Page 66 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
Auden’s stare drops down to Saint’s mouth, where he’s pulling nervously at his lip piercing, and there’s that hungry glint to his eyes again, that greedy part of his mouth, like he’s already imagining gobbling St. Sebastian up.
And just like that, St. Sebastian is counting the seconds, trying to earn more of these moments for himself, these moments of being Auden’s prey. One two three four . . .
“Do you want to know?” Auden asks, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of St. Sebastian’s neck, his thumb running possessive lines along Saint’s jaw. “Do you want to know why I wrote it?”
“Yes,” St. Sebastian says. Pleads. “Yes, I want to know, I’ve been wanting to know since you drew it on my skin.”
Auden leans down so that his mouth is nearly touching Saint’s—his breath warms Saint’s lips.
“Well . . . ”
“Yes?” Saint whispers.
“Are you sure? Really sure?” Auden punctuates his question with a little lick at Saint’s lower lip and Saint practically buckles against him, only held steady by the large hand still cupping his neck.
“Yes, goddammit,” St. Sebastian says. “Tell me!”
He should have seen it coming, should have seen the cruel twinkle in those hazel eyes.
“Hmmm. Now that I think about it . . . maybe I’ll tell you on Friday night.”
“What?” St. Sebastian bleats.
“Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Come to us on Friday night, and I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, piss off!” St. Sebastian growls, yanking himself away to the sound of Auden’s laughter. His happy, sadistic laughter. “I’m glad this amuses you, you fucking tease.”
At that, Auden’s laughter fades and he gives St. Sebastian a look that feels like a warning. “You’ve been the tease, St. Sebastian Martinez,” he says. “But I think now, after all these years, is finally the time I’ll catch you.”
And Saint’s counting changes, no longer one two three four.
But Auden Auden Auden Auden.
Chapter 19
Becket
Equinox
* * *
The morning before the equinox, Father Becket Hess says his prayers and goes for a run, a long one over the trails, running through the trees as the fog gradually stirs into a more civilized kind of drizzle, breaking through the woods and into open moorland just as the sun makes a fretful sort of appearance between the clouds. From up on Riddon Ridge he looks down into the green dip below, still swathed in stubborn fog, and listens to the sheep complain about whatever they complain about, and catches his breath in long, sawing inhales.
He’s wet and tired and it’ll be another wet and tiring three miles back, but he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t crave the discomfort like he might have just a couple months ago. He doesn’t require the punishment or the misery or the pain. Extra surprising, given that he’s more than broken his vows now, he’s done more than kissing or voyeuring. He’s had his cock between Proserpina’s succulent lips, he’s spilled against her tongue, he’s had his fingers buried in her soft, wet cunt. It’s only happened the one time because he’s felt too pensive and too shy to ask Proserpina to do it again—but he will do it again, he knows that much.
At any other time in his life, he might have been so consumed with his own fallibility and his own sinfulness that no amount of deprivation or flogging would help ease the feelings of unworthiness or guilt, but he’s not consumed with this right now, he’s not driven to atone.
If he were being very brave and very hopeful, he might say that the zeal—the ever-burning hunger he has for the presence of God—has eased since Imbolc. Has lightened enough that he finds himself in patterns of ordinary, mundane happiness. Enjoying meals. Sleeping the whole night through. Praying without tears or the urge to mortify his flesh.
Which is not to say that his faith has lessened, nor his devotion—never that. Only that he’s finally managed what his confessor has been steering him toward for the last year.
Peace.
And he has the thorn chapel to thank.
The day will be a busy one—he has an appointment with someone from the Blackcombe Historical Society over something he thinks Poe will be interested in, and a Lenten fish dinner in the small meeting room to the side of the church after, and then preparing for the equinox sunrise, which will probably involve some Beltane planning too. Poe texted the group thread just yesterday to say that she’s read both the Dartham account and the Record’s section on Beltane several times now, and she thinks she has a rough idea now of what the ceremony entails.
Busy piled on top of busy on top of busy.
