22. Cinn
twenty-two
Cinn
W hen Cinn awoke, hand dangling off the sofa, he was alone in the living room. The fire had dwindled to embers overnight, leaving the room enveloped in a chilly stillness.
Tugging on his hat, then throwing the blanket around his shoulders, he wandered into the kitchen to find the others making tea. Julien smiled at him over Darcy’s shoulder. Nothing extraordinary, only a brief flash of teeth, yet a subtle warmth spread through Cinn’s chest, and he found himself busying himself with dishes before he did anything ridiculous.
Of course, Julien followed him to the sink, sipping his tea. He reached out to touch the blanket, running his thumb over Béatrice’s initials. “Still up for later?”
Cinn nodded. Béatrice, you better be ready to talk this time, now we’ve bloody dug up your grave.
The next part of the morning was taken up by Darcy, unimpressed when Julien used up all the cottage’s hot water during his shower, arguing with him over the need to let him install some sort of fancy-sounding motetech heating system in her boiler.
“If you’d just sleep at home like a normal person, then it wouldn’t be an issue,” she snapped, which concluded the discussions.
Julien, who unsurprisingly had a stash of spare clothes at Darcy’s, agreed to drive Cinn home to shower and change after he’d refused to borrow anything .
The drive quickly led into the next argument of the day: Julien persistently suggesting Cinn take pain medication for his burns, which pissed him off to no end. The salved wounds weren’t pleasant, but he’d dealt with injuries five times worse before, especially during his stint in juvie.
“Why do you care so much?” That eventually shut him up.
Julien waited in the car for him, then drove them straight back to Darcy’s. He didn’t say much on the return journey, but he did let Cinn choose the radio station, so that was something.
Upon their return, they set about preparing for their second attempt to reach Béatrice, with Cinn helping Darcy drag materials up from the cottage’s basement. As soon as they opened the ancient trapdoor in her pantry, Cinn’s senses were assaulted by a heady blend of exotic, aromatic herbs. The rungs of the oak ladder they descended, creaky and uneven, bore weathered marks of time. A string of giant lightbulbs ran across one wall, and when Darcy touched one, each came alive with the bright glow of dancing lumenmotes.
Everywhere he looked, bundles of dried herbs hung from wooden beams—lavender, sage, and many other mysteries. Jars lined wooden shelves, some oddly empty aside from a strange shimmer within. He picked one up, squinting and holding it to the light. Tiny specks of dark green and maroon were dancing together like fireflies in hidden currents.
“Can you see those?” asked Darcy. “They’re floramotes combined with terramotes.”
“I didn’t realise people kept motes in jars.” Cinn spun the jar around in his hand, watching the motes spin with it. They were pretty. Maybe he could decorate his house with some.
“How else would we keep them? That’s not any old jar, by the way. Don’t drop it, they’re expensive.”
Like a child in a toy shop, he put it down and picked up something else from the shelf underneath. A large flask with a thin neck, it bore a label proclaiming it Mortalisfade. Its liquid, a deep indigo reminiscent of the midnight sky, appeared to swirl and writhe within the confines of the container.
“Woah! What’s this?”
Darcy snatched it off him so fast her arms were a blur. “That needs to stay on the shelf. Not only is it deadly dangerous, but it took me three weeks to brew.” With care, she set it back, then stared at it, as if entranced. “This is the elixir we were experimenting with before you came. The one that causes a temporary state very similar to death. If used correctly, in conjunction with some other elements, it’s said to allow us ordinary moteblessed access to the shadowrealm.”
“But it never worked?”
“No. Elliot and Julien took turns almost killing themselves with zero results. I hated every second of it, but they threatened to do it without me if I didn’t supervise.” She muttered something that sounded like ‘fucking children’ under her breath. “I had to revive them from flatline several times.” She eyed Cinn. “We are not going down that route again.”
Cinn stared at the dark swirl of liquid. Would there ever be a scenario where he’d risk his life in order to communicate with someone one last time? “Béatrice was Julien’s sister, but Elliot…” He left his thoughts unfinished.
“She was his sister too, in lots of ways,” Darcy said quietly. “Don’t tell Julien I said this, but they might have been just as close. He understood her in ways that Julien never could. Especially when Julien was being the overprotective big brother. You’ve seen how in denial he is about her involvement with the Arcane Purifiers, right?”
Snorting, Cinn said, “Yes. I’m scared he might not believe me if I ever manage to deliver a message from her.”
Seizing a crate from the damp floor, Darcy darted through the basement, swiftly loading it with an assortment of items. “Well, let’s hope she’s got some answers for us. It’s bad enough he already carries guilt over the death of his mother, without all of this Béatrice stuff for him to also beat himself up over.”
“What? How did his mother die?”
Darcy’s hands paused. “That’s his story to tell.”
The dining room table was cleared.
The candles, lit.
Elliot, late.
“Take the book to copy from and the aethraven ink to get that bit done, at least.” Darcy handed Julien the pot of dark fluid. A phantom itch spread across his skin, a reminder of the last time they’d done this, and he’d awoken in agony. At least the ink had done its job however, and prevented him from bringing back the umbraphage back with him.
“There’s no point getting on the table yet. Elliot could be hours longer. Come lie down in Béatrice’s room. Maybe it’ll be good luck to do it there.”
The sofa would probably also do the trick.
But he couldn’t refuse his chance to peek inside Béatrice’s eternally closed door.
When he followed Julien through it, the air hung oppressively heavy with memories. Pure eclectic chaos, shelves overflowed with novels, walls were plastered in arty photography and snippets of illustrated poetry, lots of it French. It was as if the room had inhaled a deep breath when Béatrice had left, and had held it in this whole time, awaiting her return. He didn’t want to touch anything here—felt uncomfortable even standing in it, in fact—let alone lie down on her rumpled bed.
A quote on the wall caught his eye: beautiful typography surrounded by hand-painted golden stars. Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night. The words were familiar, but not from his English classes. “This is what you and Darcy said in the graveyard, when you were staring at her headstone.”
“ Oui . She loved poetry. She wrote several herself. Performed them even. That poem was her favourite, I think. I had to battle my father to be allowed to read it aloud at her funeral.”
Cinn attempted to move towards Julien, but tripped over a stray mug, its long-evaporated contents leaving a dark ring behind within it.
Julien laughed, setting the ink and book he carried on Béatrice’s bedside table, pushing a stack of trinkets to one side to make room. “She’s a lot messier than me. Was. She’d often bribe me to tidy her room for her when we were children.”
An image of two golden-haired children playing together passed through his mind. He’d never had a sibling—both a blessing and a curse—and was acutely aware he’d never been able to fully understand Julien’s loss.
As if in a trance, Julien wandered over to a half-finished knitting project that lay sprawled on the desk, needles still embedded in black yarn. Never to be completed. “This was meant to be a scarf for me, I think.” Julien sighed and ran his hand over his face. “I actually forgot how much I hate coming in here. Sorry.”
“Shall we—”
“ Non . It’s fine. It’s just a room.”
Just a forest full of memories, each a pine needle to the heart.
Julien opened a small drawer in her desk. “This is where we found her diary. The one that said Jour J .” He stared at the offensive item with a sour look on his face. “Anyway,” he said, slamming the drawer shut, then turning to look Cinn straight in the eye. “Take off your clothes and lie on the bed. ”
Bloody hell. He couldn’t be in this dead girl’s room and hear those words. Not with Julien looking at him like that. Tamping down his body’s inappropriate reaction, he tugged off his hoodie and shirt, pulling his beanie back onto his head when it slipped off.
As soon as his bare skin felt the cool draft of air that drifted through the room, his body viscerally felt Julien’s eyes magnetise to it, shuddering in response. Remaining on the far side of the room, he eyed Julien warily, who wiggled the ink bottle in response.
“Come on. I don’t bite,” he said, all predatory dimpled smile.
Fuck yes, you do.
When he reached the bed, he kept his feet planted on the floor, and lay on his back, tensing every muscle as he awaited the feel of cool ink on his skin.
“Relax,” said Julien softly. As if it would be that easy, especially with Julien using that voice. The one with the exact cadence as that night in Paris.
Without warning, fingers started gently kneading into the firm muscles of his abdomen.
Cinn groaned. “This isn’t going to help me relax.”
Ignoring him, Julien widened the circumference of his endeavours, extending his slow circles towards his ribs, then dipped lower and lower, scraping tantalisingly close to the waistband of his jeans.
“If you carry on doing that…”
“Then what?”
When Cinn didn’t answer, Julien pressed a kiss to the top edge of his V-line. Cinn’s hands, that had remained still by his side, finally gave in, and reached to wrap themselves in the tangles of Julien’s hair.
A silent battle still warred inside him. Julien’s touch, Julien’s lips, Julien’s attention, was a spellbinding caress of his body, his soul. Cinn was Eve who’d had a taste of the apple, and now couldn’t resist another bite. And everyone knew how that story turned out .
“Julien…” The rational part of Cinn’s brain screamed to stop him, to push his head away, halt the path of feather-light kisses that were circling his hip bone. That fragment of resistance soon short-circuited however, silenced by Julien scraping his teeth along his sensitive skin, the waves of euphoric shivers erasing each and every thought from his mind.
“You just promised me you didn’t bite,” Cinn half gasped.
Julien looked up, grey eyes dual tempests. “ Oui . But those sorts of promises are made to be broken.”
Holy fuck.
With panther-like grace and power, Julien climbed upward, until his head hovered above his, consuming his vision. Cinn’s head spun in dizzying waves as his heart beat impossibly fast.
Julien placed a teasing kiss upon his jaw, before he had time to stop him.
That wasn’t right; he didn’t want to stop Julien.
But he needed to stop Julien.
“We should—”
He was silenced by his mouth, soft yet firm, insistent yet tender.
He pushed him back, just an inch. Looked him in the eye to say, “Julien. Listen. We can’t just keep kissing like this.”
A tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth.
“Why not?”
“I told you in Paris.”
“We did plenty more than kiss in Paris.” As if to emphasise his point, Julien rubbed Cinn’s overtly hard cock through his jeans, and Cinn threw his hand to his mouth to suppress his groan. Please let Darcy be back in her basement somehow. How had Julien tricked him so easily into this unsupervised space?
“Don’t do that,” he said, but the desire seeping through his words was laughable.
“You don’t sound particularly convincing right now. ”
Using his elbows to wiggle backwards, Cinn dragged himself up so he was semi-upright. “Okay, yes, let’s talk Paris. Where we did plenty more without kissing, and then you told me you didn’t do relationships.”
Silent for an eternity, Julien seemed to be on the edge of some sort of precipice, holding the weight of his potential words on his tongue, before finally whispering, “Well, some promises are made to be broken.”
Time suspended. Each of Cinn’s heartbeats battled with the gravity of the statement. In this moment, it was only the two of them in the universe, two damaged souls being increasingly entwined in a fragile dance of possibilities.
He wanted nothing more than to swallow Julien’s words, let them burrow inside him and allow his growing attraction to him to bloom into something concrete, something real.
There was one question looming large that Cinn couldn’t move past, however: W hat if you just want me because you can’t have me?
Julien didn’t do relationships. Cinn wasn’t special. Apparently Julien had no qualms about dropping his lovers like discarded toys.
So how long would Cinn hold his attention for once he’d given in?
Their worlds were too different, silk and sand. Julien’s, a world of motecraft, ambition, art, science, control. Cinn’s… He was simply trying to carve out a piece of this crazy life for himself. Build a fortress of his own design.
Julien was silent, awaiting his response with a shocking amount of patience, for him. Expectation burned in his eyes. Expectation, desire and… was that the tiniest whisper of fear?
Questions danced on Cinn’s tongue. Why me? Why now? And why don’t you do relationships, anyway?
A series of sounds from the corridor: the cottage’s front door being opened with a click, the bang of it being shut, Elliot’s voice shouting hello.
Saved by the bell .
There was the smallest window of time for Cinn to shuffle away from Julien, and for Julien to grab the ink and paintbrush, to hold it convincingly in mid air when Darcy threw open the bedroom door.
“How have you not finished yet?”
A guilty flush was surely written all over Cinn’s face, even if Julien’s composed mask remained in place, so he threw his head back onto the mattress.
“I’ve almost finished,” Julien said.
“Looks like it.”
Darcy left again, leaving the bedroom door wide open.
Wordlessly, Julien propped open the book against a pillow, and began his task, eyes flicking between the rune-like pictures and his canvas, Cinn’s skin.
Closing his eyes, Cinn focused only on the cool sensation of the ink against his muscles. He slowed down his breathing, forcing his heart to do the same.
He soon heard the soft muted pop of the stopper being placed back into the bottle, and the book being snapped shut. He sat up to find Julien looking at him, but not like before. Warmth had replaced desire, and a crinkle in his eyes had replaced his wolfish smile.
“Thank you again for doing this,” Julien said, placing his hand on top of Cinn’s. “I can’t explain how grateful I am.”
Julien’s sincere words caused another shred of doubt to slide into him: what if Julien was leading him on only so that he kept helping him? The notion twisted his insides into knots, and words tumbled out of him before he could clamp his mouth shut. “This isn’t why you keep…” He couldn’t quite say it, so finished up with, “Right?”
Julien’s face froze, eyes wide, as he pieced together the intended question. He removed his hand from Cinn’s so fast, it was as if he’d burned him. “ Merde! How could you think that?” His hurt was so evident that Cinn instantly wanted to claw the words back, turn the pain inwards on himself. “Who do you think I am?”
Before Cinn could gather himself to apologise or explain, Julien stormed out of the room.
“You fucking idiot,” Cinn mumbled to Béatrice’s ceiling.
Once Cinn climbed onto the dining room table, all that was left to do was bind Béatrice’s rib bone to him. Ready with her mortar full of powered luminaquartz, Darcy held in her other hand the canvas bag she’d placed the bone into, back in Paris.
She looked between the two objects in her hand until Julien gently released her from both of them. “It’s my turn.”
Cinn had forgotten about the apparent need to use saliva to turn the power into a paste, so his stomach gave a lurch when Julien spat into the mortar before using the pestle to mix it together. Julien was going to have to rub his spit into the part of Cinn’s stomach outlined with the inked circle. But then he supposed he’d had far more involvement with his other bodily fluids, so this should pale in comparison.
If their bedroom conversation hadn’t ended so poorly, Cinn might have found Julien’s fingers back on him sensual, but Julien completed the task with precision and haste.
When the rib bone came out of the bag, he couldn’t help but stare at it in the light of day. It appeared delicate yet robust, its ivory-white, subtle curvature gleaming gently. He’d held it in his hands, that night he’d snapped it from Béatrice’s corpse. The sickening sound of its reluctant yield would be one he carried to his own grave.
The moment he’d jumped down into the casket and surveyed Béatrice’s skeleton in its entirety was something he’d never forget. Layers of silky blue material forming a puffy dress, encasing off-white bones that mapped out the body of a girl so loved they’d dug her grave up.
It had certainly been an experience he was glad he’d spared Julien from.
As Julien scooped the rest of the paste onto his fingers to spread on the rib, the slightest shake to his hand gave him away. Elliot attempted to take over, reaching his hands out towards him, but Julien batted him away, finishing the job quickly and pressing the rib to Cinn’s stomach.
“Sorry. Is that okay?” Julien asked Cinn without looking at him.
Cinn removed his gold band. “It’s fine. I’m ready.”
Darcy came forward and wiggled a bottle of creamy lotion at him. “I’ve got this ready for if the ink starts to react with your skin again. And here.” She presented the stimulant, the vile-tasting crystal powder for him to rub into his gums. He licked his finger before pressing it into the tin.
“See you on the other side,” he said to the three tense faces. Julien opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something, but Cinn quickly swiped the crystals around his mouth and sank back onto the table.
He’d accidentally consumed far more of the powder than last time, and he felt it. A gasp tore out of him as his adrenaline levels shot up alarmingly quickly, every nerve tingling with a sudden surge of electric intensity, his heart pounding in his chest like a thunderous drumbeat.
The others might have been expressing concern, but he couldn’t hear them, the familiar low buzzing the only sound. The world greyed. Cinn closed his eyes and let himself fall. Let himself slip.