Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  His face tightened, perhaps the desire to smile, but James held himself still, inhaling René’s breath as the other man slept on. Blankets of cloth so rich it seemed to melt under his touch as James slid his hand away, seemed to give way for him, and James realized he had closed his eyes. Amazement at the ease he was granted kept them closed until the cold weight was in his palm, his fingers chilled and tight around his prize.

  René had thought him as blind to this as to the reasons for it here, in their bed. James studied the flintlock with a strange calm, unsurprised to see it held a shot; a dull sword brought nothing.

  His arm did not tremble to hold this instrument aloft, and James graced a touch along the barrel, his breath steady. He had prayed for mercy once, near to pissing himself in fear of a bloody pirate. Mercy had been granted to him, for René was a good man.

  He held no fear now.

  Chapter Twenty–-two

  “H

  e will kill him.” The fine misting of water 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 since he could not see them.

  René closed his mouth, biting into his lip. He tasted nothing but his own sickness, and pulled a breath in through his nose, smelling the river and swallowing the bile that stirred at its foul stink.

  His chest was heavy, his throat crushed beneath 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 over the carriage window. His fingers crept over lacquered wood until he could feel the stiff fabric against his palms, then 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 when they suddenly ceased, and he found himself staring into the eyes of the child. The boy that had followed him here.

  René looked into eyes that seemed nearly the same shade as James’, and narrowed his own, unsurprised when the boy dropped his gaze and once more began his yapping. 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, yet he had dared to touch James, wrap these fingers around the solid heat of him. René’s 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 for all that James had thought him saved. It had bled from him long before he had ever 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. There was rustling near 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 away. The boy remained where René had put him on the opposite seat. When the child glared, René felt his gaze leave him.

  “Sit.” One word was enough. Pathetic loyalty that only a king ought to have commanded, James had earned it with just sweet words and kind hands. For James to fall to his knees meant only prayers for others crossing his tongue, his palms clean as they were clasped together. It was their tongues that remained profaned, glued to their teeth with bitterness.

  René’s 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 he would be quiet when shown his true nature, a 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 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.

  René’s own lips were red and he could taste the blood even if he could not see it. Biting would make them swell, make them 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, looking up as he did.

  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. Now the 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.

  On some it would not work, and René gasped, the very air seeming harsh in his constricted throat. There was no relief of the pressure around his neck and 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’s, and clasped his hands together, fingers curled so the child would know him no believer. He was no madwoman, putting faith in a dusty room and a ragged book, praying to a dead man to forgive her for loving the taste of cock so much. 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.

  Round-eyed and silent now, the child watched him, and René let him watch, and wondered if the boy knew his fate.

  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.

  He would kill him. 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 had once imagined. If he turned, he could smell the faint rosemary scent he had used to ease his way into James, the hints of sweat and the wax of the candles that James had kept lit for him.

  He had woken to this scent on the pillows, under his mouth, and he had let his lips move, form a desperate word. His cheeks had burned with shame to hear his plea go unanswered, to feel the cold of what James had been so pleased to term their bed.

  His heart thundered even now, and René twisted his hands against the 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 James to wear, still muddied and wet from the field. 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, committed with a panting, hungry look. And his punishment was outside the cloth-covered window, approaching with every breath the boy dared to take. Words would not stop the Devil.

  James’ wicked, clever tongue had thought to demand promises of him. Strange words softened with kisses, making René think of the child when he had wanted 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 at René’s touch. A face of innocence that held lies behind it, an art James should not have learned.

  James had left him to sheets colder than the wet Paris air. James had left him, and the weight of the pillows across his chest had been nothing. You will not send me from you . He had said it aloud, burned for it in their empty, icy bed. James Fitzroy had not broken his promise. René had lain still and remembered, his pulse quick under his skin, loud like the noise rising from downstairs. He had only moved at the panicked rush of feet so near his door.

  This child did not sneak and peer around corners. In this child there were
incessant storms, the rain that the clouds above promised, and so René had opened his eyes at last, stretched his fingers wide but finding nothing to ease his fears as the doors had been pushed open. He exhaled roughly, tightening his grip on the weapons lining his belt. Like James, the boy would not cease talking. At least he remained sitting, no longer fluttering mindlessly from wall to wall like a bird trapped indoors.

  René’s stomach turned to regard the white, smoothly-curving cheeks on the face before him. The child had cursed in his foreign tongue and pounded with small, stinging fists, he may do so again, but here the boy would stay, and come no further. Even if that had not been what James wished. That house was no place for children; he knew too well what it made them, sluts and whores, old, tired souls who clung to strong bodies and hoped to be saved. So needful they would drain even the life from angels.

  “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. 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 red down his palms to his wrists, staining white cuffs. His blades were sharp, and thirsty.

  He blinked; he had felt no pain. Yet there were thin trails across his lap, on his belly, and if he moved, they would smear the fine cloth of James’ coat with this darker crimson and turn it black.

  “He is already tainted, for our wishes.” He spoke to James’ precious Ben and saw the life drain from the young face, understanding whatever tongue René spoke now and feeling the thrust down to his soul. “Words won’t stop the Devil.” The Devil was not a hulking, desperate man seeking to ease his lust with a smooth young body. “How wouldyou stop him, 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, the gaze drop 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 blood and only when it was gone would there be any hope. The child could not have known that, 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, but he had chosen it. Tricked into this decision no doubt, by a scheming fop with dark eyes searching for escape. Or perhaps it was what they had prayed for together, James andMaman, in their shared house of sin, crawling on their knees. A man cannot stop the Devil with words, and James could not, wouldnever wield something sharper, whatever madness the servants had spoken of as they had brought him food. As though he would wish to eat.

  Nothing mattered but James. René could not even recall when he had last had a meal, and was 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, forcing a smile at the feel of knives in his chest. He had felt them before, still held the memory of flames swallowing him whole, still trembled to think of who had stroked and calmed his flesh.

  The carriage rocked, 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 hold back the sickness.

  They must go faster, but at the sound of his fist pounding at the wall the vehicle only shuddered, 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 that he did, and René 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. Where else would James have gone, when a church could not keep him?

  With the sky at his back, he would rise to Heaven, and this stain would send him streaming down.

  René could no longer keep his sickness down, clenching his jaw at the hot, sour burn of vomit. He gagged, coughing up onto the floor, hearing the boy’s frightened cry. “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 sleeve to wipe his mouth, with the child to witness. 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. James would wonder how he had ever found them sweet. The air was cold in his chest as René sat back, pulling away the curtain to stare up at the house. Bright, gleaming light stared back from every window this time, every pane of glass made to shine as though the King himself had walked through the doors.

  He was here. The Devil, 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 breath to see the other carriage in the street, poorly-dressed servants attending to tired horses.

  The family Saint-Cyr was desperate, and René could make them beg, curled on their hands and knees on the floor they could not afford to cover with rugs. The house and name sold to Caribbean thieves while its daughters lifted their skirts, while its noble son crouched with his ass in the air for a pirate. They would wait without rescue. And he…

  He shivered, alone and waiting in the dark of a strange ship.

  Not all could be saved, no matter how much the Heavens wept for them. 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 had pretended to drink in the church that he had paid for.Maman had been plumper and cleaner than he had last seen her, but her gaze had remained the same. She had waited, and prayed, and God had given her James.

  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 and crushing the curtain in his grip. 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. “Don’t 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, but the boy’s fear was obvious in the force behind his words, the darting glances out the window, to James. Still the child did not move, trapped here as René was. He knew what lay in that house. “They all said you were, when first we saw you.”

  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 with a terror that only James would have been allowed to see before, his feelings for James no match for a past already full of bad men. Ben turned glassy eyes away, to that same window, his jaw working as he swallowed, and René could not guess at what thoughts allowed him the distance to speak, but let his lips curve to imagine.

  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 either 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.

  René closed his eyes, reaching up for what he already knew was gone. James had taken that as well; his hands had closed around a pistol, and his chest had been cold with the weight of René’s crucifix.

  René 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 breath.

  “You will not go in this place.” He said the words slowly, and saw the James in that face fade away, replaced with wrath. This one would fight and not tremble against a wall no matter how stupid his defiance.

  The blow hit the side of Ben’s face, turning his head and leaving a bright smear across one downy cheek. René’s hand was stinging, his arm shaking and weak, 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 another grief.

  His hands gripped 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, so he did not deserve the same fate. “This will be the only blood to touch you.” René was panting, and Ben seemed to feel the same pressure, as though unable to fully breathe with his father’s hands wrapped around his throat. “You will be here when James emerges. Here.”

  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, like the only timePeré had ever touched him, gripping tight to keep René to the wall, crushing hands releasing him only to shove him away.