kill death before he’d let death kill him.
He fought back, fought hard.
He would not die tonight. He would live even if he had to kill Søren to survive.
Søren pulled him back up, and Kingsley spit out water, his throat and lungs burning.
“Resurrection.”
The water settled. Kingsley panted. The word resurrection echoed around the room, reverberating into the innermost chamber of his heart.
Søren took a step back.
“I did my part by coming back to you,” he said. “God did His part to keep you alive long enough for me to get here. Now you do your part and make yourself worthy of the second chance you’ve been given.”
“You tried to drown me.”
Søren smiled.
“It’s called baptism, Kingsley. Welcome to the Kingdom.”
Søren walked up the stairs, grabbed a towel and left him alone in the pool. Kingsley wordlessly watched him leave. He could still taste the vomit in his mouth. His clothes were soaked, he looked like hell. And yet, he felt clean.
Welcome to the Kingdom.
The Kingdom.
In that moment he stood sick and shaking and cold and wet, Kingsley knew exactly what he would do with his life. Once upon a time, he’d made Søren a promise. He’d made a promise and now he would keep it. He saw it before him, and it seemed so real he could touch it, feel it. He saw a building, old, Gothic, crumbling, like he was—awaiting rebirth. And people filed into it, people with secrets. They needed him, needed his protection, needed his knowledge. They needed to kneel. They needed a king. He heard their cries of ecstasy, saw their hunger and devotion. He would take them all and give them to one more worthy.
And he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
A promise made long ago… A promise he would keep.
A king must have a kingdom after all.
12
May “YOU’RE PLANNING TO BUILD A WHAT?” SØREN ASKED. “A BDSM club,” Kingsley said. He leaned forward at his
desk and held up photographs he’d taken at a dozen different clubs. “I’ve been all over the world the past three weeks
looking at what’s out there. I took these pictures in LA. It’s
more a nightclub than a kink club, but it has a few dungeons.
I went to this club in Germany—it’s as terrifying as it looks.
This one was New Orleans. A brothel and a club, probably like
your friend’s in Rome. And this is Chicago. Did you know
the old Playboy clubs gave a key to every member? We’ll do
something like—”
“Kingsley, stop.” Søren met his eyes across the desk. “What?”
“Are you on drugs again?” Søren asked.
Kingsley tossed his photographs down.
“I’m sober, and I have been for two weeks.” He wasn’t
merely sober, he was wildly sober, willfully sober and blissfully
sober. His head was clear, his eyes bright and the bone-deep
exhaustion he’d been living with for a year had evaporated.
He was alive and happy about it for the first time in as long as he could remember. “I’m trying to tell you I know what
to do with my life.”
“And that is…?”
“I’m going to build the biggest, most exclusive, most impressive S and M club in the world.”
Søren said nothing at first. But he did look up to the ceiling and addressed a few words to it.
“I suppose it wouldn’t have occurred to you to call him to
join the Peace Corps, Lord,” Søren said, still gazing upward.
“It had to be this?”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Kingsley demanded. “God. I was criticizing Him, so perhaps it’s for the best you
interrupted. This is your grand calling in life? Your ultimate
purpose? An S and M club?”
“No,” Kingsley said, shaking his head. “Not an S and M
club. The S and M club. And you’re going to help me, because
it’s your fault I’m doing this.”
“My fault?” Søren repeated, pointing at himself. “What
leaps in logic did you take to lay this at my doorstep?” “You turned me kinky,” Kingsley said.
Søren paused.
“I want to argue with that assertion,” Søren said. “Oui?”
“I said I wanted to argue with, not that I could.” Søren took
a breath, sat forward in the chair and clasped his hands. “I have
to say I am pleased to see you enthusiastic about something
that isn’t drinking yourself to death before thirty.” “Drinking yourself to death before thirty is so nineteenth
century.”
“Whatever the reason for this change of heart, I’m grateful
it happened. If I can help you in any way, I will. But, please,
recall I am now a Catholic priest, so I’d prefer not doing anything particularly illegal if it can be helped.”
“Nothing illegal. I just don’t know where to start. You’re
the smartest man I know, and your friend Magdalena had a
club. How do I do this?”
“I suppose you’d start with a location. Magdalena’s club was
her home, her home her club. But I assume the town house
isn’t zoned for commercial enterprises.”
“And it’s not big enough. And neither is the Möbius. But,
yes, you’re right. We’ll need the perfect location. Lots of rooms
to play in. A big room for a big dungeon. A bar, too, but we’ll
keep the alcohol consumption in check. More or less.” “More,” Søren said.
“You’re a Catholic priest. Aren’t you all drunks?” “If I wasn’t before, being back in your life might drive me to
drink. Between you and Eleanor it’s a miracle I’m even lucid.” Kingsley pointed at him. “I take that as a compliment.” “You would.”
“Maybe an old hospital,” Kingsley said, turning back to
his photographs and f lipping through them. “Are there any
old abandoned hospitals lying around Manhattan? Or a mental asylum?”
“A mental asylum might send the wrong message,” Søren
said.
“Oh, you know what they say,” Kingsley said with a wide
grin at Søren. “We’re all mad here.”
“Who’s mad?” Blaise asked, as she strode into the office
without knocking first. She had what looked like a newspaper
in her hands. Not a good sign where Blaise was concerned. “My girlfriend is mad for interrupting us when we’re working,” Kingsley said, feigning disapproval, which was Blaise’s
favorite form of foreplay. The more peeved he was at her, the
harder she worked to get back into his good graces. “I told you, I am not your girlfriend,” Blaise said. “I am
your submissive.”
“She has a point,” Søren said. “They’re quite different con
cepts.”
“Thank you, Father.” Blaise gave Søren a curtsy, which
was an act of submission and exhibitionism, as her pale green
kimono-style robe barely made it past her hips. At least she
had underwear on.
For now.
“What, pray tell, are you doing in my office when I told
you not to interrupt?” Kingsley asked, grabbing Blaise by the
arm and pulling her down on to his lap. In addition to sternness, she also adored a good manhandling.
“I need ten thousand dollars, please,” she said.
Kingsley looked across his desk at Søren.
“She’s right. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my ex-girlfriend.” “This is serious, King.” Blaise scrambled out of his lap and
sat on his desk facing him. “It’s for a good cause.” “
Oh, God, not another cause.” Kingsley collapsed back
in his office chair and groaned. “No more causes. That’s an
order.”
“Listen to me, you French fascist,” Blaise said. “I need to
picket a church.”
“Chouchou, you know I adore you, but you can’t picket
God,” Kingsley said.
“You can picket God,” Søren said. “No prohibition against
that in the Bible, to my knowledge.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the support,” Blaise said. Without smiling she looked back at Kingsley. “Listen to me. This
is a bad church. They’re the ones who are always on the news
with the ‘God Hates Fags’ signs and ‘Abortion is Murder’ signs.
And they’re coming to our city. Your city. Read it.” Kingsley grabbed the newspaper from her hands. He took
his glasses out of his desk and put them on.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Blaise said with a purr in her voice. “I can’t be mad at you when you have your glasses on. You look too sexy. Doesn’t King look sexy in his glasses?” she
asked Søren.
“I am overcome,” Søren said. Kingsley glared at him over
the top of his glasses.
“Just read it, King. There’s a church called The Way, The
Truth, and The Life, and they’re trying to take over Manhattan. Those people who have been protesting at the Möbius
are part of that church.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I asked them last time I was there. They tried to tell
me strip clubs exploit women.”
“What did you do?”
“Flashed them.”
“Don’t reward bad behavior,” Kingsley said, wagging his
finger at her. “If they think they’ll see your breasts again, we’ll
never get rid of them.”
“We won’t get rid of them. That’s what I’m trying to tell
you. They’re trying to take over the city. The guy who runs
it is a piece of shit. He’s this big fire-and-brimstone preacher,
and he wants to make sodomy a federal crime, outlaw strip
clubs and pornography in every form, ban public schools from
teaching evolution, and make having an abortion punishable
by jail time. Also, they hate Catholics. They think the pope
is the Antichrist.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Kingsley asked. “I
mean, other than you’re a feminist, he’s a Catholic priest and
sodomy’s my favorite hobby?”
“You are not listening to me,” Blaise said, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “The governor of New York is Reverend Fuller’s best friend. His wife and the mayor’s wife go
shopping together. This guy even says the opening prayer at all
the state functions in Albany. The church is rich, it’s powerful and it wants to take all our freedoms away. Reverend Fuller’s
like an evil Billy Graham on acid, and we have to stop him.” “I met Reverend Graham once,” Søren said, putting his feet
up on Kingsley’s desk. “A good man. I’m currently trying to
imagine him on acid. Makes for quite a thought experiment.” But Kingsley wasn’t listening. He was staring…studying…
gazing…seeing…
There it was. Right there.
Kingsley reached into his desk and pulled out a bundle of
cash bound with a paper band.
“Here,” he said, handing the money to Blaise and removing his glasses.
Blaise threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on
the cheek.
“Merci, monsieur,” she said. “I promise I will earn every
penny of this in bed tonight. And tomorrow night. And the
night after…”
“Consider it a finder’s fee,” Kingsley said.
“For what?”
“For this.” He held up the newspaper to display the blackand-white photograph. “I found our club.”
Kingsley was gratified to see Søren’s eyes widen. “What is it?” Blaise asked.
“This church bought a five-story condemned hotel from
the city,” Kingsley said. “The paper says they’re turning it
into their new church headquarters. It has a ballroom, a bar
and fifty hotel rooms. Complete with attached parking garage. This is our club.”
“You intend to buy that building for your club?” Søren
asked, sounding dubious.
“Fuck, yes, I do,” Kingsley said.
“Are you serious?” Blaise asked. She sounded awed and
aroused. He could probably talk Blaise into submitting to anal sex tonight—lots of it. He should go on anti-church crusades
more often.
“Deadly serious,” Kingsley said. He couldn’t stop staring
at the picture in the paper. It looked like everything he’d
dreamed right before his eyes. He hadn’t felt this sense of destiny, this rightness about what he was doing since the day he
first laid eyes on seventeen-year-old Søren sitting behind a