Page 47 of The Devils

Vows

‘This looks nice,’ said Alex, squinting up at the ruinous facade. It gave the strong impression that the dead creeper was the only thing holding it up.

‘The Abbey of Saint Demetrius,’ whispered Brother Diaz. A statue of the patron of healers stood in a dripping niche above the gateway, his hand once raised in blessing, now snapped off at the wrist.

‘He’s one of my favourite saints!’ said Sunny.

‘Really?’

She and her bedraggled horse both gave him a long look. ‘For an elf they’re all much of a muchness.’

Brother Diaz sighed. ‘The monks treated the sick here with selfless diligence, until the order was given to abandon the place. It’s said some remained even then, to render last rites to the dying.’

Vigga frowned at the overgrown graveyard crowding in towards the monastery’s walls. The ground had sunk at some point in the last few decades, nettle-shrouded gravestones all leaning in around a muddy puddle. ‘Will you render me last rites?’ she asked, ‘if the place turns out haunted?’

‘Thought you were heading for Valhalla?’ asked Sunny.

‘That’s my first choice, but there’s no harm hedging your bets.’

‘Heaven is for repentant sinners,’ grunted Brother Diaz, stepping close to the abbey’s door, which had long ago dropped from its hinges and now lay rotting in the gateway. A wooden tablet was set into it, carved writing worn away by time, but stamped with both the circle and the five-spoked wheel. ‘The seals of Pope and Patriarch. Entrance is forbidden on pain of excommunication.’

Sunny shrugged. ‘I’ve never been incommunicated.’

‘And I’m on small-talking terms with a Pope and two cardinals.’ Alex stepped around Brother Diaz, clonking over the rotten door and under the dripping archway. ‘Reckon I can get us a dispensation.’

Water spattered from broken gutters in the overgrown courtyard, one corner turned into an impromptu pond, a cloister with a fallen roof running down one side. It put Brother Diaz in mind of his own monastery – shuffling along the colonnade in single file to morning prayers, breath smoking on the winter chill.

He stepped into a draughty hall, cobwebs floating among the rafters. Aside from one trickling leak the roof still held and the floor was dry. Dusty chairs and tables were set in rows, undisturbed in decades, so like the refectory in his own monastery they might have been built from the same plan. The tasteless food, the suffocating silence, the crushing routine, every day a copy of the last—

He jerked around at a noisy clatter. Vigga had thrown her soaked coat over a table and was shaking herself wildly, water flying. She blew a mist of drops and bent over, wringing her hair out with both hands, wet shirt stuck to her back so he could see ghosts of the designs beneath, wet trousers stuck to her backside so there was no need to guess at its shape, not that he had to guess, he knew exactly what it looked like, what it felt like, what—

‘Sweet Saint Beatrix,’ he muttered as he turned away, surreptitiously adjusting his trousers with one hand while reaching into his shirt with his other to grip the blessed vial.

Sunny had led the horse in and was trying to unbuckle the girth and grip her ribs at once. He started over, eager for a distraction. ‘Here, let me,’ dragging the soaked saddle free and dumping it on the ground.

Sunny peeled her wet hood back, started to give the horse a rub, muttering softly to it. Aside from a few wild tweaks her pale hair was stuck to her skull and one of her ears poked through. Elves have pointed ears, of course, it’s the first thing you learn about them. But the tip of Sunny’s was cut off jagged.

She saw him looking. In the gloom her eyes were huge. ‘They clipped it off,’ she said, ‘with sheep shears.’

Brother Diaz swallowed. ‘Who did?’

‘They said I was an enemy of God so, I guess, friends of God?’ She went back to rubbing the horse. ‘It bled way more than they expected, though, so they left the other one.’ And she turned her head to show him and flicked the pointed tip with her finger.

Brother Diaz swallowed. ‘That’s …’ He hardly knew what that was. She was an enemy of God, from a strictly doctrinal point of view, but without her their holy mission would’ve foundered in the Adriatic. He’d known plenty of humans who showed less evidence of having a soul. He turned somewhat guiltily away, hoping for another distraction.

Alex was peering into the dead fireplace, rubbing her pale hands together. ‘You reckon we can get a fire going?’

‘No harm trying.’ Vigga plucked up a chair, whisked it over her head, and brought it whistling down on another to smash them both to bits. She showed her pointed teeth in a mad grin as she set about stomping the remains to kindling under one bare heel.

The effortless strength. The joyous savagery. The utter scorn for propriety or inhibition. Brother Diaz forced his eyes away, obliged to make another adjustment to his crotch. ‘ Sweet Saint Beatrix …’

Pure thoughts. Boring thoughts! This was a monastery, for the Saviour’s sake, there should be no shortage of purity and boredom to dwell on. He set a hand on the dusty stand where the lector would have droned out readings from the scriptures at mealtimes, discouraging idle chatter and improper thoughts, focusing the brothers’ minds on higher things.

He pushed open a creaking door into a chapel, birds nesting in its vaulted ceiling, the ground streaked with their droppings. His own monastery had half a dozen shrines dedicated to one saint or another. This one had a fine stained-glass window, an image of the Saviour being broken on the wheel turned bloody by the sunset outside. All very pious and in no way arousing.

He dropped to his knees, miserably clasped his hands, miserably stared into the face of God’s daughter. ‘O light of the world,’ he whispered, ‘what should I do ?’ The Saviour kept her silence, and Brother Diaz winced. ‘Well, I know what I should do, far as the rules go, don’t bed the werewolf, obviously, or … don’t do it again , anyway.’ He gave a pathetic shadow of a laugh, then choked it off halfway. The omniscient daughter of God was unlikely to be moved by a chuckle, especially one as false as that.

‘It’s just … why must I be tempted so?’ The Saviour kept her silence, and he winced again. ‘Well, I know why , of course, in a general sense, so I can resist the temptation, I see that, I mean, anyone can stay strong if they’re never tested, can’t they? And I am being tested, and I am failing. Failing dismally .’ He was conscious that he was leaving prayer behind and moving into the realm of wheedling but couldn’t help himself. The line between the two had always been blurry.

‘It isn’t the pleasures of the flesh …’ The Saviour kept her silence, and he winced once more. What was the point of confession if you kept trying to wriggle around the truth? ‘Well, not only the pleasures of the flesh …’ Oh God, saying the word made him think about the flesh, the tattooed skin, taut over a fearsome firmness of muscle, so warm, so tacky with sweat. ‘Though they are …’ He fumbled for the right word. ‘Fleshy?’ Bad choice. Really awful. ‘It’s the opportunity to be a different man! Not a better man, not exactly, but … a man I preferred?’ The man whose misbehaviour had landed him in a monastery in the first place. He winced yet again. He was wincing constantly, of late, it had simply become the standard shape of his face.

‘I need … guidance .’ He was moving from prayer through wheedling to all-out whine. ‘My faith … is shaken …’ It had proved considerably weaker than a werewolf’s buttocks, in fact. Though it couldn’t be denied that as buttocks went, they were truly formidable, the feel of them under his palms, as if they were carved from wood— ‘No!’ he hissed. ‘No, no.’ Praying with an erection had not been unknown at the monastery but was definitely frowned upon, and he turned away from the Saviour’s disappointment, and froze.

Vigga stood in the doorway, a damp blanket in her hand. They looked at each other, while outside the rain tapped and dripped and trickled.

‘Praying?’ she asked.

Brother Diaz swallowed. ‘Well, I am a monk.’

‘Oh, right. I sometimes forget that.’

‘Frankly, so do I.’ On his better days, at least.

‘Did it work?’

‘Being a monk? Not really, if I’m honest with myself.’

‘I meant the praying.’

‘Not really.’ He scratched at his beard, which was at the worst possible length and constantly itchy. ‘If I’m honest with myself.’

Vigga sat on the ground, back against the wall. ‘Sunny’s got a fire going in there.’ She shook the blanket out over her knees and looked towards the window. ‘The moon’ll be near full tonight so … I’ll likely get a bit frisky. Best I stay in here, where I won’t annoy anyone—’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ said Brother Diaz.

Vigga narrowed her eyes doubtfully at him. ‘I’m a stinking pagan, Brother, and a murderous savage, and an unrepentant fornicator, not to mention a werewolf convicted by the Celestial Court.’

‘Well, yes, I’m sure you have … many regrets, but …’ He glanced towards the door and lowered his voice. ‘I mean, as far as we’re concerned – the fault’s all mine. You’ve stayed true to yourself. You’ve broken no vows.’ He looked at the floor. Poked at the groove between two flagstones with the ruined toe of one boot. ‘God knows, you’ve treated me far better than I’ve treated you. Far better than I deserve. If you’re a monster …’ And he looked up at her. ‘At least you’re an honest one.’

‘Huh.’ She narrowed her eyes a little more. ‘I thought you were disgusted with me.’

‘Worse than that.’ He took a slightly ragged breath. ‘The opposite.’

They stared at each other, in a ruined chapel in an abandoned monastery, silent except for the ceaseless dripping of water. ‘Well, if you’d like to stay …’ And she lifted one corner of the blanket and gently peeled it back. ‘Reckon I can promise you a night you won’t soon forget.’

‘ That … I readily believe.’ Brother Diaz’s eyes were fixed on the floor beside her. A patch of worn stone like any other, but somehow so very appealing. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. ‘I appreciate the offer. More than you can know, but … it can’t happen again.’ He glanced towards the stained-glass window. Towards the face of the Saviour. ‘It can’t happen … ever … again.’

‘Brother Diaz?’

He groaned, dawn stabbing at him with such painful brightness he had to lift a limp hand to shield his eyes. Light of many colours glittered about a dark figure. An angelic visitation? Was he dreaming? Was he dying? He had a gnawing worry that an interview at the gates of heaven wouldn’t go well for him.

‘Brother Diaz?’

When he realised it wasn’t an angel but Princess Alexia, his first feeling was relief at avoiding divine judgement, his second dismay as he remembered the miles and the danger that still lay ahead, his third confusion as he saw the princess had an expression of intense shock and he was lying on something very warm. Something gently rising and falling. Something that made the faintest throaty growl with each breath.

‘Gah!’ He tore free of the blanket, scrambling up only to realise, as Alex’s eyes went even wider, that he wore nothing but the vial of Saint Beatrix, an absurdly inappropriate accessory under the circumstances. He grabbed for the blanket, then saw he couldn’t whip it across his nakedness without exposing Vigga’s in all its tattooed majesty and was obliged to cup his private parts with both hands instead.

‘I can explain!’ he said.

Alex looked to Vigga, starting to wriggle faintly under the blanket, then back to Brother Diaz, then down at his cupped hands, her face twisting into an expression of doubt so intense it verged on pity. ‘Really?’

He stood a moment, mouth open, hoping, perhaps, for divine inspiration. But no man had ever less deserved to be filled with the grace of the Lord. His shoulders slumped. ‘I absolutely cannot.’

‘Well … I just came to say the sun’s up …’ Alex backed off. ‘So … we’d better be leaving …’ And she almost ran for the door, catching her shoulder against the frame and stumbling through with a choked-off squeak of pain.

‘Shit,’ hissed Brother Diaz, snatching up his trousers, which he appeared to have abandoned in a patch of bird droppings.

‘She knows now,’ grunted Vigga, blowing hair out of her face, then pushing her arms above her head and stretching luxuriously.

‘Yes!’ snapped Brother Diaz as he wriggled into his clammy shirt. ‘I’d say so!’

‘Might as well stay, then.’ She gave him that grin, with so many teeth, which he’d once found so repulsive, and now, God help him, found … otherwise. ‘Got something for you, under here.’ From the way the blanket shifted there could be no doubt she was opening her legs.

‘Oh God,’ he whispered, swallowing as he looked towards the stained glass.

Vigga waited a moment longer then, clearly losing patience, nodded downwards. ‘It’s my twat.’

‘Yes, I believe I’d solved that riddle.’ He snatched up his boots, did his best to wedge his member down beside his leg, and tore himself towards the door. ‘Princess Alexia! Alex! Wait!’ He tried desperately to sound contrite as he hurried into the dusty refectory. God knew, contrite was all he’d done for a decade. If anyone had the knack it should be him. ‘I know I have fallen … terribly short—’

‘You could say that!’ snapped Alex, shoving her things into her pack. ‘I mean, aren’t you a monk ?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose …’ Though he had to admit that he was feeling less and less like a monk with every mile they travelled. ‘I mean, of course I am … but I never really wanted to be one—’

‘Ask me if I ever really wanted to be a princess. Go on, ask me.’

‘I’m not sure … that there’d be much—’

‘I did not ,’ said Alex. ‘Don’t you have vows ?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose …’ He pulled one boot on, which was hardly worth it since a hole in the sole had grown to encompass more or less the entire thing. It had become the mere pretence of a boot, as he had become the pretence of a monk. ‘But Vigga laid out quite a strong argument for a loophole …’ Alex looked exceedingly doubtful and he had to admit he couldn’t blame her. ‘Which seems actually, now, not terribly convincing—’

‘Oh, you think? On the floor of a chapel?’

‘Well, when you’re talking about … what we’re talking about …’ Brother Diaz helplessly waved the other boot at nothing in particular. ‘I’m not sure it makes much difference where .’

‘What are we talking about?’ asked Sunny, who was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and her hood down, almost invisible even when she was visible.

‘Him …’ Alex pointed at Brother Diaz, and then at the doorway. ‘And Vigga …’

Sunny wrinkled her nose, unimpressed. ‘Well, obviously.’

‘Really?’ demanded Alex.

‘Vigga’s like damp. Give her time, she gets in everywhere.’ Sunny shrugged as she turned away. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

Alex threw her pack over her shoulder and strode for the archway.

‘Please!’ Brother Diaz hopped after her, into the dismal daylight of the courtyard, struggling to follow and pull his other boot on at the same time. ‘Let me try to explain—’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Alex, sharply, and then, after a weary sigh, more softly. ‘I mean … it’s not up to me to absolve your sins, or whatever. I’m a thief. What’s my forgiveness worth?’

‘It’s worth something to me,’ said Brother Diaz.

‘Well, then.’ She waved her finger in a vaguely circular manner. ‘You’re forgiven, my son, I guess.’ She glanced back towards the refectory, muttering somewhat bitterly under her breath. ‘Likely I’m just jealous ’cause you did what I haven’t got the guts to try.’

Brother Diaz blinked at her. ‘Lie with a werewolf?’

‘Grab any shred of comfort you can find with both fucking hands.’ And she stopped for a moment, and gave a little snort. ‘Remember that prig of a monk I met back in the Holy City? Hard to imagine finding him … where I found you.’

‘No.’ That made him think of how she’d been when he first met her. Jumpy and suspicious as an alley cat. ‘It seems … nobody comes through a journey like this one quite the same.’

‘I don’t know,’ muttered Alex. ‘Reckon I’m as much a piece of shit as I was then. No closer to a princess, anyway—’

‘I respectfully disagree,’ he said. ‘I must admit you weren’t quite what I expected. But I’m ever more impressed by your courage, your commitment, your good humour in the face of adversity, your …’ He blinked, surprised to be using the word. ‘Leadership.’

Alex frowned at him with a hint of her original suspicion. ‘Are you trying to win me round after what I just saw?’

‘Is it working?’

‘Little bit.’

‘The Empress of Troy should probably get used to flattery.’ He glanced sideways at her and tried a grin. ‘At the very least you’re a piece of shit who can read.’

‘Even write.’ And she grinned back, sunlight splashed across her face from the doorless gateway of the monastery, one eye narrowed and the other closed against the dawn glare. ‘On a good day.’