Bruises

"You asked to see me."

Jezrael Swordfeather looked up from his paperwork and saw the source of the voice: a curvy white-feathered duck with deep red hair. She was dressed in a tasteful pearl-gray three-piece suit, but she’d wrapped a black scarf around her head so that it obscured most of her face.

Damn. He sighed; he didn’t have to ask if the arrangement was purposeful. "Sit down, Martine."

Martine la Dague sat carefully—a little too carefully for Jezrael’s tastes—and kept her gaze on the floor, plucking nervously at the knotted ends of the scarf beneath her chin.

He sat still for a moment, hoping she’d at least meet his gaze. But she didn’t; so he pressed on, hating himself for what he was about to make her do. "You know why I called you here."

"Yes." Her gaze met his for the briefest of moments, and she looked terribly frightened. "It’s about Ernie."

"No." Jezrael permitted himself one of those sad smiles that everyone in the Brotherhood knew so well. "It’s about you. Take the scarf off, Martine."

Her hand flew to her throat. "No. Please, Jezrael, no."

"Do it, Martine," and though his expression never changed, his voice held all the threat in the world.

Martine let out a soft sob of protest, but nodded quickly and began to unwind the length of black cloth. When she’d finished she sat back almost defiantly, tears streaming from her eyes. "Happy now?"

Jezrael’s blue eyes widened and he couldn’t speak. Almost the entirety of Martine’s left cheek was a livid purple-red bruise—fist-sized, he thought numbly. High on her neck were other bruises, lighter and smaller, smudged-looking. He didn’t have to ask what those were.

"Martine…." The brown drake’s eyes swam with sudden tears. "The—the jacket, too."

This time she didn’t protest, but simply stood up and peeled her jacket away. The blouse beneath it was sleeveless; she’d done nothing to hide the long blue finger-marks on her shoulders. "Have you seen enough?"

He wanted badly to blot out what he had seen. "Is there more?"

"No. Not this week."

He gestured for her to get fully dressed again and then waved her back into her chair.

"We’ve been over this before, Martine."

The redhead held a hand up to stop him. "I love him, Jezrael. Before you even get started—I love him."

"How?" Jezrael was incredulous. "How can you love a man who—puts marks on you?"

"I just do."

She said it so flatly that he knew there would be no reasoning with her. Jezrael ran a hand through his graying black hair. "And the children?"

Martine smiled tightly. "Talon and Keidre are fine."

"Falcone doesn’t—?"

"No. He’s never touched them. And—" She put her head down quickly, to hide a sudden rush of tears. "They adore him. Especially Keidre."

"I don’t understand this, Martine. You’re the mother of his children—"

"I’m the mother of Duke l’Orange’s son, too." Her tone was icy now. "Or had you forgotten, Jezrael?"

"No, I’ve not forgotten." Jezrael cursed inwardly. Even now that Duke had left the Brotherhood, Ernie Falcone’s hatred of him was intense. "Is that the problem?"

Again that tiny smile. "It’s a small part of it, yes."

The drake got to his feet. "You know me, Martine. I care about you. I’ve always felt responsible for the people that work for me."

"You can’t solve my problems for me, Jezrael."

"No." He agreed readily. "I can’t. But you know what’s got to happen, Martine. You know why I’ve been keeping up with you. This is the third time in a month that you’ve come to assembly with—marks on you." He almost couldn’t say it. "I’m bound to reprimand him."

"No."

"Martine," Jezrael pleaded. "I’m trying to help you here—"

"But you won't." Her tears ran freely. "You'll only make it harder. You know how he is."

"I know." He sighed and reached out to her. "But I’m going to reprimand him, Martine. It’s Brotherhood law. And if he retaliates against you, you’ll let me know, and we’ll make an official report of it."

Martine cringed. A run-in with the law was the last thing she wanted, regardless of the reason. But she knew Jezrael would press her; and at last she whispered, "All right."

Jezrael put a hand on her shoulder gingerly. "You’ll leave him if it gets worse—at least for the sake of your children. Promise me?"

Silence.

"Martine. You’ve sworn vows, Martine."

And then, almost inaudibly, "I promise. May I go now?"

"Yes." Jezrael let his hand fall to his side. "Yes. Go."

He watched her retreat, and added silently, And God go with you.

ii.

"You’re bothered," Anya Swordfeather said.

It was the understatement of the week. Jezrael turned over and regarded his wife curiously. She was sitting up in bed, her pale blonde hair tumbled about her white shoulders. In the moonlight that filtered through the window, she seemed to glow.

God, she’s beautiful, he thought; but he said, "Yes."

She smiled softly. "It’s Martine again."

He hadn’t said anything to Anya about his conversation with Martine. He didn’t have to; she knew him too well. "Yes. You should have seen her—the way Falcone’s got her marked up—"

Anya turned her head, shuddering slightly. "I’m glad I didn’t. You’re going to speak to him," and it wasn’t a question.

"I’m obligated to." Jezrael stretched and put his hands behind his head. "She says she loves him, Anya."

Anya nodded, but she was frowning. "She probably does."

"How?" Jezrael demanded, sitting upright. "Please tell me how."

His wife shifted uncomfortably, her pink nightgown bunched about her hips. "I can’t tell you. I don’t know. It’s obvious she doesn’t think too highly of herself, she wouldn’t have attached herself to him."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Falcone’s got clout, sweetheart, and clout’s attractive."

"Yes." She was quiet for a moment. "Jezrael, if Duke were here—"

"No." He put his palm to her cheek lightly. "I know as well as you do that Duke would stand up for her, honey, but he’s got enough to worry about right now." He sighed. "I just wish I knew what was motivating her."

"Fear." There was a flatness in Anya’s voice that surprised him. "Maybe she thinks he’d hurt her, or hurt Talon, if she left him. And sometimes—Jezrael, sometimes negative attention is better than none at all."

"Yes." He didn’t agree with her, but he didn’t want to press the point.

"Jezrael, if you want me to talk to her—"

"No." Here he was adamant. "Not with Falcone around, not unless I’m with you. I don’t want to have to kill him."

Anya chuckled softly, moving readily into her husband’s offered embrace. "I know you’ll work out some way of helping her—but I’m glad this isn’t our problem."

He knew what she meant. "So am I."

He bent to kiss her then; and immediately, as if on cue, their daughter Cassandra began whimpering in the next room.

Anya laughed again as she slithered from his grasp and straightened her nightgown. "Looks like we won’t have any privacy tonight…."

iii.

Falcone met her at the door. "Where have you been?"

She eased past him and began taking off her scarf and jacket. "I went to assembly.

You should have been there."

"Don’t get tetchy with me, Martine." The raptrin’s yellow eyes had narrowed. "Did Swordfeather keep you back again?"

"Ernie, I really don’t think—"

"Obviously." Falcone clapped a hand down on Martine’s bruised shoulder, making her sob in pain, and spun her to face him. "Otherwise you’d have realized that I just asked you a question."

His voice had sunk to a dangerous whisper. "Did Swordfeather keep you back or did he not?"

Still she didn’t answer; and he took her by the shoulders and shook her furiously.

Martine broke away from him and stumbled, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "Yes," she whispered; and before he could say anything she added quickly, "He wants to talk to you."

"Me!" Falcone’s surprise was quickly replaced by laughing incredulity. "Why on earth would that soft-hearted fool want to talk to me?"

Martine shook her head dumbly, indicating her wounded shoulders with a vague gesture. "This."

"This?" He mimicked her cruelly, even as he seized her arm and wrenched her close. "But my dear Martine, this is none of his business."

"I—Ernie, you’re hurting me—"

"You’re mine, Martine. Mine. Mine to do with however I please—or do I need to remind you?"

"Ernie—Ernie, Jezrael just wanted—ahhhh!" He had twisted her arm behind her back. Her knees buckled as pain shot through her; only his grip on her kept her upright.

Falcone sank his fingers into Martine’s arm and she screamed. "You know I don’t give a damn for Jezrael Swordfeather, and then you go running to him—"

And just as suddenly as he had started, he loosened his hold on her and pulled her close, and put his face dangerously close to hers.

"Martine, Martine. Why do you have to misbehave?" he crooned. "You know I wouldn’t have to hurt you if you’d just be a good girl, don’t you?"

She nodded silently, her tears still falling.

"Of course you do. Now I’m going out." He plucked his cloak from behind the door and shot her a meaningful glance. "You’ll still be here when I get back, of course—if you know what’s good for you."

A few seconds later the door slammed behind him; and Martine, sobbing, sank to the floor. Why did it have to be this way? Why did he have to hurt her so? Couldn’t he see she loved him?

"Mommy, what’s wrong?"

Talon. Martine’s head shot up and she saw her toddling son regarding her with big eyes, his pajamas wrinkled by sleep, one arm wrapped possessively round a green stuffed dragon Falcone had given him on his last birthday.

She wiped her eyes hurriedly and got up. "Talon, what are you doing up?"

"Wanted a drink of water." Then, suddenly, "You’re crying."

His seriousness stunned her. Oh God, no, she thought, please, no. Please tell me he didn’t see this.

But she managed to pull herself together enough to say, "Daddy and I had a little disagreement." She held her breath, half afraid of what he would say next—Talon was wonderfully precocious—but the tiny raptrin only nodded somberly.

"Daddy’s gone."

"No, silly!" Martine forced herself to laugh, to not think of the possibility. "Daddy’s gone out for a walk, he’s coming back." I hope…. "Is your sister still asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Then you should be too. Come on." She took him by the hand. "Let’s get you that drink and then get you back to bed."

For a long time afterward, Martine stood over the bed and watched her children sleep. Looking at little Keidre was like looking in a mirror; Martine saw her own white feathers, green eyes, dark red hair. But there the similarity ended; in waking life Keidre, always a "Daddy’s girl," seemed well on her way to becoming Ernie Falcone’s female counterpart. She slept soundly, not even stirring when her mother bent to kiss her cheek.

On the other hand, Talon’s sleep was fitful and restless. So much like his father in appearance, but already so sweet and kind—it made Martine wonder if he was already struggling, consciously or not, to be a better man than his father. Her heart ached at the thought of what his burdens would be, growing up in his father’s shadow.

But her heart ached, too, for Lauran. Her other son. Duke’s son. The son she would probably never know.

Giving him up had been for the best. She didn’t deny that. He’d been four months old when Falcone had moved in, and from the start Falcone had made it plain that he didn’t want Duke’s "brat" around. It was then that the abuse had started, because she’d dared to bear a child to her lover’s most hated enemy.

But you were friends once. She’d always wanted to say it, but she’d never dared to. But it was true. At one time Duke l’Orange and Ernie Falcone had been inseparable. Now even she didn’t know what had caused the rift between them.

But in her own life things had gone from bad to worse. She’d given Lauran to Duke, and he in turn had given over the raising of his son to one of his more trustworthy female friends in the Brotherhood—and he’d never told her who.

That had been four and a half years ago. Her son was five years old and she didn’t know where he was. Couldn’t know where he was, for her own safety and that of her other children. She doubted that she’d know Lauran if she saw him now. Certainly he wouldn’t know her.

One of the most precious parts of her life ripped away by Ernie Falcone’s jealousy.

At least in the darkness no one could see her tears.

iv.

There was no mistaking the voice. "Swordfeather! I want a word!"

Jezrael sighed. Looking up, he could see Ernie Falcone in the hall, his progress barred by the silver-feathered raptrin standing guard.

Might as well get it over with, he decided grimly, and waved the guard aside. "Winterhawk. Let him in." And grudgingly Winterhawk stood aside to let Falcone pass, though his expression told Jezrael plainly that he’d be keeping an eye on things.

The drake surveyed the raptrin with distaste. "Close the door, Falcone."

Falcone did as he was told. "I was told you wanted to talk to me. About Martine. About our little…problem."

"Yes. Sit down."

"No."

Always have to be on top of things, don’t you, Falcone? But Jezrael kept his own seat. "You know our governing council has set standards for personal conduct. And I think you know you’re in violation of those standards, and—need I say it?—domestic abuse is a criminal offense."

Falcone smiled sourly. "Who are we to talk about what’s criminal? What I do in my own house is my business."

"Is it?" Jezrael asked innocuously. "I thought the house was Martine’s."

"Oh, pish," the raptrin sneered. "Don’t tell me you’ve brought me here to play cutesy with me."

"I brought you here to tell you that you’re in danger of being turned over to the authorities—oh yes, and your voting rights in assembly have been suspended, and I’d personally prefer to not see you again."

"Oh, you’d personally prefer!" Falcone scoffed. "Why, Swordfeather, you make it sound as if I’ve done something wrong."

Jezrael frowned. Don’t fly off the handle. It’s what he wants. "You don’t think abusing the woman you live with is wrong?"

"I don’t abuse her. I just slap the stupid bitch around when she needs it."

"She is the mother of your children!" The door opened a fraction, and Jezrael saw Winterhawk looking in curiously; he hadn’t realized he’d shouted.

"Yes." Falcone, on the other hand, had grown quieter, and his eyes gleamed yellowly. "And you remember she hasn’t been exactly, ah, faithful in that regard."

"Dammit." Jezrael pushed himself away from his desk. "It’s about Duke, isn’t it? It’s always been about Duke. Every bit of this. You’re putting that woman through hell just because he had her first. Because she had his child." Because he’s a better man than you are….

"Don’t test me, Swordfeather." Falcone stood up. "You may be in a position of power, but it’s the position that I deserve, and you don’t have your precious Duke around to take up for you— I’d watch my back if I were you."

That was it. Jezrael got to his feet. "Is that a challenge?" Because if it is, you bastard, I’ll be more than happy to send you straight to Hell….

But Falcone had turned away; he knew better than to test Jezrael. "No. It’s a warning. I’ll be going now."

"Falcone." Jezrael decided on one last barb. "You were a good man once. You were kind. You were noble. What happened?"

The raptrin’s shoulders stiffened; but he turned at the door, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "My dear man, no one gets anywhere in this business by being kind—which is why you’ll never be an artiste like me."

"That may be true." Jezrael held the door and motioned for Winterhawk to take Falcone out. "But I don’t have to beat my wife to make her love me."

"You bastard!" Falcone lunged; but the waiting Winterhawk was faster. He pinned Falcone’s arms behind his back, sweeping him off his feet in a viselike grip.

"Sir," he said questioningly; and Jezrael nodded, turning back to his desk.

"Take him away. You know what to do."

v.

Three years in prison and suspension of custody, with no visitation rights upon release.

Jezrael lay beside his sleeping wife and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t the penalty he would have imposed. But it was a start.

Three years without Falcone would give Martine a chance to live, to really live, on her own terms, without having to be in constant fear of what he would do to her, to her children. Jezrael was satisfied with that. Of course she’d have to be given protection when Falcone got parole—everyone in the Brotherhood knew how deeply his taste for vengeance ran. But that, too, could be arranged.

I could have let him go, he said to himself. I could have let him go back to her. And maybe this time he would have killed her. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t have lived with myself.

He thought of his wife and daughter, both asleep, both safe. He’d helped Martine for their sake, too. Maybe he’d jumped the gun a bit, getting involved in someone’s personal relationship. But what he’d told Martine was true: his underlings in the Brotherhood were his responsibility.

And he wanted Martine to be safe, like his wife and his daughter. She deserved at least that, and for now, she would have it. She would have hope.

Jezrael sighed and closed his eyes.

For now, hope was enough.