The Hells of Notre Dame

One night was all it took.

I should have stayed away. I should have thrown away her scarf, banished Esmeralda from my mind, body, and soul, and never thought or spoke of her again. That would have been the best thing, the right thing.

But our Lord works in mysterious ways, and before I know it, the walls of Notre Dame become her prison as much as they are my sanctuary. And with temptation front and center, neither of us have the strength to resist. Our days become longing glances and coded whispers, our nights stolen kisses and caresses on borrowed time, because we both know the inescapable truth.

Our love can only end as it began—in fire. But as each day passes, and the more I fall under her spell, eternal damnation seems a small price to pay.

If Esmeralda is hell, I’ll go willingly.

Please note: while Claude and Esmeralda remain the main characters of every book, they will add partners of various genders to their consensually polyamorous relationship over the course of the series.

Claude

“Ave, María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum.”

Hail Mary, indeed. I had survived another week, gotten through another Friday, and at last, my mask could begin to slip without consequence. It was the moment I looked forward to the most: the blessed quiet following Vespers and the evening Mass where it was only me and Saint Mary. I had recited her prayer every dusk since I was old enough to speak, and as always, I went slowly, placing weight on every sacred word.
“Benedicta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, lesus.”

I didn’t dare lift my head from where it rested atop my clasped hands and instead marveled at the gorgeous array of colors painting the otherwise drab stone floor. Notre Dame was breathtaking at sunset, when the stained glass sang for a final time before going dormant for the night.

A smile crept to my lips at the thought, because tonight, I’d be long gone by the time darkness fell.

But I couldn’t so much as stand until I finished my prayer, and that would never happen unless I stilled my mind and focused. Inhaling deeply, I recited the final line, willing Saint Mary to sense my devotion.
“Sancta María, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.”

On any other night, here was the part I would say amen. I would rise, lock up my office, and meet Quasimodo upstairs, where we would have dinner, talk, and read before retiring to our rooms for the evening.

But today was Friday, the night we visited a place where I needed Saint Mary’s strength more than any other. I couldn’t end my prayer before asking for her blessing, not if I had any hope of keeping my wits about me. Here, I may be Archdeacon of Notre Dame, but there, I became a woman stripped down to my most primal urges. And those urges wanted nothing but her.

Closing my eyes, I squeezed my hands together so hard they hurt. My voice came out raspy and hoarse, and the words garbled due to the excess saliva pooling in my mouth. “Blessed Virgin, you know of the sin that tempts me.” It had far more than tempted me—I had shattered my vow of celibacy all to Hell, acting upon my impure urges more times than I could count—but I shoved the ugly truth aside. “Forgive me. Break these chains that bind me. Cleanse my heart and soul, and free me from this ceaseless torment.”

Said torment’s beautiful face flashed in my mind. With luscious raven curls, rich umber skin, and eyes like emeralds, it was little wonder The Embermage had haunted my dreams these past months, but acknowledging her beauty didn’t make the burden any easier to bear. I couldn’t close my eyes without picturing the near-constant sheen of sweat clinging to flesh whose gleaming silver undertones were revealed only in moonlight, couldn’t place my hand anywhere on my body without it wanting to migrate between my legs. The punishing hold she had over me was as maddening as it was intoxicating… but one way or another, it ended tonight.

One final visit to the street faire in which The Embermage regularly performed. Yes, that was what I needed to get her out of my system—to watch her dance among the flames one last time, to meet her gaze in a sea of hundreds, to look and marvel, but never touch. Never, ever touch, not even if she begged me to.

But God, envisioning The Embermage on her knees, pleading for—

“Protect me, Mother Mary, as you protected your son, and I will do the same for mine,” I blurted out, horrified at where my thoughts had strayed. That was what I needed to remember, why I needed to keep myself pure. If for no one or nothing else, I needed to think of Quasimodo, my son and my responsibility. No more sneaking around with Mercedes, no more lusting after The Embermage, and after tonight, no more visits to the faire. Ever. I’d accepted my place at Notre Dame for a reason, and it was high time I began living what I preached. It was one thing to damn myself to the pits of Hell, and entirely another to drag my innocent son along with me.

Tonight it was, then. But no more.