Broken Soul

Bruiser sat at the table and took a smaller pasteboard box from inside the metal one. Within it were several pairs of white gloves, and I figured they were intended to keep finger oil off the papers. He put on a pair, though they were tight and the fingers too short for his long, slender hands. Beautiful hands, with well-shaped knuckles and long phalanges. Hands I wanted to touch. I gripped the mug tighter.

Handling the papers carefully, he scanned the pages I had left open. “Italian,” he said, musingly, “like all of the Romance languages, has roots in Latin, but Italian is closest to the ancient tongue. Its poetic and literary origins became more standardized in the twelfth century, and this was written much later than that. It’s dated the tenth of July, in the year of our Lord, 1593.”

I knew a lot of that, but the professorial tone relaxed me, as it was undoubtedly intended to. I slid his coffee cup closer to him and Bruiser picked it up, sipped, eyes on the paper. “This is a letter, signed Pope Clement VIII.” He raised his brows and looked at me over the lip of the cup. “This should be in the archives of the Vatican. In a museum somewhere. And Grégoire just gave it to you?” Bruiser smiled, shaking his head. “You do have an effect on people, Jane Yellowrock.”

Bruiser started reading aloud, in English, translating from the letter as he went. It wasn’t a smooth and effortless translation, but it was way better than me trying to key the letters and words into an online translation site. I took a chair across from him and watched his mouth as he read, half listening to the minutiae of church politics that had nothing to do with witches. Until he read, “‘As to the workers of the magickal, my dear Paulinus, they are a hindrance to the church, and much as the Christ killers . . .’” He glanced up at me. “He’s talking about the Jews. The Roman Church declared them Christ killers so they could take their property under religious law, even though the Romans themselves actually killed him.”

I nodded. I knew that.

“‘. . . and the Mohammedan troubles, the magickal must be sought out with a firm and thorough hand. Our dealings with them must be meticulous to reduce their numbers comprehensively and quickly.’”

“That’s horrible,” I said. “That sounds like genocide.”

“It was exactly like genocide. Religion as a political entity is always horrible,” Bruiser said, his tone final.

“But—” I stopped. My religion wasn’t supposed to be horrible. It was supposed to be based on love and generosity and forgiveness. But history had always suggested otherwise. And my other spirituality, the Cherokee, had a bloody and violent historical aspect that made the old pope’s comments seem conventional. How was I supposed to look at the mores of history and compare them to today’s violence and judgment? Current events suggested that humanity was no better today than it had ever been, that we had learned nothing. And my own job description suggested just the same. Vampire hunter. Vampire killer. My throat clogged on the implications, I said, “Go on.”

“That’s all. The rest of the pages in this folder appear to be from the same era and written by the same hand. Politics. Purchases of land. Taking of property and holdings from the people ‘disappeared’ by the Church.”

He shifted through the papers, pausing to read here and there. I refreshed his coffee, feeling disturbed for lots of reasons. He closed the file and stood, returning it to the box, his fingers moving through the pages and files. He reached deeper in and pulled out a very old book. “Ah, this is what you’ve been hoping for, I think. Treatise of the Magikal.” Bruiser opened the book and paged through the front; looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Shall we take this to the other room?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I started him a fresh cup and followed him to the living room. Overhead, I heard stirring, as Alex got up for the day and went to the bathroom. Soon he would bring me info on Satan’s Three, and my quiet time would be over. And I’d go back to being what I was and doing what I did. Bruiser sat on the couch, and after a moment, I curled up on the other end.

“This book is from the seventeen hundreds, printed in Germany. My familiarity with the tongue is limited, so I’ll read, translate, and then summarize it for you.”

“How do you know all this stuff? Languages and all. I mean, I know you’re old, but—” I stopped myself. “I mean you’re not old old, but you’re . . . just . . .”

“Old?” he asked, that same warm laughter in his tone. I shrugged uncomfortably, and he asked, “How old are you, Jane?”

I jerked my eyes from my tea mug to his face. Chills snaked along my limbs, any remaining warmth from our kiss chased away by the question.

“Are you as old as I? I was born in nineteen hundred and three.” His eyes were crinkled slightly as he watched me struggle with the question. “Until we emigrated to the colonies, I had a classical education, learning Latin, Greek, French, mathematics, philosophy, and history. Once I entered Leo’s household, I was tutored by a variety of Mithrans in numerous subjects. I like languages, their histories and mutability, the cultures they reference and revive from the ashes of time.”

“I don’t know,” I blurted. A weight lifted from my shoulders when he didn’t react. “Found in the woods when I was twelvish. No memories. Raised by wolves. All that nonsense. It made the papers.”

Mate to know all of I/we, Beast thought at me.

Bruiser raised his eyebrows politely, asking silently for more. For no reason I understood, I answered. “I was about five on the Trail of Tears.”

“The nunahi-duna-dlo-hilu-i,” Bruiser said softly, his voice holding no nuance at all.

Shock that he pronounced it perfectly went through me and my heart rate sped. “Yes.”

“The trail lasted from 1831 to 1838, and involved many tribes in the eastern part of the States. The Cherokees were the last tribe moved. Forcefully. Brutally. So you might have been born anytime from eighteen thirty to eighteen thirty-three.”

He didn’t look like he was about to freak out so I nodded once, a jerk of my head.

“You’re robbing the cradle, then,” he said. Humor filled his face. “You’re a cougar.”

Laughter burbled out of me, part of it relieved nerves, the other part surprise at the play on words. “I’m not that kind of cougar,” I said, my tone lofty. Unthinking, I added, “I haven’t slept with you yet.” A hot blush followed the shock through me like lightning when I heard that last word come out of my mouth.