The Hells of Notre Dame: A Steamy Sapphic Retelling

Copyright © 2023 by R. L. DavennorAll 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 AmericaFirst Printing, 2023ISBN 978-1-960411-00-6 (eBook) ISBN 978-1-960411-01-3 (paperback)Published by Night Muse PressCover art by JV ArtsEdited 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 WarningThis 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