Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “You could slit his throat now, English, if you don’t want to bother.” The other man grinned coldly into his face, smiling wider when James felt himself frowning, straightening up and reaching for something that he had tossed down onto the deck an age ago. He could recall it clearly, vivid enough to turn his stomach, but his mind swirled around the welltraveled wooden boards, exchanging one memory for another, until James could also remember René walking the deck and ordering a box brought to him.

  “Where is the chest of medicines?” James looked from one man to the other, and saw the light enter Honoré’s face. He nodded before dashing from the room and James turned back to Deniau.

  “Who do you serve?” he demanded; the words steady though every other part of him was weak and tired, ready to fall if he did not keep one hand at the desk, fingers just brushing against hot flesh.

  “Myself.” Deniau looked as though he might laugh. “Who do you serve?” “I…?” Taken aback, James could think of no answer, and burned inside his chest when Deniau gestured with surprising grace, making a mocking little sign of the cross with the same ease that he had lifted chess pieces from that board.

  “You can serve man or you can serve God,” the man offered, without any of the heat that would have been in René’s voice at the same words, yet James lifted his chin.

  “To do one is to do both,” James told him tightly before turning away from him and taking the bottle to spill more wine across René’s whispering lips. Whatever René said, he said to himself. He was far too quiet for James to hear his words, but James could see the harsh frown, the lines at the sides of his eyes.

  So much blood lost already, and James wondered about the doctors in Port Royal, if they would have sent for leeches to ease the fever, or given him a purgative rather than use these powders now. James had heard of their powers, and their value here on the sea, even if only the brave dared them in London.

  “I have the powders,” Honoré declared from the door, the lady returned with him, holding out a small leather pouch. He came to stand at the other side of René, but then did not move, still holding out the fever powders as though James were to administer them, and James parted his lips to admit that he had no knowledge of the dangerous medicine.

  “Give it to me,” Deniau growled at the other man and met James’ eyes as he took the pouch and opened it. A moment later he tapped out some of it into what was left of the wine, and swirled it around in the air for a few moments.

  When it was mixed, he leaned over and would have edged James to the side if he had thought to move. One hand closed around René’s throat, urging his head back, and he poured the physick into René’s mouth, swearing when René gagged and began to choke, spewing the stuff back up as though it were poison.

  “Jesu,” James heard himself whispering, and reached down to smooth a hand across his burning forehead. “Drink,” he ordered and heard Honoré beg for the same. The red lips moved, forming words and then a ghostly smile that made the skin of James’ neck crawl and the rest of his body grow cold.

  But René drank, sighing as the liquid fell past his lips and then swallowing in large, thirsty gulps, protesting when there was no more to give him. “Is there no water?” James asked of anyone in the room, sliding his hand from René’s brow to the corners of his eyes, where tears lingered before falling down into his hair. It was already wet at the roots of the dark curls, growing more tangled and wet and James brushed them back and pulled the sticky strands from René’s face.

  He was so hot to the touch now that he ought to have singed James’ fingers, and his eyes fell on the wound with renewed horror, to see it so raised and red, horrible with its lines of black thread cutting into the flesh.

  “Water!” he shouted, and felt the body under his hands begin to shake. But a cool leather bag was pressed into his arm until he had the mind to grab it, and he ripped the stopper from it.

  René twitched, jerking his head away from the hand at his brow and moaning. “ Je brûle,” he told them all and opened wide his eyes. They were deep black and starry, reflecting so much light that James wondered if René could see at all. His head thrashed from side to side as he took in those gathered at his sides, and then he swallowed air, shaking his head as though refuting something.

  “Non,” he said as though he had said it a thousand times already, and now the brightness in his eyes was more tears. Hehad said it a thousand times already, and none had listened. “Please, René,” James asked of him, and poured water into the palm of his hand, smearing it across René’s dry, scorched lips. It spilled to his nose and cheeks, but René arched up to press his open lips into James’ palm, swallowing the small bit of water as though it were pure and not tainted with a man’s blood. James nodded, whispering as René fell back and closed his eyes.

  “There is nothing to do but wait,” Mirena told him, taking the water bag back from him and giving a noisy sigh. Next to James, Deniau grunted some phrase that James did not understand and moved to turn away, as did the ruddy-faced navigator. James glared at them all, feeling the drying blood on his wrists though he did not scratch it away.

  “And pray,” he reminded them fiercely, not at all surprised to see their confused expressions, or the frown on René’s sleeping face, as though he somehow knew James’ words and rejected them.

  Hell

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fire ended his fall. René could feel his limbs flailing as the demons licked at his skin, tearing cloth away until he was pale and naked before their eyes. All of his many crimes were written upon him, and he tried in vain to get away, crying out when they held back his arms and his skin was granted no coolness, no shade from their gazes.

  “Damned,” he whispered, his throat raw from the flames, and heard them speak, foreign words he did not know, denying the absolution that he had never prayed for.

  He had never wanted it, and God have mocked him by sending him James. But he had turned and been damned. Just as she had promised him, he burned. René’s eyes pricked with tears with each needle-like bite upon his flesh, and he moaned to her, opening his eyes but not seeingMaman’s pretty face.

  He never would find her, for she would never join him here. None would. He would scream alone for eternity. “I burn.” He spoke to her anyway, knowing she would understand. He burned as one of those who had betrayed the light that had waited for them, waited and doubted and yet still waited. It hurt, hurt so that gripping with his hands and snapping with his teeth could not make it go away.

  Down to his bones he felt the wrenching fire of the Devil welcoming him, feasting upon his flesh as greedily as René had drunk from James, and René shut his eyes again so that he would not have that memory, wanting the distracting feel of teeth biting into his shoulder.

  There was black in his mind, no dreams to save him, just the orange of flames and the heat that prowled and scratched at his skin, until he had to try to get free again.

  Hands touched his throat, and he snapped up his head, opening his mouth for the bitterness of salt water splash across his lips. It dried to powder on his tongue, and he choked, cursing them for this though they were as damned as he, falsely offering water to torment his senses.

  “Drink,” they hissed at him, irritated with his disobedience, as he always plagued those who would love him, and René moved his mouth, shaping a smile with singed lips. They could offer nothing at this Mass that his lips had not tasted already.

  He had once had the spirit of angels on his tongue, found his mouth sweet. Again, he opened his eyes, gasping at the liquid fire pouring onto his skin, stinging through his chest. They had not left him, and his eyes searched past their dark silhouettes to the corners of the small space pressing in on him. He moaned, and twitched at the sickening heat of a touch to his brow.

  “I burn,” he confessed, blinking at the converging shapes, crying as the Fathers had promised he would for being born with such a mark on his soul. The tears were hot too, so hot he thought they flew fr
om his cheeks, rising into the air as steam, up to the sky where he could no longer reach.

  But the sky opened up to him, splashing down his nose to his lips, cool and wet and sweet like wine and he was swallowing before he knew that it was water that came to him, moving his tongue to drink of it as he was urged, opening his mouth wide and letting his eyes fall closed.

  He tried to turn as the drops fell away and at that the fangs left his flesh, and the fires eased, and there was quiet as he faced the blackness. It waited too, just as the light did, and it shifted, hinting at shapes, at devils and sinners waving for him to come closer. It was impatient, the dark, and soon it would reach out to take him, angry with him for daring to consider another.

  His stomach knotted, and he twisted until his chest felt torn in two, but the warm grip on his arms only tightened, and above him came the sound of whispers, as soft as a child’s prayers, stopping his fight.

  The flames of the fire made the space behind his eyes grow bright, shining at first like the moon, and then the sun, pouring across his face and shoulders, but the burn did not touch him, and there was cool water on his brow urging him to lie back.

  He had promised that he would, he could remember even saying the words; hear another voice saying it to him, high and squealing and girlish. He flinched from that breathless giggle, and strained to hear the child’s prayers. They were more pleasing, though he longed to find the stupid boy and strike him for his innocence.

  It is no time to pray when you are pressed to a warm body, even if your knees are hard on the stone of a dirty floor. But he could still hear them, soft murmurs against stiff skirts, scratching his cheek as he moved. The laugh from above made him frown and pull at the fabric with his teeth, forgetting about his evening prayers whenMademoiselle Abrial gasped.

  She seemed surprised, and he wondered if she could be, for he had seen her bitten often enough. Little marks on her neck like those that Jean sometimes was left with, after he had dared René to kiss him. And though the room smelled of incense, her skirts smelled of herbs, and René also wondered if she had bathed this morning, as she usually did after Father visited, wiping her crime free of her body.

  The herbs burned his nose, but he pressed his face further into her skirts until he could feel her thigh and how the muscles trembled, until he felt stifled by the heat of her and had to open his mouth to breathe at all.Mademoiselle gasped again as though she could not find air either, and flattened her hand against his skull, keeping him where he was, though René could recall her protests of only a moment before.

  “Naughty boy,” she laughed high above him now, and from the corner of his eye, René could see her hand dropping, gathering fistfuls of her skirts until he could see the pale skin of her calves through her white stockings.

  He exhaled into the thick wool and felt the moist air return to his heated cheeks as he lowered his hand to follow hers, and found her knee. He smoothed his palm over the sloping bone, and curved his fingers around the softer skin behind it, aware only that it tickled her when her body shuddered and she was suddenly grasping his head.

  Mademoiselle yanked back on his hair until he was looking into her flushed face, and her pink mouth formed a small circle that hinted at her teeth. René felt the pain, tingling through his scalp until it throbbed like the bruise on his jaw, and then she yanked harder, licking her lips.

  “Naughty,” she said again, slower, and stared at him until René could feel his stomach twisting. “Please, Mademoiselle,” he made himself say, deciding that she had liked it. He dared to touch her leg once more, letting his fingers drift higher until there was only skin and no more stocking. Her eyes were gleaming, and René watched how her tongue peeked out from her open mouth, as though she were panting. Like a dog, he thought without amusement, not at all surprised to see her so needy already. Jean had moaned the first time René had thought to touch him between his legs, and Father’s hand had been far up her skirt last night.

  And she moaned like Jean had, thick and hoarse, closing her eyes and jerking and twisting against the wall before Father had stepped in closer, and René frowned and plunged his hand up toward where she felt the hottest, pressing his fingers over a wet, hot mound of flesh, feeling hairs curling around his fingertips and her skin quivering. His fingers must have been cold, forMademoiselle jerked and hissed his name.

  He could feel her thumb now, pressing into his sore cheek as her hands slid over his face, touching across his brow and then his nose before finally landing at his mouth. Her fingers probed past his lips softly, as though she desired it, and René frowned, letting his teeth scrape her fingertips in warning.

  “Open your eyes, René,” Mademoiselle whispered as though she had not felt it, and René knew he was shaking, and felt his face heat. “René,” she said again, and pushed her wet finger against his lips once more, and René opened his eyes wide at how the blood rushed there, and how his whole body seemed to burn like the candles lit all around them.

  She had looked down at another like this, so René shifted, bringing himself up from his knees and sliding another hand under her skirt so that two hands rubbed against her wetness. Already she trembled with it, and when his other hand burned through the damp curls and parted the folds of skin he felt there, she began to toss her head, her breath catching in her throat.

  Her body was pressed hard against him, scorching until René jerked his head up, needing to feel air on his face. His mouth opened, sucking in breaths when the heat would not ease, and Mademoiselle only pulled him closer, grasping at his shoulders and then his back. She would not let go, and when he pushed slightly against her hold, her hands slid down further and grabbed the seat of his breeches.

  He jumped as her fingers pressed into him, and she was laughing, breathing giggles down against his ear as he continued to stroke there, between her legs, and her hands squeezed and pinched at his behind until his blood pounded there too, and he could feel himself growing hard, and could not stop how he exclaimed in surprise. He thought perhaps that she felt it too, on her leg, and looked into her face, what he could see with her so close to him, and caught the pleased smile that she did not hide.

  “Naughty like your Papá,”Mademoiselle teased, and her teeth found his neck, scraping down his skin before she opened her mouth and began to suck, making René’s heart beat so quickly that he nearly fell back.

  But her hands would not allow him to go, and instead she took a hand from his rear and slid it around his hip to his stomach, and if she thought to soothe him, she did not, and René felt his face heat when she pulled free his shirt and moved her hand under his breeches.

  “But so much…better, yes?” Mademoiselle spoke once more, but René barely heard her. She was touching him, squeezing the head of his prick, and her hand was warmer than his hand had ever been. Her palm felt wet, like the sting in his eyes, and he pushed forward, thrusting against her skirts almost as Father had done.

  The flesh under his hand was throbbing, and he could hear his blood in his ears, loud and pounding and eager, and tried to look at her, finding that he could not when she tugged on the hardness between his legs.

  “Will you fuck better than your father, too?” Mademoiselle wondered with another small laugh, and ran her thumb across the tip of his prick when René would have leapt away, and he twitched, surprised at how good it was, wanting her to touch it more, to rub and rub as Jean would have done. As though she knew his thoughts, she pressed her palm around him and stroked until René was scrambling to fill his chest with air, and his body was twisting, pushing back against her and pounding so much he thought he might die. He dared to twist from it, gasping when she freed a hand to lay it across his back, smacking his rear with a light touch that burned even through his clothing.

  “Yes,” Mademoiselle urged feverishly, and René frowned at her pleasure, at the sting of his ass, realizing that his hands had fallen away from her to his sides, where they were clenched tightly. “Sit,” she ordered, once, and bare mo
ments later, shoved him back until his legs hit the wooden bench seat and he was falling into the pew.

  Incense smoke tingled in his nose, his rear sore and pounding in a way that only seemed to match the tightness in his groin, and René swore at her, a word that Jean and Adèle had taught him, and narrowed his eyes when she leaned in to lick the word from his mouth. He flinched from her tongue and raised his hands, finding her hips as she settled over him and jerking her hard onto his lap. He had seen that done too, and now felt her legs tighten as though she liked it.

  She raged like fire all around him, tight and squeezing his flesh, but not painful and René raised his eyes, looking at the fine golden cross that was the room’s only ornament and remembered again the prayers that he had interrupted.

  “Shall I get on my back for you, René?” Mademoiselle taunted him as he burned, and René scowled. Did she think she was James, to tempt him with such an offer, and he could hear those prayers again, and tossed his hard body around, seeking easement as he joined them.

  “ Aspérges me. Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor, lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor,” he cried out just as the priest would, and then he was laughing, so hard that even the hands at his shoulders could not stop him or hold him still.

  He twisted away from her hands and his arm ripped from his body at the shoulder. He could feel himself twitching, the blood streaming from him so hot that his shredded skin cooked. He screamed, but the walls of the chapel bounced back to him the shouts of other men and not his own cries of suffering. He ought to suffer, the priest had told him, his life was of pain and only his death would end it. Death if God was merciful.

  More pain and it was not enough. His throat was already raw, but he screamed until the sound was nothing but a hum in his ears as dead men surrounded his body and laughed at his opened chest, their own slashing wounds shaped like screams.

  He snarled at them all, fat bodies and handsome faces, wishing that he still had his arm and a blade to cut them all to pieces. Each one had brought his own death upon him, and smarter men would have welcomed the end as René did now. A slow roasting, but this agony was nothing to the emptiness at his side, and they were fools not to feel it, to think the rhythmic stroking of his cheek and jaw were enough to banish the clawing hunger.