Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Their affair, torrid and breathless, lasted a little more than three months-a record, it turned out, for him. During that time she gave herself to him wholly, gave herself over to her own lust for perhaps the first time in her life, and there came a time-how quickly it had arrived chilled her-when she knew she'd do anything for him.

Anything, yes. But everything?

The day he broke it off, her period was already a week late. She cried for three days straight. Still, her blood didn't flow. Finally, she dragged herself to a pharmacy and, in the desolation of her hotel room, took the test. Then she went out, bought another and took it again. She couldn't believe it-she was pregnant.

In utter despair, she went to him, foolishly, hysterically-how on earth could she be expected to think clearly?-and told him, hoping against hope that he would be overjoyed, that he would take her back, that he would propose a future together. Instead, he hit her, backhanded her casually, cruelly, and told her to get it taken care of.

"What a mess you've made of things," he'd said. His voice did not drip with contempt; that would have implied emotion was involved. Much worse for her, it was cold and detached. "Haven't you ever heard of the pill? Too young, too stupid, I should've known." He shook his head, clearly disgusted by her hysterical sobbing. He bent down, hauled her to her feet. "I know a place, I'll take you there." His hand had gripped her jaw, made her look at him. "You're lucky, you know that? If anyone else inside the Order knew about this you'd be out on your ass, no excuses tolerated. Don't worry now. I'll take care of it and it'll be as if it never happened. Come on now, don't even think about it, don't be stupid again."

And so she hadn't thought about it again, until much, much later, until it was all over and there was nothing inside her but an empty place she was certain would never be filled. It wasn't until nearly six months later, on the island of Rhodes, awakened by the coming of dawn, the arrival of danger, that she understood what Ronnie Kavanaugh had done to her. Of course he wanted her to say nothing, get the "problem" fixed and they all would live happily ever after. It wasn't her career he was concerned about, it was his own. If word got out that he got a Guardian pregnant it would be bye-bye Kavanaugh, and that he would not have.

Why hadn't she gone to her father, why hadn't she sought his help? Because he had been helping her all her life: she was an adult now, and if she was in trouble it was up to her to battle her way through it.

She'd tried, she'd tried, but…

Camille, feeling Jenny's heart lurch against her own, held her tighter, murmuring in her ear. She felt the unfamiliar burn of tears against her eyelids, but they were for herself, not for Jenny. On the scrim of her mind, she saw the sprawled body of Anthony Rule, with an altogether unfamiliar blank expression, as if he were a wax model from Madame Tussaud's, some simulacrum that had been mistaken for Rule.

She summoned the specter of her own abandonment, and with some effort tears came to her eyes, rolled slowly down her cheeks for Jenny to see and to misinterpret. Wasn't it possible that she was the least little bit empathetic to the pain and misery of Jenny's abandonment? After all, she herself had been thrown away like an old rag after expending years to the mental care and feeding of the Knights of St. Clement. She had guided them from behind the scenes, using her breasts and her thighs, her lips and her fingers, busy pillow talk that translated into political know-how. But the moment she tried to step out of the shadows, the moment she had reached for the power itself, she had been rebuffed by the very same senior men who had absorbed her ideas in the dead of night and implemented them as the sun rose high in the sky. She had made them stronger, more powerful, extending their reach into the heart of the Gnostic Observatines-a place they themselves had failed to breach. Still, they had rejected her bid to lead them, without, she felt certain, even much of a debate. A knee-jerk reaction was more like it. And so she had crept back into the shadows, licking her wounds, had settled for manipulating them into elevating her son into the position meant for herself. Another pyrrhic victory, leaving a bittersweet taste in her mouth.

But no, that abandonment was nothing to the one she had felt when Dexter had left her. Her fall from Eden, the destruction of dreams, the end of all things. As for Anthony, he was gone from her bed, from between her warm thighs, from her web, but she had to admit that the thrill his lovemaking brought her was due not to his own skills but to the hot gush of revenge she enjoyed against not only the Order but Dexter each time he thrust into her and let go. Anthony was the mailed fist she wielded against the Gnostic Observatines. Anthony had belonged to her, only her. Even Jordan, who knew of Anthony's existence, had not known his identity. How well she had deceived Anthony-deceived everyone, including her own son. But then deceit was what she lived for…

All at once, she felt Jenny's arms around her, the vibrant twanging of her nerves. Misery and pain, Camille's meat, the psychological state off which she feasted. Yes, Anthony was gone, but she wasn't alone. She had Jenny to gull and manipulate.

"It's all right, it's all right," she whispered. "I'm here now."

She rose, the weight of her new instrument against her.

"Jenny, what happened?"

With muscular aplomb she hustled Jenny out of the Church of San Georgio dei Greci, out into a muddled late afternoon glaze and the frenzied fanfare of approaching sirens. The police launches began arriving. She and Jenny needed to be gone before the operatives of society began swarming. "Michael Berio called me, frantic." Michael Berio was the alias Damon Cornadoro had used with Jenny and Bravo. "When you gave him the slip outside your hotel. Good thing, too. If he'd called Jordan, my son would have sacked him without another word."

She hurried with Jenny to a small cafe, where she ordered them double espressos and pastries layered with chocolate, to give them a quick energy boost.

When Jenny returned from cleaning herself up in the ladies' room, Camille took her hands, cold as ice. "Now tell me," she said softly. "I know today has been monstrous, a terrible ordeal. Just do the best you can."

Jenny told her what had happened-how she'd been framed for the murder of Father Mosto, how Bravo had been captured, how he believed her to be a traitor working with her mentor Paolo Zorzi, how she'd learned that Anthony Rule was, in fact, the traitor.

When she came to the part about Bravo not believing any of it, Camille said, "Of course he doesn't. Rule was like an uncle to him. Rule partially raised him."

The espressos and pastries arrived, and for a while the two were silent. The cups were painted porcelain, the plates chased silver. Inside, rosy-cheeked angels romped across billows of pink clouds. People came and went, voices were raised in laughter or in brief quarrels. On the far side of the canal, they could see the flash of the police launch and the dark shapes of uniforms, blocking out the fiery sun that slowly sank through the western sky. There was an efficiency about their movements, as if each was a cog in a machine. The thought lightened Camille's heart. She had been quits with society for years, but it was always pleasant to have her decision reaffirmed.

Seeing Jenny push aside her uneaten pastry, she said, "What's the matter, don't you like the sweet?"

"It's fine, I'm just not hungry."

"But you must eat." Camille took up Jenny's fork, handed it to her. "You must keep up your strength, we have a long road ahead of us."

Jenny's head came up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we-the two of us-will go after Bravo."