The Cult of Rohesia: Nicolas (2/3)

I take a gulp of gin and let it warm me up a little more before starting. Then I take a deep breath. I can't put this off any longer. However, often as I've rehearsed this conversation to myself, the words have hidden themselves away.

I'll have to find new ones. "Four of you will start the Rites chanting,” I tell Mark and Michael. We're at my house without the others because this will affect them the most, and the least I can do is give them space to react without an audience. “If you both choose to go through with this in spite of what I'm going to say."

"Sounds spoooooky."

"Michael, quiet. I'm having a hard enough time with this as it is."

"Maybe you should've saved the gin for after?"

"I needed it.” We're getting off track. “Anyway. Four of you. Chanting. I'll teach it to you all on Sunday. We'll practice until you have it memorized and perfect. Michelle, Emilie, and Dora will always be the first three of the four. You two will take turns standing in the north." My tongue feels thick in my mouth. Mark pours himself some gin even though he said he'd go without a couple minutes ago.

"And what about whichever of us isn't standing in the north?" Michael asks.

"It'll be Mark first, since he was the first to die." I watch him finish his glass. My face is threatening to heat up, and not from the alcohol.

I pour myself another half glass, then down it all at once. Let's get this over with. "My role in the Rites is to—to penetrate him. The next time it'll be you. If you both choose to continue, that is."

Neither of them says anything. I don't dare look up. My gaze is fixed to the table.

I need more gin, but my stomach is threatening to rebel. Liquor in any significant quantity has made me feel ill since the others died. Before that, I could handle it easily. I suppose if that were still the case, I'd have drunk myself into oblivion by now.

"Could you repeat that?" Michael finally says.

As I suspected from his tone, he's smirking. "You heard me."

"Okay, okay, okay. Fine. But could you elaborate? I still don't know exactly what to expect here."

I risk another glance up. Mark is scowling at the table, face red as a hot coal, fingers clenched around his glass.

"Penetrate you anally,” I tell Michael. “It won't take more than a few minutes. You'll know when we're done because whoever receives the Power gains temporary and unusual strength during the hours after the Rites.” What else can I tell them? I haven't experienced it myself. “Cathy and Ronnie both said it felt like being high—"

"If it was Cathy and Ronnie last time, why is it us now?" Mark snarls.

"The sex of the seed member—"

Michael snorts and does his best to stifle a fit of laughter. His best is not enough.

"—alternates with every cohort," I continue. "We don't know why. It just does. And the direct recipients of the power must be the same sex as the seed member."

Michael stops trying to stifle his laughter. I'd drink another shot of gin, but it's too soon.

"Are you finished?" I ask once he starts to quiet down, but that only makes him laugh more.

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Heh. 'Seed member.' Keep going."

"Why is that even funny to you?" I ask.

"Seed? Semen? Get it? No?"

Oh, that is just—that's hideous. I'm probably blushing too much to blame it on the alcohol now. "Unfortunately, I do now. Let's retire that term."

Michael starts laughing again. "No way. Absolutely not. We're keeping it."

I'll have to fight that battle later. "So. When it's time, and I can't explain that any further because I've never been a direct recipient—Michael.” I can't hear myself over his laughter. “Control yourself."

That only makes him laugh more.

"Michael, let's get this over with," Mark grumbles.

"When it's time, you'll go to Michelle, who will be standing in the east, and take her hands. When she receives the Power from you, she'll have visions. Then the same with Emilie, then Dora, then whichever of you is standing in the north. Then the Rite is over and we're free to disperse. One of you will see the date of the next Rite in your visions, at which point the two of you will switch places. Ad infinitum for as long as we live." I think that's all of it. "Questions?"

"How often?" Mark asks.

"It varies. Usually once every month or two, maybe more if it's a particularly eventful year and there's a lot to see. Maybe less. Sometimes we go an entire season between Rites. It all depends on the House."

"So we do this in the house? Like, where, in the dining room?" Michael asks.

"The basement."

Michael's eyes widen excitedly. "Ooh! The locked hall closet!"

"Not a closet. I'll show you all on Sunday. Any other questions?"

"So when you say penetrate, you mean, like, with your dick, right? You're saying you need to fuck us in order for the Power to work?"

"I—yes, but is that kind of language really necessary?" Rhetorical question. It's not. He's only doing this to torment me.

Michael nods mock-seriously. "So what you're saying is, this is what we have to do if we want to stop aging around forty, and live to be as old as you?"

I nod. "Or slightly younger. Cathy was 116 when she died."

Michael waves his hand dismissively. "And if we don't go through with this, you'll die? How quickly?"

I refuse to let them make this about me. "It doesn't matter. I've lived my life, Michael. What's left is in your and Mark's and the others' hands. And what you do with it is entirely up to you."

"Cut the crap," Mark mumbles.

"What was that? You don't believe me?"

"You're trying to make us pity you. So we go through with—this."

I swallow hard to keep from throwing up out of sheer anger. "No, Mark, I'm really not. In fact, I cannot emphasize enough how much I do not want any of this. But I owe it to Jeanne to present you with the opportunity, should you all decide it's worth it.”

Michael stands up and squeezes Mark's arm. "Mark, we need to talk. Let's go outside for a few minutes."

Once Michael is past him, Mark gets up and reaches for his keys. Somehow, I lunge fast enough to get them first. "No. Make yourself some coffee before you leave at the very least."

I can't let him kill himself and Michael in a car wreck after everything I've gone through. If they abandon the Power, it has to be their choice.

Michael convinces Mark to go outside with him. I run for the bathroom as soon as they're out the front door.

<<>>

Michelle must be responsible for this, one way or another.

I was more than prepared for tonight to be the end. I even gave Louise the bottle of wine I'd been saving since the sixties in case Thomas and I managed to live long enough to celebrate a one hundredth anniversary. (Wishful thinking, I know. But we drank the other bottle on our fiftieth anniversary, so it only seemed right.)

In fact, I was looking forward to falling asleep in this very chair with the knowledge that I wouldn't wake up. Because after last month, Dora certainly wouldn't be coming back. Even if she trusted me, which she doesn't, she's far too streetwise to fall for vague promises and tall tales like mine. Now that I have nothing left to “blackmail” her with, and no way of carrying out my “threats” even if I did, there's no reason for her to be here. And yet: here she is.

"Something wrong, Nicolas?" Michelle asks.

My mouth is hanging open. All I can do now is close it and take a breath, I suppose, and try not to cry. Damn it all.

“I didn't think you'd come back, Dora,” I finally manage. For some reason, it's Michelle that I can't bear to look at right now, even though Dora's presence is the anomaly.

Dora grins at me. It may be the only time I've seen her smile. “You want me to leave?" She understands what she's done. Maybe she decided to come out of spite on her own. Perhaps she'll keep coming just to draw out my pain, until it comes time to start performing the Rites.

But that doesn't strike me as like her. Her abrasiveness is more defensive than malicious. Why take the time? Why spend the money on gas?

“We can go, Nicolas.” Michelle's voice is full of contempt. “It isn't too late.”

“Nonsense. Stay.”

This has Michelle's name written all over it. She's the only one Dora cares about. And much as I'd like to assume she did it to be sadistic, I know she must think she's done me a favor. Ultimately, it would mean that she sees value in my life, and by extension, the Power. From her perspective, she must be making a concession to me.

I've won her over.

Emilie's wine glass shatters on the floor. Louise was in the middle of pouring Michelle a glass. I haven't even had a chance to try it, but I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it?

I get up and take Emilie into my arms. She's light enough that I can carry her on my own. And she looks like Jeanne. Dead. Helpless.

I mustn't fail Jeanne. She's not here to make up for it if I do.

Michael follows me upstairs and opens Emilie's door for me. Wordlessly, he watches me lay her down on the bed. Then he goes into her closet and pulls out a couple of throw blankets.

"Come back downstairs when you're ready," I tell him while he's spreading the first one over her corpse.

My own movements feel strange to me as I hurry back down the stairs, because I can't stand to be anywhere. The feeling won't improve when I sit down. Not until I've had a few more glasses of wine, at least.

This is my life. It stretches before me almost as long as it stretches behind me.

I can't taste the wine. This isn't fair.

<<>>

“Nicolas?”

Oh. He's noticed me.

Câlice. Mark noticed me. That means I moved with my body. I'm not dead.

What was I thinking? Obviously I'm not dead. I must have been dreaming. Or maybe half-awake. I felt like I was in the room with the others before now, watching them, but not really here. Dead. Foolish of me. I should have realized.

I can't exactly remember what I was watching them do or say, though. They were all here. That was what caught my attention.

Wait. “Dora. You came back.” Why now?

“Sounds like I fucking shouldn't have,” she says.

For once, we're in agreement. “That's right. You shouldn't have.”

“Don't say that,” Emilie says.

“Jeanne and Thomas aren't here to care. I'll say it all I like.” She didn't deserve that. I shouldn't have said that to her.

Funny, how Dora's usual barrage of angry questions is what finally pulls me back down to Earth. She only really stops when Michelle comes up the stairs with a mug of tea for me.

I don't want it. Didn't ask for it. But I let her help me sit up and drink it anyway. I suppose I should be glad she's concerned. Maybe I will be, later.

<<>>

Mark stares down at Michael in horror. This isn't the first time he's seen one of the others die, so it's not that that's upsetting him. Could be because it's Michael. Or it could be because Michael looks like him. Or it could be something else entirely. Regardless, he won't be helping me.

Emilie stands up without my having to say anything. In the hallway, I hear Mark begin to weep. We get Michael upstairs without issue. Then she sits on the arm of the couch.

“You don't want to go back down and eat?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but says nothing.

“Is it because of Mark?”

Emilie hesitates, then nods.

“Do you know why he's crying?”

She shakes her head. “But I don't like it.”

It happened often, when they were little. One of them (not necessarily Mark) would fall or skin their knee or something, Emilie would be more or less unruffled, but Mark would cry. Without fail, she'd burst into tears, too. We all thought it was cute. I assumed she'd grown out of it, but now it seems more likely that Mark simply grew out of crying when someone got injured.

“What do you think Michael would say, if he knew you cry whenever Mark cries?”

Emilie scowls at me, but I can tell she's doing it to hide her smile.

“Well?” I'm distracting her.

“He'd say it was adorable.”

“And what would Mark say to that?”

“He'd probably tell him to shut up,” Emilie says. “Michael would laugh, then drop the subject.”

“I'll have to find an opportunity to tell him about it.”

This time, Emilie smiles. “Don't you dare!”

“I will. I'll wait until you've forgotten this conversation. Then I'll wait for one of you to cut yourself while chopping vegetables or stub your toe. Then I'll tell him how it would have gone if you and Mark were four years old.”

“I won't forget.”

“We'll see.”

<<>>

Daylight creeps through the living room windows, diluting the darkness from only a few minutes ago into a lighter blue and revealing Mark's open eyes.

I wonder where Michael is? He must be here somewhere. There's a slim chance he got up even earlier than I did for a midnight snack, and he's still in the kitchen, but that doesn't seem likely. He's not in the bathroom. I was just in there, and I would have noticed if he'd gone in after I got out.

The most likely possibility is Emilie's room. I can only assume whatever's going on between them won't be a problem, since the House chose both of them. Or at least, not a problem for the group.

Seeing them and the way they act together feels like the kind of odd dream that isn't as disturbing as it should be, but that you would never want to share with anyone. It's because of Michael's resemblance to Mark, of course. It's not his fault, or Emilie's. I suppose I'll get used to it soon enough.

Michelle sighs. She's waking up. I make eye contact with Mark, then walk toward the couch and sit in front of it. Closer to her head than her feet, but not too close. I don't want to scare her. Actually, I should probably move farther away, but it's too late.

Her throwing her arms around my shoulders was the last thing I expected, but now that it's happened I can come up with any number of explanations. Maybe she's wanted to do this before and her inhibitions are lower. Maybe she's still half asleep. Maybe she thinks I'm someone else—one of the twins, perhaps. Or she might think she's at home and I'm one of her parents.

In that case, I should clarify things. But I don't. I return the gesture, and she doesn't push me away. If this is what she wants, even if only for a moment, why should I deny her? Even when I touch her hair—it's as soft as I thought it might be—she keeps holding onto me.

I'll admit, sometimes I enjoy bickering with her. Picking on her, even, though never more than she does me. But I wouldn't mind if she didn't see me as an enemy, either.

I feel her arms loosening around me and let go immediately. It was only ever for her sake, after all.

“You want tea, or coffee?” It won't actually do much for her body temperature—she'll keep shivering for another ten minutes at least, with or without anything to drink. But it'll give her something comforting to focus on, at least.

Michelle asks for tea. I go downstairs to make it for her.

Oh, I shouldn't have done that. I should have said something. Why didn't I say anything? I've only given her more reason to think I'm some dirty old man, or whatever it is she thinks I am.

I've been lonely, true. But it's not something anyone can change. Maybe she reminds me of Jeanne. I suppose we're meeting in similar circumstances, just with the roles switched around. Maybe we're not so different as I like to tell her. If I'd had other adults in my life that had shown an interest in me, had presented me with hope through the lives they lived—anyone other than Jeanne—I might have questioned her motives, too.

But instead, I had a dead mother, a father who refused to acknowledge my existence until after said mother died, a stepmother who barely tolerated me, sisters who more or less followed her lead if I saw much of them at all, and a school full of teachers and classmates I was terrified to get close to. And after that, a life of working for my father, then eventually taking over his tobacco factory, which I dreaded.

And along comes Jeanne, hovering just outside my school's grounds in Montreal, waiting for me to skip class. She knew my name, and my mother's, too.

“I don't know my way around here very well,” she told me, which seemed questionable even then. “Care to show me a good place to eat lunch?”

We went to a tea room near the rue Sainte-Catherine. I don't even remember what we talked about, but by the end of the conversation, she felt like long-lost family.

Eventually, the subject of my father's summer home came up. Actually, it was the land his father had grown up on, but by the time I was born, there was no longer any need for my family to farm. My mother had been a maid there at one point, but that didn't last once she became pregnant with me. The summer home was just outside Rohesia, of course.

When we were about finished eating, Jeanne handed me a note from my grandmother, inviting me to come visit her and my uncle and his family. I could barely remember those of them I'd even met.

I don't remember what exact doubts I raised. Why hadn't she mailed it? Had Jeanne come all this way just to deliver it? What exactly was her relationship to my grandmother?

Somehow, I got her to admit that she'd paid for the train ticket she handed me after I read the note. “In exchange, I'd like you to come have dinner with some friends of mine on Friday.”

Given how remote Rohesia was, I couldn't help but suspect foul play. “I can tell you with some certainty that my parents won't pay a ransom of more than, oh—a hundred dollars, perhaps?”

I did not, in fact, think they would be willing to pay that much, especially not if my stepmother had any say in it. But I hoped that if Jeanne, or some associate of hers, did kidnap me, and couldn't get the ransom, they might feel sorry for me and—well, I wasn't quite sure what, but I felt it like it might end up being a welcome change. I wasn't entirely wrong.

Jeanne laughed. “I'll keep that in mind. I'll also need you to escort a young woman by the name of Veronica Kelley. Look for someone with black hair and an agate brooch. She'll be watching for you as well. You'll know each other when you see each other.”

And indeed, Ronnie did. She'd been told to watch for a nervous-looking boy who would keep looking at her and looking away without saying anything, even if she made eye contact. You can imagine my alarm when she called my name, and then my relief. Her skin tone was darker than I'd expected, but she fit Jeanne's description.

And she immediately began to talk my ear off. Before we were even on the train, she'd told me her father was a sleeping car porter. Her mother, an Irish farm girl who'd come to the city to make her own way. Like me, she hadn't told her parents where she was going.

I wasn't afraid of her the way I was my classmates—not that I knew why then, of course. All I knew was there was something wrong with the way I made friends. That I became a little too devoted, much too quickly. That once I became attached to someone, I would always be left longing for them, no matter how much time we spent together. It had happened a few times when I was younger. Eventually, I would be in such a state that I would blow up at them over nothing. I learned quickly to stop making friends.

Of course, all of my classmates were boys.

By the end of the train ride, I was starting to wonder if I was in love with Ronnie. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't imagine marrying her. Not happily, anyway. Then I wondered if perhaps that was how my father had felt about my mother. I couldn't imagine sleeping with Ronnie, either, so it didn't seem likely.

And then I met Thomas for the first time. He'd come to Hull, all by himself, to pick us up, in a buggy pulled by two horses. It had one bench, meant to seat two people.

“It'll be a tight fit, but you two should be thin enough,” he said, with a huge smile on his face.

I sat between him and Ronnie. It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. By the time we reached Rohesia, I was more certain than ever that I didn't want to sleep with her. And that I would have to try my hardest to keep my distance from Thomas, because he of all people did not deserve the falling out that would inevitably happen if I failed.

Thomas, of course, did everything he could to sabotage my efforts.

When Michelle's tea is finished steeping, I add honey and bring it upstairs. She's leaning on Mark's shoulder, but there's none of the electricity between them that Michael and Emilie have.