of the leaden weight that had settled there when Brom had laid his hand on his shoulder, just before he’d delivered the news.
John had known that something was wrong as soon as Brom had touched him. Brom’s touch had been tense, his hand stiff and awkward as it closed ineffectually on John’s shoulder. Brom Bones had never touched anyone like that before, and likely never would again. He was a man who always knew what he wanted, a man who laid hands on a body with confidence, already sure of what he intended to do. John knew that, perhaps better than anyone. But Brom’s hand had nearly slipped off of John’s shoulder as he’d told him of his engagement to Katrina. “God damn you…” John rasped, his stomach contracting around its burden as he touched his shoulder, seeking some trace of heat, some proof that Brom’s fingers had really rested there so recently.
There was none. Only the rough fabric of his coat and the autumn chill that hung in the air and had worked its way into every stitch of his clothing, every fiber of his being. He felt as if he were already dead. Soon, he would be.
He drew a pistol from beneath his coat, caressing the barrel. There was promise in every inch of the cold steel – the promise of oblivion. It called to him, the temptation carried on the biting night breeze. He glanced over his shoulder, promising himself that it would be for the last time. His heart jolted and sped at the sight of the large farmhouse looming in the distance, its windows glowing with candlelight. The spry, shadowy forms of dancers darted back and forth behind the glass. Everyone was making merry, celebrating a good harvest, and perhaps Brom and Katrina’s engagement – had they announced it yet?
No. He wouldn’t dwell on it any longer – not the engagement, anyway. Brom and Katrina themselves, however, were different matters altogether. He turned resolutely, forcing himself to face the dark forest that stretched at the edge of the Van Tassel farmlands. Under any other circumstances, the sight of it at this time of night would have sent a chill down his spine. But what did it matter now? If there were wild beasts afoot, they could do no greater harm to him than his own hand, and if there were spirits lurking… Well, he was about to join them.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he committed his thoughts to Brom. The man’s face formed perfectly in front of his mind’s eye, complete with the oh-so-familiar strong jaw, dark eyes and even darker hair. It curled a bit at his temples and at the nape of his neck. And it felt like silk, slid easily between one’s fingers, like sweet spring grass after the rain… John inhaled, smelling not the autumn night, but the spring afternoon during which he’d first met Brom seven months ago. The memory was a double-edged sword, sweet and bitter at once. His entire body tingled, hot despite his thin clothing and the bitter wind. “Brom…” The man’s name was a whisper on his lips and was quickly swallowed up by a rushing breeze that tore several locks of his hair loose from their ribbon and whipped them across his face. They tickled his mouth, teasing, like the memory of Brom’s lips.
Katrina had lovely lips, as well. A mouth like a rosebud, in fact, and cheeks that were just as pink. He’d tasted those perfect lips just once, and had perhaps taken the experience too seriously. A wry bark of a laugh escaped him, and his thoughts spiraled rapidly toward the dark place inside him that Brom had opened up with his words. Struggling for control over his unruly emotions, he thought of Katrina’s eyes. Blue and sparkling, they were more brilliant than the brightest summer sky. Framed with golden ringlets, her face was just as perfect as Brom’s. Picturing them together was both the most beautiful and most excruciating thing he could imagine. Shoving the image from his mind, he thought finally of himself.
Though his eyes were still closed, he had no trouble seeing himself as he
John had known that something was wrong as soon as Brom had touched him. Brom’s touch had been tense, his hand stiff and awkward as it closed ineffectually on John’s shoulder. Brom Bones had never touched anyone like that before, and likely never would again. He was a man who always knew what he wanted, a man who laid hands on a body with confidence, already sure of what he intended to do. John knew that, perhaps better than anyone. But Brom’s hand had nearly slipped off of John’s shoulder as he’d told him of his engagement to Katrina. “God damn you…” John rasped, his stomach contracting around its burden as he touched his shoulder, seeking some trace of heat, some proof that Brom’s fingers had really rested there so recently.
There was none. Only the rough fabric of his coat and the autumn chill that hung in the air and had worked its way into every stitch of his clothing, every fiber of his being. He felt as if he were already dead. Soon, he would be.
He drew a pistol from beneath his coat, caressing the barrel. There was promise in every inch of the cold steel – the promise of oblivion. It called to him, the temptation carried on the biting night breeze. He glanced over his shoulder, promising himself that it would be for the last time. His heart jolted and sped at the sight of the large farmhouse looming in the distance, its windows glowing with candlelight. The spry, shadowy forms of dancers darted back and forth behind the glass. Everyone was making merry, celebrating a good harvest, and perhaps Brom and Katrina’s engagement – had they announced it yet?
No. He wouldn’t dwell on it any longer – not the engagement, anyway. Brom and Katrina themselves, however, were different matters altogether. He turned resolutely, forcing himself to face the dark forest that stretched at the edge of the Van Tassel farmlands. Under any other circumstances, the sight of it at this time of night would have sent a chill down his spine. But what did it matter now? If there were wild beasts afoot, they could do no greater harm to him than his own hand, and if there were spirits lurking… Well, he was about to join them.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he committed his thoughts to Brom. The man’s face formed perfectly in front of his mind’s eye, complete with the oh-so-familiar strong jaw, dark eyes and even darker hair. It curled a bit at his temples and at the nape of his neck. And it felt like silk, slid easily between one’s fingers, like sweet spring grass after the rain… John inhaled, smelling not the autumn night, but the spring afternoon during which he’d first met Brom seven months ago. The memory was a double-edged sword, sweet and bitter at once. His entire body tingled, hot despite his thin clothing and the bitter wind. “Brom…” The man’s name was a whisper on his lips and was quickly swallowed up by a rushing breeze that tore several locks of his hair loose from their ribbon and whipped them across his face. They tickled his mouth, teasing, like the memory of Brom’s lips.
Katrina had lovely lips, as well. A mouth like a rosebud, in fact, and cheeks that were just as pink. He’d tasted those perfect lips just once, and had perhaps taken the experience too seriously. A wry bark of a laugh escaped him, and his thoughts spiraled rapidly toward the dark place inside him that Brom had opened up with his words. Struggling for control over his unruly emotions, he thought of Katrina’s eyes. Blue and sparkling, they were more brilliant than the brightest summer sky. Framed with golden ringlets, her face was just as perfect as Brom’s. Picturing them together was both the most beautiful and most excruciating thing he could imagine. Shoving the image from his mind, he thought finally of himself.
Though his eyes were still closed, he had no trouble seeing himself as he
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