow it. James was a fool.
A fool, René reminded himself, his voice the barest whisper when he tried to speak it. The boy could have spoken louder, a weeping child, a madwoman could have screamed where he sat dumb, and he moved his arms, running his short fingernails over his scalp when he had no hair to pull, leaving scratches on the soft flesh.
It was his pain, and he could not allow this. He would kill him. Here, in this place, before the eyes of innocents, James would damn himself. Already, his fingers were tightening their hold on the pistol.
God could not allow this to happen. James loved his God so much he had dared to speak of him even as René had first knelt at his feet, and if his God loved James as he ought to be loved, he would not allow this to happen. He could not hold any feeling in his heart for René, but he must love his faithful son.
But once more he did nothing. He sat above, staring stupidly down at them, blind to what lay before him and left them waiting as James now waited for him to speak. But he could not speak for he had no voice; God had taken that too. The divine bastard James held in his soul had taken everything from him, and then given him James. Foolishly, for he must have known that René would ravage and destroy his creation like the devil he was.
And now the devil would pay for corrupting that gift, bringing James here, for showing him the use of the weapon. James would kill for what they had asked of him.
“Please, James, not for them.” His voice was that of a shipwrecked man, weakened and dry but still James heard him, a strange fire flaring behind the glass as he turned and looked down to René, looked down as René groveled at James’ feet. Before those he had sworn to kill he knelt on the ground and begged for James, his many sins obvious in his lack of shame. There was no pretty shading of red in his cheeks, only the white of death.
Tremors took James’ strong form, the arm leveling the pistol wavering for one small moment as James trembled and stared down at him with eyes that knew the fury of Heaven, and then James was turning away from him, René’s name only a fevered whisper that could not be real.
He knew he was frowning, blinking too many times to fully see what lay before him, but aware that this had turned James from him once more, that James thought him weak and crazed, his tongue too thick and slow to say what it ought.
He thought perhaps his father also knew this fear, that his mind was searching and spinning as he stood there awaiting judgment he could not deny, trying to seek escape, a momentary respite to slow the coming agony. But he could not know the words if René did not. He alone had been allowed to bury himself in James’ sweet body, had been held as he slept, and had allowed James to take all there was from him. And how softly James had spoken then, rain falling from his lips as he had given René his whispers and promises, offering their passion as though it were a gift, as though he had possessed knowledge René had not.
It is my gift.
His gasp flooded his chest with air and he turned his face to the floor as he coughed and shuddered, imagining how the marble would feel against his lips if he were to fall forward, remembering the smooth kiss of it on his cheek as he had curled his body away from his father’s feet. He had not let his cries escape, knowing that no one would come even if they had heard him and knowing his father had wanted him to beg.
“Not for me.” His own voice startled him into raising his head, and then his mouth was moving again, saying the words once more though his breath would not have made a single candle flicker. “James…” James was mad. He was a fool to think that he was cause for this. “Not for me.”
He swayed as he tried to stay upright, his legs aching to keep this position, his head up even if he was on his knees, but James would not join him in the flames. It was nothing for him to beg now when faced with that, and they would see, no matter how they made noise and fluttered their hands and stepped from behind the doors that would have not have kept them safe. Deniau would have slit his throat on seeing this, and René would have bent his head back for the blade if it would have taken James from what he planned.
It was not for those of his blood to beg, he could hear the horror in his father’s voice as he still bargained, as he called out the names of the women so stupid as to leave their place of hiding. Tucked into the shadows behind the door, one eye each to the crack of light, they would have stayed protected but they had stepped out at hearing his cries. René spared a moment for them, looking into wide, horrified eyes as they realized they too must beg as they were offered up.
“My daughters…” Their father spoke, his meaning clear before he mentioned their beauty, before he lied about possible wealth and sold the ancient blood he valued so highly to his killer. “They are both fair enough…”
James would step over them as easily as he had once stepped over diamonds.
“Do you fear me to tremble so?”
James had asked, dared to ask as though the truth were not laid plain for the world to see, and mock. James was not a creature meant for the earth, and not a man bound for hell, so still he had asked.
“Yes.” René sighed his answer, laying his head back and
partially closing his eyes to room’s brilliance, the white-hot flare that left
them all pale and shadowed.
“Father!” They screamed their newest betrayal in shrill voices, outrage and hurt making his lips curl into a weak sneer that none would see. This was no time for their grievances, even if the man had cared to hear them.
“James.” Their cries did not make James flinch or bow his head, and yet his mouth firmed into a hard line, displeasure marring his brow that could only hint at the disgust and fury behind his clouded eyes. It was an effort to bring to mind the name, an effort to look forward at what he had done to the tender, handsome Englishman who had fallen into his care. “James, you must not. He will not have you.”
This was not what should be said either, and René made a rough noise in his throat, wishing he were only an animal that could not say these things aloud. It was James who forced this from him. “If not you, who will care for…the boy?” Did James think the child safe with René, knowing what René had done? That René would allow James to doom himself and not follow him? “Who will protect your precious child?”
Etienne had argued for reason and faith and James had not slowed as he did now. Lifting his chin and angling his head away from the words, the reminder of the innocent that James had so longed to save. René counted ten breaths before he realized that even this would not sway James, that his arm still remained strong enough to keep his weapon aloft.
“René,” James said his name as though it were a struggle to even think of him, as though he wished it forgotten, as buried as another. But Marechal remained, a great looming beast that James had called back here with them. “…He will no longer harm you.”
Black followed James’ words. Black that should have held red from the candles around them, but which swallowed even that small light. He was shivering, shaking blindly on the floor as James knew his thoughts and shared them. He had only to open his eyes again to be granted the light, for James would not leave him to this. He would wash his skin raw and leave him cold and naked in the waters but he would not abandon him to the dark.
“James you cannot.” His soul would burn and blacken until there was nothing, did James not see the truth of this? What he would become? Nothing was worth that, no matter what madness had come into James’ mind.
“This… He is not worth you, James. You cannot do this…” He was being crushed, held down to the ground so hard that he could not have fought if he had had the strength, even knowing it was so much better not to fight. Living through the pain was fight enough; James did not need this. The darkness would not take James from him.
“James I will…but you cannot.” He had not pulled the trigger yet, he was listening, each of his short, careful shallow breaths as weighted and precious as gold, and glimmering just as brightly.
“No.” James seemed on the verge of laughter, his voice rising as he refused him, refused as he had once said that René had never done to him. “No, René I cannot allow it.” And though his eyes were closed, René could feel the air shift as James moved the pistol back to correct the small space he had allowed it drop, heard the slick glide of James’ fingers over the trigger, the silence after he pulled in a deep breath.
James must be saved.
“James!” He thought he screamed the name, but could not hear his voice. No one answered him and René frowned, moving his head back and forth when there was nothing. He cried the name again, tilting his head back as he had once done with his back in the wet earth, his face the weeping sky. He had begged the saints for more of James, warm and beautiful above him.
“You cannot do this, James, they must not let you do this.” The rain on his face should have made him shiver, but he had opened his mouth, letting the taste roll down his throat. “Please,” the word hurt his dry throat, a pain easily forgotten even if others could not have borne it. His soul was already slashed and scarred beyond feeling; this wound would do nothing.
“Please…” He did not know if James looked to him, if the others spared a glance for him, but the sounds came from him without pause. “…Mercy.” His body ached but he rose up, his hands out toward James as he begged, as he had once heard James’ voice among the many. “Mercy.”
He had tried to save James, even God had seen how he pushed and yet James had stayed, as though no force in the world could tear James from this course.
“God in Heaven.” There was a whisper, as though he were answered, or echoed, and he pleaded once more, for mercy, for the understanding to spare James. “…Please.”
“René.” He shuddered to hear that voice speak his name, but leaned into the touch at his cheek, as familiar as waking now. He no longer burned, he was cold but for the warmth slowly creeping in from the soft caress. He turned his head so that his lips would brush against the softly calloused palm, his mouth curving to taste gunmetal, to know the hand empty.
He opened his eyes to see James trembling above him.