Part Seventeen
Retribution

"Now, then, precious." Trenton gasped, clinging to Clive as he stood up and carried him to his bed. He deposited him, and gently disengaged the boy's arms from around his neck. "I'm going to go and..."

"Don't leave me!" Trent grabbed at him again.

"Oof! Please, dear. I was about to worry about the fact that the doctors say you haven't been eating, but you still seem nice and solid." Again he eased the boy's arms away. "I'm only going out to get you some decent food. Why anyone would be expected to thrive on hospital food is beyond my comprehension. I'll be back shortly. I intend to spend the night in that rather purgatorial looking bed over there."

"I don't think the rules..."

"Trenton." Clive laid a finger against Trenton's lips, shushing him. "Dear, do you think I give a flying fuck about their little rules when it concerns you? Any way, I had a little talk with the Head Dragon In White already. The nurses are all quite in love with you, sensible things. Now then, what would you like?"

"Hamburgers?"

Clive smiled. "I notice the plural. I think you may be all right." Again he stroked the boy's cheek, and his brown eyes were serious. "I'm going to do my damndest to make it so, anyway. Now, it may be an hour or two. I'm not sure how lucky I'll be locating your supper. I know a type of French." He wiggled his tongue briefly at Trenton, who giggled, startled. "but it's not exactly what you'd call text book approved."

Clive left Trenton. As soon as he left the room his pleasant expression turned grim. He went to the nurses' station, and found the stout old nurse who ran things with an iron hand. "He's better. A long way from good, but better."

She nodded. "Good, monsieur. We were worried about him. You are...?"

Clive looked at her levelly. "His lover."

The woman's eyebrows raised, but she nodded again. "And you will see to the animal who did this to him?"

"Oh, yes."

"Bon."

"Is there anything you can tell me about this mess? The police don't seem to have been much good, so I'm not going to waste my time going to them."

She thought. "Well, from what I hear, they boy was supposed to be spending the weekend with the son of his host family. There was something about a quarrel, and the boy returned alone to the house. The attack occurred some time Saturday and the family returned Monday to find him like that, poor child."

Clive frowned. "That doesn't sound right. It doesn't sound like Trenton--he's one of the most easy-going, scrupulously polite people I've ever known. It doesn't make sense."

The nurse shrugged. "It is what has been told. The family... Well, the parents. The little girl is too young. They have been by to see him several times, though he did not really seem to notice them. It was even worse with the son."

Clive's eyes narrowed. "Yes?" His tone was casual.

"He only came once. Trenton ignored everyone else, but he actually turned away from Anatole. Put his pillow over his head. I thought the poor young man was going to cry. He seems to feel terribly guilty about allowing the child to go back to the house alone. I heard the parents and police trying to convince him that there was nothing he could have done. He couldn't have known this unfortunate incident would happen."

"Of course not. Anatole, you say? Bienvenu?"

"Oui."

"Thank you."

The nurse might have been a touch worried if she had noticed that Clive was thoughtfully tapping a fist into his palm as he walked off toward the public telephones.

A little while later, Clive stood on the doorstep of Anatole's apartment. *God bless Alexander Graham Bell. Without him, we'd have no telephones. No telephones, no telephone books. No telephone books, and finding people would be so much more time consuming.* Clive once again consulted the sheet of paper he'd torn from the telephone book at the hospital. Lots of Bienvenus, but only one Anatole Bienvenu. Marvelous. Saved him a lot of time wandering about. He wanted to get back to Trenton as quickly as possible.

Clive went in and found the indicated apartment. He rang the doorbell. *You will not go off on whoever opens the door, Clive. You will get information first. I feel like just kicking anyone's ass on general principle, but I really should make sure it's the right ass.*

A good looking blond answered the bell. He regarded Clive with shadowed eyes, which were slightly bloodshot. He'd been crying lately. *Hm. Guilt? Anyone who did something like that to Trent, I wouldn't expect them to feel guilty about it. I'd expect any bastard capable of that to be gloating. But he must know something.* "Anatole Bienvenu?"

Anatole eyed the leather clad man standing on his doorstep. Normally, his pulse would have been racing in hopeful anticipation. But, since last weekend... "Oui?"

"I'm Clive."

So simply stated, as if Anatole would know, of course, who he was. And Anatole did know. Clive--Trenton's friend. The man Trenton was in love with. Anatole flinched, and it told Clive all he wanted to know.

Clive pushed his way past Anatole into the apartment. "Shut the door, sweetie. We need to have a talk." Anatole obeyed, as the older man unzipped his leather jacket.

Anatole studied the American. Trenton had said that the mountain lion at the zoo had reminded him of Clive: sleek, golden, proud, 'large and in charge'. Yes, all of those things. And terrifying in his implacable beauty. Anatole knew that he was looking at a leather-clad angel of vengeance, and he found himself trembling.

Clive studied the young man. No, he hadn't done the actual assault. He was clearly a submissive, and they very seldom committed aggressive acts, unless prompted by a Dominant. That seemed the most likely scenario. Clive crossed his arms and said, "Trenton."

Anatole flinched, cementing his guilt in Clive's eyes. "He will be all right?"

"Oh, yes, eventually. I'll see to it. But what happened to him was very, very nasty."

"He... he told you?"

Time for a calculated risk. "About you and your friend?"

The blood drained from Anatole's face and he groped his way to a chair. "I meant him no harm," he whispered pleadingly. "Gervase swore he would be gentle. He tried, I'm sure he did, but Trent kept fighting him. I never would have believed he would be so stubborn. He'd been so... so pliant before."

"So you thought it would be all right to pass him around, like a box of candy?" Clive's voice was cold.

Anatole looked anguished. "It wasn't like that! He wanted it, he told me so himself. He wanted to experience what it was like to be taken, to be mastered."

"But not by Gervase."

Anatole dropped his head in his hands. "No, not by him. We never intended for Trent to know. With the blindfold, he should have suspected nothing, but I made a mistake, and..." Anatole laughed raggedly. "He really is a clever boy, you know?"

"I know. Trenton thought that you would be making love to him. Then, when he couldn't see, you brought in your friend. He's not a weak boy. I would have expected more bruising. Why didn't he fight back? Did you hold a knife on him? A gun?"

Anatole looked horrified. "Mais, non! The hands were tied, you know? As part of the play... You... do know?"

"I do now!"

Anatole gaped. "Trenton did not tell you?"

Clive smiled coldly. "No. Trenton won't talk about it. He's hurt too deeply. I figured this out on my own." He bowed slightly. "With your help."

"Mon dieu. I have betrayed again."

"I just need the last name of your..." Clive's lips twisted. "friend."

"I... I cannot. Oh, dear God, I have done enough already."

Clive walked over to Anatole and leaned over him, crowding him back in the chair. He poured every ounce of intimidation he possessed into the stare he directed into the eyes of the cringing man. His voice was very soft. "You might as well tell me, Anatole. I'm willing to wait here till he shows up, because he will show up. You're his bitch, and his kind can't stay away for long. Or, if I'm in a hurry, I'm sure that lovely, nosy little old lady I saw peeking at me from the window of the apartment across the hall will know who Monsieur Bienvenu's friend is."

There was the sound of a key in the door and both men looked toward it. It opened, and Gervase Underhill entered. He frowned at the scene before him as he shut the door. It looked as if his submissive was starting something without his permission. That wouldn't do.

"Exactly what are you doing with my boy?" He came farther into the room. He measured Clive with his eyes, and made the mistake many people did. He thought that since Clive wasn't all that tall and hardly bulky, he wasn't a threat.

Clive moved away from Anatole, having completely lost interest in him. He walked slowly toward the bigger, dark haired Englishman. "Gervase Underhill?"

"Yes. I'll ask you again: what are you doing with my boy?"

"Not nearly as much as you did with mine."

Gervase never really saw the first blow coming. A huge pain exploded in his face, and Clive was drawing back his fist for another punch when he realized what was happening. Shit! The hairdresser who'd pushed the boy into coming to Paris! This was a hairdresser?

He didn't really have time for any more coherent thoughts on the subject after that. He was too busy trying to keep Clive from killing him.

Gervase wasn't really a brawler, but he'd been in a fight or two, and some fairly rough ones. He'd never experienced anything like Clive, though. The smaller man fought with a ferocity that seemed hot, and cold at the same time.

Gervase managed to land a few token blows, but the American hardly seemed to notice them. It didn't take Clive long to have him down on the floor. There, he straddled him and worked steadily, pounding blow after blow into face and belly. There was the crunch of breaking cartilage, and Gervase thought vaguely that it was going to take more than a simple setting to take care of that broken nose, that he'd better start thinking of plastic surgeons, and perhaps he should be grateful that he hadn't gotten a bone fragment to the brain.

Other muted cracks signaled broken ribs, and he knew that he was going to be pissing pink for a week from the pounding his kidneys were taking. And, finally, it occurred to him that he very well might be in the process of being beaten to death...

Then it stopped. The weight lifted from him. He could breath, through his mouth. Luckily he hadn't lost any teeth, though some were definitely loose. He could hear Anatole sobbing somewhere out of sight.

A strong hand took a painful grip in his hair, dragging his head up. Though his eyes were fast swelling shut, he could still see. Clive's eyes were like chips of ice, and his voice wasn't any warmer. "I'm letting you live, you piece of shit, and believe me, it's not through any sense of mercy or belief that you can be rehabilitated. It's not because I'm worried about going to jail, either. We both know that the cops would just mark this off to a couple of fairies having a fight over a 'girlfriend'. I'm letting you live because if I killed, you Trenton would insist on testifying on my behalf. I'm not going to make him tell what you did to him in open court. He's been through enough already. If you have any sense at all, you'll tell the police that you were attacked by some queer bashing skinhead in the street and staggered here for help. Because, Gervase, even if I am arrested, I can always make bail--and get out."

He let Gervase's head drop back to the floor with a thump, and walked away. He wanted to get back to Trenton. He had promised the boy hamburgers, and he still hadn't been able to locate a McDonalds.