The Vampire's Angel (28 page)

“Am I troubling you?” Thomas asked suddenly.

“No, don’t be ridiculous. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because the bustling woman, who’s perpetually in motion, sits before me with a blank expression. I’ve noticed that when we’re alone you reflect more.”

“It’s I, Thomas, not you.”

“Catherine, I never expected you to accept me so easily. I’ve never told other humans about my nature. Before I came to Paris it was a complete secret. I may not have the words to comfort you, but you’ll not offend me.”

She rose from her chair to sit next to him, and took his hand. Absolute impropriety, but she cared little about convention and doubted that Thomas even noticed.

“I need to confess, not as to a priest, which I never do, even to my brother, but to a friend.”

Thomas grabbed her other hand, now holding both tightly, and looked directly into her eyes. “You know that I adore you,” she started. “And of course your being a vampire, or whatever I should call you, caught me unprepared. But I’m understanding it better and better, despite my occasional unease. So you know that I don’t see you as some hideous monster. Now, you know, too, that your sexual proclivities don’t bother me. I’d dealt with them long before we met. I knew about Xavier before he suspected it himself. I’m still not sure how much he acknowledges it. The church loves to tell people what to do, where to do it, and even how. I think it’s because so many theologians are perverts and frustrated sexually because they pretend to abstain. What others think about your sexual proclivities is ridiculous.”

Again they laughed until Thomas spoke. “What are you really saying?”

“It’s Xavier. I’m not sure how I feel. If you were rich and came to steal him away to America as your slave, and he willingly went, I wouldn’t care. But I’m not sure what to feel about the fact that it entails something more. I’m not so ignorant to presume it doesn’t mean that he’ll be undead. That’s different.”

Thomas remained quiet.

“I despise people who interfere illogically in other people’s business. I’d never stop Xavier from seeing you or reveal your secret to him in order to gain an upper hand. I’ve lived with men doing that to me my entire life. I guess that I want you to know that I’d never do anything of the sort. This is Xavier’s decision alone and that will be hard enough.”

Having this in the open liberated her mind. She had told the truth, every bit of it, from her turmoil to the fact that she loved each of them. She got up from the couch and ran to the window, looking out at Paris. Dark, dirty, bloody, Paris.

She did not flinch when Thomas came beside her and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“I still want to help you with Xavier.”

“If needed, I’ll ask.”

“He needs someone strong and masculine to protect him. You’re perfect for that.” She did believe it, but how far was she willing to go?

“Catherine, relax. I’ll come to you if needed. I won’t steal him away without your knowledge. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to find Xavier.”

Catherine escorted Thomas to the front door. Though he had patiently chatted until she felt better, it dawned on her that he had probably fretted the entire time about going to Xavier. Thomas worried about her brother, and she had at one time, too, but long ago she stopped watching over him because he led his own life and nothing she said or did changed it. Besides, she detested people like Michel, who tried to enforce his will on everyone he met. She watched Thomas move easily down the street and then she closed and locked the door.

14 July 1789 Early night

XAVIER EXITED THE Bastille with a horde of people, self-conscious as he walked through the streets in common garb. He had been alone in the church when the guards knocked on the door in a panic. The parish militia, as he affectionately called them, had news from Paris: the Bastille had been taken over, Parisians were in full riot, and they had even executed the Bastille governor. For his safety, they collected some lay clothing and demanded that he wear it. Xavier reluctantly obeyed but, once dressed, forced them to take him to the Bastille.

And so they, like hundreds of others, toured the Bastille. Xavier recognized all of it because he had often administered the sacraments to prisoners, but it fascinated him to see it swarming with people and completely empty of captives. They passed the time by talking to people and exploring the empty cells until it grew dark and Xavier was weary. At least he used this as an excuse to leave. In truth, he worried that Thomas would not find him.

Xavier walked out the gates and into the drenched streets. He noticed the few remaining people and smiled as a few sprinkles hit his face. Then his heart fluttered when he saw the black-clad man across the street.

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’ll go with Thomas now,” he told his guards.

They gave way at his insistence. Thomas waited as Xavier bid them adieu and promised to inform them when he returned to the church. Xavier hurried across the street, smiling, but also wondering if they suspected the nature of his evening meetings.

“Thomas,” he said, a surge of pleasure racing down his spine.

Thomas met him with an icy stare.

“What is it?”

“What were you doing here?” Thomas asked tersely.

“Can you believe that I almost missed everything? I was at the church all day before the guards told me about the Bastille. I insisted that we go out, and so we came to tour. Can you believe it? Common citizens walking in and out of the cells, and no militia arrived to put them down.”

Thomas stood like a statue as all of this poured out. Xavier fumbled with the collar on his shirt and longed for the cross around his neck. “I was with my guards,” Xavier continued. “They insisted that I wear these clothes. I look ridiculous, I know.” Xavier stopped suddenly. None of this wooed Thomas, and he became more and more nervous as he spoke. To Xavier, this silence between them was deadly. The chilly rain irritated him but at least it took his attention away from the disapproving figure in front of him.

“Are you angry?” he finally asked

Thomas turned and started down the street as Xavier followed. The mud slid into his boots as the entire scene became dank and depressing.

“What should I do?” Thomas’s voice was firm, not irate, thankfully, yet not the pleasant tone that Xavier loved to hear. “For heaven’s sake, you have to be more careful. They’re rioting. Do you understand that many of these people hate the church and any representative of it? I appreciate that you changed your clothes, but what if someone recognized you?”

“I wanted only to see things.”

“I know that you don’t want to stay inside, but—we need to go some place private.”

They walked a couple more blocks, Thomas pulling Xavier by the arm, until they reached Xavier’s church. Alone in the drab space of his room, Xavier stood motionless as Thomas locked the door then turned to him and let out a long breath of air. Xavier felt nervous and excited at the same time, his typical turmoil whenever he found himself alone with Thomas.

“I know I worry too much. But if we’re to be friends, or whatever you want to call us, I need to know that you’re not being careless. I’m not angry, but I wonder about your safety constantly, to the point of getting sick to my stomach.”

Xavier melted at Thomas’s pleas. If only he could be with Thomas all day. Being in Paris never threatened him, but Thomas, Catherine, Michel, and even his parishioners kept telling him differently. His thoughts whirled, and then the tears came. Those damnable, effeminate tears streamed down his face. Thomas embraced him at once and moved him to the bed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said and kissed Xavier’s head.

“It’s not you. I’m just confused. I want to be a part of this but don’t know what to do. I’d never intentionally put myself at risk, I just trust that people won’t lash out indiscriminately. We have to believe in their goodness.”

Xavier detested sobbing. It embarrassed him and too often stifled their conversation because it made Thomas quit talking. “Do you think I’m completely wrong?” Xavier asked.

“I think you have too much faith in people.”

Though offended, Xavier said nothing. Thomas and Catherine talked as if he walked about in a daze, like a newborn puppy that trusts and loves everyone. But Xavier disliked some people and knew of irredeemable individuals. He just allowed people to prove their worth or lack thereof before making a judgment. His experiences further proved him right and demonstrated the goodness of humanity. Why did that make him naïve?

“And it relates to your faith in Catholicism,” Thomas continued. “I know your faith isn’t based on everything the church teaches, but it’s still devout. You think that as a priest you have to attain an ideal in how you view people and in your own life, regardless of reality or what the people around you say to the contrary.”

So it came back to this: their relationship.

“I told you that I needed time, Thomas. I never said that my decisions were final.”

“I didn’t mean to press you,” Thomas answered softly.

“But you returned to it. I know that we live a complete contradiction. Our time together is too frequent for a common friendship, yet I pretend that’s what we have. When you talk about me, and when I think about you constantly, it’s with more than a passing interest. So these conversations inevitably drift to the impossible because you want to embrace me, but I can’t embrace you.”

Thomas stood and paced with the nervous energy that always and noticeably consumed him. “You mean that you won’t,” Thomas said.

“What’s the difference?”

“One is an actual prohibition while yours is self-denial.”

“What would you have me do? I’ve never denied my true feelings. Why can’t we discuss these things peacefully?”

“Because I love you and you deny it.”

“I never denied it,” Xavier said angrily. “Do I need to say it over and over so that the pain increases with each day? I love you. There, you have it again. I long for you. Is that better? Or do I need to admit the anguish I feel every night as I go to sleep and wish that I were in your arms, safe from the world, away from the things that plague me?” Weeping, those damnable tears meant that they would not resolve this because Thomas would soften to comfort him.

Thomas put his head in his hands and stopped in the middle of the room. He returned to Xavier’s side and looked into his eyes; Thomas, too, cried. He had lingered in the center of the room because he wiped away the evidence, yet the smudge of dirt across his cheek betrayed him. And his eyes were so red that it appeared as if blood had pooled in them.

“Then what keeps you from being happy with me?” Thomas finally asked.

“Damnation.”

“Where do you get such thoughts? You said yourself that if a parishioner came to you with this longing you’d think differently. Why is it different for you?”

“Because I pledged myself to these people and gave my soul to serving them. I can’t betray that without hypocrisy.”

“I just don’t understand,” Thomas answered. “What about Maria? You told me that she has relationships. Why is it different for her?”

“It’s not.”

Xavier recounted how Maria felt about their relationship and how she scolded him for taking these feelings outside of the church. For better or worse, he told Thomas that Maria mistrusted him because she feared the American would betray them. He finished, hoping that Thomas would better understand. Instead, Thomas seethed with anger.

“I can think of nothing more hypocritical than Maria reprimanding you while she carries on with women in the convent.”

“I know her argument is inconsistent.”

“Then why adhere to it?”

“Because I’m afraid of going to hell,” Xavier reiterated.

“Yet you don’t think that any of them will?”

“No,” Xavier cried even more, feeling absolutely miserable.

“But you’d go to hell for doing the same thing?”

“I don’t know,” he managed to shout between sobs.

Thomas’s brow furrowed and his expression darkened. “You’re not the only one who hurts,” he said. “I know that you dwell in your pity and suffering, but when you do, so do I. Your contradictions hurt more than just you. There’s a lot about me that you don’t know. I long to tell you the rest, but how can I make myself vulnerable when you refuse to do the same? So languish in your pity but know that you depress others with it.”

Neither spoke another word. Xavier struggled with embarrassment, anger, and mourning all at once. And he was in love.

“I’m going,” Thomas said. He hugged him tightly, then kissed him on the cheek. Xavier slumped against Thomas until he was pushed away and gently laid on the bed. Thomas petted his hair a few times then kissed him on the forehead and left.

Perhaps God had already sent Xavier to hell, and this was his punishment. Why would God wait until his death to discipline him for transgressions? Nothing in hell could be worse than the physical pain that ate at his heart. This was purgatory. This was Hades. This was hellfire and damnation.

But he drifted to sleep, too tired to cry more and paralyzed—he knew that more penalties, pain, grief, and torment would follow, never ending because he loved both Thomas and God.

15 July 1789

AFTER THEIR ARGUMENT Thomas left Xavier at the church without speaking to avoid bitter or inappropriate words designed to hurt Xavier. Anthony’s admonitions for patience flooded his head through the entire conversation because he knew that he had crossed a line and intentionally made Xavier cry. He hated the church and what it did to Xavier so much that he failed to control himself. He regretted it, though part of him thought the argument inevitable.

After he ran out of the church he almost returned to shake Xavier by the shoulders until he released the guilt and followed his heart.

Anthony. He needed Anthony. He stormed into Anthony’s flat without knocking as blood sweat poured from his brow.