Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Then came his precious blue vial of blessed oil. He added a single drop to the wick of each candle before placing them on the bedside table. Nimble scratched a match to life and then set the candles burning. The familiar scent of camphor wafted up on a ribbon of pale smoke.

  Archie drew in a deep breath. The perfume filled him with a bittersweet anticipation. He couldn’t wait, and yet he knew it would all too soon be over. And the next time he caught the fragrance of camphor, it would only fill him with loss.

  “Come on, Archie. Don’t look like that.” Nimble walked to him. He reached out and put his arm around Archie’s shoulders, offering him the comforting sort of hug that his father had bestowed upon him on the single occasion that he’d nearly acknowledged their relationship. Coming from Nimble it felt too cautious, too apologetic—like they were visiting a grave, not taking to bed. “You know I won’t hurt you none,” Nimble said quietly.

  “’Course I do. You’re a sweet bugger, you are. That’s all anyone says of Nimble the Knife—‘sweet as treacle, and he hardly ever tosses a pastor across the room.’” Archie forced a laugh, then shrugged off Nimble’s heavy arm to toss his cap onto the washstand. He hung his oilskin cloak up on one of the three brass hooks that studded Nimble’s bedroom door. Nimble added his own red sack coat to the hook beside the one holding Archie’s cloak.

  “Well, as far as buggery goes, I haven’t had any complaints.” Nimble cast Archie a quick, sly glance as he slipped his galluses off his broad shoulders. His trousers dropped to the floor, leaving him dressed in just the white linen shirt that Archie had brought him six months ago. Nimble’s trimmed black fingernails stood out starkly against the abalone buttons. He stripped his shirt off quickly, but took a few moments to fold everything away, neat as a pin.

  Naked, Nimble was quite a sight. Muscular enough to rival the framed sketches on his walls, but far more affecting than those idealized images. A mole in the shape of a sloppy heart sat a few inches above his left asscheek, and fine indentations marked his waist, where the leather of his knife belt had dug into his skin. He bore far more scars than Archie. Saber scars, bullet scars, knife scars, along with the common history of scraped knuckles and skinned knees that marked most of humanity. Unlike Archie, he wasn’t self-conscious of any of them. In fact he seemed completely at ease standing there naked and already half-hard. Archie admired and envied that self-confidence.

  Then Nimble lifted his gaze to Archie. That jagged, delighted smile lit his face, seeming to wash away the fine lines that edged his eyes, and all at once, Archie forgot the insecurities that made him so awkward. Here with Nimble in this small room, there were no lies to maintain. He felt appreciated as the man he truly was.

  “I can’t believe you still wear these foul old boots. I ask you, is that anyway to dress when you’re coming to such a fine bed as this one? Ugh. The entire kit’s got to go, Archie.” Nimble winked at him, and Archie laughed. Archie’s attachment to his army boots—and his nickname for Nimble—was a long-standing joke between them.

  He swung onto the bed and lay back to stare up at all those moons spilled across purple velvet. Nimble knelt and unlaced Archie’s boots, then pulled them off his feet and set them at the bedside. He stripped away Archie’s clothes with a kind of care that would have done Archie’s valet proud. Though he paused when he got Archie’s shirt off. He frowned at the yellow-blue bruises mottling Archie’s abdomen.

  “Got it fencing at Green’s, I think…,” Archie said, but then he remembered. “No. It was at the Prince Joseph Boxing Club. Punch-ups are all the rage just now.”

  Nimble made a disgusted sound and shook his head.

  “Next time, send them rich harecops down here to Hells Below. Plenty of us would gladly give’m thrashings for half the cost of the membership to their clubs.”

  “You are generous to a fault, old boot,” Archie replied.

  Nimble continued to frown at the large bruise. He looked like he wanted to say something more about the scrapes and bruises Archie had acquired while keeping company with the kind of spoiled men who made hobbies of violence. But Nimble only shook his head, then folded Archie’s shirt and set it aside.

  He leaned over Archie, both of them naked, exposed in their anticipation but not yet touching.

  “Do you freely give yourself to me, Archie?” Nimble asked softly and seriously. This was the one thing he never tried to turn into a laugh.

  “Body and soul, I do,” Archie replied without even considering the words anymore. He used to wonder why he trusted Nimble so much more than other men; he’d never been able to decide if it was because Nimble didn’t bother to hide what he wanted, or if it was the result of Nimble’s hold over his soul.

  Nimble leaned in and kissed his mouth, sweetly, almost modestly, then straightened and gazed down at Archie’s naked body.

  “In return, all I am, any power I possess, I give to your service.” Nimble knelt and bestowed Archie’s stiff prick with a far less chaste kiss.

  Pleasure shot through Archie, and when Nimble took him deep in his mouth, he couldn’t help the low moan that escaped him. Nimble knew his way around, and he worked Archie to a bucking, arching, wild thing. Archie ran his fingers over the curls of Nimble’s hair and whispered his pleasure in inarticulate gasps. All of his being seemed to ride between Nimble’s lips and dance on his clever tongue. Ecstasy built and built, until at last it burst from Archie’s body and left him gasping and dazed.

  Maybe Nimble truly sucked his soul right out of his body along with that geyser of spunk. It certainly felt like it.

  Nimble wiped his mouth and rose to his feet, all the time admiring Archie with a proud expression, like Archie was an instrument he’d played particularly well. The thought made Archie grin.

  “You’re having that joke with yourself again, aren’t you? The royal presentation of my grand performance.” Nimble sat down on the bed beside him. His thick erection jutted up at a jaunty angle not too far from Archie’s arm.

  “I am,” Archie admitted. “If you will, imagine the royal family and all the noble holy men gathered in their velvet seats. The curtain rises, and there you are, in the midst of an orchestra, performing an astounding solo upon my skin flute.”

  Nimble laughed, but there was still a fierce need in his gaze.

  Archie reached out and ran his finger along the length of Nimble’s cock. He was rewarded to see Nimble’s breath catch and watched his amused expression give way to helpless pleasure. Archie spent a few more moments stroking Nimble and catching a second wind for himself. Then he rolled over and invited Nimble to lavish his attention and oil upon his ass.

  Even shaking and breathing hard, Nimble took his time. When at last Nimble slid into him, Archie was already quivering and truly ready for a second run at staining Nimble’s sheets with his mettle. Then they both went at it like hammer and tongs, shaking the bed till it groaned. Pillows fell and the floorboards squealed. Archie broke first, but Nimble didn’t outlast him by more than a moment. He came with a powerful thrust. For just an instant, Nimble’s full crushing weight drove into Archie as fiery spunk flooded him. Then Nimble rolled off, sweat-soaked and panting like he’d sprinted a mile.

  And it was done. Their bargain sealed for the final time.

  BEFORE PARTING ways, they agreed to stage the first public encounter between Viscount Fallmont and the Prodigal war veteran, Nimble Gamigin Hobbs, in St. Christopher’s Park in three weeks’ time. For the sake of easier communication and less travel, Nimble would take up residence in Archie’s rooms at the Briar Hotel. A bank account in Nimble’s name already existed and had been steadily filling with funds for years, though the information came as a surprise to Nimble.

  “What? Why would you do that?”

  “Just in case my ruse went tits up and I needed to make a hasty retreat. It never hurts to have a little fortune tucked away under another name.” There was more to it, but Archie didn’t feel like exposing the maudlin plan he’d long ago conceived for
the days after his uncle’s downfall. Days he’d always assumed would be brief and end with Nimble taking his life and soul from him forever.

  Now Archie had no idea what he would do with all the weeks, months, and years ahead of him. He ought to be relieved, he knew that—ought to be overjoyed by the opportunity to live the long, pampered, pointless life that had been stolen from the real Archibald. He didn’t feel ready to think too hard on why he wasn’t. Instead he focused on this last endeavor with Nimble.

  It gave him a small satisfaction to inform Nimble of the high-end shops he’d need to patronize in the coming days, so as to become recognized by the most informed of gossips and so he could dress himself in a manner that might catch the eye of the Viscount Fallmont.

  “Discerning, is he?” Nimble angled a meaningful glance to Archie’s ugly cloak and battered army boots.

  “An absolute snob when it comes to clothes and horses,” Archie said. It was true; even as a boy, Archibald had been very particular and vocal about his tastes. Though Archie did sometimes wonder if he would have changed, perhaps grown in his ideas of the world, if he’d lived past seventeen. “I probably do him a disservice, playing him as such a dandy—”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think he would have liked the way all the papers make such a fuss over his latest choice of cravat or spats. Not to mention all the breathless speculation over which fair heiress will be so lucky as to catch his heart.”

  “I had no idea you followed the social pages so closely, old boot.” It was Archie’s turn to tease, and surprisingly, Nimble seemed a little flustered.

  “Of course I pay attention to what you’re doing up there in all that sunshine and fresh air, Archie,” he replied quickly, then added, “And it’s not just you. Even as rough a fellow as me needs to know what laws those noble harecops are passing over us down here.”

  “True enough,” Archie agreed. “I’m voting to rescind the travel restrictions on Prodigals again this season. I think we’re close to winning the reform.”

  “Yeah? It would be nice….” Nimble’s expression looked distant for a moment, but then his attention focused back on Archie. “Best not hold my breath. Particularly not when we have more pressing business to think on just now.”

  After that, they worked out a few more details of their plan, but all too soon, Archie had to say goodbye and make his way back up from Hells Below to the resplendent south side of Crowncross, where he once again costumed himself in the costly silk and privilege of the Viscount of Fallmont.

  Chapter Three: A Terribly Beautiful Place

  THE VERY next day, Archie contrived to bump into the dark-haired, pale-eyed person of Charles Wedmoor at the Prince Joseph Boxing Club. He was a fit thirty and nice enough to look at, in that characterless way of so many men who’d done nothing to earn their privileges: healthy, washed, well-fed, and largely untroubled by the lives of people deprived of those favors.

  In the ring, Archie allowed Charles to jab past his defenses often enough to make them seem equally matched. Though he couldn’t bring himself to lose to the other man, he behaved as a scrupulously good winner.

  Later at Wright’s Gentlemen’s Club, in the company of Charles’s two blandly blond friends—Lupton and Neet—Archie conceded that the boxing match really should be considered a tie. They all drank to that and then kept drinking, each at their own rate. Archie lost a few hands of cards and won several more while observing the other men. Soon enough he secured Charles’s sympathy when he confessed to a lingering heartache over the man’s icicle of a sister.

  “Agatha’s not actually so unfeeling as people think. It’s only that she’s difficult to get to know,” Charles assured him. “She gets damnably shy when she’s in the company of fetching men like you, Archibald. I think the things she says come out a bit more sharp than she means them to. That’s all it is.”

  “Really?” Archie schooled his expression into one of hopeful delight. Either Charles entertained serious delusions about his sister’s character, or he didn’t know what the word shy meant. Agatha Wedmoor could deliver unflinching criticism of a man’s capabilities on the dance floor, the cut of his jacket, and his grasp of classic literature, all while looking him straight in the face. And Archie still hadn’t forgotten the sensation of silver fork tines biting into the back of his hand.

  “Lady Agatha’s shy?” Neet sounded rightly skeptical. He was taller than both Charles and Lupton, but also candidly youthful; he still sported the blemished complexion of an eighteen-year-old, and at times his voice seemed about to crack.

  “Well… she is… reserved.” Lupton sounded remarkably sober for the astounding number of brandies he had disappeared down his hatch. Archie wondered just how much it would take to actually inebriate the stocky fellow. Or was he one of those rare birds who hung on to their diction right up to the point of falling down in the street?

  “I thought she was a Bible-banger. Those looks she gives when she don’t like a fellow’s jargon…. Reminds me of one of those dried-up old nuns—” Neet cut himself off just a little too late.

  Offense darkened Charles’s face, and Archie actually thought a little better of the man for showing a care for what was said of his sister. But for the sake of keeping the conversation moving in the direction he wanted, Archie broke in.

  “Yes, I know what you mean, Neet. There is something about her that seems holy, isn’t there?” Archie lifted his gaze upward. A plump cherub leered at him from the painted ceiling. “How can a man even hope to win the affection of such a divine creature? I almost feel that I’m standing before an angel when I see her.”

  “Oh, you have got it bad, Archibald.” Lupton laughed. “Must be a family weakness.”

  “How do you mean?” Archie asked.

  “Well, your uncle has been… em… paying her a great deal of attention at the Dee Club.”

  “Has he?” Archie didn’t try to hide his displeasure. Agatha Umberry’s dowry was speculated to be immense, certainly large enough that it might reverse Silas’s fortunes. That, Archie would not abide. Not after devoting seven years to engineering the man’s downfall. And it wasn’t as if Silas’s previous rich young bride had lived long past their honeymoon. All at once the urgency to win his way into the Dee Club doubled.

  Archie bought several more rounds of drinks and steadily won more and more cash off Charles and his friends, but he didn’t hold them to their wagers. He smiled and listened to their woes: Charles’s father had refused to advance him any more cash this year, Lupton resented the trade tariffs limiting him from the importing all the Nornian brandy he wanted, and Neet despaired of ever growing a proper mustache, much less the full flowing beard so many elder statesmen possessed.

  Archie made commiserating sounds, offered his sympathy, and even granted Charles a small loan to ensure he could snap up the latest orchid for his collection. He offered Lupton a bottle of prewar brandy from the case that remained in the wine cellar of his northern country house. A little later he assured Neet that court fashion currently favored the clean-shaven man for facing the world with a more hygienic and honest visage, according to the Royal Consort, Prince Joseph. Archie had shaved off his own mustache three years ago and hadn’t regretted it.

  Hardly a day later, Charles and his friends extended Archie a membership into the Dee Club. He accepted, forked over the steep membership fee, and stifled an idiotic impulse to race down to the Briar Hotel to inform Nimble of their quick success. Instead he accompanied the three noblemen on a riverside ride to take a tour of the place. Their route was not a dangerous one to follow by daylight, but it led into an area of docks and piers where few gentlemen—and certainly no ladies—would wish to find themselves alone at night.

  The building the Dee Club occupied had been painted brilliant green and gold, but neither the costly colors nor the Gothic facade and columns were quite enough to distract from the fact that the rambling edifice teetered over the White River, like a man crouched to shit down into a boghole. Thick
wooden piles rose from the river like the supports of a fishing pier, and a large portion of the back of the building seemed to spill across them. As he rode closer, Archie noted that someone had even tethered a small boat to one of the wooden braces beneath the overhanging house.

  “The place was originally built by smugglers. Generations of them used it,” Charles informed him. “The last sod fell afoul of the monks in the Queen’s tax office and had to relocate immediately. So I was able to pick the entire place up rather cheap, if I do say so myself. And its history endows the place an amusing ambience. Don’t you think?”

  Archie nodded. The stench of chamber pots and rotting kelp rose off the river, imparting a rank pong to the pretty cherry trees and rose bushes planted all around the building. On either side of the club stood large warehouses, and dozens of merchant vessels plied the waters surrounding it. Archie wondered if the sailors and stevedores might have witnessed anything the evening Nancy disappeared. Perhaps it would be worth the effort to chat up a couple of the night guards who patrolled the nearby warehouses as well.

  “Of course, the heap was ugly as sin when I got hold of it six years back. Bloody giant holes in the floors and walls where the Inquisition had ripped open all the trapdoors and smugglers’ passages,” Charles went on. “But Agatha took it on as a pet project. She worked absolute wonders. A woman’s touch, as they say. And now the place is pretty as a picture inside.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The interior of the Dee Club neatly erased any hint of disgorging sewer pipes, surrounding warehouses, and noisy workforces of sailors and longshoremen. Very thick, beautifully papered walls displayed large paintings and smaller studies by a number of Prodigal artists. Sykes’s startlingly lifelike painting Dragonflies Amidst Water Lilies held pride of place among them. Marble sculptures, exotic potted plants, and side tables boasting huge vases full of flowers kept the large rooms and long hallways from appearing cavernous.