Page 18 of Heathens
“God, Salem. Why didn’t you think of that when you built this place all by yourself?” I tease.
He smiles and continues up, up up. My thighs burn as he once again uses another prehistoric key to unlock a second door about ten stories up. He stands off to the side and gestures for me to go in first.
“Holy shit,” I mutter. Then, my face flames as I look back at him. “Sorry.”
He just laughs. “I was hoping for that reaction.”
Grinning, I face the expanse in front of me. The bells—the famous bells of Notre Dame. The door opens up to a small landing, worn down by the feet of those who dwelled up here for centuries to ring the bells.
“That bell is Emmanuel,” Salem says quietly, pointing to the largest of the bunch. “It’s the oldest bell, dating back to the fifteenth century. All of these were rung by hand until the electric motors were installed in the early 1900s.”
“Wow,” I whisper, looking around. A clicking noise sounds from my right, and suddenly Salem is behind me.
“Don’t be afraid. Just feel it.” I’m about to ask what he means when he places his hands over my ears.
The vibration is so strong at first that I don’t hear anything—it fills my body so completely that I’m unable to hear, to think, to speak. I don’t even jump.
Just feel it.
The chimes pulsate through me and the air in front of me thumps with tremors—like everything in the vicinity of the bells moves with the sound. The hair rises on my neck and arms as the other bells start, causing an entirely different feeling to flow through me. The added sound is lighter, but it complements the bass of Emmanuel. Salem’s grip tightens, and the feeling of his body behind me, of his warmth and his muscles...
The bells continue their unrelenting rhythm for a few more seconds, and I swear I can feel my heart searching for a beat after they stop, searching for something to explain why being here with him so close behind me means so much. The vibrations electrify what I feel for him, amplifying my arousal. Salem removes his hands and clears his throat. Taking a shaky breath, I turn to face him. A look of careful concern is written all over his face, as if he isn’t sure what to say or think either. As if he’s just as stunned as I am.
“That was...” I trail off and shake my head. I feel unsteady and faint, but I’m not sure if it’s from the close contact or the sound of the bells. “Unbelievable.”
He rubs his mouth and gives me a pensive look. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” His blue eyes pin me to the wall as his brows knit together. “I think we should get some hot chocolate at Angelina.”
I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that. Laughing and shaking my head, I agree. We exit the bell tower and slowly walk down the stairs, Salem behind me. About halfway down, I stop when I see a word carved into the stone wall. For some reason, it catches my attention. The letters are faded and blurry from time.
ANATKH
I run my fingers over the letters. “Do you know what this means?” I ask, looking up at Salem.
“It’s ancient Greek for fate. Victor Hugo, the author of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, is believed to have found this very engraving in 1829, inspiring the entire plot of the book.”
I feel my eyebrows raise. “A whole book from one word?”
Salem swallows. His gaze lingers on my lips and I feel my body heat. “Fate as infatum, or fatality. That even if you know you’ll meet a tragic end, you must fulfill it. There is no escape.” His voice—his accent—is utterly alluring. I look back at the word.
“Fatality. Do you believe in fate, Salem?”
When I look back at him, he seems conflicted. “I used to. But then my life went to shit, my mother got sick, and I decided I needed something more concrete. And then she died and I... I lost it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out for his arm but thinking better of it. My throat aches and I swallow loudly.
“Thank you.” He gives me a tight smile and sighs, looking away. “It was a long time ago.”
“They say time heals all, but I don’t know if I believe that,” I add, smirking. “It never gets easier.”
He watches me for a second before responding. “You’re right. It never gets easier.”
At that moment, I feel a kinship with Salem—a connection that binds us together. Even though he is what he is, and I am what I am, somehow, we’ve found each other. Somehow, we’ve been pulled together. I feel less alone. I have someone in my life who can look at me and know I’m grieving. Who can see that some moments are going to be harder than others ...like the van... and that I need a friend. It doesn’t—and cannot—negate the grossly unfair loss we’ve both experienced, but it does provide its own balm. A peace I haven’t known in two years.
Without another word, we continue our way down the winding staircase, and once we’re out of the building, we don’t stop talking until we’ve reached the art deco marquee of Angelina thirty minutes later. I don’t smoke a single cigarette—I don’t even want one. I tell him about growing up in New England, Catholic school, and how I got started with photography. He tells me about his ex, Julia, and how he met Father Monsignor—a person I realize I should meet. The hostess leads us through the ornate bakery laden with sweets. Everything from eclairs, macarons, and croissants to cakes, cupcakes, and cookies. Entering the large dining room is an experience—the gold trim, the crisp, white table linens, and the smell of melted chocolate hit my senses all at once. Once we’re seated, I prop my elbows on the table and lean in.
“So tell me, Mr. Priest, is hell a real place?” I mean for it to come out lighter, jokingly, but my voice sounds strained.
His eyebrows knit together and he gives me that intense, contemplative look again. I swear, I could stare at his face all damn day. He mimics my body language by leaning in and giving me a small, lopsided smile.
