Chapter 7 - Lucifer, Before the Fall

                                    

                                          
The world came back to Rafe as a pair of hands that shook him briskly by the shoulders. Next came a voice – Abercrombie's? – no, Abernathy's, and though the meaning was beyond his dazed ability to divine, the import was clear enough. The demon was impatient to claim his prize, and the situation would not be improved by delay. Resigned to whatever fresh hell would manifest, he opened his eyes.
                          
But it was instantly apparent that Abernathy meant him no immediate harm. His rough grip on Rafe's shoulders had slackened to a gentle one, and the eyes that had burned with such bright and terrible fury only moments before were filled with concern. The firelight was dim, but Rafe's vision had adjusted, and he could see clearly, for the first time, the face of the boy hovering so anxiously above him.
                          
It was an extraordinary face. No devil this, it was plain to see, but an angel: if this was Lucifer, surely it was Lucifer before the fall. A fine, pale complexion, dark lashes, and high cheekbones that would have made a welcome sight in any lady's mirror, yet somehow they found harmony with a firm jaw, cleft chin, and straight black brows to create an entirely masculine beauty. He knelt over Rafe, a tumble of glossy black hair spilling across his forehead over eyes of startlingly light blue, and the stone, never far from Rafe's thoughts, leapt into them unbidden. The supine youth surmounted by his lover, the deep, shadowed joining of young bodies, the rising hand poised for eternity on the verge of a tender caress: he closed his eyes to keep the vision from progressing further, only to find it playing on in the blackness like a magic lantern show.
                          
This would not do at all. He shook his head to clear it, then sat up cautiously to peer around the room. Abernathy had risen to his feet and was lighting sconces here and there, allowing Rafe to make out more of his surroundings. The room was very nearly round in shape, with handsome walls of gray stone, cushions of striped silk on the sopha, dark velvets hanging at the windows, and thick, fabulously ornate Persian carpets scattered everywhere. A glorious room, masculine and rich, and where in the name of God was he?
                          
The stranger turned away from the last sconce and addressed him. "Good thing you came to when you did, old man. A moment more and I would have tossed the chamber pot on you. I'd like to see the man who could lie senseless with a faceful of ice-cold piss."
                          
Rafe spoke with effort. "Thank you for sparing me," he told the other boy. "But truth be told, old man, a faceful of piss would not be the worst thing that befell me today."
                          
Abernathy raised an eyebrow. "Not the worst thing today, and the sun not even up yet? Take heart, old man. The day is young." 
                          
"Yesterday, then. I seem to have lost track." Using the arm of the sopha to steady himself, he'd managed to regain his feet."How's it going to go, then? Am I to be shot? Strangled? Defenestrated?" 
                          
Now Abernathy raised both eyebrows. "Not defenestrated, surely. The windows are far too narrow. You'd never fit." 
                          
Was he jesting? It was hard to be sure, but he felt his knees begin to buckle all the same. Swift and graceful as a waltz partner, Abernathy cut in front of him and slipped an arm about his waist, guiding him over to the sopha and laying him down on his back. Rafe protested, but Abernathy shushed him and knelt to the carpet at his side. He moved a hand toward Rafe's neck. Strangled, then, he thought, but found no will to struggle and fight. At least when I'm dead, this wretched day will finally be over.
                          
Abernathy laughed softly. "Only checking your pulse, old man. Not about to do you in. Good lord, I wish you could see the look on your face!" He loosened Rafe's cravat, unbuttoned the collar, and, with an ease that seemed born of long practice, placed his fingertips on the pulse in his throat. Then the left hand joined the right on the other side of his neck, pressing into his skin and sweeping upward to palpate the soft tissue just beneath his ears. He flinched. Abernathy sighed sharply, his lips forming some rebuke, but Rafe must have looked truly pitiful, for Abernathy's hands cradled his face more gently between them and his eyes softened as he spoke.