The Sinner's Bible: A Novella (The Natalie Brandon Thrillers)

by Wiltz, Jenni

  “We are going to St. James’s,” Sarah said, ducking the blows with ease. “It is for the best.”

  “You cannot make me!”

  “Then why do you plead like a child?” Sarah pulled at her shoulders one more time. “Oh, have it your way,” she said, letting go with a huff. “Two more minutes, then?”

  “No,” Anne gasped, clutching the bedclothes. “It is too soon.”

  “You are a queen, my dear. Your sorrow is secondary to your duty. And your duty awaits at St. James’s.”

  “I want to be with him.”

  “You have been with him for twenty-five years.”

  “Then I would be with him for twenty-six!”

  As soon as she left the room, they would take George away. They would shut him up in a tomb and she would never see his face again. This was the last moment she would have with him, to stroke his dear face and kiss his dear lips. Why could they not grant it to her in peace? Did they not understand that part of her would die here, too?

  She raised her head from his breast and reached for the Bible resting at the foot of the bed. “Bring me ink and quill,” she murmured. “I must write my name now.”

  Sarah raised one delicate eyebrow, but moved to the bureau and brought her the items she wanted. “And after this, shall I call the carriage?”

  “After this,” she said, opening the back cover. “You will leave me.”

  She ran her fingers over the names of the Stuarts who had preceded her in death. Some meant little to her, like the name of her French great-grandfather, Henri. Others…

  Fresh tears spilled from her eyes as her fingers pressed against the name at the bottom of the list: William, dead before his twelfth birthday, the only one of her children to live that long. She had written his name with such great anguish that her quill dug into the paper, etching it rather than writing it. “Mama is with you still,” she said, dipping the quill and writing her own name beneath his.

  “Whatever are you doing?” Sarah asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “Writing in the book of the dead.” She blew on the ink to help it dry.

  “A bit premature, don’t you think?”

  She looked up at Sarah, once the greatest love in her life—a friend where she had had none, a heart open to her when all others had been closed. But too much had passed between them for their relationship to be a source of comfort. Tears and jealousy had bound and broken a love that used to roam unfettered. “When I breathe my last, none will be there to write my name in this book.” She slammed the book shut. “So I have done it myself.”

  “Now may we depart for St. James’s?”

  “Call the chambermaid, please, Mrs. Freeman.”

  Sarah’s face softened for a moment when she heard her own private nickname, and she did as she was asked. In a moment, the same white-faced girl stood in front of her who had urged her to leave poor George’s side a few moments ago.

  “Y—your Majesty,” the girl said, dropping into a stiff curtsy.

  “Take this,” she said, holding out the Bible. “You will burn it on the day I die.”

  The girl blinked. “But it is a Bible, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I cannot burn the word of God!”

  “You can if your sovereign orders you to do it.”

  “But surely you will not die for many years, Your Majesty.”

  She met the girl’s frightened brown eyes. “Then you had better live at least five minutes longer than I. That is an order. Do you understand?”

  “Y—yes, Your Majesty.”

  She dismissed the girl, and watched her hurry away with the book clutched to her chest.

  “Do you suppose she’ll actually burn it?” Sarah asked, carrying the ink and quill back to the bureau.

  “I pity her if she does not.” She turned her back on Sarah and reached for George’s hand. She placed a kiss on his palm and laced her fingers through his, holding their joined fingers to her cheek. “But I will be dead and beyond its reach. George will be there to greet me, and I will not spoil our reunion with talk of unhappy things.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  March 2014

  San Francisco, California

  Jacob held the book out to Beth. “Take this,” he said softly. “I never wanted it.”

  “Jacob, stop,” Ezra said. “We have to go now.”

  Natalie kept her eyes on Jacob’s face. He didn’t look at his brother. He kept his clear blue eyes on Beth’s face. “I only came because I saw your picture on the flyer. I asked him not to hurt you.”

  Beth sat up slowly. A bright red patch of skin glowed on the side of her face. “I don’t even know you,” she said, blinking tear-filled eyes. “But thank you.”

  “Don’t blame him for this. It’s my fault.”

  Take the book, Belial said. Keep it safe. Do it now.

  She crawled toward Jacob on her hands and knees. Tiny particles of dirt and sand ground against her palms and she grimaced. “Beth, let me take it,” she said.

  When her sister nodded, she slid the Bible from Jacob’s outstretched hand.

  As soon as she touched it, a stream of images flooded her brain. A head falling onto bloodstained straw. A woman’s chin coated with blood and black mucus. Two women in silk and lace, holding each other and crying. A little boy’s purple lips, drawing his last breath. The book was a part of them. They were a part of the book. They were bound up in each other, forever, and their souls were crushing her.

  “Belial, make it stop,” she whispered.

  They had such promise, Belial said. If only they could have been stronger.

  She clutched the book to her chest and curled her feet to avoid the red puddle spreading from beneath Crawford’s body. “No blood,” she whispered. “No more blood.”

  In the single moment she was off-balance, Ezra lunged for her. He grabbed one arm and jerked her toward him, pressing the muzzle of the gun to her wrist.

  “Nat!” Beth cried.

  “Don’t you look at her,” Ezra said. “Just look at me.”

  She gulped, keeping her eyes focused on his. I am the weapon, she thought. I am fire and gunpowder encased in flesh.

  “Do you know what this is?” Ezra dragged the muzzle of the gun along the length of her scar. “This is proof that someone fought for you. My brother deserves that, too.”

  White half-moons hooded his fingers where they dug into her. She tried to jerk her arm back, but he held on tight. “Of course he does. But sometimes we can’t … ” She shook her head. “Belial said it’s too late.”

  “It’s not!” Ezra cried. “Not as long as he’s breathing, and that means I can’t stop trying!”

  “Ezra.” Jacob gripped his brother’s shoulder. “Come on. Put the gun down.”

  “Not until she gives me that book.”

  “I’ll give you the money,” she said. “As much as you need.”

  Ezra laughed, a strained high-pitched cackle. “You got a hundred thousand dollars on you, right here, right now? Because we’re leaving tonight, and I need that book to fix things. I promised him I would.” He sniffed and raised the gun to her forehead with a shaking hand. “I don’t have a choice because he doesn’t have a choice. The good, the bad, everything, we share it.”

  “A covalent bond,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” He nodded and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “It’s like that.”

  “Don’t do this,” Beth sobbed. “Nat, just give them the book.”

  I won’t let you do that, Belial said. It isn’t yours to give.

  Ezra’s finger twitched on the trigger. The barrel was cold on her forehead. Her sister’s arms were warm. “I love you, Beth,” she said.

  Ezra’s finger began to move.

  She closed her eyes.

  A b
reath of air rushed alongside her ear.

  The shot flew wide, pinging into the wall.

  She opened her eyes and saw Jacob snap his brother’s wrist. Ezra screamed and Jacob slid the gun from his grip. It lay in his palm and he studied it.

  “No!” Ezra bellowed, cradling his wrist.

  His brother hefted the pistol and slipped his finger through the trigger guard.

  “Jacob, no.” Beth sobbed and held out her hand. “Please don’t do this. Talk to me.”

  “Tell them that was me,” he said, pointing at Crawford’s body. “And tell them my brother belongs in a place like this.”

  Then he closed his eyes, put the gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Eighteen

  March 2014

  San Francisco, California

  Ezra dove. He stretched out his hands to keep Jacob’s head from hitting the floor. He ignored the pain from his broken wrist and hefted his brother’s bulk into his arms, fingers roving over his throat and chest as if there were something he could do.

  A vicious splatter of red painted the walls, the floor, the lectern, everything.

  “I was going to fix it,” he said, rocking his brother’s torso. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

  The wail of the sirens was getting louder.

  The gun lay on the floor, on the other side of Jacob’s body.

  The woman named Natalie clasped the Bible to her chest. Her face and arms were splattered with Jacob’s blood. “You made this happen, Belial,” she whispered, her blue-white eyes wide and full of water.

  The woman named Beth pressed herself to her feet and stumbled toward the lectern. She picked up the key ring. She was going to let out all his hostages.

  None of that mattered anymore.

  He turned his head so he wouldn’t have to see the blood pouring from the back of Jacob’s head. Something smelled like meat and metal and pepper and sweat. At home, it smelled like bananas. They ripened on the counter and made the whole goddamn trailer stink. He hated bananas. He only bought them for the potassium, for Jacob. What the hell would he do with the bunch that wasn’t ripe yet? Why the hell was he thinking about bananas? Why wasn’t he moving, running, finding a way to fix things, like he’d promised? Every second of his life opened up before him like a black hole, an impossible distance he had no ability or wish to cover because there was nothing on the other side.

  The blonde woman grabbed one of the cell phones on the lectern. She balanced it between her ear and her shoulder as she staggered toward the storage room door. “I need an ambulance!” she cried. “The Rare Book and Manuscript Room. Two men have been shot, one might still be alive.”

  Her hand turned a key in the lock.

  The people inside flooded out.

  One girl looked at Jacob’s body and screamed.

  He bent his head over his brother’s chest. The shirt still smelled like Jacob, like wheat and soap. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, rocking Jacob’s body. “Tell me what to do.”

  The farm was as good as gone. Without his brother, so was he. Assault, attempted murder, attempted robbery, carrying a concealed weapon…they’d ship him off to Lompoc or Soledad. And for what? Because a stupid girl wouldn’t give up a stupid goddamn book.

  “You,” he snarled, raising his head and glaring at Natalie. “You did this.”

  Tears shone in her milk-glass eyes. “I know.”

  “My brother is dead because of you!”

  “I know.”

  One of the kids from the storage room ran to the front door and pushed it, not realizing it had been locked from the inside. She screamed and pounded on the door.

  “Unlock it!” the blonde woman shouted. “The latch at the top!”

  A tall boy reached up and slid the manual lock. The students streamed out, some still shrieking.

  The blonde woman stumbled back to them, holding her hand to her head. She stopped when she realized the gun was still on the floor.

  “Take it,” he said. “Shoot me if you want.”

  She picked it up and ejected the magazine, racking the slide with her left hand to discharge the round in the chamber. “Not high on my to-do list at the moment.”

  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I saw a bunch of Russian hit men do it.”

  “Who are you?” he asked, glancing between both women.

  “No one,” Natalie said.

  “I don’t think I believe that.” He rested his hand on Jacob’s chest. “You never told me what you really have. He had a stage 4 glioblastoma.”

  “I told you.” Natalie blinked her ghostly eyes. “An angel lives inside me.”

  “Aren’t angels supposed to save people?”

  “Not this one,” she said softly.

  He rubbed his eyes and his nose on his sleeve. “Why couldn’t you let me have the goddamn book?”

  “Belial would have made me hurt someone to keep it. It’s a part of the Stuart curse.”

  “Bullshit,” he said, thinking of the doctors who’d refused to operate on Jacob. “People are the curse.”

  “They don’t have to be.” Two more tears slid down her cheeks. “The police will come.”

  He felt her haunted eyes on him, waiting for him to answer the unspoken question. He looked away and his gaze fell on Jacob’s right hand, resting on the floor. It looked lonely, the fingers spread out over the pale tile. He picked it up and held it, like he would have if the end had come in a hospital. “No,” he finally said. “Don’t you dare do that to him.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  March 2014

  San Francisco, California

  Natalie watched as the paramedics lifted Crawford onto a backboard. One of them put on a cervical collar and hefted a bag of clear liquid. “Don’t let him die,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I called him an asshole and a supervillain.”

  He will live, Belial answered. But he will remember.

  “I don’t care.” She clasped the Sinners’ Bible to her chest. “Just don’t let him die.”

  The paramedics placed the backboard on a stretcher and wheeled him out.

  He thinks you have epilepsy, the angel said.

  “Better than the truth.”

  Jacob’s body lay on the floor. One of the paramedics had covered him with a white sheet after the police took Ezra. Through a window, she saw the blue strobe of a patrol car’s roof lights. She turned to look at her sister, seated in a folding chair across the room, where a paramedic inspected the red patch on the side of her head. “She’s okay, right?”

  Yes, little one.

  “He almost shot me.”

  The bullet would not have pierced your skull.

  “Why wouldn’t you just let them have the book?”

  Look inside and I will show you.

  She uncrossed her arms and held the book in front of her. “It looks so ordinary.”

  It was, until it became theirs.

  She turned it over and lifted the back cover, feeling the rough grain of desiccated leather under her fingertips. There, on the left side of the page, she saw a series of names written in varying shades of black ink. The two at the top were faintest, written in a flowery hand.

  Henri

  Charles

  Henriette

  Charles

  James

  Mary

  William

  Anne

  “These names…did this really belong to the Stuarts?”

  I’ve been trying to tell you. You refused to listen.

  Her fingers hovered over the first name, working backward in the genealogy. “Henrietta Maria’s father. Is this her handwriting?”

  You tell me, little one.

  She looked at the name.

  The letters were tall and
thin, sharp rather than rounded, with a flourish at the top of the “h” in Henri. They bowed in the middle. “It is, isn’t it? She wrote her own father’s name first because she thought the curst began with him.”

  She bit her lip, wondering if she’d have felt the same in Henrietta Maria’s shoes. Henri IV couldn’t have done a better job of committing adultery if it actually had been one of the Ten Commandments. When Henrietta Maria saw this Bible’s mistake in print, maybe it did seem like a celestial reminder of her father’s sins. Maybe she even saw it as a warning. But it was a huge leap from a warning to a curse, especially when everything that happened to the Stuarts had been of their own making. Human frailty was the curse, not the sins of Henrietta Maria’s father.

  “There is no curse, is there, Belial?”

  Look at that list and tell me something unholy does not stalk that bloodline.

  “You said it yourself — if only they had been stronger. They brought it on themselves.”

  After all, she thought, a similar litany of terrible things had happened to Henri IV’s French descendants, and no one talked about a Bourbon curse. Louis XVI was dethroned and executed, just like Charles I. Louis XV, well known for his womanizing, died of smallpox, alone and unloved. Louis XIV was almost dethroned in the Fronde, and had to watch disease stalk his bloodline, taking his children and grandchildren during his lifetime. As an old and bitter man, he left a mountain of debt and a decaying throne to his tiny great-grandson.

  So was it a Stuart curse or a Bourbon curse? Who could tell, when European royal dynasties mingled so much of their blood?

  Maybe, in God’s eyes, they were all the same.

  “Are we?” she asked. “All the same?”

  The angel sighed. She felt his breath behind her eyes and a flood of goosebumps stormed down her arms. Across the room, Beth stood up and touched the side of her head gingerly. Then her sister held out her hand and offered the paramedic a bright smile and a handshake.

  “No,” Natalie said. “We’re not all the same.”

  A pair of legs hurried toward her and she looked up to find Avi Druckman, his gaze locked onto the Bible in her hands. “What the hell happened out here?”