Vow of Obedience: Cavalieri Della Morte

by Hale, Brianna

  At the back of the church, a door opens and closes. It’s late, but I understand them. They probably couldn’t sleep and instead, they’re chasing forgiveness like a dream that is always out of reach.

  Heavy footsteps approach down the long center aisle. The air seems to shimmer behind me and my neck prickles with awareness. I try to force my mind back to prayer. My lips move silently and another bead falls through my fingers. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…

  The footsteps stop beside me. There’s a dark, rich chuckle over my head. “I always liked a good girl on her knees.”

  The voice rings through me like someone has struck a bell. He’s standing over me, overwhelming from this angle, his broad back blocking my view of the soaring roof overhead. I can’t see his face. Candles flicker over his shoulder and his features are cast in shadows. All the same, I know him. The memory of his face is carved into my mind. Hard, angular jaw. High, proud cheekbones that slice away to lean cheeks. Eyes that glimmer like liquid metal. I remember his short, rough stubble rubbing against my cheek. My arms wrapped tightly around his neck. His scent is enfolding me again, even through the heavy incense of the church. He smells like gunpowder, dark chocolate, and treachery. Sweetness and illicitness, entwined together.

  My savior.

  Except he’s not. I’ve learned a lot about saviors since coming to Our Lady of Sorrows, and they don’t come with bloodstains and hard muscle.

  When I don’t say anything, he snaps his fingers at me, the sound like a gunshot in the empty church. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

  I stare at him, dumfounded.

  “And close that pretty mouth, or I’ll start getting ideas.” His eyes travel down over the crisp white headscarf covering my dark hair, my gray pinafore dress, the little silver cross resting on my breastbone.

  I shake my head. My place is here. I don’t want to go anywhere with this man. He’s a bad person. I can see his sinfulness outlining him like the tarnished halo of a fallen angel.

  “Branwen. I said, get up. I’m calling in that favor you owe me.”

  How does he know my name? There’s a vein at the side of his strong throat and his clothes cling indecently to his body. The leather jacket hangs open to reveal a white T-shirt, the outline of his muscled chest and the tight curve of his black jeans over his…around his…

  He bursts out laughing. “Been locked up too long without a man, baby?”

  My face burns and I fasten my eyes quickly on the floor. I didn’t mean to look. I just haven’t seen a man like him in a long time. No, I’ve never seen a man like him, not before that night. He seemed scary enough to keep away everything I was afraid of. With his arms around me, I didn’t want to run anymore.

  He leans down and a large, strong hand curves around the back of my neck. Fingers compel my chin up and he studies my face. “What were you praying for?” he murmurs, his eyes luminous with curiosity. “What have you done?”

  I feel like he will learn the truth that I don’t want anyone to know, with just his eyes. Panicking, I pull away from him, landing hard on my behind.

  “You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul.”

  I couldn’t even tell him if I wanted to because I’ve taken a vow of silence. Not properly, not officially, as the nuns won’t let me because I’m not one of them yet. I’ll speak when I’m forgiven. If I’m never forgiven, I guess I’ll never speak again.

  “Don’t say much, do you? Doesn’t matter. I don’t need you to say a word.” He wraps a hand around my upper arm and hauls me to my feet. “We’re going on a journey, baby.”

  My legs feel like rubber after so long on my knees, and I sag against him. His body is so large and solid, and he easily supports me. He more than supports me. He pulls me against him, and his hand slides up to cup the back of my neck again. In the months since I’ve been living in the nunnery, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be near a man. My father had so many bodyguards, big dangerous men with hard faces, but they never made me feel safe. Not like this man does. I’m hyperaware of everything about him. Every point of his body that is pressed against mine.

  He leans down and sets his lips against my ear. “What were you praying for so late at night? Guidance? Forgiveness?”

  A shiver goes through me. He feels it and nudges a knee between my thighs. Past his shoulder, the gold cross on the altar gleams in the candlelight. Does this sacred place mean nothing to him? I press my hands against his chest and try to move away but he holds me fast against him.

  “Have you taken a vow of silence, baby? You must have done something very, very bad.”

  It must be painted all over my face, the sins I’ve committed. The things I’ll never be forgiven for. His fingers slip down over my behind and rub the cleft of my ass, and his voice is a delicious rumble.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll forgive you.”

  My traitorous heart starts to pound. The three little words I’ve waited so long to hear, and they’ve come out of the mouth of a dark angel.

  I’ll forgive you.

  He presses his lips to my temple, planting slow, fiery kisses there. “Do you want that, baby? Forgiveness? I can give you what you need. It would be a pleasure.”

  Where did he come from? Is he a visitation, powerful and otherworldly, sent to me through prayer? As he kisses across my cheek toward my mouth, my lips part, ready to receive him.

  Then he pulls away, and I see his eyes aren’t filled with benevolence, but brimming with a malice so cold, it steals the breath from my lungs. “But first, you’re going to do something for me. If you’re a very, very good girl, you might even live through this.”

  I stagger on unsteady legs. Forgiveness was so close I could taste it, but it’s been snatched from my lips yet again.

  “If you don’t live through this, I won’t be shedding any tears for little Branwen Lange.” He grasps me by the arm and impels me along the center aisle, toward the big, heavy, wooden doors, and I realize my mistake. This isn’t my savior. This man is my downfall.

  My scream is frozen in my throat. I can’t speak. Not even to save my own life.

  Geraint

  Branwen Lange is an absolute pleasure to kidnap. She doesn’t so much as squeak as I march her out to my car. When she sees my dark green Ford Mustang GT at the curb, she starts to struggle, but she’s so slight that I just scoop her up one-armed, open the door, and sling her into the passenger seat.

  “There. Nice and snug.” I slam the door in her bewildered face and lock it from the outside. I’ve removed the manual locks and the handle flaps as she tries the door ineffectually.

  Whistling, I go around to the driver’s side and get in. Branwen is gripping the sides of her seat, eyes wide with terror and darting all over the place. I lean across her body to belt her in. “There now. All safe.”

  She shrinks away from me, breathing hard. I wonder if she remembers me even though I had my hood up that night. It’s stupid, but I search her eyes for any sign she’s a murderer like her daddy. There’s no ferocity or cruelty in her gaze. There’s only fear.

  I shove the key into the ignition and the car roars into life. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us and we’re getting on the road tonight. I love this fucking car. She makes her throaty purr as I rev the engine and I can feel it with my whole body. These classic cars, you can connect to them in a way you can’t with today’s muscle cars. My baby has a soul. Shit that’s real, that’s what’s important to me. Things I can hold in my own two hands.

  We peel away from the curb and onto an empty road. I take the back streets as much as I can as I head for the interstate, not liking the idea of sitting at too many traffic lights while Branwen signals the other drivers for help.

  “You’ll get used to it in a bit, baby. I know it’s new and all, getting kidnapped, but you’re doing great. Five out of five.” I talk slow and soothing. “Let me tell you about myself. My name’s Geraint and I’m thirty-four. A Scorpio. I’ll bet you’re a Taurus. Stro
ng, silent type.” I grin at her. Nothing. “Anyway. You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here and what I want with you.”

  If I was hoping for a nod or anything to show me that she’s listening, she disappoints me. Her eyes dart around the car and she sees the icebox on the back seat.

  “Want a cold drink, baby? Help yourself.” I laugh, and I can see it confuses her even more. She’ll know what’s that for sooner than she wants to. “As I said, I’ve got a job to do. A very personal job, and you’re going to help me do it. I need to talk to your daddy, but the problem is, your daddy doesn’t want to talk to me. That’s where you come in. We’re going to Avallonis, and you’re gonna persuade him for me.”

  The lie passes easily over my lips. The only talking Adelmo Lange’s going to do when I get my hands on him is to say a prayer for his soul before I put a bullet in his head.

  I notice her gnawing on her lip and her doll-like eyes are distracted and scared.

  “And you’re not even fucking listening to me,” I mutter, making a left and cruising down an empty street. It’s past midnight and the streetlights are bright around here. I’ve got to get onto the interstate before my captive comes to her senses and starts beating on the windows for help.

  “Hello? Branwen?”

  Maybe she’s deaf. Next time she turns to look out the window, I reach out and snap my fingers right by her ear. The only reason she doesn’t jump out of her seat is because she’s buckled in tight.

  Not deaf then. Just petrified.

  It strikes me as odd that she’s here in Texas on her knees in a church, night and day, instead of tucked up at home. I wonder what made her run away from all that money and safety. Daddy could have bought her handbags, designer dresses, sent her to one of the top universities in the country. Instead, she chose to run away. She was running the night I found her on the street. Right into my arms.

  “What’s your story, baby? What’s a Cali girl like you doing all the way out here in Texas?” I ask fifteen minutes later, as I turn onto the interstate. “Maybe you got into trouble. Or maybe trouble follows you.” I change up through the gears and merge with the traffic into the third lane. “You’re not gonna make any trouble for me, are you? I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  Branwen hastily turns her face away from me and stares out the window. She’s definitely listening to me now and I let my threat sit heavily on the air. She’s not been any trouble so far, but that doesn’t mean she won’t be tempted to do something stupid if I don’t make it clear now how serious I am.

  Between here and Napa, she’s not getting out of my fucking sight.

  We’re heading west on the I-10 and I keep my eye out for an exit with a gas station. Just past Boerne, I see what I’m looking for and pull off the interstate. Branwen tenses and her eyes go large in the dashboard lights.

  “Easy, baby,” I murmur. “Nothing’s going to happen to you if you’re a good girl.”

  I park in the deserted lot and peer through the windshield at the attendant in the shop. It’s a boy. Alone. Bored. Skinny.

  I turn to Branwen. “There’s a gun under my jacket, and a knife. If you scream, or do anything I don’t like, I’ll kill that attendant and make you watch. It will be your fault he dies. Is that clear?”

  She stares at me, her eyes two pools of fear. I grab her jaw in my hand and squeeze, growling, “You don’t have to say a word, but you nod your fucking head when I tell you to do something. I won’t ask you again.”

  As much as she can with me gripping her so hard, she nods quickly.

  “Good girl. Keep this up and you and me will get along just fine.” I peer at her critically, realizing how strange she looks. “And take that headscarf off.”

  Branwen does as she’s told, slipping the fabric from her dark hair. I go around to her door and let her out, and take her by the hand as we walk into the gas station shop. She looks down at her fingers in mine.

  “Didn’t even buy you a drink first, did I? Let’s fix that now.”

  Inside, I buy a bottle of whisky and some lighter fluid, never letting go of her the entire time. She’s real good about it too, keeping silent and not trying to get away from me or gesture for help. The attendant barely looks at us as I pay in cash. Just a man and his girl, road-tripping out west in the middle of the night.

  As we get back into the car and I pull onto the interstate, a hard lump forms in my guts. This next part? This shit is going to be tough. I don’t know where I’m going to do it and as we drive, my eyes flicker left and right into the darkness. It needs to be someplace deserted. Where there’s no line of sight from the road.

  I glance at Branwen. She’s sitting as tight as a spring in her little trainee nun’s uniform. If she freaks out, this is gonna get ugly.

  A few miles down the interstate, I spy an empty truck stop and pull over. Immediately, Branwen splays her hand against the car door and the dashboard in alarm, bracing herself for something terrible.

  “Easy, girl.” I fish a flashlight and the bag with the lighter fluid and whisky out of the trunk, and go around and unlock her door. “Get that icebox and come with me.”

  She reaches back between the seat and grabs it, and scrambles out of the car. Her breathing is ragged with fear as I take her by the upper arm and walk her into the scrub. The plastic bag thumps against the flashlight as we walk, making it shudder violently.

  Branwen trips on a rock and I pull her up short. “Drop that icebox,” I growl, “and I will fucking end you.”

  She takes a firmer grip on what she’s holding and we keep going. I couldn’t tell in the dark but the landscape is as flat as a French crepe and I want to start swearing as we tramp and tramp and it doesn’t change. West fucking Texas.

  Finally, the ground starts to dip and I drag Branwen down a slope and into a ditch. Her black buckle-up shoes slide on the scree but I keep her upright until we get to the bottom.

  “Put the icebox down. Find some wood. Bits of sticks and shit. Anything to make a fire.” We have to do this together as she’s the one with the free hand. “There’s some.” I direct the beam of the flashlight at a dead bush. “And there. And there.”

  After a few minutes of Branwen picking up wood and placing it in a pile, I look over to see we’ve got enough for a fire, and put the torch down onto the ground. It’s tempting to let go of her so I can open the lighter fluid but she’ll slip like a fish into the darkness and I’ll lose her. I open the bottle with my teeth and a cold, acrid taste fills my mouth.

  I squirt the propellant all over the wood, dig a lighter out of my pocket, and regard the pile of sticks. I like fire. It’s purifying. Clean. Trefor must have died a terrifying, messy death. Bleeding. Screaming. There’s no God and nothing beyond this life but I feel a superstitious black presence whenever I think of him. As if he’s lost. As if he’s nowhere and nothing and never was. He needs to be remembered. He needs to know I fucking loved him.

  I hold the flame to the wood until it catches, then wait until the fire crackles good and bright. Branwen’s pale face is lit from beneath.

  “Open it,” I tell her.

  She leans down and flips open the lid on the icebox. She makes the first sound I’ve heard from her in hours, a tiny gasp of shock. Then she clamps her lips closed and holds out the box to me, her legs shaking. Nestled on the ice cubes is Trefor’s severed finger. I study her closely, wondering if she’s figured it out yet, but there’s nothing on her face but fear.

  I scoop the finger up from the ice and feel it in my hand, bony and unnatural now it’s been severed from its owner. The flesh around the base is ragged, as if it was sawn off rather than chopped cleanly with a cleaver. Trefor was probably alive, made to watch as Lange’s men cut bits off him.

  I rub the crucifix tattoo with my finger, the little symbol that meant so much to him and made him feel things I never understood. I wonder if it was any comfort to him at the end as he watched them cut it from his hand.

  I lean down and place
Trefor’s finger in the center of the fire. It sits there, pristine and white among the dancing flames. Then the edges begin to char and the nail smokes. The crucifix tattoo stays visible for a long time but even that is slowly eaten up as the flesh blackens. A short while later, the finger is unrecognizable as anything human, merely a curled bit of refuse in a fire in the middle of nowhere.

  I crack open the whisky bottle and take a swig. It’s supposed to be in honor of my brother but it doesn’t feel like anything except a mouthful of liquor. I shove the bottle at Branwen, and she shakes her head.

  “You’re Catholic. Say something.” But she just stares back at me, silent and bewildered. “Fucking useless.”

  I pour the rest of the bottle of whisky on the fire, and the flames leap high into the night. It burns and it burns, but everything’s still in darkness.

  Branwen

  Cora used to like campfires. We had one out in the fields past the vineyard when we were fourteen. Daddy let us camp down by the stream for the night, bemused we wanted to forgo my comfortable bedroom for our sleepover, but indulging us just the same. The de Winters were important to him then and he couldn’t be happier that Cora de Winter was my best friend. “You girls have fun. Call me up at the house if you need anything and I’ll send someone down with it. Is your phone charged, Branwen?”

  Nothing was too much trouble for Cora de Winter. Not then.

  We made s’mores over the campfire and then lay on our backs, looking up at the stars as we talked about the boys at school and which teachers were riding our asses. Cora confessed she had a crush on our English teacher and shouted his name into the sky, and we laughed like crazy before falling asleep under the same blanket.

  As Geraint and I walk back to his car, he’s silent and his grip on my hand is like iron. Every now and then, the flashlight illuminates his face and I get a glimpse of his expression. It’s murderous. What did daddy do? Geraint wanted me to witness this, the finger being burnt. I don’t want to believe what I think it means. Not again.