The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  He snarled. “You dare challenge me? As your husband, it is both my right and my duty to discipline you with the flat of my hand!”

  So it was. Her ribs and her memory recalled the times he had preferred to use his fists, but she bit her tongue. Tears gathered beneath her lashes instead.

  “Is it not through forgiveness,” he said, now almost soothing, “that I made you matron of my shop? Many men warned me and advised me to disown you instead. I did not. I gave you my trust and made you my business partner.”

  “Then why will you not trust me as your life partner?” Hot droplets fell down her burning face. “Do you not think I would rather be a mother than a matron? A wife rather than a manager?”

  At this, he went oddly calm.

  “Then why will you not be one?” His voice sounded like the still before a murderous storm. “Why do you seek the embrace of other men? Is it because six years have gone since you were last with child? Do you believe that because they cannot get you pregnant, none will be the wiser?”

  Mercedes balled her fists until her nails cut the skin of her palm. “You insult me,” she hissed through her tears. “Me and our children! You planted each one of them in my womb. And if God insists that another life should waste away inside my ripped-up womb, that baby too would be yours.”

  His face contorted in disgust and heartache. “You vile, vile serpent!” His hand hit her cheekbone time and again, each strike punctuating his revulsion. “I defended you when the police came! I told them you would never harm our babies! But they were right, weren’t they? It’s your fault they are dead. It’s your fault!”

  His hand came down twice more, both blows missing her head and landing on her shoulder. Mercedes cringed, but they lost their strength with every count. The third time he made to raise his arm, it slowed and hovered over her until, ultimately, he faltered.

  The lamp in his other hand began to slip from his fingers. Without conscious thought, Mercedes caught it and closed his trembling grip around the base.

  Eric stared at their joint hands. “Why...” His breathing was laboured. “Why...?”

  She made no reply. Her wet face hurt, the imprints of his fingers still lingered on her arm, and her heart writhed in her chest as her mind repeated all the things he had said. Still, through the pain, reason and a lifetime’s habit warned her of the danger of an unsteady lamp. She slowly took it from his shaking hand.

  “M—Mercedes?”

  After a moment’s hesitation she met his gaze. In the lamplight, his bloodshot eyes shone with tears of his own.

  “Did you?”

  “No. I never did any of the things you accuse me of.” She swallowed the secrets embedded in that truth. So many secrets. For his sake as well as her own. “I need to freshen up.”

  She turned to leave, but Eric took hold of both her shoulders. She froze in anticipation of another blow, but none came.

  “I didn’t want to,” he began, his voice wrought. “I didn’t want to do this to you, but I had to be certain you spoke the truth.” He pulled her close despite her passive resistance. “I miss them. Danielle, the boys...” His tears rubbed off on her cheek, mingling with hers. “So cruel, the way we lost them. Too cruel even to be a test of faith.”

  Mercedes stood motionless. She knew the argument. The police had made it, too, when they had wanted to arrest her on four counts of infanticide. “They did not convict me,” she said mechanically.

  “I know, ma mie.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I know.”

  Of course he did. The police had dropped the charges before she was brought to court. Eric had made sure of that. He had saved her. All the same, she never did ask him why the police had come to investigate her miscarriages in the first place.

  His hand cupped the back of her head and he pressed a kiss to her temple. Mercedes held her breath. He planted another kiss on her jaw, and then in the hollow beneath. She tensed further. His touches were unwelcome, but she could not bring herself to turn away from his attempt at an apology.

  Ever since they had buried the first of those too-small caskets, Eric had sought refuge in hurting her whenever his pain became too much to bear. She endured his temper, because no matter how mundane or irrelevant his reason to start hitting her, in the end it was because he, too, had lost his three children. Although he rarely acknowledged they had ever existed, the pain of their absence was not exclusively hers. He was their father. He was entitled to grieve for them, too. She, she could see Danielle. That meagre consolation hardly made up for not being able to kiss her daughter’s hair or cradle her at night, but Eric had nothing, not even an image or a memory other than his wife’s screams and the blood-soaked sheets. The babies he had never seen. Even Danielle, their beautiful little girl who had died at birth, had been taken away without Eric ever setting eyes on her. The hole in his heart must be as big as the one that had threatened to tear hers to shreds. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way. She had more than once contemplated taking her own life; Eric took his pain out on others. He had raised his hand to the shop staff, his family, but usually to her. What else could he turn to? Their parish priest had no better counsel than to keep trying to conceive and rely on God.

  His kisses grew more intense. He nipped at her neck, agitating her bruised skin. She made no sound and only focused on not dropping the lamp as he began to grope her.

  “You are beautiful,” he muttered into her ear. “A man must be blind not to recognise that. I saw how that inspector gazed at you.”

  Mercedes braced herself against the wall as he trailed his lips over her clavicle.

  “A man’s look is not the same as me lying with him,” she said. “When will you accept that I am faithful?”

  “Hmmn, I do not want to lose you too, ma mie. Not to another, not to circumstance or disease. I swore to protect you and I will, even if it is against yourself.”

  Mercedes thought of Anne, of her friend’s warnings. Belligerent demands and caring protectiveness did not necessarily spring from a common source, but she was convinced Eric acted out of love. Ten years ago, marriage and their hope to start a family had bound them. Now they were bound still, by business and a mutual loneliness that came close enough to love to go by that name. She gave it no second thought. Without prompting, her free hand found his waist and travelled up in the same rhythm of Eric’s hands roaming her back. Comfort, by any other name.

  She started with a shock when over his shoulder, she saw their little girl standing where the opposite wall should be.

  You wouldn’t have to miss me if you would let me stay.

  “Oh, ma petite. I wish I could,” she mouthed, hoping the movement of her jaw went unnoticed to Eric. “But papa would miss you as much as ever, and like you, he deserves peace. You both do.” Whatever the cost to herself.

  Danielle answered with a frown of evident anger. Then she disappeared, and Mercedes became once more acutely aware of Eric’s intentions.

  “Not here,” she whispered when he pulled at the folds of her skirt.

  He groaned into her shoulder, but let go of the cloth and pushed himself away from her. “Dinner?” he grunted. “If Gagnon has indeed prepared it.”

  “Not yet. First I need to...” She gestured at her swollen face. “I will speak with Gagnon about her lapses another time.” She shot him a harrowed glance. “With your permission, naturally.”

  Eric nodded slowly. “You have it. You have more important duties to attend to tonight, I assure you.”

  Authority re-established, he took the lamp back and led the way up to the flat. As she followed him, Mercedes felt a pang of shame that others would see her in this state. Of course those others were only servants, all of whom had been employed long enough to be aware of their master’s tantrums. At times they suffered them the same way she did.

  Fixing her appearance required effort that Mercedes didn’t want to muster. She was exhausted and Amélie’s round eyes staring at her in wordless horror while the girl helped h
er change did nothing for her shame. Removing the torn chemise meant undressing almost completely and in light of what lay in store for the rest of the evening, it wasn’t worth the effort to get dressed again just for dinner. Mercedes regarded the corset her maid held up for her with disgust.

  “I think I shall skip dinner,” she said. Her stomach rumbled and she felt faint – she never did get around to having breakfast this morning – but the thought of food made her nauseous. “Tell Gagnon I said to pack up my serving for you to take to your room.”

  The crooked girl lowered the corset. Her gaze flitted from the floor to Mercedes and back again.

  “But madame, you must eat, too? Shall I bring you a bowl of soup?”

  Mercedes opened her mouth to decline, but reconsidered. She had drunk little and eaten nothing all day. Knowing what Eric had set his mind to, depriving herself of sustenance would make his advances tonight harder to bear.

  “Well, if I’m going to have soup, I might as well have the rest of the meal.”

  Amélie curved her lips into a lopsided smile. “Yes, madame. I’ll not pull the laces of your corset too tight. Do you want your make-up?”

  Mercedes regarded herself in the dresser’s mirror. By all appearances, the bruises on her neck had spread up to her left cheek like a sore rash. “No, not tonight.” Come morning she would hide the marks, but for now, she would let him see what he had done.

  Over dinner, she forced herself to eat. The first bites were a struggle, but every subsequent mouthful went down easier than the previous. All the while, she regarded Eric across the table. She could tell he took note of the marks he had left, but he showed no remorse. Perhaps his more carnal desire drowned it out. The heat of his blood was obvious even without her senses detecting the passion burning in him. Tonight would not be over soon, she suspected, so when Gagnon offered sweet pastries after their meal, she ate two to ensure she would be awake for a while yet. If she drifted off before Eric was satisfied, morning would see the right side of her face swollen, too.

  Chapter X

  Hours later, Mercedes lay on her back on the bed, the blankets haphazardly pulled over her naked body. The lamp on Eric’s nightstand had run out of oil soon after his third climax had left him limp and drowsy. At the end, having spent himself twice already, he had had no stamina left to be harsh. His touches had been gentle by then, almost caring. A twisted reflection of their skewed love.

  Her pelvis throbbed, her flesh sore and swollen after his endless pounding. Beside her, Eric’s wheezing snores grated like nails on glass. His every breath set her hair on end, but that wasn’t what kept her staring into the darkness of the bedroom.

  A nightgown. Eric had taken her dignity, but she had enough left to feel exposed without one. However, covering herself required her to get up and walk to the dresser where Amélie had left her folded nightgown.

  And then there was the necessity of making herself a cup of tea.

  She rolled onto her side, but that was as far as she got. Her eyes, her mind, her body; everything felt sluggish and heavy.

  Why should she bother with the infusion, really? If she did beget a child after this night, Eric might take that as proof of her loyalty. For as long as it lasted, of course. In four or five months, she would only lose the baby again. Maybe herself, too, if she lost enough blood this time.

  Teetering on the edge of a dream, Mercedes remembered how one day an older woman had found her wandering the Cité in a daze. When Anne had taken her hand, she had been contemplating seeking salvation in the river instead of Notre Dame. What if she hadn’t listened to the kindness of a stranger? What if she had jumped? The river flowed fast, its water cold. So cold...

  A shiver woke her from her reverie. Every inch of her naked skin was covered in goose bumps. She huddled deeper under the covers and berated herself. She had seen too many tormented ghosts to honestly believe that suicide could be a solution. Death exchanged one existence for another, but the troubles remained the same.

  Moreover, Eric would be devastated if he lost her. Regardless of what he put her through, he did care. Watching from the afterlife how his grief consumed him would hurt her no less than his beatings.

  So she dangled her legs off the mattress, determined to make it to the dresser and then to the kitchen. But the night air outside the bed curtains stung with the first chill of autumn. Mercedes curled up between the sheets again. Cowardice, perhaps, but the uninviting atmosphere made her too morose to worry about the consequences of inaction. Even before Anne’s medicine, she hadn’t conceived every time Eric had come to her. That new batch of tea leaves would still be in its tin come morning.

  Only come morning, she would not have the kitchen to herself. At night the servants were in their own rooms upstairs, separated by the safe distance of the calling cord. If she waited until first light, Gagnon would be preparing breakfast on the same stove Mercedes needed to boil the water. A servant would never ask after whatever their mistress did not explain, but while the old housekeeper was simple, she was not blind.

  Could she risk that? Eric hadn’t been bluffing when he promised to confine her to the house. If she had miscalculated her chances and required stronger medicine after all, she would have no way of contacting Anne to obtain it.

  Mercedes groaned under her breath, but abandoned the warmth of her blankets. She tiptoed to the dresser and hastily slipped into her nightgown. The cool fabric caught a little on its way down her hips, much like the insides of her thighs stuck together in a way that didn’t bear thinking about. A good rub with a wet rag was a great deal more necessary than she would like.

  In the silence of the flat she grew aware of various unseen presences around her. A more purposeful check confirmed that her cleaning routine the other day had not made a lasting impression on her unwanted guests. If anything, she sensed more of them than ever. The ghosts’ fear, strong and pungent, laced the air and coated her tongue with a sharp, sour taste. She raised her mental shield the instant they sensed she was aware of them, but the franticness she expected failed to manifest. Her attention was on them, but theirs did not turn on her.

  This should have been a welcome change, yet it only unsettled her. Apart from their numbers, the crowd of ghosts was much the same as she had grown accustomed to, but the intensity with which they stared at something close by sent shivers down her spine.

  Instinctively Mercedes thought of her daughter. She could tell Danielle was near, but the girl didn’t answer. Her innards turned to ice.

  “Is—is it him?” she whispered, her whole being preparing to fight a battle she couldn’t win.

  The ghosts were too preoccupied to respond beyond a general consensus of negation. Their fear was not for whatever had drawn them here.

  Drawing an audible gasp of relief, Mercedes continued her way to the kitchen. With every step she seemed to be pushing her way through an invisible throng. The focal point of the ghosts lay in this very direction, and she also sensed Danielle there. Whatever had captivated them, they were running to it, not from it. In this, she found the courage to glimpse beyond the walls and explore the source of this silent commotion.

  Immense power filled her reaching mind. Instinctively she pulled away, but calmed when peaceful warmth followed. While her eyes met the darkness of the unlit house, her mind saw the bright light shining on the other side of the kitchen door. A sensation danced around her, not unlike the heightened energy when she had read Anne’s cards today. She sighed with delight. Safety, comfort and vigour for the lost and the weary – it was what the energy promised, but also what it consisted of. Like the angels in Notre Dame and Danielle’s milk-and-honey presence. Eager for both, Mercedes opened the door and stepped inside.

  In the middle of the kitchen stood a man. The wooden table poked through him, yet he was clearer than the curtainless window and the cold stove. Mercedes stared, agape. He seemed so real, with his groomed hair and beige day suit. But real men did not shine like a summer day, bright and golden
and warm.

  Having noticed her arrival, the man’s eyes wrinkled as he smiled at her before stooping a little and continuing his wordless conversation with two children standing before him. One was the sodden shape of Antoine. The other—

  “Danielle!”

  At her cry, all three shifted their attention to her. In that instant, Mercedes recognised the man as the angel who had heeded her pleas in the cathedral; the one who had promised to care for Danielle.

  She will be safe, the angel said.

  He offered his hands to the children. Antoine looked at Danielle, and Danielle in turn glanced over her shoulder, to where her mother stood nailed to the floor.

  As you wish it, Maman, the little girl pouted.

  Conscious thought ceased. Mercedes watched, mortified, as Antoine reached out for the angel’s embrace. His little hand sank away in the massive palm and the golden glow extended around him. Then the boy held out his other hand for Danielle.

  Mercedes had gone numb in mind and body. She trembled despite the warmth that emanated from the angel. “Let the little children come to me,” her quivering voice recited mechanically, “and do not...do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God... belongs... belongs... to such as them.”

  The angel smiled again. So it shall be.

  “No!”

  Her shriek echoed through the house. Her arm lashed out as her mind split the space between him and Danielle with a solid wall of willpower. Their confusion tore through her, but she gathered Danielle’s presence to her while simultaneously rounding on the angel.

  “Get out,” she screamed with every bit of conviction she possessed. “Get out! Stay away from my daughter!” She pushed him back, towards the wall. As he backed away, she ran into the kitchen table. Ignoring the bump and the table legs screeching on the tiles, she grabbed the angel as if the lapels of his tailcoat were tangible. A muddled ‘but you asked’ flitted across her mind.

  “Send me to Hell for my selfishness, but I will not lose her again.” In reflex, reason argued that she could never have her daughter back. Not ever.