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19 November, 1865
Sunday
Humans, Anthony determined, were barbaric, horrid monstrosities who reveled in inflicting the most bizarre and unseemly tortures upon themselves in the name of propriety.
"Sir, you insisted that I force you to wake in time to attend Church this morning," Jarvis said, loudly and without pity for Anthony's headache. "For neither Echoes nor souls nor fear of piping hot brass poles would you miss, sir. Your very own words."
Ponderously, as though some great beast rising from the depths of the Unterzee, Anthony poked his head out from under his wealth of blankets and blinked at his butler. "Did I say that?"
"Indeed you did." The elderly human was, as always, bright-eyed and alert, Anthony's church clothing laid out and ready. Though it was generally not his task to handle such matters, Anthony vaguely recalled requesting it the night before, for fear that Hogan would not prove adequate to the task of waking him.
He rather wished he'd had Hogan handle his regular duties. Hogan was, after all, much easier to ignore. "Is it at all possible to reschedule the event for later? Perhaps some time this afternoon?"
"I'm afraid Church for Mrs. Parker is something of a morning affair, sir."
Of course it would be. Aching and tired, Anthony reached for the edge of the bed and slowly pulled himself free. Under more usual circumstances, he would have been chipper as Surface rain in the spring, mornings being no bane of his. But the ball of the night before, the excitement, intrigue and rather delicious wine that had marked the evening, had been a draining experience. More to the point, the few nibbles he'd had of his Captain's still-attached soul had been enough to put his head spinning and make his very blood sizzle with heat unaccustomed even to a devil. Retiring early had not saved him from being awake far later than he'd intended.
Jarvis waited with the eternal patience that marked his family as Anthony finally achieved the great task of sitting up. He cast his eyes over his long-time butler's attire. It was Jarvis' usual uniform, consisting of a dark suit and dove gray waistcoat, marked with nevercold brass buttons and Anthony's preferred scarlet at his collar. Impeccable, discreet, and clearly a servant's dress.
All of which made it absolutely out of the question for Anthony's plans. "Send Hogan in to assist me and go put on something suitably respectable for Church. I shall have need of your talents at handling the Widow Parker this morning."
For perhaps the first time in years, Jarvis hesitated on a direct, clear order, uncertainty written large across his features. "Sir, are you certain? I am not, precisely, a religious man. The widow..."
Much as Anthony detested it, Jarvis had a reasonable point. Having spent his entire life in the Neath, and coming from a long family line dedicated to the service of devils, it was entirely likely that his butler knew even less of the fine points of religion than Anthony. It scuttled his plans to have Jarvis take the place between the widow and Steve, but facts were unavoidable. "After the service, then. Send someone with a note for Janet begging her to visit this morning before Church."
There was a suspicious sparkle in Jarvis' eye as he bowed. Anthony hoped it was for the widow Parker. He would hate to think of himself as unpleasantly inconveniencing Jarvis with occupying her. Better all the way around if the man actually found pleasure in it. "Very well, sir. Will there be anything else?"
Anthony gave the matter some thought, but found himself utterly lacking the faculties to think of anything. "That will be all for now. Go get ready. God waits for neither man nor devil, according to your very own self."
Murmuring agreement, Jarvis took his leave, no doubt to go find his most sober attire. Anthony would have to see about having the man outfitted properly for his new work. It was unlikely a well-off woman such as the widow would ever consider a servant in any serious light. Which meant that the only true way would be to elevate Jarvis beyond simply a butler.
"The sacrifices I make," he murmured to the soul jars on the bedside table.
But before anything could be done regarding Jarvis' position, Anthony would have to face his next task: standing.
It was going to be a terribly long day.
The gallery was dusty, faintly damp in the way of many things in Fallen London, and most fortuitously abandoned. Church, while still popular, no longer attracted regular crowds fit to fill it, which suited Anthony's purposes flawlessly. Cloaked and still be-hatted to best preserve anonymity, he found a comfortable nook to peer down at the gathered congregation, curled up atop a small blanket to preserve his suit from the dust. It was the perfect place to hide away and observe the proceedings without alerting those below to his presence.
Folk filed in with great solemnity. To Anthony's great delight, some few were clearly suffering for their revels at the ball the previous evening. Here and there ladies had unnecessarily layered veils, shielding their eyes from the candlelight, and one gentleman appeared distinctly green next to his cheerful companions. It became a game to match faces to memories—here the gentleman in the with the delightful singing voice from the Feast of the Rose last year, there one who was known for his taste in honey, and exiled to a corner pew one lady who had ended the night before dressed in little more than a chemise. The rest of the faithful seemed primarily oblivious to the revelers among them, which was an amusement of its own.
Much enjoyment as there was in spying, Anthony decided that he would have much rather sat in the pews. His last, and thus far only, appearance at Sunday morning services had been quite beyond entertaining. There'd been a freedom in being able to sing whole-heartedly and have no-one but James at hand to complain of it.
It was a right shame that he didn't dare attend openly so soon after the ball; there was no sense in taking the risk of being spotted by his quarry. There were few doubts that his Captain would give chase, ruining a perfectly good tryst before he'd had his fill of mystery and secrets. That would be a terrible waste of a budding intrigue.
Steven arrived with such little fuss that Anthony failed to notice him until Janet's bright green gown caught his eye. As instructed, she'd insinuated herself between Steven and Mrs. Parker in the pew, blocking the widow's painfully obvious attempts to keep a grip on the Captain's arm for herself. The spectacle made Anthony's tail lash in glee, thumping the floorboards fit to make dust drift down to sparkle in the candlelight.
With the hussy out of the way, he allowed himself a moment to revel in his Captain's face and form. Though he'd certainly been through quite a lot the night before, it was only visible in how he winced when he shifted too abruptly and in the slight darkness under his eyes. Otherwise, his dark brown suit was simple and utterly respectable, his hair brushed to a shine and his expression one of attentive piety. By comparison, Janet was far more affected by her evening of merriment, wan and tired-looking, listing against Steven's shoulder for support as the service began.
Once started the morning dragged interminably, like a corpse strung along behind a wagon. It made no sense at all, full of talk of sin and righteousness and salvation—salvation from what it was never quite said, but it had to be terrible from the way it was expounded on so relentlessly. A small guide book might have been welcome, even a pamphlet, if there had been such a thing available. As it was, the inability to participate turned the whole event from intriguing to deathly, and not even watching as Steven's face as he murmured his way through the hymns could alleviate the tedium. He cuddled up against the low wall, watching his Captain and wishing he'd thought to bring a cushion.
Lulled by the warm rolling nonsense of the vicar's speech, a thrumming basso that was pleasantly off-set by the answering murmurs of the congregation, Anthony fell into a doze.
A lack of sound woke him from his rest, the echoing tranquility of a church that had filled its purpose and been emptied of the unrepentant and saints both. Anthony dared to lift his head above the railing, peering about in confusion. Not a priest was in sight, nor did even a single body—souled or else-wise—linger in the pews. The silence was strange to his ears, unnervingly vast without the lovely heartbeats of the mortals to fill it. Eyes watched from somewhere; he couldn't see or hear them, but he knew it nonetheless. Their weight shivered down his spine, cold claws sinking into his guts and twisting. Unthinkingly he wrapped his tail around his waist, clutching the tip of it like a devilet seeking comfort from his favorite soul.
He didn't think he much enjoyed Church any longer.
Creeping down the stairs helped not the slightest to alleviate his anxiety. Each step came slowly, with a feeling of dread, but hurrying was out of the question—he didn't want to make noise and attract whatever it was that had its eye on him. His tail clutched the banister, its sharpened tip leaving a very faint trail in the waxed polish.
Though the main entrance was closest, Anthony walked up the aisle to go out the back way. It would be odd, at the least, for a lone devil to be seen exiting from the front. The eyes followed him the whole way, hot on his back as he passed the altar. There were two doors off to either side of the altar, one of them barred with a length of rough-hewn wood. Cracks ran along the wall, fine as Venetian lace, likely caused by damage from the Fall, yet to be repaired as so much of the building had been. He eyed the barred door once, but ducked into the private enclosure off to the left instead. Only after the comfortable shadows engulfed him did the sensations of being watched vanished.
Only a single sputtering candle adorned the walls of the side room, placed inside thick, water-filled glass globes. Vestments hung from pegs on the walls, plain and unassuming when they weren't being worn. Unable to resist the lure of a secret, Anthony took a moment to look about. Boxes of foxfire candles were tucked into corners, some nibbled on by rats and other pests. One, though, looked to have been bitten near in twain, sharp teeth leaving long furrows on the chewed end.
He turned the chewed candle over in his hands, frowning down at it. The pattern was distinctive to anyone who had lived in the Neath for long enough, but finding it in this place was troubling. What could one of those be doing in a church?
More rummaging turned up nothing of interest at all, not a dropped coin nor even an interesting scrap of a secret. Faintly disappointed, Anthony took a moment to straighten his hat and and cloak—a fine affair of velvet that he rather thought added a hint of drama to what would have otherwise been a beastly common day—and stepped out into the alley behind the church.
Near total darkness met him when he opened the door. The shadow of two pillars framed the doorway, blocking what little light was provided by the phosphorescent glow of the fungus and creating pockets of deep shadow. Glass glittered on the pavement, scattered about the remains of a lantern that had once hung overhead.
Anthony toed a piece of glass that had fallen close to the door, then peered about. Not terribly subtle, he decided. Still, it seemed a shame to disappoint.
Precisely two steps out, someone grabbed his elbow and twisted him about, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. A dark, low hat shadowed the man's eyes and a muffler hid the rest of his face, but his grip was strong enough to bruise. Moonish light reflected the dull gleam of some sort of blade as he pinned Anthony to the wall.
Squirming desperately, elbows and knees flailing, Anthony fought for his freedom. They connected, each one with the dull sound of beaten flesh and absolutely no effect otherwise. As a final resort, Anthony sank his fangs into the meaty part of his assailant's palm. Dark, thick blood ran over his tongue, more like warm grease than anything with a right to be mobile. The attacker snarled, a guttural, animalistic sound more at home in the marshes than in London, and yanked away with such speed that it left a chunk of flesh lodged between Anthony's teeth.
Another shadow loomed, and Anthony had just enough time to think two of them! before big hands gripped his attacker's shoulders and pulled him off, landing a solid blow on the man's jaw and another to his stomach. The force of them rather than any apparent pain threw the man back a few feet, down into the trash-strewn street before turning the fall into a graceful roll. Crouching there, he stared at the two of them, hat askew enough to reveal a glimpse something terribly wrong about his face before he bolted for the main plaza and was gone.
Spitting out the chunk of palm in his mouth, Anthony pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the rancid blood from his lips. For the first time in decades, he felt out of sorts, knees weak and heart positively in his throat. Being attacked was the sort of thing simply that didn't happen to devils—even the lowest secretary had enough status to defend against casual assaults and riffraff. Someone who thought they could get away with such a thing, outside a church no less, was someone to watch.
So discombobulated by the experience was he that Anthony entirely forgot about his rescuer until yet another body forced him back into the doorway, this one warm and firm and tasting delightfully familiar. Considerations about his attacker fell by the wayside as he turned his attention to much more pleasant concerns. "Captain Rogers, what an extremely unexpected surprise."
And it was, indeed, his dear Captain, face and identifying details utterly concealed by shadow, and yet he was as recognizable as if he'd been standing in the bright daylight of the surface. He was so close that every breath Anthony took was flavored with the deep, rich flavor of his soul, fresh as new leaves in spring.
"You've been following me," Steven murmured, voice low to keep from carrying; Fallen London's shadows ate secrets and whispers, drank them in like mother's milk. He loomed up like a Watchmaker's Hill tough, broad shoulders and chest easily blocking the way free, had Anthony been inclined to escape.
From close up, it was clear that Steven's clothing was second, perhaps even third-hand, in a way it had not been from aloft. His shirt and coat were ill-fitting, pulled tight across his muscular chest, and there was some fine fraying of his cravat that had been not-quite hidden by its folds. Somehow, the lack of polish made him seem even more charming; here was a man with more care for substance than appearance, though that appearance was positively scrumptious.
Anthony checked to be sure his hat was still in place—it would be a pity to have lost it from so little fuss. "Well, yes. I thought that had already been made clear." He leaned back against the door casually, eyebrows lifted in polite inquiry. Behind him, the tip of his tail twitch to and fro, giving away his excitement, the dratted thing. "May I ask how you spotted me? I'm quite certain I was well-hidden."
"Your tail slipped through the gallery floorboards." One of Steven's hands planted on the door over Anthony's shoulder, the other next to his hip. "Who are you?"
"That, my dear, is a secret, and secrets are seldom free." Brazenly, Anthony squirmed a hand between them to cup the captain's cock in his trousers. The shadows were too thick to show his eyes, but Anthony caught the sharp intake of breath when he squeezed. It wasn't near as delightful as he recalled from the night before, with the thick fabric between them. Likely no one would think to bother them, not even if they walked by and saw a glimpse of flesh, but sacrifices had to be made. "Of course, if you are so inclined, there are ways you could purchase it from me."
Steven licked his lips, elbows bending just a bit to bring him even closer to Anthony in their cozy little nook. "I— that would be payment for your name, would it?" he asked, voice finding a low, rough note that sent a frisson of want down to the tip of Anthony's tail.
"Oh, no, that would be only for pleasure's sake." Tilting his head, Anthony dragged his nose across the line of Steven's jaw. And such a strong jaw it was, square and well-defined, bearing only the slightest hint of stubble. "Secrets for secrets, Captain dear."
Another finger-length closer, and Steven's body pressed so close that a coin could have been cradled between their chests and not slipped. "I've no secrets I care to sell," he admitted in a rough whisper.
Anthony's tail slipped under Steven's thick wool coat, finding the curve of his rear and giving it a pat. "If that's so, I fear my name shall have to remain my own."
"Then— then I should go." The murmur had descended into a place beyond a whisper, to a breath of air shared between them. "This is a church, and you..."
Trapped as it was between then, Anthony worked his hand worked slowly up the length of Steven's forming erection, and then higher to the buttons on his braces. The metal was cool to the touch, common surface brass rather than anything the Hell had traded. The little detail was so very human that it made him smile. "Stay," he plead, nuzzling a kiss to the underside of that chiseled jaw.
"I don't think—"
A hard kiss kept any more arguments Steven might have had from being vocalized, and Anthony's hand wrapped around the thick length of Steven's cock. He recalled it well from the night before, erect and eager even when its owner thought he knew better. Though it was hidden by shadows, Anthony could imagine the strained deliberation on his captain's face, the war between being a man and a moral man. It was a well-matched battle, and one that might end in stalemate and anticlimax for them both.
Rather than allow his dear new friend to continue suffering the indignity of uncertainty, Anthony slid down between Steven's knees and took him in his mouth. Fangs made it somewhat tricky, but centuries of experience served in good stead, keeping his sharp teeth safely away from tender flesh. His tongue slid along Steven's cock delicately, dexterous tip playing patterns and hopscotch on the swollen vein. The thick, heady flavor of Steven's soul sizzled on the tip of his tongue, enticing as a rare wine and a thousand times as precious.
"My God," Steven groaned, blasphemy rolling off his lips and lighting a fire in Anthony's chest. Fumbling his own buckles and buttons, Anthony reached into his pants to palm himself, maintaining his balance with only a single hand on Steven's thigh and his tail working to keep him steady.
Carriage wheels rattled past somewhere close by, but Steven only flinched a little, head bowed and muscles tight. One of his hands slipped down to feather through Anthony's hair, brushing across the sensitive base of his horns and knocking askew his hat in the process. It tumbled out into the street, forgotten and uncared for.
They moved together, Anthony's head bobbing up and down eagerly, drawing forth poorly muffled groans and sighs. When Steven shuddered, his enraptured moans rising to a pitch that carried well beyond the shadows, Anthony took it as his cue. Tightening his lips, he suckled hard, and was rewarded with Steven's seed flooding across his tongue, bright with the honey-sweet spice of Steven's soul. Hastily, Anthony swallowed it down, not letting a drop escape.
Almost before he had even finished being rid of the evidence, Steven gripped his shoulders and yanked him back up to his feet. His broad, callused palm pushed Anthony's hand aside to wrap around his prick. Delighted groans all but vanished into whimpers as Steven worked him, thumb pressed against the underside in so exactly perfect a way it made Anthony ponder the existence of Heaven in Steven's hand. In what seemed like only a few heartbeats, Anthony was arching into Steven's hand, his semen being caught by a cleverly placed palm.
They stayed pressed together for long, breathless moments, enfolded by the protective darkness. Keeping his face pressed against the captain's neck, Anthony let himself steal just a lick off the surface of Steven's skin. As anticipated, he continued to be as delectable as ever. The angle of their embrace left Steve's temple pressed just so against his left horn, which kept up a delightful frisson of pleasure even as the great moment of orgasm faded into extraordinarily fond memory.
Against Anthony's ear, the captain let out a great sigh. "That was blasphemy, on the very doorstep of a church," Steven whispered, harsh words spoken in soft tones. "Perhaps I should be grateful it's not carved into my skin this time."
Murmuring comfortably, the devil found a new place to nibble at. "I did not carve blasphemy into you. It's poetry." It wasn't his fault Steven didn't speak with a devil's tongue, or he might have been able to read it. "The scars will be very fetching, I promise."
"Of course you would think as much." Though large and strong, Steven's hands were quick as he buttoned them back up and tucked away shirttails. Like as not they would still be a mess, but a cab and a buttoned coat would hide any unsightly creases.
"Indeed, I do." As Steven did not seem inclined to think ill of Anthony for having marked him out, it seemed most prudent to leave the question what of sort of poetry for another day. Possibly that day would come after Steven acquired a book of the appropriate languages. Putting the matter aside, Anthony pressed his face into Steven's neck, content to enjoy the moment while it lasted.
"The moment", as it were, trailed out into minutes, and then even farther. Not that Anthony was of a mind to complain, so long as Steven was eager to linger, but once a full quarter hour had passed without a word shared between them, his suspicions were piqued. "Haven't you Sunday errands?"
"Nothing so urgent as all that," Steven assured him, voice ever so slightly smug in a way that could not be attributed to sex alone.
"Are you quite certain?" What was it humans did on the sabbath, beyond church? Anthony had never cultivated human acquaintances who much cared for structured holiness. "I wouldn't want to keep you."
"Lingering with you isn't an inconvenience." Again, with the self-satisfied voice of a man who had intentions. "I certainly don't mind waiting."
Suspicions coiled together into a single, exquisitely underhanded whole. "You are waiting for me to leave first, aren't you?" Anthony exclaimed, perhaps more loudly than absolutely necessary. Delight at the captain's cleverness warred with indignation at having been so easily trapped. "Be gone with you, brute! You'll not see my face this night!" Melodramatically, Anthony pressed his palms to Steven's broad, firm chest and gave him a playful shove.
It wasn't strong enough to actually force Steven to move, but he allowed himself to stagger back anyway, emerging into the moonish light nearly doubled with stifled laughter. Dim as it was in the alley, the light caught hair and smile, seeming to make them light up from within. "I shall one day," he vowed through his mirth.
"But not this day," Anthony insisted, venturing just far enough out from the shadows to shoo his captain along. "Go on, be gone with you!"
Still laughing, Steven bent to scoop up the hat Anthony had lost in the heat of their union. It was a mark of how very new Steven was to the Neath that he never checked inside the band for the secrets hidden away there. "I suppose I'll keep this, then, until you care to retrieve it from me. Personally."
Anthony watched, tail twitching in dismay as Steven twirled it on its brim with the tips of his fingers. It was an especially flattering gray silk topper, the ribbon at the crown a simple black, and had the distinction of being one of his more respectable hats. Certainly it did not deserve to have been left in the street as it had been. "You have been planning this!" Anthony accused.
"How could I have planned to see a devil in church?" Holding up the hat by its brim in a foul mockery of a salute, Steven turned and strode away, juggling his trophy as he walk.
Crossing his arms, Anthony watched him go, mouth twisted into a thoughtful sulk. He wasn't used to being gotten the better of. It was interesting—exciting, in a distressing sort of way. The lure of the chase tempted him, edged with a promise that there was truly few ways he could lose the game.
And that was precisely the sort of game he most enjoyed.