Kayla Swain
"The Gentlest Sin"
Chapter 1
The brisk autumn wind blew calmly around a dark colored car parked outside the city’s only public library. On the passenger’s side of the car the window was rolled down a burly hand with sausage fingers clasping a lit cigar peaked out the window. Slowly the meaty fingers shook the excess ash from the end of the cigar then pulled back into vehicle where they carried the cigar up to beefy lips. The man who the cigar and plump appendages belonged to took a drag then stuck his hand out the window once more. He watched the ash enamored with how the small flakes danced in the air for a moment then eventually fell to the ground a few paces away from the car, the red glow they carried snuffing out. The man who sat beside him in the driver’s seat had a slighter build but his toned arms were not easily concealed by his tailored suit jacket. One hand was draped lazily over the wheel; the other was tracing his upper lip where a neat mustache laid. His piercing dark eyes watched the front door of the library predatorily, and an expansive cellphone weighed in his lap itching to be used.
Two teens walked out of the library their private school uniforms barely visible under their fall coats. The girl stood tall and walked proud talking quickly to the boy who slouched and dragged his feet. He shrugged only half listening to her, trapped in his own dreadful thoughts and vicious turmoil. The man in the driver’s seat smiled recognition in his deadly eyes. He scooped up the phone and dialed a number not taking his eyes off the pair. The man put the phone up to his ear letting it ring. It was a young but cold voice that answered.
“Yes.”
“Boss, he’s in my sight.” the man in the passenger’s seat tore his gaze away from his ash at the sound of the other man’s voice.
“Fantastic!” the voice that came through the phone was still frigid, but there is a pinch of glee infused in it, “Is he alone?”
“No, he’s with a girl right now.” he craned his neck to keep the teens in sight as they walked farther down the street.
“Wait until he’s alone. Then you two know what to do.”
“Yes, Boss.”
The connection was broken.
“….mind you I have always found the subject rather fascinating, but the way she teaches it is in the most unprofessional fashion. You’d think she doesn’t know the first thing about teaching let alone the subject. My parents paid for me to get the best education I possibly could and I will not have their money and my hard work wasted because this -” she stopped turning her eyes on her companion who stared at his feet, eyes glassy and face pale, “Saint! Are you even listening to me?” she nudged his shoulder knocking him off balance, and almost into the street.
Saint whipped his glistening gaze toward her; straightening up his posture, and nodding vigorously, “Y-yeah, yeah I’m listenin’ to you Odette.” as he speaks his stare finds itself drifting back to his dress shoes, and his grip tightened on a crumpled piece of paper he held in his fist.
“Oh yeah! Then what was I just talking about?” she narrowed her eyes and tightened her jaw.
His brows creased and he swallowed hard, “Umm, school?” he looked at her for approval of his answer.
She rolled her eyes, “Yes, but I have been talking about school since before we got to the library. What was the last thing your remember me saying?” she huffed.
“Uhh,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “something about how the lunches are becoming almost as bad as those at public schools.”
Odette’s eyes widened, “Saint!” he winced, “that was the first thing I brought up; you haven’t heard a word I’ve said since we met this afternoon!”
“I’m sorry.” he said this though there was little remorse in his voice. Even if he were not constantly trapped in his sinful thoughts and chilling wonders as he had been as of late he still would have not listened to a word she said. He liked Odette well enough and they had known each other since they were five, but sometimes she would ramble on for too long, complain excessively about a topic that did not deserve the attention, or could just be extremely critical of him. These were all things that annoyed him to no end, and made him think, at times, about telling her to get lost, go find someone that cared. However, that would be rude, and would most certainly not make his mother happy considering Odette’s parents were great friends of hers. Though the more he thought about it if that was not the case he probably would not spend as much time if any with the girl. She was not someone he wanted to be friends or even socialize with, but she was all he had.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting like this for weeks and its making me upset!” though her jaw remained tight her lips drooped and she crossed her arms over her chest, turning her head away from him.
Saint knew the girl could not care less about what was wrong with him. She was just annoyed that his attention was not constantly on her as it should be, and she hated not knowing things. The pout she concocted was an old from of attention and intelligence snatching she discovered at a young age and had since perfected. Whenever she wanted something all she had to do was stick her lower lip out and act as if she was tearing up and whatever is was she desired would place itself neatly at her feet. Odette was the last person he wanted to vent to, but she would not give up her act until he gave her something, and he was tired of only discussing with himself his present misfortune.
He sighed, “It’s about my mom,” Odette whipped her head back toward him, her long curls barely missing his face. Gone was the pout, in its place were lips steeled in a straight line and a raised eyebrow. Her silver eyes not brimming with tears but intrigue. “I’ve been trying to tell her something but I’m not sure how.”
Odette quickly closed the space in between them, going from a friendly distance to an intimate one before he even got his whole statement out. Though there was nothing romantic about the situation. She was breathing heavily down his neck, he could smell the Caesar salad she had for lunch, and they were close to tripping over each other feet. He filched, a cringe sprawling across his fetchers as he tried his best to keep them both from ending up face down on the pavement. “What is this something you’re trying to tell your mother?” she latched onto his arm and attempted to pull them even closer together. The pair stumbled but did not fall. Saint leaned his head as far away from hers as he could. Odette smiled at him sweetly as her eyes searched his for any clue of what he might be hiding.
He tried to increase the distance between them once more but the girl held her ground. “That something is nothing I want you or anyone else knowing about till I tell her.” Saint told her shooting her the same smile she was giving him.
Odette’s grip on his arm tightened her fake nails digging into his arm through his coat and dress shirt. His mock smile faltered and he recoiled in pain. “Well if you don’t tell me what you want to tell her then how am I supposed to help you?” Saint resisted the urge to laugh. Helping him was the farthest thing from the girl's mind she just wanted a good story, gossip to go sprinkle around the city like bird seed. A little bit here, a little bit there till it was everywhere and sprouting rumors. “Anyway perhaps telling a friend first will make it easier to tell her.”
Saint bit his lip and his eyes stung with tears as he ran his thumb over the paper ball in his fist. Nothing would make those two little words easier to be said. “I thought about writing her a note and leaving it on the table or her desk but…. I-I don’t know. What do you think?” he actually wanted to hear what she had to say.
“I think your mother is a very understanding and kind women and I think that whatever you have to tell her she will understand.” she slowed their pace until they stopped. Saint creased his brows and cocked his head at her wondering why they halted. Then he saw the pristine white siding and small but stunning lawn, they had reached the girl's house. He had not realized that they had been so close to her residents. “I also think that leaving a note is a terrible idea it will more than likely make her more upset than if you told her in person.” Odette gave him a fierce hug then released her hold on him, walking slowly backward toward her front door. It was these moments that he was reminded why he really never told her to get lost. She was not kind or considerate of others often but when she was it made him feel like the most important person around and that what he wanted and felt really did matter. “See you later Saint. If you change your mind about telling me I’m but a phone call away.” she wiped her feet on the door mat and pushed open the door, “Though I’m sure if you do tell her tonight I’ll know about it before the week's out nothing stays a secret in this city for long especially when your mothers involved.” with that she disappeared behind her mahogany door as did her momentary lapses of kindness.
Saint stood outside Odette’s house long after she had left his presents. He contemplated her opinions, staring hopelessly down at the crumpled paper in his hand. He had thought that leaving a note for his mother to find would make everything easier on him and her. She would have time to cool down after the initial shock and horror that he assumed would come with the contents of the letter, and he would not have to bare her first reaction and rejection. Though what he had been really hoping to gain from the wad of paper was time. Time to pretend that everything was still okay between him and his mother. Time to pretend that what he had scrawled on the note would not drive a rift between them forever. Time to pretend that he was not dammed.
His mother was kind and understanding when it came to anything but their religion and him. She was a faithful Christian who lived life by the Bible and politics and forced her only child to do the same. Saint believed in God and put stock into almost everything the sacred text told him. Though there were things that the Bible stated that he could not see as true, and in giving his mother the note or telling her in person, as he may now do, he hoped to bring his secret doubts to light. Though he was still scared and a part of him still felt as if he was betraying his faith and his God. He knew his mother would only see it as that way, and he would be punished as she saw fit. However, there was a small part of him that thought that she would never do anything to hurt and everything would turn out alright. This was the part that pushed him to confess his blaspheming thoughts and desires. Saint sighed stuffing the paper ball in his shoulder bag and continued on his walk home.
He had just made his usual turn down an alley five houses up from Odette’s when his attackers were upon him. Icy fear chilled his veins as he felt the two pairs of unfamiliar, rough hands savage his arms. His heart thumped rapidly against his chest as he struggled to free himself from the men’s grip with little results. He felt much like a rabbit cornered by two hungry foxes or caught in a hunters biting trap. One of the men reached a large hand around to his face attempting to put a piece of cloth to his mouth and nose. His struggling increased, turning his head in ways he was not aware he could, trying avoiding the dooming fabric at all costs. He knew if that rag touched his face there would be no hope for escape. “Fine you want to do this the painful way!? Alright then!” the man who was trying to clamp the cloth to Saints face had had enough of the boy swiftly avoiding him and the material.
“Mickey I don’t think that’s a good idea the Boss said-” before the other man could finish Saint felt something heavy and thick hit the side of his head and his whole world went black.
Chapter 1
The brisk autumn wind blew calmly around a dark colored car parked outside the city’s only public library. On the passenger’s side of the car the window was rolled down a burly hand with sausage fingers clasping a lit cigar peaked out the window. Slowly the meaty fingers shook the excess ash from the end of the cigar then pulled back into vehicle where they carried the cigar up to beefy lips. The man who the cigar and plump appendages belonged to took a drag then stuck his hand out the window once more. He watched the ash enamored with how the small flakes danced in the air for a moment then eventually fell to the ground a few paces away from the car, the red glow they carried snuffing out. The man who sat beside him in the driver’s seat had a slighter build but his toned arms were not easily concealed by his tailored suit jacket. One hand was draped lazily over the wheel; the other was tracing his upper lip where a neat mustache laid. His piercing dark eyes watched the front door of the library predatorily, and an expansive cellphone weighed in his lap itching to be used.
Two teens walked out of the library their private school uniforms barely visible under their fall coats. The girl stood tall and walked proud talking quickly to the boy who slouched and dragged his feet. He shrugged only half listening to her, trapped in his own dreadful thoughts and vicious turmoil. The man in the driver’s seat smiled recognition in his deadly eyes. He scooped up the phone and dialed a number not taking his eyes off the pair. The man put the phone up to his ear letting it ring. It was a young but cold voice that answered.
“Yes.”
“Boss, he’s in my sight.” the man in the passenger’s seat tore his gaze away from his ash at the sound of the other man’s voice.
“Fantastic!” the voice that came through the phone was still frigid, but there is a pinch of glee infused in it, “Is he alone?”
“No, he’s with a girl right now.” he craned his neck to keep the teens in sight as they walked farther down the street.
“Wait until he’s alone. Then you two know what to do.”
“Yes, Boss.”
The connection was broken.
“….mind you I have always found the subject rather fascinating, but the way she teaches it is in the most unprofessional fashion. You’d think she doesn’t know the first thing about teaching let alone the subject. My parents paid for me to get the best education I possibly could and I will not have their money and my hard work wasted because this -” she stopped turning her eyes on her companion who stared at his feet, eyes glassy and face pale, “Saint! Are you even listening to me?” she nudged his shoulder knocking him off balance, and almost into the street.
Saint whipped his glistening gaze toward her; straightening up his posture, and nodding vigorously, “Y-yeah, yeah I’m listenin’ to you Odette.” as he speaks his stare finds itself drifting back to his dress shoes, and his grip tightened on a crumpled piece of paper he held in his fist.
“Oh yeah! Then what was I just talking about?” she narrowed her eyes and tightened her jaw.
His brows creased and he swallowed hard, “Umm, school?” he looked at her for approval of his answer.
She rolled her eyes, “Yes, but I have been talking about school since before we got to the library. What was the last thing your remember me saying?” she huffed.
“Uhh,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “something about how the lunches are becoming almost as bad as those at public schools.”
Odette’s eyes widened, “Saint!” he winced, “that was the first thing I brought up; you haven’t heard a word I’ve said since we met this afternoon!”
“I’m sorry.” he said this though there was little remorse in his voice. Even if he were not constantly trapped in his sinful thoughts and chilling wonders as he had been as of late he still would have not listened to a word she said. He liked Odette well enough and they had known each other since they were five, but sometimes she would ramble on for too long, complain excessively about a topic that did not deserve the attention, or could just be extremely critical of him. These were all things that annoyed him to no end, and made him think, at times, about telling her to get lost, go find someone that cared. However, that would be rude, and would most certainly not make his mother happy considering Odette’s parents were great friends of hers. Though the more he thought about it if that was not the case he probably would not spend as much time if any with the girl. She was not someone he wanted to be friends or even socialize with, but she was all he had.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting like this for weeks and its making me upset!” though her jaw remained tight her lips drooped and she crossed her arms over her chest, turning her head away from him.
Saint knew the girl could not care less about what was wrong with him. She was just annoyed that his attention was not constantly on her as it should be, and she hated not knowing things. The pout she concocted was an old from of attention and intelligence snatching she discovered at a young age and had since perfected. Whenever she wanted something all she had to do was stick her lower lip out and act as if she was tearing up and whatever is was she desired would place itself neatly at her feet. Odette was the last person he wanted to vent to, but she would not give up her act until he gave her something, and he was tired of only discussing with himself his present misfortune.
He sighed, “It’s about my mom,” Odette whipped her head back toward him, her long curls barely missing his face. Gone was the pout, in its place were lips steeled in a straight line and a raised eyebrow. Her silver eyes not brimming with tears but intrigue. “I’ve been trying to tell her something but I’m not sure how.”
Odette quickly closed the space in between them, going from a friendly distance to an intimate one before he even got his whole statement out. Though there was nothing romantic about the situation. She was breathing heavily down his neck, he could smell the Caesar salad she had for lunch, and they were close to tripping over each other feet. He filched, a cringe sprawling across his fetchers as he tried his best to keep them both from ending up face down on the pavement. “What is this something you’re trying to tell your mother?” she latched onto his arm and attempted to pull them even closer together. The pair stumbled but did not fall. Saint leaned his head as far away from hers as he could. Odette smiled at him sweetly as her eyes searched his for any clue of what he might be hiding.
He tried to increase the distance between them once more but the girl held her ground. “That something is nothing I want you or anyone else knowing about till I tell her.” Saint told her shooting her the same smile she was giving him.
Odette’s grip on his arm tightened her fake nails digging into his arm through his coat and dress shirt. His mock smile faltered and he recoiled in pain. “Well if you don’t tell me what you want to tell her then how am I supposed to help you?” Saint resisted the urge to laugh. Helping him was the farthest thing from the girl's mind she just wanted a good story, gossip to go sprinkle around the city like bird seed. A little bit here, a little bit there till it was everywhere and sprouting rumors. “Anyway perhaps telling a friend first will make it easier to tell her.”
Saint bit his lip and his eyes stung with tears as he ran his thumb over the paper ball in his fist. Nothing would make those two little words easier to be said. “I thought about writing her a note and leaving it on the table or her desk but…. I-I don’t know. What do you think?” he actually wanted to hear what she had to say.
“I think your mother is a very understanding and kind women and I think that whatever you have to tell her she will understand.” she slowed their pace until they stopped. Saint creased his brows and cocked his head at her wondering why they halted. Then he saw the pristine white siding and small but stunning lawn, they had reached the girl's house. He had not realized that they had been so close to her residents. “I also think that leaving a note is a terrible idea it will more than likely make her more upset than if you told her in person.” Odette gave him a fierce hug then released her hold on him, walking slowly backward toward her front door. It was these moments that he was reminded why he really never told her to get lost. She was not kind or considerate of others often but when she was it made him feel like the most important person around and that what he wanted and felt really did matter. “See you later Saint. If you change your mind about telling me I’m but a phone call away.” she wiped her feet on the door mat and pushed open the door, “Though I’m sure if you do tell her tonight I’ll know about it before the week's out nothing stays a secret in this city for long especially when your mothers involved.” with that she disappeared behind her mahogany door as did her momentary lapses of kindness.
Saint stood outside Odette’s house long after she had left his presents. He contemplated her opinions, staring hopelessly down at the crumpled paper in his hand. He had thought that leaving a note for his mother to find would make everything easier on him and her. She would have time to cool down after the initial shock and horror that he assumed would come with the contents of the letter, and he would not have to bare her first reaction and rejection. Though what he had been really hoping to gain from the wad of paper was time. Time to pretend that everything was still okay between him and his mother. Time to pretend that what he had scrawled on the note would not drive a rift between them forever. Time to pretend that he was not dammed.
His mother was kind and understanding when it came to anything but their religion and him. She was a faithful Christian who lived life by the Bible and politics and forced her only child to do the same. Saint believed in God and put stock into almost everything the sacred text told him. Though there were things that the Bible stated that he could not see as true, and in giving his mother the note or telling her in person, as he may now do, he hoped to bring his secret doubts to light. Though he was still scared and a part of him still felt as if he was betraying his faith and his God. He knew his mother would only see it as that way, and he would be punished as she saw fit. However, there was a small part of him that thought that she would never do anything to hurt and everything would turn out alright. This was the part that pushed him to confess his blaspheming thoughts and desires. Saint sighed stuffing the paper ball in his shoulder bag and continued on his walk home.
He had just made his usual turn down an alley five houses up from Odette’s when his attackers were upon him. Icy fear chilled his veins as he felt the two pairs of unfamiliar, rough hands savage his arms. His heart thumped rapidly against his chest as he struggled to free himself from the men’s grip with little results. He felt much like a rabbit cornered by two hungry foxes or caught in a hunters biting trap. One of the men reached a large hand around to his face attempting to put a piece of cloth to his mouth and nose. His struggling increased, turning his head in ways he was not aware he could, trying avoiding the dooming fabric at all costs. He knew if that rag touched his face there would be no hope for escape. “Fine you want to do this the painful way!? Alright then!” the man who was trying to clamp the cloth to Saints face had had enough of the boy swiftly avoiding him and the material.
“Mickey I don’t think that’s a good idea the Boss said-” before the other man could finish Saint felt something heavy and thick hit the side of his head and his whole world went black.
"XVII"
Chapter 1
He had no idea what he was to do, a young boy curled up near the wall of a dark alley,
bleeding profusely on the wet cobblestone. His disoriented mind was tormented by vague
recollections. A large room glittering in gold, covered in paintings of biblical scenes, a hall of
mirrors, the clattering and clanking of expensive dish wear, a woman wailing, “No! Don’t take
him, I beg you.”
The trembling boy’s eyes shot open as an intense pain coursed through his temple. He
had not the slightest idea what these sounds or images meant or where they came from. All he
knew was that when they tried coming through, become a tangible memory, the pain that cut
through his skull was a sharpened blade. He wanted to remember, he wanted to know how he
ended up like this but the stabbing in his brain made him rethink those desires. The child groaned
taking his straw like hair in hand and yanking it, hoping the sting of the follicles would numb the
pain of the unmemorable memories.
He watched out of the corner of his light blue eyes as people passed, taking the alley as a
short-cut to get out of the rain. They dashed right by him, either not seeing or pretending they
had not seen him. He wished one of them would stop; he did not want to die alone, his body left
for days to rot until the stench became so strong someone would eventually notice. He was not
ready to die even though it would be so much easier to just let go, let his God take him in his
comforting embrace and lead him to the holy realm above the sky.
He had to find someone, anyone that would help him, so he tried to stand. But that proved
to be a mistake. A sharp, sickening pain shot through his whole body, his vision blurred and he
lost consciousness, falling forwards back to the cobblestone. He lay there, sprawled out, his skin
bare to the falling rain and frigid air, nothing to stop the blood flowing from him.
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself; Gabriel Dumas was driving his horse drawn
cart through a night of chilling wind and stinging rain. Today he almost got caught in another
riot; one of three that day. He tried his best to avoid them, but sometimes people got caught in
the crossfire. There were a few deaths and multiple arrests but each ended quickly. Life for the
people of France had become just like it was before the Revolution; constant rioting, food
rationing, and a government not seeing to the needs of the people. Yet, it was nothing like the
France Gabriel once knew. There was now a revolutionary government in power. The King and
Queen had been beheaded and that had done nothing to quell the royalist revolts, which have
been going on since the royal family was taken from power. They were martyrs, something for
the royalists to fight for. Gabriel had come to the city today to acquire goods not see and hear of
death, although that is all Frenchmen are seeing and hearing of these days.
Gabriel turned his cart down an alleyway. He hoped he would be home before the sun
rose, for he would feel the wrath of his wife, Isabelle, if he was not. She would start by yelling at
him, “I thought you’d been sent to the guillotine or killed in a riot!” She would then make him
feel guilty by telling him how she was up all night worrying, waiting for him to come home.
Then, after her rant and a few slaps with an old rag, she would kiss him and make him breakfast.
These actions always made him laugh. He swore if the guillotine did not do him in, it would be
Isabelle that did.
The horse pulling the cart reared, whinnying in fright. This nearly toppled him from his
seat. Gabriel regained his balance snapping at the large animal “What the devil is wrong with
you Philippe?” The horse brought his front legs back down, hooves clicking on the cobblestone.
The beast then lowered his head, inspecting something in the road. Gabriel narrowed his eyes at
the horse’s action. Grabbing his lantern he hopped down from the cart to investigate.
“What is it boy?” he patted the horse’s side. What he saw when he looked down sent fear
rolling through him. Lying in the alley was a boy his back marred with lash wounds, his face
purple, swollen, and bloody. “Good God almighty,” Gabriel gasped, kneeling to see if the
tattered body held life, red water staining the knees of his pants. His aged hand was unsteadily
brought up to the boy’s nose; he felt warm air brush over his red fingers. Unclasping his cloak,
he threw it around the child, wrapping him tightly in the decaying material. He placed the boy in
the back of the cart, fresh farm equipment and repaired shoes shoved aside. Piled drowned hay
was used as a pillow. Gabriel then reseated himself, pulling out a whip which sent a sharp crack
through the night.
With that Philippe was off galloping through streets and back alleys, most windows
dimly lit by half dead candles. Gabriel peered through the stormy haze looking for their
destination. When he spotted the sign Timothee Toubib: Docteur, he pulled harshly on the reins. As
the cart began to slow he hopped down rushing to gingerly scoop up the child. He pounded on
the door, hoping the doctor was home. The door swung open revealing a man with tangled locks
and dark bags beneath his eyes.
“Who is it? What is it?” he gripped the door frame, his knuckles turning white.
“Timothee it’s me G-Gabriel.”
“Gabriel?” Timothee’s lips pulled back and up reveling uneven teeth “Ha-ha Gabriel, my
old friend how-” he stopped “What’s wrong?” his eyes shifting from the other mans drooped
fetchers to the bundle he clung to.
Gabriel peeled back the cloak to revel the boy’s face, “H-he needs your help.”
Timothee put his hand to the boy’s nose, his eyes widened, “Inside, quickly.”
Both men dashed into the house. Timothee lead Gabriel past a flight of stairs and through
a small living area to the back where a handful of cots were set up. They were yellowed and
some were smeared with deep orange stains. Patched blankets crumpled up on two and others
had used bandages stowed beneath them. All empty. The room smelt of copper, burnt candle wax
and stale vomit. Gabriel fought the urge to cover his nose.
“Jacqueline!” Timothee yelled.
A girl came groggily into the room, rubbing her eyes.
“Yes, uncle” she yawned showing her absent two front teeth.
“I need you to grab bandages, a bowl of water and a cloth, hurry now.”
Her eyes widened and her from tensed, “Y-yes, uncle” she scampered away.
Timothee rolled up his sleeves, grabbing one of the patched blankets to throw over one of
the cots. “Put him here.” He pointed to the cot.
Gabriel did as he was instructed hovering over the boy afterwards. Timothee removed the
boy from the cloak, tossing it aside. He then pulled a knife from his pocket and began to cut the
boys pants. The boy look like a corps on a battle field; bathed in crimson, dirty and face
contorted in fear, fear of not reawaking to golden gates but licking fires. Gabriel tucked a piece
of hair behind the boys ear then ran his hand down the boy’s face.
Timothee sighed, “Gabriel you’re not doing any good being in here, go to the kitchen get
yourself some tea I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Gabriel’s eyes snapped up to meet the others. Timothee’s half laden specks told him he
better leave before he was to be forced out. He nodded moving to the kitchen, the room adjacent
to the miniature hospital. Pouring himself some tea; it was still warm, he sat down at the
splintering table. Taking not a sip from it, he instead chewed at his nails and ran his hand
repeatedly through his graying hair. He let his tea grow cold; his mind racing with prayers for the
boy. “Monsieur Dumas?” a small voice interrupted him Gabriel looked up to see Jacqueline
standing before him, a frayed towel in her petite hands. “My uncle asked me to give this to you.”
she held out the towel.
He accepted the towel, with a nod, “Thank you.” he cleared his throat, as he began to dry
himself.
She chewed on her lip turning as if she was about to leave. Then her eyes widened with
remembrance and she turned back, “Oh, Uncle said you could borrow some of his clothes.” she
blinked wildly snatching up the hem of her dress and twisting it through her fingers.
Seeing this he shot her a forced smile, “Tell your uncle I might just take up that offer,”
his eyes moved from her to the now damp towel, “And thanks again.” he held the towel up.
She let the hem slip through her fingers and her eyes brightened a grin worked its way
onto her lips “You’re welcome! And I will!” She then turned to the counter grabbed a bowl and
left him once more alone with his prayers.
About an hour later, Timothee came to him, wiping his bloody hands on a cloth.
Gabriel swallowed, “Well?”
“I think he’ll survive but you can’t be sure. With wounds like that he….” Timothee
paused, his eyes darting downward. “Would you like to see him?” he threw the bloody cloth on
the counter.
Gabriel nodded and he and Timothee moved to the makeshift hospital. The boy was
propped up by a mound of pillows and wrapped in a blanket, bandages covering his head and
torso. The bandages angel like whiteness was yielding to the hellish red. The pair sat down on
the cot next to the boy’s. “He was given the works.” Timothee sighed.
“Hmm,” Gabriel acknowledge the statement, eyes raking over the child’s milky skin
“Missing the sunlight to it seems.”
“That’s likely from blood loss, but there’s a possibility of that as well.” Timothee rubbed
the back of his neck.
“I thank you for doing this. How much do I owe you?” Gabriel asked, pulling out his
change purse. The bag was not large and was only weighted down by a handful of coins. The
remnants of his shopping earlier, which felt like a life time ago now.
Timothee pushed the purse away, “Nothing.”
“Timothee.” Gabriel chided.
“I insist.”
“You always insist.”
Timothee snickered, “That I do,” he patted Gabriel’s knee. “You weren’t the one in need
of treatment, therefor no charge.”
Gabriel narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, but said nothing more on the matter. He
begrudgingly stuffed the purse back into his pants pocket. “So what now?” he sighed.
“Try and find whom he belongs to.”
“What if they did this to him?” Gabriel gestured to the boy feeling uneasy.
“Well, we’ll just have to ask him that, won’t we.”
“I suppose,” Gabriel looked down at his sagging pants, copper colored stains on the
knees. “Now how about those clothes you offered me.”
“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want you getting sick. Then I might have to charge you.”
Timothee rose, throwing Gabriel a grin.
Gabriel mumbled, “No, you wouldn’t,” shaking his head.
Chapter 1
He had no idea what he was to do, a young boy curled up near the wall of a dark alley,
bleeding profusely on the wet cobblestone. His disoriented mind was tormented by vague
recollections. A large room glittering in gold, covered in paintings of biblical scenes, a hall of
mirrors, the clattering and clanking of expensive dish wear, a woman wailing, “No! Don’t take
him, I beg you.”
The trembling boy’s eyes shot open as an intense pain coursed through his temple. He
had not the slightest idea what these sounds or images meant or where they came from. All he
knew was that when they tried coming through, become a tangible memory, the pain that cut
through his skull was a sharpened blade. He wanted to remember, he wanted to know how he
ended up like this but the stabbing in his brain made him rethink those desires. The child groaned
taking his straw like hair in hand and yanking it, hoping the sting of the follicles would numb the
pain of the unmemorable memories.
He watched out of the corner of his light blue eyes as people passed, taking the alley as a
short-cut to get out of the rain. They dashed right by him, either not seeing or pretending they
had not seen him. He wished one of them would stop; he did not want to die alone, his body left
for days to rot until the stench became so strong someone would eventually notice. He was not
ready to die even though it would be so much easier to just let go, let his God take him in his
comforting embrace and lead him to the holy realm above the sky.
He had to find someone, anyone that would help him, so he tried to stand. But that proved
to be a mistake. A sharp, sickening pain shot through his whole body, his vision blurred and he
lost consciousness, falling forwards back to the cobblestone. He lay there, sprawled out, his skin
bare to the falling rain and frigid air, nothing to stop the blood flowing from him.
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself; Gabriel Dumas was driving his horse drawn
cart through a night of chilling wind and stinging rain. Today he almost got caught in another
riot; one of three that day. He tried his best to avoid them, but sometimes people got caught in
the crossfire. There were a few deaths and multiple arrests but each ended quickly. Life for the
people of France had become just like it was before the Revolution; constant rioting, food
rationing, and a government not seeing to the needs of the people. Yet, it was nothing like the
France Gabriel once knew. There was now a revolutionary government in power. The King and
Queen had been beheaded and that had done nothing to quell the royalist revolts, which have
been going on since the royal family was taken from power. They were martyrs, something for
the royalists to fight for. Gabriel had come to the city today to acquire goods not see and hear of
death, although that is all Frenchmen are seeing and hearing of these days.
Gabriel turned his cart down an alleyway. He hoped he would be home before the sun
rose, for he would feel the wrath of his wife, Isabelle, if he was not. She would start by yelling at
him, “I thought you’d been sent to the guillotine or killed in a riot!” She would then make him
feel guilty by telling him how she was up all night worrying, waiting for him to come home.
Then, after her rant and a few slaps with an old rag, she would kiss him and make him breakfast.
These actions always made him laugh. He swore if the guillotine did not do him in, it would be
Isabelle that did.
The horse pulling the cart reared, whinnying in fright. This nearly toppled him from his
seat. Gabriel regained his balance snapping at the large animal “What the devil is wrong with
you Philippe?” The horse brought his front legs back down, hooves clicking on the cobblestone.
The beast then lowered his head, inspecting something in the road. Gabriel narrowed his eyes at
the horse’s action. Grabbing his lantern he hopped down from the cart to investigate.
“What is it boy?” he patted the horse’s side. What he saw when he looked down sent fear
rolling through him. Lying in the alley was a boy his back marred with lash wounds, his face
purple, swollen, and bloody. “Good God almighty,” Gabriel gasped, kneeling to see if the
tattered body held life, red water staining the knees of his pants. His aged hand was unsteadily
brought up to the boy’s nose; he felt warm air brush over his red fingers. Unclasping his cloak,
he threw it around the child, wrapping him tightly in the decaying material. He placed the boy in
the back of the cart, fresh farm equipment and repaired shoes shoved aside. Piled drowned hay
was used as a pillow. Gabriel then reseated himself, pulling out a whip which sent a sharp crack
through the night.
With that Philippe was off galloping through streets and back alleys, most windows
dimly lit by half dead candles. Gabriel peered through the stormy haze looking for their
destination. When he spotted the sign Timothee Toubib: Docteur, he pulled harshly on the reins. As
the cart began to slow he hopped down rushing to gingerly scoop up the child. He pounded on
the door, hoping the doctor was home. The door swung open revealing a man with tangled locks
and dark bags beneath his eyes.
“Who is it? What is it?” he gripped the door frame, his knuckles turning white.
“Timothee it’s me G-Gabriel.”
“Gabriel?” Timothee’s lips pulled back and up reveling uneven teeth “Ha-ha Gabriel, my
old friend how-” he stopped “What’s wrong?” his eyes shifting from the other mans drooped
fetchers to the bundle he clung to.
Gabriel peeled back the cloak to revel the boy’s face, “H-he needs your help.”
Timothee put his hand to the boy’s nose, his eyes widened, “Inside, quickly.”
Both men dashed into the house. Timothee lead Gabriel past a flight of stairs and through
a small living area to the back where a handful of cots were set up. They were yellowed and
some were smeared with deep orange stains. Patched blankets crumpled up on two and others
had used bandages stowed beneath them. All empty. The room smelt of copper, burnt candle wax
and stale vomit. Gabriel fought the urge to cover his nose.
“Jacqueline!” Timothee yelled.
A girl came groggily into the room, rubbing her eyes.
“Yes, uncle” she yawned showing her absent two front teeth.
“I need you to grab bandages, a bowl of water and a cloth, hurry now.”
Her eyes widened and her from tensed, “Y-yes, uncle” she scampered away.
Timothee rolled up his sleeves, grabbing one of the patched blankets to throw over one of
the cots. “Put him here.” He pointed to the cot.
Gabriel did as he was instructed hovering over the boy afterwards. Timothee removed the
boy from the cloak, tossing it aside. He then pulled a knife from his pocket and began to cut the
boys pants. The boy look like a corps on a battle field; bathed in crimson, dirty and face
contorted in fear, fear of not reawaking to golden gates but licking fires. Gabriel tucked a piece
of hair behind the boys ear then ran his hand down the boy’s face.
Timothee sighed, “Gabriel you’re not doing any good being in here, go to the kitchen get
yourself some tea I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Gabriel’s eyes snapped up to meet the others. Timothee’s half laden specks told him he
better leave before he was to be forced out. He nodded moving to the kitchen, the room adjacent
to the miniature hospital. Pouring himself some tea; it was still warm, he sat down at the
splintering table. Taking not a sip from it, he instead chewed at his nails and ran his hand
repeatedly through his graying hair. He let his tea grow cold; his mind racing with prayers for the
boy. “Monsieur Dumas?” a small voice interrupted him Gabriel looked up to see Jacqueline
standing before him, a frayed towel in her petite hands. “My uncle asked me to give this to you.”
she held out the towel.
He accepted the towel, with a nod, “Thank you.” he cleared his throat, as he began to dry
himself.
She chewed on her lip turning as if she was about to leave. Then her eyes widened with
remembrance and she turned back, “Oh, Uncle said you could borrow some of his clothes.” she
blinked wildly snatching up the hem of her dress and twisting it through her fingers.
Seeing this he shot her a forced smile, “Tell your uncle I might just take up that offer,”
his eyes moved from her to the now damp towel, “And thanks again.” he held the towel up.
She let the hem slip through her fingers and her eyes brightened a grin worked its way
onto her lips “You’re welcome! And I will!” She then turned to the counter grabbed a bowl and
left him once more alone with his prayers.
About an hour later, Timothee came to him, wiping his bloody hands on a cloth.
Gabriel swallowed, “Well?”
“I think he’ll survive but you can’t be sure. With wounds like that he….” Timothee
paused, his eyes darting downward. “Would you like to see him?” he threw the bloody cloth on
the counter.
Gabriel nodded and he and Timothee moved to the makeshift hospital. The boy was
propped up by a mound of pillows and wrapped in a blanket, bandages covering his head and
torso. The bandages angel like whiteness was yielding to the hellish red. The pair sat down on
the cot next to the boy’s. “He was given the works.” Timothee sighed.
“Hmm,” Gabriel acknowledge the statement, eyes raking over the child’s milky skin
“Missing the sunlight to it seems.”
“That’s likely from blood loss, but there’s a possibility of that as well.” Timothee rubbed
the back of his neck.
“I thank you for doing this. How much do I owe you?” Gabriel asked, pulling out his
change purse. The bag was not large and was only weighted down by a handful of coins. The
remnants of his shopping earlier, which felt like a life time ago now.
Timothee pushed the purse away, “Nothing.”
“Timothee.” Gabriel chided.
“I insist.”
“You always insist.”
Timothee snickered, “That I do,” he patted Gabriel’s knee. “You weren’t the one in need
of treatment, therefor no charge.”
Gabriel narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, but said nothing more on the matter. He
begrudgingly stuffed the purse back into his pants pocket. “So what now?” he sighed.
“Try and find whom he belongs to.”
“What if they did this to him?” Gabriel gestured to the boy feeling uneasy.
“Well, we’ll just have to ask him that, won’t we.”
“I suppose,” Gabriel looked down at his sagging pants, copper colored stains on the
knees. “Now how about those clothes you offered me.”
“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want you getting sick. Then I might have to charge you.”
Timothee rose, throwing Gabriel a grin.
Gabriel mumbled, “No, you wouldn’t,” shaking his head.
"When Angels Die"
A robust, wrinkled woman sat across the bar from a thin faced, red eyed man with a wiry mustache. The tavern was empty except for this pair and a few upstairs sleeping off their drinks.
“It can’t be true!” The woman screeched.
“It be, heard it from me jailers last night,” The man said, bring his cup up to his lips
“Thanks by the way fer getin’ me outta there.”
“No trouble hon anythin’ fer ya.” She sighed, throwing a wet towel on the counter.
“Promise I’ll pay ya back this time.”
“Ha! I’ll believe it when I feel the weight in my pocket. How much money do ya still owe me in drinks?”
She raised her eyebrow at him.
“More than I’ll see in a lifetime.” He laughed.
The woman shook her head.
“I just can’t believe ‘e’s gone, an’ their truly crowin’ ‘er?”
“After the procession I’d recon, wanna get someon’ on the throne as quickly as possible.”
“Why ‘er?”
“She’s ‘is nextta kin.”
“I know, but is there not anyon’ else, she’s a….”
“I know what she be, don’t have ta tell me.”
He tipped back the rest of his drink.
“I got more royal blood in me than she got, acts more like ‘er wretched whore of a mother than anythin’,”
The man grunted holding out his empty cup, she refilled it begrudgingly.
“But by God ‘er brother, fairest king we’ve ‘ad in a long time.”
She smiled, pouring herself a cup of deep red liquid.
“Amen!”
He raised his cup, taking a swig.
“Wish I’d been born a princess or noble.”
“One can only wish the Lord picks the best fer those kinda things.”
“Hmm between ya an’ me I think the Devils picked our new queen.” She whispered.
“The Devil is sometimes quicker than the Lord.”
“Gods taken our angel ‘an the Devils gladly given us a demon!” She exclaimed.
There was a pause, the man examined his cup.
“Ta the ruin o’ the kingdom.” He said, with a sad smile.
“Ta the ruin of the kingdom.” She echoed.
They smashed their cups together splashing some of the red liquid on the counter.
“Sorry ‘bout that mum.” He apologized.
“Oh, it’s alright.”
She cleaned off the counter with the wet towel; a bell began to toll outside.
“There it be.” He sighed, a frown shadowing his face.
The pair left their places at the bar, walking to the front door. Outside there were armed guards leading a black cart, pulled by two muddy white horses. The carts edges were covered in flowers of blue and white. In the center was a human shaped mound covered by a royal blue sheet, embroidered with a golden eagle in flight a crown atop its head. Behind the cart were more armed guards surrounding a woman. Her dirty blond hair pinned back in a tight bun where a thin black veil was placed. She had her silver eyes cast down at her spider like hands. Her curves were accented by a long black dress which dragged along the wet coble as she walked. Behind her was a group of men and women dressed in silks of black, deep red or dark blue and powdered wigs.
“I need another drink.”
“And I.”
The two mumbled as the procession passed.
A robust, wrinkled woman sat across the bar from a thin faced, red eyed man with a wiry mustache. The tavern was empty except for this pair and a few upstairs sleeping off their drinks.
“It can’t be true!” The woman screeched.
“It be, heard it from me jailers last night,” The man said, bring his cup up to his lips
“Thanks by the way fer getin’ me outta there.”
“No trouble hon anythin’ fer ya.” She sighed, throwing a wet towel on the counter.
“Promise I’ll pay ya back this time.”
“Ha! I’ll believe it when I feel the weight in my pocket. How much money do ya still owe me in drinks?”
She raised her eyebrow at him.
“More than I’ll see in a lifetime.” He laughed.
The woman shook her head.
“I just can’t believe ‘e’s gone, an’ their truly crowin’ ‘er?”
“After the procession I’d recon, wanna get someon’ on the throne as quickly as possible.”
“Why ‘er?”
“She’s ‘is nextta kin.”
“I know, but is there not anyon’ else, she’s a….”
“I know what she be, don’t have ta tell me.”
He tipped back the rest of his drink.
“I got more royal blood in me than she got, acts more like ‘er wretched whore of a mother than anythin’,”
The man grunted holding out his empty cup, she refilled it begrudgingly.
“But by God ‘er brother, fairest king we’ve ‘ad in a long time.”
She smiled, pouring herself a cup of deep red liquid.
“Amen!”
He raised his cup, taking a swig.
“Wish I’d been born a princess or noble.”
“One can only wish the Lord picks the best fer those kinda things.”
“Hmm between ya an’ me I think the Devils picked our new queen.” She whispered.
“The Devil is sometimes quicker than the Lord.”
“Gods taken our angel ‘an the Devils gladly given us a demon!” She exclaimed.
There was a pause, the man examined his cup.
“Ta the ruin o’ the kingdom.” He said, with a sad smile.
“Ta the ruin of the kingdom.” She echoed.
They smashed their cups together splashing some of the red liquid on the counter.
“Sorry ‘bout that mum.” He apologized.
“Oh, it’s alright.”
She cleaned off the counter with the wet towel; a bell began to toll outside.
“There it be.” He sighed, a frown shadowing his face.
The pair left their places at the bar, walking to the front door. Outside there were armed guards leading a black cart, pulled by two muddy white horses. The carts edges were covered in flowers of blue and white. In the center was a human shaped mound covered by a royal blue sheet, embroidered with a golden eagle in flight a crown atop its head. Behind the cart were more armed guards surrounding a woman. Her dirty blond hair pinned back in a tight bun where a thin black veil was placed. She had her silver eyes cast down at her spider like hands. Her curves were accented by a long black dress which dragged along the wet coble as she walked. Behind her was a group of men and women dressed in silks of black, deep red or dark blue and powdered wigs.
“I need another drink.”
“And I.”
The two mumbled as the procession passed.