The Devil's Breath

by A. Nybo

  “So this Mike guy has been hired by either the Australian or Canadian Government to deal with Russell?” Birch asked.

  “Not likely. There is a long-standing shit fight between the justice department, and the military as to whose responsibility Russell is. He’d already left the services when he was found guilty, so the military told the justice department that since he was now a civilian, he was their problem. But the justice department told the military they weren’t the ones who trained Russell in military tactics and weren’t sure if their prisons were secure enough to contain him, especially as the military wouldn’t come to the party to reveal exactly what sort of training Russell had received. And from what Jason has just said, it would seem the shit fight is still going on, but it’s now at an international level.”

  “How’s that?” Birch’s head was spinning with all this information.

  “Interpol are police, not military, and they refuse to get involved with political manoeuvring, so my guess is they didn’t want to get involved because of Russell’s military connection.”

  “But didn’t Geoff tell us Interpol had issued a Red Notice?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they wanted to. The political knobs will be buzzing around like blue-arsed flies, trying to cover their butts. They’ll have had to issue the Red Notice in the end because he was charged as a civilian. But no one wants to have to deal with him. No one wants to have their arse handed to them on a platter. Which is what Russell does to everyone eventually—military and police included. And we can now add a supermax prison to that.”

  Initially Birch had difficulty believing what Henri was saying, but having dealt with even low-level government systems, he knew how partial they were to buck-passing. “Well, it would seem the Australian government was right, since he is now out and about. What was he in prison for?”

  “A list of crimes the length of the Great Wall of China, among them numerous and varying assault charges, cybercrimes, deprivation of liberty, attempted murder, vehicle theft. You name it, I think he probably had at least one if not more on his rap sheet.”

  “And you fit into this where?”

  “My testimony landed him in prison.”

  “Is it because of him you don’t like to be touched?”

  Henri’s falter was merely a flicker, and his tone held an edge of false bravado. “Yeah.”

  Henri’s reaction convinced Birch to leave that topic alone. “It makes more sense now why you thought the OPP was ill-equipped as protection.”

  “I don’t know why people keep underestimating how dangerous this guy is. He’s the proverbial dead man walking. As far as he’s concerned, anything goes.”

  “Aren’t these Special Forces guys supposed to undergo intensive psychological evaluations?”

  “That right there is a massive can of worms you just opened.” Henri slapped a sandwich on a plate and set it on the breakfast counter in front of Birch. “Lunch.”

  “Peanut butter sandwich? Does it have any of the worms from the can I just opened?”

  Henri chuckled. “What are you trying to say? You don’t like my cooking, or the conversation topic has put you off?”

  He lifted the top slice of bread to reveal the nutty goodness inside. “Both, I think.” He grinned.

  “Here’s the kitchen. Food comes with it. Feel free to flash around your culinary skills until your pride is content.”

  He looked at the row of seven sandwiches on the bench. “That would be a waste of a lot of bread and peanut butter.”

  Henri piled all but one sandwich onto a plate and took it out to where Jason had sat to make his phone calls. Although the pacing he was now engaged in suggested the phone calls weren’t going well. Birch took the unguarded moment to watch Henri. He seemed far more relaxed today than any other time he’d seen him—except for his alcohol-induced relaxation last night.

  Henri’s jeans rode his thighs nicely as he bent to put the sandwiches on the table, and Birch snapped his eyes away. He’d watched Henri on numerous occasions, but mostly it had been because he found Henri aesthetically pleasing. What he’d just caught himself doing was purely sexual, and he’d enjoyed it far too much. Still, what could it hurt to look? But Henri had straightened, and his braid fell down between his shoulder blades. Knowing it was a slippery slope, Birch returned his attention to his sandwich.

  “What was the can of worms I opened about the psychological tests for those guys?” he asked when Henri returned. Although there was barely any sandwich left, he took his plate to the dining table, and Henri did the same, sitting opposite.

  “A running argument as to whose fault Russell’s behaviour is. The CliffsNotes are the military wants to blame the inability of psych evaluations to predict state of mind. The psychs want to blame the military for the stress the soldiers are under and the resulting PTSD and other ‘mental aberrations,’ and so on it goes.”

  “But aren’t the psychs military?”

  “When it comes to passing the buck, no one cares who’s who so long as they don’t get the blame. If they weren’t so defensive, they would probably figure out Russell isn’t just one of their products.”

  “What do you think he is?”

  “Russell is highly intelligent and can pick up knowledge and skills like the rest of us pick up fucking dirt. But he is also one twisted prick who uses that knowledge, training, and skills, to further his twistedness.” The bitterness and venom in Henri’s voice suggested redirection was needed.

  Birch nodded and then waited until there was a decent break between conversations. “I see Jason has forgiven your drinking yesterday.”

  Henri gazed out the window towards Jason. A small affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “He’s just trying to look out for me. He knows I can’t help being an arsehole on occasion. And I’ve apologized to him for that stuff I told you last night. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

  “To be fair, his feeling guilty wasn’t much of a secret. You yelled it through the house the first night you arrived.”

  “Yeah, well, it took you to point out that it was more to do with how I reacted than with Russell’s actions.”

  “And that’s significant?”

  “Yeah it is. He feels he should be doing more to help me cope, but really there’s nothing he can do other than what he’s doing. If he can bury Russell Andrews beneath a thousand tons of rock, that’d be good.” Henri pushed his chair back and rose. He grabbed both plates and took them to the sink. Birch could make no mistake that this conversation was over.

  HENRI WAS starting to suffer from cabin fever. Only being able to move about the house and backyard, he’d watched more TV and movies in the last few days than he had in months. He’d tried to read, listen to music, and now he was trying one of the puzzle books Nate had bought, but his mind kept wandering, and more often than not, he found it residing with a particular housemate. It didn’t help when that particular housemate currently sat across the table from him reading a magazine, taunting him simply by his presence.

  Without discussion or agreement, he and Birch had taken to sitting together, even when they were doing their own thing. Henri enjoyed the way they could sit in silence, have a brief conversation, and then return to silence without it seeming weird.

  Hyperaware of Birch’s proximity, Henri kept glancing from his puzzle book to the top corner of Birch’s magazine, where long work-hardened fingers rested, ready to turn the page. Henri imagined reaching over and touching those fingers.

  The upper side of the index finger looked rough and calloused. The coppery tone of Birch’s skin was as warm and inviting, as his smile always seemed to be. Despite the roughened skin, the fingers were graceful, and the contrast seemed particularly beautiful to Henri’s photographer’s eye.

  He moved in his chair and tried to refocus on the crossword.

  Dexterous fingers across the table turned the page and flicked the corners beneath before settling back to rest.

  Henri
rose. “Do you want a coffee or a cool drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  With a cool drink in hand, Henri resettled in front of the crossword. He’d read a clue about five times before there was more movement on the other side of the table. Those beautiful fingers reached up and rubbed along a sparsely bristled jawline.

  Henri took a drink and trained his eyes on the column of clues. When the hand once again came to rest at the corner of the pages, Henri stared at it, imagining what would happen if he touched those fingers.

  The need to touch bolstered his desire, and he tentatively reached out. He stroked across that warm, coppery hand and sensed the instant Birch’s gaze reached his face, but he remained focused on the hands.

  Birch turned his palm upwards in silent invitation. With a soft but firm touch, Henri took his time brushing his fingertips over ridges and creases, caressing the softness between the fingers, following the callused contours on the palm. Growing bolder, Henri slid his palm across those scratchy calluses, and the hand closed to envelop his with warmth, strength, connection. His eyes sank closed, and he exhaled as he relaxed into the pleasure of touch.

  The firm but gentle stroke that moved across his knuckles soothed his anxieties. The caress went far deeper than skin and flesh; it reached right down into that hollow place that was once filled with life. His life. And deep down in that hollow, Birch fanned the smouldering remains with the kindness of his touch.

  A bang echoed through the house, and Henri leapt up, wrenching his hand free. His chair slid backwards, overbalanced, and clattered onto its back. He skittered sideways.

  “It’s all right! It’s okay.” Birch stood, arms out, palms down. “It was just the back door.”

  Henri gasped for breath.

  Jason came around the corner carrying a box with supplies. “What’s going on?”

  “Henri got a scare when the door slammed closed.”

  “Shit. Sorry, Henri. I had no control over the bloody thing.” Jason moved to set the supplies on the kitchen counter.

  Needing to escape, Henri snatched up the crossword book. “It’s okay.” With a pace far more controlled than his breathing, he went to the safety of his room. Behind the closed door, he finally slowed his ragged breaths, and it seemed the moment he had, his mind went back to the sensations Birch had set loose within him.

  For the briefest of moments, Henri had experienced the lust for life. God how he wanted it, needed it. He put the hand Birch had touched to his lips as if he might be able to sense, to taste, a lingering connection. But there was nothing.

  He tossed the crossword book and pen onto the dresser and caught his image in the mirror. It was like looking at a stranger. Despite seeing his reflection most days for perfunctory grooming, it seemed a long time since he’d seen himself.

  During the past two or three years, he had lost the glow of youth that had managed to accompany him into his late twenties. Although not gaunt, his face was far more angular than he remembered it. The orange-blond hair on his lower face was too short for a beard and too long to be stubble. It could really only be considered scruff. After pulling the tie from his hair, he shook it out until it hung straight.

  Why he kept his hair long was no longer even clear to him. His friend Janice had told him how sexy he looked with it long, and he remembered the conversation they’d had where she’d convinced him not to cut it.

  The memory of her tugged at the corners of his mouth, and the smile caused such a remarkable change in his face it surprised him. The laugh lines had almost disappeared along with the youthful glow, and now the smile seemed to smooth other lines rather than exaggerate what would have been grooves if they had been allowed to form in their natural progression. So many things he could attribute to Russell—some seen, some not. Some things that would have been there, like the laugh lines, had been negated because of Russell.

  Henri lifted his T-shirt over his head and stood examining himself. Having avoided doing it for so long after he had been hospitalized, he tried to view himself through eyes untainted by experience.

  Over the past few years, the scars had faded from an angry purple-red to the faded pink they were now. Aesthetically, they weren’t particularly unsightly, but due to their origins, to him they would always be especially ugly. The edges of the scar that ran diagonally across his chest had paled to white, but a stripe in the centre was still a deep pink. The matching scars on the insides of his upper arms were more red than pink. Since he saw the one on the inside of his leg every time he dressed, he knew it was still that angry purple colour and was slightly disfiguring.

  He doubted a lover would be repulsed by the scars, but regardless of what someone else thought of them, it was unlikely that would affect how self-conscious they made him. He guessed it was the same for anyone with scars. Sometimes seeing the scar on his leg would drag him back to memories of things Russell had said to him.

  The thought caused him to look at his eyes, and there it was—the look Russell liked so much. He studied his eyes, trying to determine exactly what it was that made them appear so wild on occasion. He’d seen that look in his eyes only three times in his life, and he’d never been able to determine what made it so unique. Given how he currently felt, he didn’t think it was the result of a particular emotion. But Russell sure seemed to think pain brought it to the fore.

  It was little wonder the wild look enamoured Russell—Henri was having difficulty looking away himself. It was like a mixture of untamed and crazy. Maybe it was the way his eyelids seemed to draw back from his irises instead of gently covering the edges. The colour lent them the crazy, as it caused his pupils to pop, unlike Birch’s, which were largely hidden by the deep dark brown of his irises.

  Chapter 7

  BIRCH STOPPED short in his journey down the hallway as he nearly crashed into Henri coming from the bathroom. Surprised blue-grey eyes came up to meet his, and for a moment they seemed unable to look away from each other.

  Henri briefly closed his eyes before taking a deep breath and tentatively reaching to take Birch’s hand. He set Birch’s palm on the warmth in the centre of his chest and pressed it to him.

  Unsure of Henri’s intentions, but wanting to return the sentiment, Birch reached out with his other hand and, taking Henri’s, set it in the centre of his own chest. He wanted to show he was prepared to return any trust Henri offered. Despite his own bewilderment, he tendered a reassuring smile when Henri’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

  Since Henri was disinclined to speak, Birch used one hand to direct Henri’s and the other to mirror the movement on Henri’s body. He trailed their hands slowly up the sides of their necks and cupped their jaws. He leaned his cheek into Henri’s hand. When Henri moved his hand, he copied, showing he would happily follow Henri’s lead.

  Henri traced his hand around to the back of Birch’s neck and gently kneaded. Birch did the same, sliding his hand beneath Henri’s loose hair. The tense muscles at the back of Henri’s neck loosened slightly, and his eyelids sank closed, the muscles around his eyes and forehead slackening. The level of pleasure he was displaying suggested it had been a long time since he had allowed anyone to touch him in such a way, and Birch was humbled by the faith Henri placed in him.

  Henri continued to slowly run his hand over Birch’s face, his neck, shoulders, and chest. Birch took pleasure from both the giving and the receiving. As the follower, Birch passed a light touch over the orange-tinged stubble on Henri’s chin, along the underside of his jawline, and then up to rub his earlobe between thumb and forefinger.

  With an exhale that carried a hint of a moan, Henri took a hesitant step forward and held Birch’s face cupped between both hands. Birch was about to replicate the move, but only got his hands as high as Henri’s shoulders before Henri closed his eyes and touched soft lips to his, freezing Birch’s hands in place. With agonizing slowness, Henri’s kiss progressed from the first uncertain touch to a steady pressure.

  The first brush of the ti
p of Henri’s tongue to his lips sent a splash of thrill through Birch, but he tried to concentrate on the sensation rather than where it might lead. The last thing he wanted was to scare Henri away by pressing his hard-on against him.

  Birch worked his hand up to Henri’s neck, and the moment he massaged the nape, Henri’s tongue slid into his mouth. Birch’s exhale of pleasure seemed to fire Henri, and Birch soon found himself pinned against the wall by Henri’s mouth, chest, and groin. There was no more hiding his excitement, as Henri could no longer hide his.

  Henri’s elbows dug uncomfortably into Birch’s chest as his desperation spiralled away from him. He held Birch’s head in a viselike grip as he dug his fingers into Birch’s scalp behind his ears. A slight change of position from Henri and a tingle of apprehension ran up Birch’s spine, but he couldn’t understand what had changed. The kiss had transformed from sensual to heavy, but it had become tinged with danger.

  The charged urgency was reaching an unbearable level, and the sob that escaped Henri was one of pure anguish. This was no longer about sex but an emotional torment without remission. The raw emotion made Birch uneasy, and he feared he might do the wrong thing. It was obvious that Henri needed release, so Birch offered relief the quickest way he knew.

  Doing his best to broadcast his movements wordlessly, Birch undid the button and zip on Henri’s jeans. The moment he slid his hand into Henri’s briefs and palmed him, Henri’s kiss became so violent the back of Birch’s head would have hit the wall if it hadn’t been buffered by Henri’s hand. Allowing it, Birch stroked hard and fast as Henri rutted into his hand.

  The moment it was over, Henri drew away, avoiding eye contact. Without so much as tucking himself in, he staggered back to his room, wiping the inside of his wrist across his eyes as he went.

  “Hen—” Birch began, but the door closed.

  Birch looked along the hallway. For the first time since running into Henri, Birch considered that Jason or Nate might have come inside and been standing there watching, but he could hear no movement in the house. He went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, exchanging his soiled shirt for a fresh one.