The Hells of Notre Dame: A Steamy Sapphic Retelling (The Phantom of Notre Dame Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2023 by R. L. Davennor

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2023

  ISBN 978-1-960411-00-6 (eBook)

  ISBN 978-1-960411-01-3 (paperback)

  Published by Night Muse Press

  Cover art by JV Arts

  Edited by Nastasia Bishop in collaboration with Stardust Book Services

  Contents

  I. the scarf

  II. the plot

  III. the faire

  IV. the seduction

  V. the mirror

  VI. the guard

  VII. the sanctuary

  VIII. the nun

  IX. the bath

  X. the cemetery

  XI. the square

  XII. the belltower

  XIII. the cloaks

  XIV. the opera

  XV. the masquerade

  XVI. the phantom

  XVII. the trap

  XVIII. the trade

  XIX. the jail

  XX. the embermage

  XXI. the elements

  XXII. the smoke

  About the Author

  To anyone who was ever told their existence was a sin.

  It’s not.

  Content Warning

  This novel contains adult language, graphic violence, explicit sexual content, homophobia, transphobia (misgendering) and mentions of gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, and past childhood sexual assault.

  Before You Begin:

  This novel is not intended to be historically, geographically, or socio-politically accurate to the period in which it is set. It is a work of fantasy fiction set in an alternate universe similar but by no means identical to our own, and as such, many liberties have been taken.

  A note regarding Claude’s identity: while today I’d label them a nonbinary lesbian, I wanted to explore gender identity and how it shifts given one’s surroundings. Instances in which Claude refers to themselves with gendered terms, both masculine and feminine, help illustrate that as understanding evolves, so does confidence. The correct pronouns for Claude are either she or they—though given her masculine presentation, note that there are also instances in which Claude allows themselves to be referred to with he/him pronouns both for safety and comfort.

  Please also note that Claude and Esmeralda enter a consensually polyamorous relationship in which they are both permitted to seek out other partners.

  Thank you, dear reader, for giving this story a chance.

  I. the scarf

  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.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I whispered solemnly, unclasping my hands to make the sign of the cross, “Amen.”

  When I stood, I immediately felt lighter. Freer. The ever-present ache in my chest lifted as I turned toward Saint Mary’s likeness depicted in stained glass, and a familiar calm washed over me the moment our gazes locked. There was a reason I prayed to Saint Mary rather than God in the evenings. I loved Him dearly, but as a fellow mother, Saint Mary understood me in a way He simply never could. Sunlight filtered through the dazzling display, bathing me in a rainbow of color and informing me of a single truth: even after all these years, despite all my sins and flaws, a higher power still watched over and protected me. No matter what vitriol my peers in the clergy spouted about people like me, to some higher power, I was accepted. I was enough. Grateful tears welled in my eyes, because whether it was Saint Mary’s or God’s doing hardly mattered. I’d accept whomever’s blessing I could get.

  After regaining my composure and collecting my prayer cushion from the floor, I made the short walk back to my office. The door was closed, which surprised me only because the maids were usually here cleaning by now, but it didn’t upset me—not when it meant I’d have even more quiet time to myself. I loved Quasimodo dearly, but given that we were about to spend an entire evening together, I fully intended to wait until the designated time to meet him, and not a moment sooner. He wouldn’t expect me for another fifteen minutes.

  Perfect.

  I closed and locked the door before placing the cushion on my desk. Leaning my palms against the cool wood, I scrutinized its surface. Everything was exactly as I’d left it: neat, orderly, and organized, all yet another indication no one had been in here, and that I was alone. Truly alone, especially now that I’d begged forgiveness for my immortal soul. The afterglow of my prayer, and presumably God’s watchful eye, had faded.

  What I chose to do next would be for me and me alone to know.

  Heart pounding, I reached within the neck of my robe and pulled out my prize, carefully and gently so as not to tear the sheer fabric. A scarf, but not just any scarf. It had once belonged to her.

  I recalled the night I’d acquired it in exquisite detail. I’m still not sure what possessed me to stand so near the stage, b
ut it was an inexplicable pull I didn’t bother to fight, and Quasimodo was thrilled to be in the front row. Our proximity hadn’t escaped The Embermage’s attention. About halfway through her performance, she’d leaned down, yanked the scarf from her neck, and wrapped it around mine, pulling our faces so close I could have pulled back my hood and kissed her. For the rest of my life, I’d regret that I hadn’t.

  But as quickly as it happened, the moment shattered, leaving me breathless and with the scarf still draped over my shoulders. It was a beautiful, delicate thing, and its violet fabric smelled of smoke and the faintest hint of lilac. As my most treasured possession, the scarf hadn’t left my person since the moment I’d acquired it, but not only because I couldn’t let anyone else find it.

  I may be a holy woman, but I sure as hell wasn’t a saint.

  My free hand had already drifted below my waist to gather up my vestments. There were quite a few layers to get through, but my practiced fingers made short work of them, fueled by the need pulsing between my thighs. Just my undergarments stood in the way now, and then—

  “Did you two finally fuck?”

  I nearly screamed. With trembling, careless hands, I shoved the scarf back into its prison and yanked down my robe before whirling around, both surprised and somehow not at all to see a red-haired woman leaning against the far wall. Though half-bathed in shadow, it was easy to make out the sea of freckles dotting her porcelain skin, though her maid’s uniform concealed that they extended down her shoulders all the way to her hands, as well as other places I’d seen more times than I could count. Arms crossed, she raised an eyebrow, clearly not planning on saying anything else until I did.

  “Mercedes.” Her name came out more breathless than I intended. I wish I could have attributed that to her use of profanity, but if I allowed her crassness to bother me, we’d never be able to have anything resembling a civilized conversation. “The door was locked.”

  “Since when has that ever stopped me?”

  Like the other maids, Mercedes had keys to just about everywhere, but last I was aware, that wasn’t meant to include my office—for good reason. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She held my gaze, her expression impassive. “Watch your tongue. Father Laurent wouldn’t like it. Me, on the other hand…”

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Don’t be coy,” I snapped, having regained my composure. “You know precisely what you’re doing.”

  “Do I?” Mercedes cocked her head. “I’m not sure I’d say that, as it’s not yet had the desired effect.”

  I bit back a groan and instead bit my tongue. Lord, give me strength. This woman knew precisely how to push my buttons, and I hadn’t yet decided if it was infuriating or thrilling, especially given what she’d interrupted. It took every ounce of energy I possessed to rein in my impulses, but despite my efforts, my defenses were rapidly crumbling. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “You’re not supposed to have that scarf.”

  That smart little mouth of hers was going to be the death of me. “Why are you here?”

  “What are you doing with that scarf?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Make me.”

  My body reacted before my mind caught up. One moment I was at my desk, and the next, I undid weeks of good behavior, and my hand was around Mercedes’s throat. She gasped the moment I touched her, but not in pain. The corners of her mouth twitched up, hinting at a smile, and her hips bucked against mine, seeking friction rather than escape. I gathered both her wrists in my free hand before raising them above her head, shifting my weight forward, and tilting her chin up at a near-harsh angle, effectively immobilizing her against the wall. She moaned then, soft and restrained, but given that my own constraint had already snapped, I wasn’t sure what to feel. Shame? Regret? Disgust?

  Any of them would have been appropriate, because everything about what I had just done was wrong. A sin. My silver hair may be cropped as short as the rest of the clergy, my breasts bound for most of my waking hours, and my garb identical to my male counterparts, but beneath the modifications I found necessary to better serve my church and my God, I was every bit as womanly as Mercedes. Both nature and my religion dictated that I should find men appealing… or ideally, no one at all, given my vows.

  But I couldn’t deny my attraction to other women any more than I could deny my God, and my sexual preferences were a festering wound I’d wrestled with my entire life. By day, I was a devout, pious Catholic, performing my duties as Archdeacon and far more whenever necessary, but by night, I sinned, recklessly pursuing pleasures of the flesh. My lust was overpowering and often insatiable. I’d even been known to have multiple women in the same night and still be left wanting more… though when Mercedes was willing and available, other partners were rarely necessary. She had a sexual appetite to rival mine, one of the many things I found appealing about her.

  And though I’d never admit it aloud, God, I’d missed her. Avoiding her had been pure torture, and now that she was here and my hands were on her, I couldn’t resist indulging. “Is this what you wanted?” I breathed against her cheek, lightly nipping at her earlobe. It may have been weeks since I’d touched her—or anyone—but I hadn’t forgotten how to handle a woman, nor the games Mercedes liked to play. “To be at my mercy? I bet you’ll do anything I ask so long as it ends with my hand up your skirt.”

  “I will.” Her response was more a whine than anything else, and she bucked her hips against mine before meeting my gaze. “Please, Claude. It’s been so long.”

  She was right about that, and I couldn’t remember the last time we’d slept together or even come close. Just four months ago, Mercedes and I couldn’t go more than twenty-four hours without undressing one another, but circumstances had changed, especially after we’d nearly been caught one too many times. With Mercedes already on thin ice given her past and me unwilling to risk endangering my son, we’d agreed to end the relationship that had never truly been one to begin with, and return to being friends without benefits.

  But there was more to it than that, a truth we had yet to acknowledge aloud. Around that same time was when I began visiting the street faire and participating in its festivities every Friday night. It had started innocently enough with my sole intention being to bring a smile to Quasimodo’s face, but one look at her and it became anything but. The Embermage and her dazzling performances had enchanted my mind and soul, but I wanted and needed far more. She had become an addiction, a compulsion overshadowing my desire for anyone and anything else. Mercedes knew me well enough to notice all of it—my change in demeanor, and certainly where I’d been going—she’d just kept her mouth shut.

  Until now, apparently, because she was still giving me an identical look to when she’d first questioned the scarf. A flash of anger had me gripping her throat slightly tighter. She knew damn well why I’d been avoiding her, but if she wanted me to say it, she would leave here disappointed.

  And what had she said? Right—that it had been a while. “It has, and you know why.”

  “No, I don’t,” Mercedes shot back, voice slightly hoarse. “If we need to be careful, then let’s be more careful. If you no longer want me, just say so. But it’s neither of those things. You’re rejecting me for someone else. For her.”

  I almost flinched at both the pain in Mercedes’s voice and her mention of The Embermage. “I’m not rejecting you, and there is no one else.”

  “Then fuck me.”

  I swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in my throat. “I… I can’t.”

  “See?” Mercedes’s eyes glistened in a way that suggested she was about to claw my eyes out or cry; perhaps both. “Rejection.”

  “That’s not rejection. I said I can’t, not that I won’t.”

  “Then why won’t you? Are you two exclusive?”

  “I’m never exclusive.”