Rooks and Romanticide (10 page)

So in truth it was a message in a message in a message, because Cain referred to Levi's self-confessed reinterest in the divine, and St. Vincent's at night it was again, with Security outside and the candles dancing among the velvet and painted-plaster faces and the fraying lattice on the doors of the confessionals.

With all the casual air of some fallen angel, in through the heavy church doors came Levi again, like a sprite of the candles and moonlight as Cain waited patiently under the altar, sitting with one leg hooked over the other. Guiltily, thoughts of an unfortunate betrothed were far from his mind, because he just could not get over the way Levi's collar danced on his sun-kissed throat and the perfect way his trousers fit at his narrow waist, weapons belt chattering away along another brocade waistcoat whose metallic threads glittered richly in the dark.

“You must be accustomed to wealthy employers,” Cain remarked, eyes roaming Levi's gentlemanly dress.

“I prefer to be fashionable,” Levi explained merrily.

Ah, those dark and devilish glances, that dimpled smirk, that loose blond hair darker at the crown. He was clean-shaven and he smelled like proper cologne, and Cain appreciated that. Too many freelance gunslingers were sloppy and lush.

It was the same wary and rigid back-and-forth as their first unorthodox meeting in the dim light of the sanctuary, with the holy figure on the crucifix grimacing down at them.

“I assume you have an extensive knowledge of bullets and barrels,” Cain said, cocking a brow at Levi where he'd joined the invisible congregation in the second pew back from the altar. He listened patiently as Levi rattled off about this and that, a detailed introduction to his indeed extensive knowledge on guns and their use and care.

“And what do you think about bullet wounds?” Cain asked next.

“I think they're rather unfortunate,” Levi conceded with a chuckle, to which Cain offered a light scoff and a roll of the eyes. Levi shrugged limply. “I've had a few,” he confessed, meaning bullet wounds. “I've
seen
many more, however. Fatal, survivable. I know removal methods and tourniqueting methods, though given the choice, I would rather be at the hands of a doctor than depend on the rudimentary tactics I was taught.”

“And what defenses are you trained in?”

“Militant style, my lord. The Persian, the Southend, the Muscovian, and the Albertonian, God bless Her Majesty.”

“So you're well rounded, then, from traditional to vigilante.”

“Afraid so, my lord.”

“What's your favorite?” Cain asked, pinning Levi with a critical smirk. “What's your favorite method of fighting, friend?”

Levi was quiet for a long moment, like an animal in the wood sensing danger. Then he blushed—he truly blushed, and Cain thought,
Ah, so there is some weakness to this man's perfect pretense yet
!

“The Muscovian, sir,” Levi murmured, and Cain laughed, because the Muscovian was perhaps the most cruel and rebellious style on the streets.

“The oath of the gunslinger?” Cain prompted next.

Levi smiled, recovering quickly from his little moment of sheepishness. He made the sign of the cross and blew a kiss to the plaster statue of the Virgin. “
Ad meliora, ad honorem, aut vincere aut mori
.”

Ah, he was a fine, flawless thing, wasn't he? Cain smiled and hoped he didn't look as dreamy as he felt, sitting on the steps of the altar with chin propped in hand, watching Levi as he uttered the militant oath of the gunslinger.

They were little tests, after all, and Levi was passing thus far. And what a lovely interview it was, with that underlying sexual tension still holding fast, left over from the very first night in the Dietrich courtyard. It seemed nothing could derail them from the course that night should have taken had they not been interrupted, and Levi's capabilities and insistence on working for Cain were just a few more small, attractive details.

Equally as important, however, was that Levi's character was becoming more and more real and more trustworthy to Cain.

Levi was like a thief in the night, a shadow, a nameless face in the crowd, the unfortunate type of man born to be nothing else but an ace in someone's sleeve. That much was quite clear to Cain. And he decided he was very lucky, actually, because he appreciated the Dietrich agents, and the Dietrich Security, and all his consultants—really, he did—but the dark thrill and cunning of having a street man was something he couldn't resist. He wanted all his openings covered, anyway. He didn't care if it was a dirty trick. He wanted the Ruslanivs terrified. And a street man would never try to give him unwanted advice either. A contracted hit man was both intimate and distant at the same time. What could be better?

“And what do you think of physical oddities?” Cain asked on the second night in a row that he met Levi at St. Vincent's to talk. He paced under the altar, his arms folded across his chest and revolvers tucked safely in against his sides.

Levi squinted at him in the dance of candlelight, otherwise staying utterly still. “Physical oddities?”

“Dismemberment. Blood. Deformities. Mutilations. Women with beards, pygmy folks, twins joined at the side. You know, general grotesquerie. Like they exploit at carnivals.”

Levi seemed to chew on that one for a very long time, like he knew there was a particular answer Cain searched for. “I hope you are not asking to determine,” he said deliberately, and in that lovely gravelly tone of his that was really starting to grow on Cain, “whether or not I judge you for your eyes.”

Cain bristled. He hadn't expected that to be brought up. It was something he forgot about until someone looked at him funny, like he had a crooked collar or a stain on the sleeve. He blushed, fixing Levi with a cold and vulnerable stare. He had no words. Did he feel offended? Or did he feel embarrassed? Or, better yet, did he not really care at all? Eyes with almost no color… It wasn't that monstrous. Was it?

God,
was
that why he'd asked, without even knowing it?

“That's not why I'm asking,” Cain spat, jaw tight. “I want to know if you can stomach more than just the regular blood and gore of street fights.”

Levi's footsteps echoed as he moved out of the pews and over to the altar, strolling to a stop directly in front of Cain. Cain gave no rebuttal. He was still reeling, actually, face on fire and words stuck under a sore knot in his throat. He was so choked up, and he was not prepared for that.

Standing elevated on the altar steps, he was taller than Levi. The night's rain had left Levi's hair damp. Aunt Ophelia, Rodney, and Uncle Bradley were out there in the rain, which misted still beyond the safety of the church. Droplets had stuck to Levi's lashes too, like dew on a garden of roses. And, oh God, Cain wanted to kiss him.

There was that lust, a shuddering bass chord of dissolution, and it shot through him like all the worst nerves, hot and cold and merciless. He wanted those damp lashes to tickle him as their mouths met. He wanted to feel the graze of Levi's nice teeth. He wanted that handsome heat right up against him, dominating, crushing, stimulating, real and strong. It was torture, revisiting their masquerade rendezvous in the back of his head each time they met—the sweet taste of those lips, the manly pulse of that body.

Levi's eyes didn't reflect the candlelight; they held their own flame, and there was no denying Levi felt the same. That thrill of secrets and sin was like a tightly wound string on a violin, and quite suddenly then and there in the silence of the church, a brittle hush, that taut tension snapped, and Cain yielded to Levi's arm almost immediately as it snaked around his waist, fitting snugly at the base of his spine.

He swayed forward, Levi's arm winding him closer. Their mouths didn't crash together—no, the impulse was held in check. Instead Levi craned in and Cain accepted the kiss with parted lips, and it was not slow or shy, but just seemed to flow into being like a sigh or a subtle glance.

Ah, yes, he'd been waiting for this. Teeth and tongue and little breaths shivering from Levi's silky lower lip, and the rattle of buckles and whisper of brocade as they molded together under the damning shadows of the Virgin and Christ.

With both arms now, Levi hoisted Cain off the steps. Cain wasn't much smaller than him. He was pleased with how easily Levi lifted him and deposited him on the front pew as their mouths worked together. Levi sank down to his haunches before Cain and Cain let his knees twitch apart as he welcomed Levi forward with greedy fingers.

They kissed. Cain's heart was in his throat. He was hot and nervous and full of reckless lust, and the thrill tasted like metal on the back of his tongue. Levi nipped at his lower lip. He ripped open his waistcoat and unfastened Cain's shirt down the front, raining kisses on the pale skin there and driving Cain wild in the pew before him, like a wayward churchgoer moved to tears by the Mass. It felt so invigoratingly dirty, to be colliding like this under the watchful eyes of the angels and other holy figures. Felt utterly wrong and oh so good. Cain was a defiant thing by nature. Perhaps it came with the name.

Levi's lips were almost like silk, and he smelled like rain and gunpowder and something else exotic. He lit a Turkish cigarette, staying on his knees before Cain, and peered up at him through his lashes, without lifting his head, in that tender and carnal way that had ensnared Cain from the start. Cain curled his fingers in that soft, damp blond hair, the last of the heated shivers running through him as he convinced his more impulsive parts that this was as far as they were going tonight.

“What do you know about me?” Cain whispered.

“I'm sorry?” Levi whispered right back, lashes lowered on those deep eyes as he flicked cigarette ash over the edge of the pew and filled the sanctuary with smoke. It was like sinful incense.

“The feud between the Dietrichs and Ruslanivs,” Cain reminded him, and when Levi stared back stupidly, Cain narrowed his eyes. “The feud itself runs deep. You know that, surely, even claiming neutrality as you do. But with
my
standing as the Dietrich heir, my focus is not on ancient bloodlust. My focus lies in the present.” He paused. He shook his head, throwing his gaze elsewhere. He could feel the hatred coming down over his face, washing away all the good feelings. “You know what happened to me, don't you? It wasn't that long ago, and it was the talk of New London for months.”

Levi stared at him, eyes heated and alive with that raw dark passion of his.

“My parents were murdered,” Cain filled him in, coldly. “And I
know
the culprits are Ruslanivs in some way or another, because no petty street gang could manage something so calculated—killing my parents and making
my life
a living hell for as long as they did. I'm going to make them pay. I'm going to make them bow down and kiss my feet. That, Levi, is the Dietrich focus while I am head of the family. You get it now, I assume?”

Cain knew the weight of such a revelation was crushing. He understood the gravity of his place, and his motives, and his history, and his impetus. He was aware of the demands it made of others. But if Levi did not get it, then there was no point in using him for anything—scouting, patrolling, fighting,
nothing
.

“You will not rest until you've exacted your revenge,” Levi surmised in a husky voice, Turkish cigarette smoldering between his knuckles and a new curious light sparking in his aloof eyes. “I understand.”

He put out his cigarette against the front of the pew, a blatant desecration that pleased Cain for some reason.

“Do you?” Cain drilled. “Do you understand, Levi? I know you want me.”

“Like you want me.”

“I won't deny it. But I haven't contracted you as my paramour. I've contracted you as a fighter.”

“Ah, my lord,” Levi said quietly, “I told you before, I am whatever you want me to be.”

Cain's face pinched. He felt the stab of a tiny and guilty fear, the dreadful idea that perhaps the primal throb of lust was unreciprocated.
I am whatever you want….
Did Levi mean to imply he was simply going along with all this for money—killing and sex for money? Could one really hold it past a man to do something so depraved? Did Levi pity him? Did he think he was lonely or something? A wave of cold, black, insulted rage crested in Cain quickly, to feel so pathetic and manipulated—or at least, to suspect as much.

“I want you to be honest with me,” he whispered urgently through his teeth, before he realized the depth of the ache at such a suggestion.

Levi's eyes moved across his face, almost frantically. It was odd. It was like a man with a secret, looking a complication right in the eyes. Maybe it was just that he had been trying to convince himself he would be whatever Cain wanted, because it was too much for him to admit inside that the feelings were real. If freelance gunmen hadn't buried all their own feelings early in life. Maybe Cain was just lucky enough to have found the last gunslinger on the streets of New London who possessed a functioning moral compass—and whether it might one day spin wildly out of control like Cain's own, didn't matter.

“Honest….” Levi echoed, and Cain couldn't bully him any longer.

He could see the emotional struggle blazing in Levi's eyes. And he looked so little and defeated, on his knees before him, wide dark eyes and loose blond hair. It was like he was trying to piece together normal feelings inside, his own version of bruised and broken trust after the world had stomped on his soul too many times. Or so Cain guessed.

“Honest,” he repeated. “Be honest with me. I told you I wouldn't accommodate lies, not even lies to yourself. You're not on your knees before me just for me, Levi. Admit it. There's something between us, and it has a mind of its own. There's no fighting it. So be my lover, and be my soldier, but don't ever let one influence the other—”