HelLBENT

The Infernal Sins: Book 2

“We don't fall in love with people because they're good people. We fall in love with people whose darkness we recognise... But when you fall in love with a person because your monsters have found a home in them-- that's the kind of love that owns your skin and bones. Love, I am convinced, is found in the darkness. It is the candle in the night.” 

-C Joybell

Prologue 

The Second Son 

Michael

“But I don’t want to learn how to ride.” 

“Nonsense. You must learn how to ride. How else will you get around?” 

“On foot.” Michael grumbled, “Like a normal person.” 

“Normal people ride horses, Michael, and they all fall off them occasionally. The trick is to get back on. This is how you will learn.”  

Baudin smiled reassuringly and reached down to the scowling six-year-old, flame-tinged hair wild under his helmet, nose scrunched up in displeasure. Horses nearly always bucked the boy off like they had an aversion to him, but Baudin was determined to bring him up as normally as possible. 

And that meant that he had to learn to stay on. 

“Come on, up you get, mon garçon,” Baudin called, holding the reins and steadying the mare. She snickered as the boy huffed his way towards her, dragging grooves the dirt beneath her hooves as he placed a foot in the stirrup. 

“She doesn’t like me,” Michael whined, watching her tail whip out of the corner of his eye as he balanced his weight. 

Baudin looked at the animal’s flared nostrils and flat ears.  

“Of course she likes you,” he lied, and uttered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t bolt. “She just doesn’t know you very well. It’s about trust, Michael. Put your trust in her that she will keep you safe, and allow her to trust you in turn. She will take care of you.” 

Michael nodded; his small features set with resolve. The boy was already so determined, and stubborn like his birth father. Sometimes it made Baudin sad to watch his friend’s son grow without him, but today, Michael had the same hellbent look in his blue eyes that Nemo had gotten whenever an idea took hold. Michael reached out his hand, running it gently down the mare’s graceful, muscled neck. 

“Shh, belle fille,” he whispered, and her ears turned back to listen to his words. “I won’t hurt you. Please let me sit.” 

Baudin swelled with pride, stepping back slowly and letting go of the reins, leaving Michael stood with one foot in the stirrup and the other swinging slowly over the chestnut’s back as he murmured gently. 

She didn’t give Michael time to find his seat before she ran. 

“Faaatttthhhheeeeeerrrrrrr!” Michael screamed, hanging on for his life as she ran in circles around the paddock, his trapped foot the only thing keeping him connected. 

He fell on her third lap. 

Baudin shouldn’t laugh. He shouldn’t. But at the sight of the furious child, red faced and covered in sand, his helmet askew as the horse pranced off victorious was too much, the snicker escaped his lips before he reached his charge. 

“I told you she didn’t like me! Why did you make me get back on?” Michael fumed, not bothering to brush himself off. 

“Because, son, if we give up at the first hurdle, we will never achieve anything. You know-” 

“Don’t quote anything at me, father, it is not bible study day.” 

Baudin pressed his lips together tightly. He hadn’t meant to rub off on the boy, but there was no denying his dry humour matched his own, even in his dismay. 

“Are you hurt?” Baudin asked instead. 

“No,” Michael replied, but his shoulders had sagged, and his blue eyes filled with tears. “I’m just not good at riding horses.” 

Baudin brushed his son’s cheek as one fell. “Oh, Michael. Do not let your confidence falter. Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial-” 

Michael pushed away, wiping his eyes furiously. “You said you wouldn’t quote!” 

“I did nothing of the sort. Now go wash up. We’ll try again another day.” 

Michael huffed as he went, being sure to avoid the still circling mare as he reached the gate. Animals didn’t like him; they never had. But it was fine, he didn’t need to learn to ride. There was nowhere he wanted to go anyway. He wouldn’t be riding with his friends – he didn’t have any. He was happy to sit in the carriage with their Holy texts and the old scrolls Baudin took everywhere with him. 

He was crossing through the stables to hang up his hat when he heard a small giggle in one of the stalls.  

“Who’s there?” Michael asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious. People didn’t normally stay around when he was there; other children his age avoided him. Even adults gave him a wide berth.  

“Did you fall off your horse?” came a tinkling reply. 

“N-no,” Michael stuttered, hastily trying to dust himself off. 

“Then you’re always walking around covered in dirt?” A head peered around a stall, shorter than Michael, but a girl around the same age. She had the biggest hazel eyes he’d ever seen, her hair almost the same colour. There was a healthy rose to her cheeks that said she’d had a much more successful ride than Michael had, punctuated by her smug smile. 

Michael scowled. “Are you always so rude?” 

The girl outright grinned, a dimple popping in her cheek. “Only to boys.” 

“Well, I don’t speak to girls.” Michael said, turning away while his cheeks flamed. He was embarrassed that someone was even talking to him, let alone a girl. Let alone a girl after he’d fallen off his horse. Three times.  

“Wait!” she cried, running after him as he reached the end of the stable, the horses going quiet around him, pressing themselves further into their pens. Michael didn’t stop walking, but she caught up to him with a skip. “I’m Clara. You’re Michael, yes?” 

“How do you know?” 

“I've seen you help out at the church sometimes,” Clara shrugged and scrutinised him closely, her nose wrinkling as she assessed him. “My mother told me to stay away from you. She said you weren’t normal. But you look normal enough to me.” 

Michael frowned. “So why are you talking to me if your mother told you not to?” 

“Because,” Clara rolled her eyes, as if the answer was obvious. “God tells us to be kind and compassionate to one another, and sometimes, my mother is not kind. And besides, how will you learn to ride properly if I don’t teach you? Father Baudin seems to be doing a terrible job.” 

Michael couldn’t help but laugh. This girl spoke so freely, he knew his father would like her. He also knew in that moment that he’d listen to her speak for as long as she wanted to speak to him. 

*** 

Michael and Clara became inseparable, much to Baudin’s joy and her parent’s utter dismay. She was from a respected family with good standing in Paris, and it was not deemed proper for her to be friends with an orphaned bastard. 

Not that anything stopped them. Years passed, and when they were of age, they married in secret, Baudin agreeing to officiate, and together, the three made their way to Michael’s inherited home in England. 

She was sat in the gardens on a spring afternoon, surrounded by wildflowers and looking every inch an angel when Michael happened upon her, cautious of her swelling stomach. 

“Ah, the prodigal husband appears,” she jested, a twinkle in her eye as she acknowledged his sheepish approach. The sun was nestled in her hair, and he could smell the rays on her perfect skin. He was constantly floored by her beauty, her confidence, the way she had accepted him without question. He grimaced, hating himself for what he’d done to her. 

Clara rolled her eyes as she had done that first day in the stables. “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Last I checked, it was my ankles that were swollen and not yours.” 

“Your ankles are perfect,” Michael said, a little more venomously than he’d meant to. He was still so new at his damnation, and his emotions sometimes got the better of him. But he hated the pains that the thing inside Clara caused her, cringed every time she ached or couldn’t sleep. Baudin had tried to tell him how normal it was for pregnancy, but Michael was not convinced. The feeling that something was wrong was constantly threatening to overwhelm him, but Clara was blissfully happy, and he despised that he couldn’t share in her joy. 

She was stroking her stomach absently beneath the silk of her dress, her dimple standing out proudly on her cheek. Michael longed to touch her but settled with sitting close by. Clara said nothing at the distance he kept between them, upturning her face to the sun. 

“I have decided on his name,” she said absently, the lightness of her voice setting Michael on edge. 

“Do you think that wise?” he asked. 

“Only you are convinced that our child is evil, Michael,” Clara tutted, her hand tracing slow circles on her belly.  

“His name?” 

She peeked at him with a sly smile that twisted at his insides. “Of course, I know he is a boy. I am his mother.” 

“I just don’t think it’s wise to be naming it.” 

“Him.” 

“Until it is born and we can determine its nature, and until you are safe, it will be an ‘it’.” Michael growled, knowing that his eyes were darkening. 

“Pour l'amour de Dieu!” Clara exclaimed, shaking her head and swatting at Michael’s shoulder. “Our son will be born into a loving family, husband, to parents that will take care of him no matter his deposition. Call him an ‘it’ again, and it will be my darkness you are running from.” 

Michael studied his wife’s face, her features set in the stubbornness he loved. He knew he was in trouble, and yet he couldn’t help but laugh at her fierceness. He was a monster, yet he was being threatened by his tiny, pregnant wife. 

“Now,” she continued without giving him pause, “Would you like to know his name or not?” 

“Enlighten me, wife,” Michael chuckled, feeling the veins shrink back beneath his eyes. She smiled, banishing the shadows from his mind as only she could, and he instinctively reached for her, his hand grazing her cheek. She leaned into him, not flinching at the cold. 

“Matthan,” she whispered, knowing he could hear her. 

“Matthan?” Michael scowled, his brows knitting together as he considered it. 

“It means ‘gift’,” she announced proudly, “in this country’s language. Baudin found an old text for me a few weeks ago and I haven’t been able to shake it. It’s like he’s telling me what his name is himself.” 

Michael raised a brow at his wife. He was worried for her and her refusal to accept that the thing inside her might not be the child she hoped for. He was a demon, and despite Baudin’s pouring over old tomes and their research into the myths and legends of the world, they had found no happy endings for women who fell prey to the Devil and his minions. 

But Clara couldn’t be swayed, convinced that her love for the child she bore would be enough to save it. 

“Clara...” Michael started, but she cut him off. 

“No, it is decided. He will be our gift, Michael, and you will love him. Now,” she dismissed him, but held out her hand, “I wish to go inside, and I cannot get up by myself. Be a good husband and help your wife.” 

She was on her feet in a moment and falling with a scream in the next. 

Michael held onto her hand as her legs gave way, her other hand protecting her belly as she crumpled. He’d scooped her up before she hit the ground, hating the way she convulsed in his arms as he ran into the house. 

“Baudin!” he bellowed as he ascended to their bedchamber, laying her as gently as he could on the linen sheets and watching helplessly as she writhed in pain. “BAUDIN!” 

His father was by her side suddenly, gripping her hand and checking her temperature. 

“What happened?” he asked sternly as he fixed his physician’s head on. “Quickly, Michael, every moment counts.” 

“I cannot lose her, Baudin,” Michael whispered, terror taking hold of him as blood started to stain the sheets between Clara’s legs. 

“I need to know what happened. Now, Michael!” 

“Nothing happened,” he cried as the sharp metallic tang hit his nostrils, causing his fangs to descend. “She stood up, that was all. She merely... stood-” 

Clara screamed again, her legs sagging and her face contorted. Michael cried out wordlessly, his large, pale hand engulfing hers. Despite her pain, he felt her squeeze him back as if, somehow, she was comforting him. 

“Do something!” Michael pleaded, watching as the red started to spread. 

“Clara, I need to look,” Baudin announced, and she nodded silently. The priest said a prayer before dipping to assess Clara’s body, coming back up with a grave look on his face. 

“What is it? Is it killing her?” Michael cried, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood. So much blood. 

“I believe that her placenta has ruptured,” Baudin said gravely, and turned to Clara. “Mon cher, I need to cut the child out.” 

“No!” Clara sobbed, “He’s too small! It’s not time!” 

“There may not be any more time.” Baudin implored her sadly. They spoke to each other without words, a silent understanding passing between them. 

“Do it,” Clara whispered, “Save our son.” 

Baudin nodded, his face grim, and left the room, returning with a leather wallet. Michael turned to his wife when he saw the glint of steel in the folds. 

“Clara-” 

“Don’t,” she said between gasps of pain, and squeezed his hand tighter. “I will be fine. Our son will be fine.” 

“Father,” Michael turned to the priest as he lowered the knife to Clara’s exposed stomach, but there were no words he could say. Save my wife, he thought, save my love. Let the thing die if it saves her. Please, I would do anything. He didn’t know if he was praying to God or to Baudin. 

He’d pray to the Devil again if it saved Clara’s life. 

They exchanged a curt nod before metal sliced flesh, and Clara’s agony became his own. Michael felt every scream, every thrash even as she tried to hold still. Seconds ticked by, minutes, before a wail pierced the air and broke through the veil of darkness that had settled over the room. 

“A son,” Baudin announced, and Clara positively beamed.  

“I told you so,” she whispered, the strength fading from her voice. 

“Be gone with it,” Michael ordered, not able to take his eyes off his wife, so pale when just minutes ago, her skin was flush with life. “Set the thing down and save her, man, she’s fading!” 

He could hear every beat of her fluttering heart; each one weaker than the last. He was losing her. 

“Give me my son, Baudin,” Clara whispered, holding out her arms. Michael was incredulous as the priest lay the squealing thing on her breast, unable to look at it even as Clara cooed. The pungent stench of blood was nearly consuming him, and he dared not look away from her face to see the destruction that the monster on her chest had wrought to her body. 

“Look Michael,” she gushed, “It is our gift.” 

“You are my gift,” he said, determined to take in every detail of her face, knowing as he listened to her failing heart why Baudin had stopped trying to save her. “Do not leave me,” he choked out, unable to cry but feeling like he was being strangled anyway. 

“Look after our son, husband,” Clara whispered, her perfect lips turning grey as her eyes started to lose their light. “Love him as you love me, and I will always be with you.” 

“I love you,” Michael cried, knowing he’d never say those words to another for as long as he lived, clinging onto her hand while her grip grew slack. He rested his forehead against hers, his vision black with grief.   

Somewhere in the manor, the babe started to cry, and Clara’s hand became as cold as his own. 

***

The Infernal Sins: Book 2

HELLBENT

Coming soon…