The Sinner's Bible: A Novella (The Natalie Brandon Thrillers) Page 4

  A thumping sound clacked behind the glove box.

  “Vacuum connection,” Jacob said, frowning. “Maybe it’s leaking.”

  “I thought you said it was the actuator something or other.”

  “I don’t know what it is. All I know is it takes money to fix.”

  He sighed. “One more month,” he said. “Just hang on one more month.”

  Chapter Eight

  June 30, 1670

  Saint-Cloud, France

  Her hands were cold. Not five minutes after the last breath left her body, Henriette’s hands felt like the frozen skin on the Grand Canal in winter. Philippe, duc d’Orléans, curled his long fingers around her palm. He couldn’t bear to look at her face.

  “Je suis désolé,” he whispered. “You know everything now.”

  A warm hand fell on his shoulder and he shook it off. His brother, the king, could go anywhere he pleased, even places he was not wanted. “Get out,” Philippe growled.

  “Brother, you’re upset,” Louis said. “Let me—”

  “Get out!” he roared. “For one moment, let me be alone with her.”

  Louis’s dark eyes narrowed. “So you can pretend you were a good husband to her? So you can pretend you loved her?” The king shook his head. “You never loved her.”

  “I did,” he said. “In my own way.”

  “Your way would have killed her years ago,” Louis hissed. “She would have been dead of a broken heart instead of…” The king stopped.

  Philippe knew what he was thinking.

  Henriette was twenty-six. There was no good reason for her to have fallen, shrieking in agony, onto the kitchen floor. Especially not a mere thirty days after delivering the requirements of Louis’s secret treaty to her brother in England—a treaty that required King Charles II, defender of the Anglican faith, to convert to Catholicism.

  That was pure Louis, playing God even among his fellow sovereigns.

  Philippe turned away from his brother, back to the body on the bed. Henriette’s cheeks were hollow, her color vanished. She was made of wax. She might wake at any minute and look upon him with those eyes, the dark sloe eyes of her mother. “Find out who has done this,” he said. “Since you are the one who killed her.”

  He heard the rustle of stiff brocade as Louis straightened. “I did no such thing. I asked something of her, and she granted it to me.”

  “It was dangerous and you knew it.”

  “She did it out of love for me.”

  “As you knew she would! You used her, brother, far more unkindly than ever I did.”

  “I did not cause her death. I swear it.”

  “Then that family is cursed!” Philippe cried. “There is no other explanation for it. Her father, her grandfather, her great-grandmother…something terrible floods their veins. My poor daughters, how I fear for them!”

  “They have our blood, too,” Louis said. “They will escape. I swear it.”

  “Go,” Philippe said. “Now.”

  “You cannot—”

  Philippe rose to his feet. “If you do not leave this room, so help me, I will beat you into the floor the way I did when we were under our mother’s skirts. Let us see whose blood is anointed and whose is not when they are mingled on the floor together. Can you tell the difference, brother?”

  Louis blinked. His gaze flickered over Philippe’s shoulder, to Henriette’s purpled face and lips. “You are beside yourself with grief. At any other time, brother, that statement would amount to treason.”

  I don’t care, Philippe thought, turning his back and kneeling beside the bed. It had been wrong of Louis to send a sister-in-law on a mission more suited to diplomats and spies. His brother had always cared more for glory than for the women he welcomed into his bed.

  He waited for the echoes of Louis’s footsteps to die.

  “Whose betrayal cut you deeper?” he asked. Was it his own, conducted with the Chevalier de Lorraine, or Louis’s, using her for political gain at the potential cost of her life? “I loved you as best I could.”

  He reached once more for Henriette’s cold hand. They had been lovers, as required of a man and wife joined in the sacrament of marriage. She had given him two pretty daughters, whose tiny flailing hands made him happier than he had imagined a child ever could. But their hearts belonged to others—hers to his brother, and his to the Chevalier. If anyone was to blame, it was his mother, who had forbidden Louis to marry Henriette, the penniless daughter of a murdered king.

  “Would you have been happy?” he asked. “With my brother?”

  He waited for Henriette’s ghost to answer, but it never happened. She would not speak to him. Perhaps she could not. They had broken commandments, all three of them—coveting a brother’s wife, adultery, sodomy. If God were real, and if He had watched them lie and steal and hurt each other, perhaps they were all bound for hell.

  His gaze fell on the table beside her bed. A small Bible lay next to a pitcher of water and a handkerchief stained with gore so dark it looked like tar. “You have no need of this now,” he said, reaching for the Bible.

  His fingers itched to throw it into the fire.

  God’s word was the source of all misery for those like him.

  A red ribbon marked a page near the beginning. He let the book fall open in his hand, wondering which passage Henriette had chosen to read as she’d choked on her own blood and foaming bile. The pages were thin and brown, with a red line marking the left-hand margin of the verses. The type had bled and faded over time.

  Like we all have, he thought.

  His English was not good, but the words on that particular page were simple enough for him to translate. She had marked the page with the Ten Commandments. His eye fell upon a particular verse:

  12 Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy dayes may bee long vpon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.

  Philippe curled his lip. His father’s death had turned his brother into a king, into a consecrated god among men who never let him forget his own inferiority. His mother had done everything possible to make him see he was nothing in comparison to her beloved Louis. Dressing him in skirts, calling him her little girl, anything to keep him from realizing who he was and what he might be—the king, if Louis were to die. She would have sacrificed his life in a heartbeat if it ensured the safety of her firstborn. He might love her, but he could not honor her.

  He forced his eyes down the page.

  13 Thou fhalt not kill.

  His brother, the god-king, had sent him into battle where he had lost count of the number of Spaniards he killed. Did it still count, he wondered, when those deaths had been required for the glory of a king? Would God remember that when it was his time to be judged?

  He looked to the next commandment.

  14 Thou fhalt commit adultery.

  Jesus Christ almighty, he thought. What sort of God did those Anglicans pray to? No wonder Henriette had kept this with her, despite remaining a Catholic. It was the only Bible on the face of the Earth that would tell her to give into her heart’s desire, leading her straight to his brother’s bed.

  He closed the Bible, leaving the red ribbon where it lay.

  He wanted no more part of it, of her, of his brother, of himself. The only comfort he could imagine was in the arms of the Chevalier. But first, he would send this abomination of a book back to that cursed family. Let it leave France’s shore and return to the heretics who had broken from the True Faith. Let it be on their heads whatever happened next.

  Chapter Nine

  March 2014

  San Francisco, California

  Natalie stared at the deck of index cards she’d written for Beth’s presentation that evening. Crawford had given Beth a 20-minute slot, which was nowhere near enough time to explain how things had gotten so fucked up in England in the 17th century.<
br />
  I can sum it up, Belial said. Three little words.

  “Bad hair day?”

  The Roundheads discouraged all forms of personal vanity.

  “They discouraged Charles I’s head from being attached to his shoulders. Whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”

  You tell me, little one, Belial said. Suddenly, the scars on her arms began to itch.

  “That was your fault and you know it.”

  At least the Roundheads took responsibility for their actions.

  “Take responsibility for this.” She reached for a pair of sharp black scissors on Beth’s desk.

  Would you rather I changed the subject?

  “More than anything.”

  Shall we talk about the Stuart curse? This book is part of it.

  “I don’t care.”

  A curse is a living thing. Like a virus searching for a host.

  “You would know.”

  I gave you time, and you refused to listen. We cannot wait any longer.

  “I promised Beth. No curse.”

  The angel flicked her with a wing and pain sizzled across her skull. I’m trying to protect you.

  “Could have fooled me.” She narrowed her eyes in a squint, looking for her army-green messenger bag. She spotted it hanging on Beth’s coat rack. Inside the bag was a bottle of vodka.

  There are things no one knows about this book. If your sister revealed them, the world would listen. Crawford would listen. Isn’t that what you want for her?

  “Not like this.”

  She got up slowly and reached for her bag. A flash of memory lit up the blackness behind her eyes—a man with white hair, holding up a tarnished brass key. She had already discovered something that would make Beth untouchable, something far beyond Crawford’s pay grade. But they were sworn to secrecy, for their own safety if nothing else.

  Why won’t you let me give you what you want?

  “Because I promised Beth.”

  What if she never has this opportunity again?

  “Maybe it’s not the opportunity that’s the problem. Maybe it’s me.” Beth had applied for the position of dean twice already. Crawford ignored her both times, even though she was the most qualified candidate.

  Perhaps it is, little one.

  “What have I ever done to Crawford? Why would he punish Beth because of me?”

  You frighten him. You frighten everyone.

  “I don’t mean to.”

  It is the way God created you.

  “Then change it,” she whispered, crushing the bag to her chest. “Change me into someone better.”

  But I love you as you are.

  “I want to be someone better! Why can’t you do that for me?”

  We don’t have time for this, the angel said. We must talk about—

  “No.” She heaved the bag strap over her head. “I’m tired of being someone’s problem.”

  You’ll be sorry, the angel said.

  She thought of everything Beth had sacrificed to help her. The hours of behavioral therapy, the cooking, the cleaning, the crying…and she did it all even though there was no happy ending for them. Belial couldn’t be stopped. He would always be there inside her, waiting to destroy what she loved most. “I already am.”

  She ran out of Beth’s office, down the hall to the bathroom. If she drank herself into a stupor, it had to be there, not in Beth’s office. She could at least keep Crawford from having one more reason to hate her.

  She pushed open the bathroom door and perched on the toilet in an empty stall. Her fingers unlatched the flap of her bag and dug inside for the familiar plastic shape. Belial sighed when the first gulp of vodka hit her throat.

  Not too much, he said. Please.

  “Suck ethanol,” she said, raising the bottle to her lips once more.

  §

  Three hours later

  NATALIE UNLOCKED BETH'S office door and stumbled through it, flinging out her right hand to flip the light switches. Something pink on the floor caught her eye and she bent over.

  It was a message slip, folded in half, with the initials B.B. jotted on top.

  She picked it up and took it to her desk. It was smaller than Beth’s, with none of the framed diplomas behind it. The only decoration she had was a framed photo of herself and Beth as girls. Beth smiled and pointed at the enormous gap where her two front teeth used to be. She looked like a ghost, thanks to her pale blue eyes. They had never photographed well—too light, without enough contrast next to her skin.

  She sank slowly into her chair, testing her vision.

  Nothing was spinning. Things were still a little blurry, though, as if she were nearsighted.

  She unfolded the message slip and blinked, turning it upside down and holding it at arm’s length. There was no doubt as to the sender. Across the top, a row of bold black letters proclaimed FROM THE DESK OF CHANCELLOR CRAWFORD.

  Half an hour later, she had realized two things: Crawford definitely hated her, and he also wrote all his personal memos in cuneiform with his toes. Drunk or not, the man’s handwriting was the worst she’d ever seen.

  There was only one appropriate response, both to the indecipherable message and its contents. She folded the slip of paper in half, then used her fingernail to score the back corners into a diagonal. A few more creases, and the message slip’s black headline had disappeared.

  She picked up the paper airplane and aimed it at the trash can across the room. The plane undershot the target, nose-diving into the floor.

  Mayday, Belial muttered.

  She glanced at the clock. Three hours and five minutes—that’s how much oblivion eight gulps of vodka had bought her. “Go away,” she said. “You ruin everything.”

  It’s coming, the angel said.

  “I don’t care.”

  Beth was due back from her lecture any minute. They were supposed to go through her notes for the Sinners’ Bible talk, then walk over to the rare book room together. Beth’s nerves still took hold of her every time she spoke in public. She needed to be in the venue as early as possible to calm herself down and find every available restroom. Although she didn’t throw up before student lectures anymore, Professor Elizabeth Brandon still hurled every time she presented before her peers.

  Beth was the best in the world at doing what scared her most.

  And all I do is bring her down, she thought, glaring at the pink paper airplane beside the trash can. She reached into her pocket and fumbled for a familiar silver square.

  I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Belial said.

  “You’re not me.”

  Oh, but I am, little one.

  She flicked the lighter into life. A yellow-orange flame swayed like a belly dancer, and she held it next to her hand.

  Your sister is nervous enough. You won’t help her by filling her office with the scent of burning flesh.

  She moved the lighter closer to her head.

  Or hair.

  “Fine.” She slid to the floor and crawled to the paper airplane. One flick of the lighter, and a topaz flame lit up the airplane’s tail. “No more parachutes,” she said, turning the plane nose-down.

  Suddenly, she heard the clacking of Beth’s heels in the hallway. The staccato thump of expensive Italian leather was accompanied by a baritone voice she recognized with a wave of nausea. “Son of a bitch,” she said, waving the burning paper in the air. “What the hell is Crawford doing here?”

  Talking about you, Belial said.

  She blew out the flame, dropped the burned plane on Beth’s desk, and lunged for the door of the adjoining conference room. She stumbled over the laces of her boots, but got the door shut a split second before Beth slid her key into the lock.

  Her breath fogged the frosted window in the conference room door. She san
k to her knees and held onto the doorknob for support. Through the blurred glass, she could see her sister’s vibrant colors—bright blue suit, red blouse, platinum blond hair. Beth opened the door and stood aside, as if she were a stewardess.

  Crawford followed. The silver rims of his glasses stood out against his black skin, echoing the burst of gray at his temples. He walked with his hands folded behind his back. Only assholes and supervillains walk with their hands folded behind their back, she thought.

  Crawford sniffed the air. “Have you been smoking in here, Ms. Brandon? That’s a direct violation of both state and university policy.”

  “I don’t—” Then Beth’s gaze landed on the charred paper airplane, a wisp of smoke curling above its tail. She flung out her arms and braced them against the desk to hide it. “What did you want to talk to me about, sir?”

  “I thought my message made that obvious.”

  “I was hoping you could clarify the…um…action item.”

  “It’s your research assistant.”

  “You mean my sister.”

  “In the capacity for which I pay her, she is your research assistant.”

  “Sir?”

  “She was seen drinking in the women’s bathroom, Ms. Brandon. A student called the medical center to report her. I believe the words ‘more than Sigma Alpha Epsilon’ were used.”

  Natalie hung her head. I’m sorry, she mouthed.

  “I’ll talk to her, sir,” Beth said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I take my job seriously, Ms. Brandon. One of my responsibilities is providing role models for our students. If a member of our staff can’t live up to that expectation, I have no choice but to fire them.”

  “I said it won’t happen again.”

  Beth, stop, she thought. You’ll only make it worse.

  “If she causes a disruption again, she’ll be fired without a reference, referred to campus police, and you will take an unpaid leave of absence. My university is not a charity.”

  “I agree completely,” Beth said. “I couldn’t have put the Sinners’ Bible presentation together on such short notice without her. Natalie is the best research assistant I’ve ever had.”