“Scratch the tea. Rum for both,” he tells the men, amusement playing on his mouth.
I watch him walk slowly now, back to his settee. We’re awkward in our silence.
The servants are soon back with rum for us and I reach out for the bottle. Once I drank dark beer with a man that was supposed to be a marriage prospect. My mission was to discover if my father’s intel on his fortune had been correct. Once he was good and hazy, I asked him the questions. He was kissing me, telling me that he wanted me when he told me that his father’s funds had dried up. I knew that there would be no future so pretended that my stomach was unsettled. Once I’d reported my findings to father, I felt oddly sad for the man. I am not accustomed to feeling much for men. Benjamin is no different. Even with drink in my veins, I will exploit the opportunity.
“He’s my brother,” his tone is nonchalant as he buries his face in the goblet.
“What?” I did not expect it. “How?”
“How are we brothers?” he reiterates, brows inclined.
I nod. My eyes wide with surprise.
The night is still in its full blackness. We seat ourselves on the floor, our backs against the settee. Warm candlelight douses us, and in this setting, I feel that he is not in the least dangerous. I feel that when I look at him, he seems almost boyish. He is a man of course, a man of wickedness. I’d do good not to forget it. Yet, something seems softer about him. It is like looking at a wolf who is now laid down and curled up for rest.
“We shared the same father. Different mothers,” he speaks indifferently.
“Then why do you hold your own brother hostage?” I demand.
“There is a reason, of course,” he grunts, but acts as if he does not want to tell me.
“Revenge?” I mutter in a breathless tone, thinking back to the austereness that exists between both Claire and Alphonse. Their secret reasons.
“Ah, but not on my side,” he smirks. “Sadly, he’s the one who’s searched for me in order to exact it. Funnily enough, he wouldn’t have ever found me if it weren’t for…” he stops himself. “That’s not true. I did look for him…for a few years. Then I gave up and focused my efforts on something more important.”
“Building yourself an empire?” I supply dully, tossing a hand out.
He gives me a slight grin beyond the shield of his goblet.
The night has wrapped me in a tangle of bewildered adrenaline. The rum rounds the hard edges I feel from it though, and slowly, I feel a relaxing tingle massaging my neck and shoulders. The rum heals the trauma of what I hear and stills me so that I do not fly into a rage like before.
“Tell me,” I press. “Don’t stop.”
“You need to understand something before I tell you any more,” he is suddenly severe, and leans forward, latching onto my gaze. “It is the only thing that will help this to make sense.”
“What then?” I almost want to laugh.
“This world…it is no simple place. I discovered this when…well,” he glances down once again to survey my body, and I feel that he silently aches for a moment. “What matters is that you must know that this world, science, law, philosophy, it is all madness. There is perpetuation of a great lie. I mean, we do know certain things. But there are hidden things. Things that do not make sense. Not to me, not to you…not to anyone.”
I stay silent as I feel that he may be the mad one. Shall I run? My legs are now entirely liquid on the floor, congealing me to my place. Rooting me down into the floor. He is serious, his thick brows stern and his voice avid.
“The truth is,” he speaks carefully. “That there are things that should not be. That should not exist.”
I begin to laugh. I cannot help myself. The rum draws this out of me, quelling my prior desire to stay indifferent.
“You’re a lunatic,” I hiss out, and my head lolls.
“Say what you will,” he gives me a bitter smile. “But you’ll see. If I cast you out? Let her have you? You would not be laughing. You would wonder how such a monstrosity exists.”
“I’m not a little girl. You cannot scare me with ghost stories,” I am shrewd.
He sighs deeply, and shuffles his way closer, fixing me in an iron stare.
“If only this were a ghost story.”
The words prickle my heart, and my hands tether round my knees. I draw them ever closer so that my chin rests upon them. Benjamin’s eyes glance downward to where my hem has risen awkwardly high. I do not know what he can see, and I do not care. I take more rum. I feel that the rum is making my heart beat at a steady pace once again, and although I may be in the most ridiculous of place with a man that very well may kill me, I feel that it does not matter. That what he says is something I should be hearing, that I have somehow longed to hear. It resonates deep in my belly.
“You speak in riddles. You’re not explaining anything,” I tell him.
I want to know more. I want to understand what it was that I saw. But he makes no sense.
He sighs, and wipes a hand across his brow, “Will you please…”
He motions to my shift and looks away.
“What?” I snap, evermore brazen in my skewed state. “Can you not handle seeing a bit of flesh? Come now Sir, I am sure you’ve seen it before.”
He is angered by this and comes forward, taking my white shift in his hand.
“Why do you continue to aggravate me?” He pulls it down but leaves his hand. His heavy knuckles rest against my ankle.
I push his hand away and shake my head, “You are a madman. “Unexplainable things?” What insanity do you speak of…things don’t always make sense? Of course, they don’t. We’ve not discovered everything there is to know. We only know what our teachers tell us, and they only know what the great thinkers relay to us. You are a fool.”
He smirks, “When you experience the dead walking, then you tell me that I am wrong.”
I sour. His face is so very close. He smells of spices and vanilla. Does he bathe in these scents? His eyes are earnest and watchful, and I cannot move or back away. I remain, practically entwined with him. His words chill me, and I do not know what else to say. What else can I say?
“You’ve given me nothing…” I utter, and he tilts his head as if he were to fight laughter again.
“I have given you enough,” he retorts. “Enough for you to return to your rooms. And your sister.”
“That is hardly…” I begin to mock him, but the word sister sparks me as out of place. “She is not my sister.”
His demeanor solidifies, and he looks to the ground. “The Bonteque woman. Your friend. Whoever she is to you.”
“Why would you think…” I begin to voice my thoughts, but I trail off. Perhaps I would do better to remain silent. “I am not leaving. You’ve too much more to explain.”
He leans nearer, so that hot breath prickles my neck, “Then stay.”
His words bring heat to my belly, to my face. I am wrought with a foul sense of…I do not dare name the feeling that comes to me. I shudder and boldly stare back at him. There is a moment of fire between us. Something that is magnetic and pulsing. Almost as if, unwillingly, our bodies think we could do wondrous things in the way of fleshly recreation. The remaining morality of my consciousness tells me to go. The rum has made me far too reckless. Rum…it is the downfall of all men, and women. I thought I was capable of this, but now I am not sure.
He leaps to his feet, stumbling a bit. He’s drunk more than I. His hand goes out to steady himself, and he sags against the settee. He rips at his coat, breaking the buttons as he disassembles it, tossing it to the floors in a heap. Then goes his white starched shirt. I do not want to look, I do not. Yet, my eyes, they trail up his legs to the firmness of his belly and his chest. The rest of him is as gold as his face. He is defined and ripples with natural muscles, muscles that have formed from labor and toil. His dark stubble and brows contrast with the rest of his goldenness. His hair hits his shoulders and I feel that I want to reach out and brush it away. I want to feel i
t in my fingers, to taste his naked shoulder with my mouth.
“Oh, I…”
How can a woman not admire him?
He glances back at me, and we connect in a way that is outlandish and alien to me. What is this feeling, this absorbing connection we bear? Is it simply the alcohol, the weight of it that lulls me into such an astounding dreamlike state? Or is it something more…something deeper? It echoes in more than my mind, in a place that I am shocked to have forgotten as if this feeling has been here my entire life waiting to be awoken.
“We are not done,” my words slur. “You have not told me…I must know…”
He rolls out his hands as if to say that he’s done his best, that he has nothing else to offer me and then moves himself closer to his giant bed.
I stand and my heads spins. I put a hand to my forehead as if this will level me. I sway towards the settee and he glances back.
“Are you ill?” he asks gruffly.
“Just feeling the effects…” I utter.
He smirks and tosses himself into the bed, sprawling on the crimson sheets. He is so careless. His face seems completely devoid of any worry, almost peaceful. He does not care that he has left me idle. Suddenly, I feel an urgency. I am able to do something no one else can. I could free us. I glance around noiselessly, taking in the complete disaster of his chambers. I seat myself and search without moving. There must be something here that would do the job.
I wait perhaps a good half hour and watch his breathing turn very shallow before I move to find what I’m looking for. I attempt to be my full, sober self, but the rum still fuzzes my thoughts. No matter. I follow this line of thought, a formulating thought suddenly coming to me. I could rid us of him, steal out into the dark house and free Claire and Alphonse, and we would take one of his ships and set sail once again. I could contrive the life that my mother and father wanted for me, meet my betrothed in the West Indies and fulfill my purpose as a daughter and wife.
I go to a small trunk that is set beneath his writing desk as it is the one place that looks especially promising. I glance up briefly to see that there are bound books, beautiful in their assemblage, by the likes of Descartes, Plato, Galileo, and Hobbes. Other names I recognize as common to historical learning, but there are newer names too. Stolen from the greatest libraries.
Apparently, Brother Death likes to keep up with the great thinkers of our time. There is a rising burn in my cheeks. Handsome and learned. I look over my shoulder at the sleeping man whose life is dedicated to malignant doings. Does his wanting to learn mean that he wants more? That he longs for more than just the basics of life? I chastise myself, hurrying my hands with the chest. Even if he did, it would not matter. He would still be the same loathsome creature. Men are men.
As I had thought and hoped, within the trunk midst a collection of velvet coin purses and crumpled papers, there is a small knife. I grab hold of it.
I crawl across the floor to the foot of the bed. I must not wake him, and if he does, then I will pretend that this was nothing more than a drunken attempt at knowing more. He’ll never suspect what meaning my cold hands have. I must do this. There is no other way that I can think we might escape. If he is alive, he will stop us. I will take no more chances, not when the opportunity is so amply given.
I climb into the bed at his feet, moving so slowly that each fraction I get closer takes me minutes. I feel awkward as I straddle him, but if he wakes he will think I am flirting, nothing more. The rum has my reasoning off, I know this, but I do not listen to the common sense of my sober self. I must try.
I shimmy my way closer so that I loom over him. I peer down at his pleasantly serene face. It is free of all problems. His fine lips with their perfect arch are lined a bit from days in the sun. His skin is dark compared to my pale skin, and so smooth. I am ridiculous. I become even more aware of what this might look like, and I do not think about the parts of him that are beneath me.
I hold my breath as he takes a deep sigh. He doesn’t move and doesn’t wake. My heart is pounding in my ears. I am to be a murderess. I will never be the same. Am I too afraid to take a life? Even if it is for those that I care for to escape and be free? Is this wrong, or am I right to do so? I wrestle within myself, and I hate that I do this. Damn it all. It must be done.
I wrench the knife from its sheath and hold it over my head so that I can bring it down hard, straight into his heart.
A smile, so coldly delighted, morphs him from sleep to wake.
“So stubborn,” he whispers. “So determined.”
I stab him. The knife plunges into his chest, tearing through muscles and past bone. It is unbearable. The sound alone makes my stomach sick. I release it shakily and realize that I am breathing hard as I watch his reaction.
His eyes grow sulky, and he makes no wince or noise of pain. He moves his hand slowly to pull out the knife. There is nothing when the sharp tip is removed, only a bit of blood. I gasp. He has not even been hurt. I balk. With a fluid movement, he flips me over so that he is on top, pinning me down onto the bed. He looks at me like a snarling beast, thoroughly bemused.
“I’m impressed,” he says coolly. “I didn’t think you had it in you to try this.”
I am frozen.
“Do you long for my attention, is that it?” he snickers, and eyes me curiously. I butt against him and spit in his face.
“Damn you!” I screech and try to move. He doesn’t let me and keeps me there, his weight pinned against me. The knife should have done it. He should be dead, or at least writhing. I stare at him, wild-eyed.
He looks at me as if he is fighting the urge to pummel me. His hands are on my wrists, gripping hard. There is something in his eyes, a desire so rich that I can practically taste it. It’s the singing passion that I felt before, and I know that he feels it too. How could he not? Can one feel this way while another feels differently? His body is warm against mine.
“I’m going to sleep,” he tells me. But he doesn’t move.
My heart catches in my throat and I swallow tightly. He is silent for a few moments, and I feel entirely distraught in such a position. I feel so much shame, and I am sure my face is as white as the clouds.
As he flips himself over onto his back, he grazes my forehead with his lips.
I go to the door and reach out to grasp the knob. It catches. I jiggle it furiously and it seems that it is locked. I spin around, and I swear that I see yet another creeping ghost of a smile on his lips. I will not allow him to get the rise out of me yet again. I move myself to the floor before the fireplace and wait. I will not sleep this night.
Alphonse
There is a window far above my head. The only light that I am allowed, but mostly it is dark; a tomb. A few times I waver into the belief that I may die here. I have had nothing to eat or drink for two days. My body shrivels, my stomach sinking, my eyes stinging from the dry grit. I feel my muscles deteriorating. I try to think back to a time where I have felt this discouraged, this beaten. I cannot name a time, and this turns and twists my mind. The night before I swear that I heard a voice, someone calling to me. But that is the madness that lies in wait for me, willing me to fall down the funnel to insanity.
He won’t kill me. I know that much. He won’t let it happen. Benjamin needs me alive. I know where Vauquelin is.
“Knock knock,” Benjamin’s voice comes from beyond the door of the cell, the iron hinges groaning as he pries it wide.
There are men on either side of him, burly dogs with bayonets and sheathed rapiers. I glance their way and then fix my vision upon a particularly interesting stone in the wall.
“Ready to talk?” He asks.
“Go to hell,” I rasp.
The sigh he expels is a long one. He motions for the men to leave him.
“Brother, do you have no conscience?” he asks as he comes into the cell.
He shuts the door behind him, standing above me, looming like a depressed vulture. I always thought that he was far too impress
ed with himself. Now he is no different. The same peacock with ruffled feathers, thinking highly of himself, vain and arrogant while maintaining his righteous persona. Fuck him.
“You want to kill me? Kill me,” I grumble.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he utters. “I’d prefer that you live. Still, we can’t avoid this situation. Why not gain your freedom? Tell me where Vauquelin is?”
“Even if I wanted to tell you I couldn’t. Vauquelin moves around constantly. He’s untraceable.”
“I doubt that. You found him, didn’t you?” Benjamin is gruff.
“They’re connected you know. He’ll always find her,” I tell him. “You’ll never be able to keep her safe. She’s the means to an end.”
Benjamin nods slowly and then folds his arms.
“I am sure I’ll figure something out,” he smirks. “I can be persuasive when I want to be. What would happen if someone, or something, was able to consume his soul? That would make him unable to return, wouldn’t it?”
My heart thunders in my chest. I don’t know where he has gotten this idea. How can he know what happens to those who the Bone Woman takes? I think back to the tombs of the cabal leaders Claire and I ventured into. The lost tombs of the Druid men who created the cabal. We experienced the unearthly there, and when I think of it, I feel my prowess rise. He knows nothing. He is baiting me. Playing a game of guesses.
“Come now Alphonse,” he urges me. “Don’t you want to be on the winning side? If you tell me what you know, we can be brothers again. I’ll forgive the part you played in the murdering of Giselle. We can take everything from Vauquelin, together. We can find a way to destroy Sidra and put the claim to immortality to rest.”
I am silent. I will not let him play me. Not only this, but I don’t think he knows my aim. God, Claire doesn’t even know. Why would he? He thinks I’d just dandle on over to his “side?” Forget that he slaughtered our father in cold blood? Even if we wanted the same things, I could not join him. Would not. He’s a fool built for foolish things. His mind only goes so far.
The Bones of Broken Songs: A Historical Mystery Romance (Mortalsong Trilogy Book 2) Page 7
