Lady of the Crescent Moon

by Ingrid Hahn

  But he couldn’t stop. She’d admitted she wanted him. Holding back was no longer an option.

  “God isn’t so petty as to hold this against us.”

  Roland pushed her skirts up around her hips and ran his fingers down the wet line between her legs.

  “You’re certain? You must be certain, Sidonie, I couldn’t have this any other way.”

  “Stop talking and do it. Please, Roland, do it.”

  Further encouragement was not required. He hitched her up, holding her against the wall, her thighs wide, her legs wrapping around him. He reached down, positioned himself, and nudged.

  Mon Dieu.

  He was going to die. Well and truly die of the pleasure. She was warm. Wet. Tight.

  This was how it was supposed to be. Life had taken them apart, but life had brought them back together again. For a reason. They were meant to be linked. Meant to be joined as one—man and woman. Friends. Helpmates. Lovers.

  With a moan, she wriggled against him, taking him deeper, and his train of thought evaporated in a haze of concentrated lust. She gasped as he began to fill her and went feral with the maddening delight of her snug passage.

  Roland let himself sink into her body, his pulsing cock so hard, it ached. He fumbled with the laces of her bodice and tugged it down along with the undergarment, exposing the gentle swells of hard tipped breasts, buried his face in her bosom, and began to move.

  ~ ~ ~

  Oh sweet heaven, they were making love. Roland was inside of her. Actually inside of her. His flesh hard and strong where she was soft and giving.

  It didn’t seem real. At the same time, it was more than Sidonie had ever dared dream.

  For a moment, she couldn’t move. The piercing fullness of him, doing things to her she’d never believed she’d do. The way he reached into her, so deeply, just to the point of maximum penetration . . . They fit together perfectly.

  Lost to the pleasures, she rocked herself against him, letting her fingers run through the locks of his thick hair.

  It was purely physical and purely instinctual. Yet, it unlocked a key to a vast new world, grounded in this one, and yet distant and distinct from anything this side of heaven.

  Pleasure grew as he worked himself inside of her, rubbing against a particular spot between her legs that held an unbelievable amount of power.

  Her little death was upon her before she knew what was happening—radiant as a starburst on a clear, moonless night. He’d spoken of bringing her to her salvation . . . and he how he had.

  Roland tensed and he pulsed life inside of her.

  Together, they collapsed into a breathless heap on the cold floor, his body sliding from hers. After a minute, he tucked himself away, fixed his clothing, and stood. He held out his hands to her. “It’s time to go.”

  His voice was raspy, his dark eyes haunted. So strange after they’d just made love.

  Sidonie opened her mouth and closed it again, shaking her head. “Go? It’s not yet time.”

  She let him help her up.

  “There is something we need to do before it begins. If there is anything you need . . . get it. Hurry.”

  She reached for his arm, aware of the imprint of himself he’d left between her legs and the new bond between them. “There’s no time for—”

  “There’s time.” He spoke with the finality of a man accustomed to power whose mind was decided. “Do as I say.”

  It took the space of but one heartbeat to realize the shift between them. He’d assumed his dominance. Whatever he needed from her, it was of singular importance, and Sidonie could only obey.

  She tucked her hand into the slit of her dress, found the pocket tied around her waist, and withdrew the blue ribbon he’d given her, replacing it in her hair.

  “There is nothing I need. Only give me a moment to . . .” To say good-bye to an old life.

  She passed through the expansive rooms and up the stairs, treading into the heart of a home to which she’d once belonged.

  It was like stepping into a strange version of the past. She stayed here when she came to Paris, true enough. But she kept herself to certain parts of the house—places the family members themselves, when they used to be in residence, didn’t venture. The better for keeping the memories away. For keeping the past where it belonged—behind her.

  Walking through the abandoned rooms was a strange look back to a life in which she no longer belonged.

  The worst came when she had to enter the mistress’s bedchamber. As many times as she stayed in the house when she came to Paris, she’d never ventured here. The last woman to claim the room had been her mother. Sidonie had been born in these very walls, upon the same bed standing there now.

  Everything was the same. Untouched by people. But everything was horribly different, ravaged by time and neglect. The curtains hung in rags. Crumbles of plaster littered every surface like bits of bone. Dust lay in a gray sheen over the pearly champagne pinks and creams, and dulled the gold detailing.

  Sidonie didn’t need any particular thing. She’d only wanted to see the room one last time before she died.

  Emotions dangerously fragile, Sidonie pushed forward. On the dressing table was the looking glass. She closed her hand around the handle and, avoiding a stolen glimpse of herself, drew the surface against her heart, as if somewhere in the polished surface she might be able to reach inside to caress the memory of her mother’s warmth or hear an echo of her laughter.

  “You have what you need?”

  She could spend the rest of her life searching the hidden corners of all of France for artifacts and never have all she needed to face him. No matter what she had, she was going to into the cold arms of Death.

  She turned to find Roland standing in the doorway, dark and resolved.

  An odd thought surfaced in her mind. The mirror. She stared into nothing, turning the idea over in her mind. Was it as simple as that?

  Reflections were dangerous things. If she doubled herself, she might stand a chance of being powerful enough.

  Or so she could hope. All she had to do was open a gateway and help him through.

  All she had to do . . . How simple it sounded. Here she was, struggling with her second sight.

  She took the precious silver item into her hands and pressed it against her heart. A sliver of hope was better than none.

  Chapter 20

  Roland pulled Sidonie down the wet street, racing the sun’s trajectory, his hand tight around hers. The sky was beginning to clear and the afternoon light had taken a treacherous turn toward the inevitable.

  He heard Sidonie’s voice again and again repeat the imagery of her last vision. Desperation clawed at his insides.

  With one hand flat against the carved panel doors of a church, Sidonie pried herself from his grasp. “What are we doing here?”

  “Before day’s end, you will be my wife.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “I need our souls united. For eternity.” It had become clear when they’d coupled against the wall. They were meant to be joined as only two parts of the same soul could be joined.

  “No, Roland. Not like this.”

  He reached for her, but she withdrew, stepping almost into the path of an old carriage going far too quickly for either the road or the rickety clatter of the wheels. Horses whinnied. The coachman avoided her, hurling foul curses at them both as he continued on his course.

  Roland was about to drag her into a narrow alley whether she willed it or no to keep her safe, but one glance was enough to disabuse him of the idea. The passageway was littered with refuse.

  A huddle of undersized urchins in black rags had made a makeshift home of broken barrels and bits of cloth so tattered as to be indistinguishable as to their origin
al purpose. Staring out from sooty faces, their eyes were huge. One of them was pissing against the wall.

  It was no place for children. How horrible that Paris neglected her poorest and most vulnerable—it was one of the things Roland hated about the place.

  In his own parish, he never allowed the orphaned and abandoned children to be neglected. Much of what remained of the old d’Ambroisin fortune went to supporting them. It was one good he could affect in the world from which he’d withdrawn.

  Returning his attention to Sidonie, he scooped her over his shoulder and brought her inside the church, she kicked and beat against his back with her fists. “Put me down. I’m not going to marry you.”

  He set her down inside, his voice dropping to compensate for the hush of seclusion blanketing the interior of the centuries-old church. His vision adjusted to the dimness. “You can’t say no, not to me, not about this.”

  “I just did.”

  “You don’t understand.” He pulled the chain from around his neck and withdrew the pendant. Candlelight from the tabernacle upon the altar at the opposite end glinted off the silver surface he’d polished on the road between Bramville and Paris.

  Hope glowed from her face as she stared directly into the crescent moon. The expression came and went in a flash, but the moment it shone from her seemed an eternity.

  She pressed her lips together.

  Roland readied himself to explain how he’d come to be in possession of the amulet.

  “No, Roland, you misunderstand.” She wasn’t adept at lying.

  “I think not. This is what is supposed to happen. This is my duty.”

  Without turning the silver disk over, she put it back in his hands and looked at him, features raw with anguish. She spoke in a harsh whisper. “Listen to yourself. It comes back to duty with you always. Duty, duty, duty.”

  “What else is there but duty? What do you think you’re doing if not acting on duty?”

  With a hand on her brow, she let out a burdened sigh. “It’s so much more complicated than that. There is no small measure of duty, yes. But it is my duty. The one I’ve chosen to assume. You, however, treat duty as something you must accept, as if you have no choice in the matter.”

  “This is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. No person has a say in who they’re born.”

  “I don’t disagree. But—”

  “But nothing. You might have been able to deny your name and your family, but the world doesn’t work like that for the rest of us.”

  She tangled the fingers of one hand in the ties of her cloak dangling around her throat, the other hand clutching the mirror. “Is that what you think of me?”

  Roland covered his face with his hands. He was crazed, crazed with desperation. Longing to take this woman as his wife cinched his ribs so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded, fierce and steady. He wanted to kneel before God and the world and pair the two halves of their souls. The bonds of matrimony would unite them. Forever. They might not be together in their earthly guise, but what was stopping them from having eternity?

  Looking at her, he tried again. “I admire you for what you did, breaking away from your family and striking out on your own. It’s almost unfathomable, and yet, with you, it couldn’t be more right. But you must understand, your situation is unique—a luxury almost. Few of us have the freedom you had.”

  “I might argue I had far less freedom, having been born my father’s daughter instead of his son, until I decided to take what I wanted.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “There might be parallels, but our situations are nothing alike.”

  She reached for the medallion, her hand pausing in the air partway between them. Biting her lip, she reached the rest of the way and worked the silver disk between her thumb and first finger. The bones of her wrist shouldn’t have been so delicate. They belied the woman’s fortitude. “I wish you did understand.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her mouth twisted. “It’s something you must come to on your own.” She dropped the medallion and it fell back against his heart.

  “Try.”

  “Until you can see past duty . . .” Her gaze trailed away to the altar up the center aisle of the vaulted church and back at him again. “. . . there can’t be anything for us. No matter how I long for you, I can’t accept you on such terms as you offer.”

  “How is this different than had we married”—he cleared away the constriction blooming in his throat—“when we were betrothed?”

  “We were different. Our lives were different. Don’t you see how everything has changed?”

  A hunched priest in flowing robes and a tuft of wiry white hair atop his head appeared. “My children, if you’ve come to confess—” His mouth fell open as he stared at Sidonie with his protruding eyes.

  Her head tilted and a smile touched her lips, as warm as it was wistful. “Good evening, Père Baudouin. How is it you came to be in Paris?”

  He stumbled backward, eyes enormous with shock. “No. It can’t be.”

  “It is, Father.”

  The priest fell to his knees before her. “It is you, Sidonie, my dear sweet child, you are alive.” He took her hands and kissed them. “God is merciful to me in my old age. God is merciful.”

  She bent at the waist and placed a single kiss upon his brow.

  He crossed himself. “Have you come to take me?”

  “No, Father. I’m not Death’s handmaiden. Nor is it your time. Please get up. I’m not who I was when we last saw each other.”

  Still clutching both her hands, he stared up at her, lips trembling, eyes brimming with moisture. “Oh, my dear, sweet lady. Look at you. My eyes are old and dim, but I can see what you are. I always knew you were favored, but to have been chosen as an instrument of salvation . . .” He crossed himself again, this time muttering in Latin. “Glory be. God has blessed me. God has blessed me.”

  “Father, I must ask you for Last Rites.”

  “Last Rites? For you? But child, I christened you and was the first to call you by God’s name.”

  “If you please, Father.”

  For a moment Roland read denial in the old priest’s withered face. The man’s mouth formed what could only have been abject refusal.

  Then he let out a breath and nodded. “If it must be, of course it would be my honor. Come.” He lifted a leg as if the limb were made of solid lead and pressed a hand on his knee, grunting with the effort of trying to rise again.

  Roland and Sidonie reached for him at the same time, each taking an arm to help the old man to his feet.

  Père Baudouin seemed to see Roland for the first time, peering and blinking like a shortsighted owl. The old man carried the odor of linens shut up for far too long in a damp cupboard without light. He took Roland’s hand and patted it. “You are here with her. Good. Very good.”

  Before Roland could speak, the priest, moving faster than his difficulty standing would have suggested, took Sidonie by the arm and shuffled her away.

  ~ ~ ~

  Roland had taken her to the church to marry her. Instead of leaving as his wife, she left with a spot of holy oil glistening upon the center of her forehead. Her soul might not have been stitched to his, but—a lump thickened in his throat at the thought—at least it would be ready.

  When they emerged, the street they had left was completely transformed by the bright slant of golden light pouring from the western horizon.

  Sidonie came to a dead halt, sight fixed ahead. Roland followed the line of her gaze. It took a moment to see what had arrested her.

  Two small girls were being shuffled along the opposite side, a veiled woman in black urging each to hurry. Roland hadn’t shared Sidonie’s vision. But there was no doubt in his mind those girls were the two she’d see
n. They couldn’t have been the only mournful faces in Paris. But . . . It was them.

  It fit. Somehow it fit.

  Up a few stairs standing in the open doorway of a stately home stood a lithe figure, his dead eyes not blinking as he watched the girls approach.

  The inquisitor’s man.

  The girls turned up the steps toward him, their backs to Roland and Sidonie.

  Sidonie reached for Roland. She stood on tiptoes, cupped his cheeks, and brought his face down to meet hers.

  Their lips brushed. Inside, Roland reeled.

  It had begun.

  Chapter 21

  Sidonie clutched a fist to her lips, biting into the cold flesh of her first finger.

  The girls. There they were. She hadn’t been seeing into the past, nor had she been seeing a version of a future that might have been. No. What she’d seen had been all but immediate. They were his daughters. Two beautiful young girls with sorrowful eyes.

  Mon Dieu, it was almost unthinkable. There was no justice in the world if a man like him could take a wife and sire children.

  But that was it, wasn’t it? In the heart of sorrow lay grace. The progenitor of evil could also beget creatures of perfect beauty. He was what he was. In the end, he was still a man, still bound to flesh and blood and all the burdens of worldly existence.

  Sidonie touched her fingers to her head where Père Baudouin had anointed her. The meaning of her vision clicked into place.

  Her other hand found the support of Roland’s biceps. Her fingers dug into his flesh. Hard. “I can’t take a life. There would be no second chance.”

  “What?” He readjusted himself to better support her. “I’m here, Sidonie. Whatever it is, tell me. I will do anything.”

  She tried to look into the face of a man who could have had her heart if she were going to live. She couldn’t see him. He was too close. But a moment ago she’d seen every pretty, pale eyelash surrounding the children’s eyes. Another look. Yes. The distant vista was a networked miracle of sharp focus.