Cole waited in the hallway for Melissa for more than forty minutes and his patience had thinned to transparency. He’d tried his best to clean up his jaw and busted knuckle and comb back his donkey-gray hair, so that he looked as presentable as someone like him could possibly look. He wore the dress shoes she’d bought him even though they were too narrow and gave him blisters on his ankles. He also had sprayed his neck with that awful cologne she’d purchased for his birthday.
His tuxedo felt like an anchor that grew heavier with every breath. He’d never grown fond of suits and dreaded the night of conclave when he had to put on the suit of all suits. It just felt phony. People should not wear clothing that suggested achievement when they had none. He wasn’t worthy of a tux yet. He still felt like an old demolitions toady from the Monterey chapel, happy to do what was expected of him.
Cole stood by a sign from one of the earlier Church seminars. Inner City Recruitment: Dealing with gang factions, reversal of loyalty and incentives. He thought that might have been a good one to take before going out this morning.
The rest of the Church of Midnight lingered outside the ballroom, chatting and chortling and chugging cocktails from the bar. Many of the faces hadn’t changed. Some had grown older. The entire Inner Circle wasn’t present, of course, and this left all the international factions to send the most politically palatable members. They were ad hoc Bishops now, for sure, but Cole would see they received the titles someday. That there should be two bishops and an Archbishop and that they be American was something that some scholars interpreted from the Tomes. But it wasn’t there. It was projection. And it wasn’t fair. These men and women had done their time. They were worthy. As Archbishop, Cole wouldn’t kneel to tradition and hoard the marrow seeds. He would give the others what they deserved and they would love him.
Where in the hell was Melissa? This was really beginning to worry him. He looked through the walls of tuxedos and evening gowns. Paul Quintana had come down moments ago and already had taken to a few women. Cole was somewhat impressed. Last year Paul hadn’t gotten past the hallway. Sure, a few ordained clergy had congratulated him on the gauntlet, but otherwise he’d been a glorified drink-fetcher and never even got to see conclave. At least Cole knew Melissa wasn’t with him.
A hand clasped his shoulder, tight as talons, and he jerked around and caught the powdery fingers by reflex.
Archbishop Pager stared back, startled for a moment. Sandeus’ face was not made up and it looked more male, sadder. With the plan at hand Cole got a sick feeling over seeing him in this light.
“Bishop Szerszen, relax friend.” Sandeus undid his grip.
“I’m sorry, Archbishop, forgive me.”
“Don’t kiss my ass, Cole.” Sandeus folded his arms. “What’s that matter? Your visit with Cloth did not go well I take it?”
“It went fine.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t accompany you. Perhaps next October, provided there is a next October. So how was the new one?”
Cole’s eyes flitted to Paul again. He was feeding a maraschino cherry to the tall blonde envoy from Sweden. Instead of putting it on her tongue, he dropped it into her cleavage. She smirked, amused but not impressed by him, and fished the cherry out. “Quintana has some issues to work though, but he’s coming along nicely. I foresee the children being numerous this year.”
“I still can’t believe Quintana isn’t out cold, what with the seeds so recently planted. It took you two weeks I think.”
“Three,” Cole corrected.
“Archbishop!”
Sandeus stumbled forward as he was slapped hard on the back. The Scottish envoy had an elegant black beard tied in ebon bows.
“Camden.” Sandeus took his gnarled hand and tried a hearty, manly shake. “I’ll be with you in a moment, brother.”
Camden showed an imperfect row of teeth. “Good, good. Nice to see you too, Bishop Szerszen.”
Cole nodded. He’d always liked Camden Amherst. The Scot wasn’t catty or marrow seed-jealous like the others. He was probably the best liked of the European contingency, bar none.
When they were somewhat alone again, Cole resumed, “Quintana got spooked and tried to vacate Chaplain Cloth.”
Sandeus’s face glowed with laughter that never came. “Are you messing with me?”
“No,” replied Cole. “Cloth didn’t do anything to him. I thought we were done though.”
“You should have been. Sometimes I don’t even know why we bother giving the seeds to the new Bishops. I should have stopped with you. Really. What’s the point? We only need one person, strong enough to herald the children. Backward tradition, nothing more. We should lose it altogether.”
Cole ignored this, now feeling at ease again with his plans for his man. He didn’t try to respond because he would have screamed out loud for all the Double Tree to hear. They would be stronger against the Nomads with more Bishops. It wasn’t a difficult concept to digest for someone less of a power hoarder.
More tuxedos plowed past, ushering the Priestess of Morning in their core. Sandeus and Cole shared a glance that said: We’ll take this up later. The caterers pushed carts with silver chafing dishes past. The aromas had Cole’s mouth watering. The meals at Conclave were always delicious, and always interesting.
At the far end of the hall a woman turned the corner. She had mousy brown hair and glasses, so at a distance, Cole was relieved, but then as the woman got closer, it became more obvious she wasn’t Melissa. If conclave started, Cole had to be in there. He couldn’t just duck out to find his girlfriend. Every laugh from every stranger started to hurt, to feel wrong. He should be looking for her, searching the crowd. Black, and black, and black, and then his eyes found the Priestess of Morning in a honey colored ballroom dress—she was lovely, like an x-rated Disney heroine, but not prettier than Melissa.
The double doors to the Empire Ballroom swung open and hungry church members rushed in like a dam rupture. Melissa, his desperate heart called.
And then, Cole’s own priestess was there. Melissa was flush in the face, coming down the hallway in the evening gown he bought her. He didn’t want to ask where she had been, because if her answer sounded suspicious, even in the least, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d feel for the rest of the night.
She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a weak squeeze. “I got held up with some slow acolytes.”
“Everything all right?”
“Sure, sure. I had to free a couple from their pledges.”
Breaking the pledge of an acolyte was a big thing. He had to suspect a lie. If Cole didn’t, he knew she’d take him for a fool. “We’ll talk about this later.” His words hardened her countenance, so he added, “Let’s just go in. I’m really hungry.”
He offered an arm and she took it. Christ! thought Cole. That feeling of her little arm around his never got old. They walked side by side and as they approached the door, she leaned into his chest and said, “How was Chaplain Cloth?”
Like many in the Church, Melissa had never met Cloth before, so when she asked about him it was like she was asking about a normal person.
“He was ready,” Cole replied and they entered the ballroom.
~ * ~
Paul tried. He tried in the hallway, he tried walking into the ballroom, he tried with the Priestess standing two feet from him in that golden gown. He tried to do what he’d been doing for almost an hour, which was to appear that he wasn’t completely controlled. He knew enough about women to understand that they didn’t want some sappy, slobbering guy that did everything they asked just to get a whiff. Women wanted men that they could change into that, but there was no fun in the game if they got a castrated bull from the start. Such a thing would leave them standing there with a pair of scissors but nowhere to snip.
So Paul tried. He continued to try even as he could sense the Priestess standing nearby and felt electricity arcing between them. He smelled her and thought of a breeze over a meadow in heaven. His mother always had different flowers arriving from her various lovers and Paul knew their names and their scents. The Priestess contained them all: shrub roses, pineapple and trumpets and regals and oriental lilies, snowdrops, foamflowers—Paul shook his head suddenly. The Priestess had the scents of her own world baked into her flesh and he’d opened himself to the Old Domain to breathe them in. He didn’t even remember pulling the shutter open...
Thanksgiving to the black feast! Children’s voices called from the backyard of his mind. He’d been ignoring them, keeping the shutter closed, but it was open now like it had been open for centuries. Cloth’s children picked up on his disquiet and the voices cheered at the attention.
Let us in!
Blood bread! Bile stew! Blister-meat pie!
Let us in!
The shutter wasn’t moving. Let us in!
“Fuck!” he blurted.
The Inner Circle envoy from France coiled his lip. “Pardon, Bishop Quintana?”
Paul grabbed his head. “Sorry—I’ve, uh, got headaches everywhere today.”
“Shall I call an acolyte for some painkillers?”
“No thank you, you’re kind though.”
Just then Cole Szerszen walked up. He had taken Melissa to her seat like a perfect gentleman. It was apparent that Cole too was trying. Cole’s tux didn’t look half bad on him either. Paul surmised that Cole and Melissa were quite the pair: Booky and the Beast. He had to at that moment admit, however, that he was happy to see Cole. The big man had come to his rescue.
“Brother Cornett.” Cole took the man’s limp hand, cranked it hard and tugged. “How are things in Rennes?”
Cole knew as much French pronunciation as Paul, and that was saying little since Paul only had Pepe Le Peu as a primary source. So, the Frenchman winced at Cornit and Renz.
While Cole chitchatted, sweat continued to pelt down Paul’s back. Twice he scrubbed away salt at his hairline. The shutter closed abruptly and the children’s voices left angry echoes. Paul looked for the Priestess. There were several strapping young men circling her at the head table like Makos in dark suits. Her bristly bodyguard—Eggert, Paul believed his name was—keenly watched these men, but kept a certain distance for the Priestess’s sake. That’s right, big man, thought Paul. Protect the honey pot.
Cole and Cornett exchanged some spirited banter now and Paul’s attention slowly fell back on their exchange. The Frenchman’s eyes widened with shock. He’d clearly expected an argument from his last statement, which Paul hadn’t heard.
“You agree with me, Bishop?” Cornett asked suspiciously.
“Of course,” Cole replied. “I have a different outlook than Archbishop Pager. We need an adopted organizational structure for every chapel, worldwide, not just in the States. Everyone here, I feel, should be granted the title of Bishop in their own countries.”
Cornett was pleased with this but clearly not sold. “Titles are a start, Bishop Szerszen, but we’re not equals until we join bodies with the Old Domain, through the blessed seeds of Marrow Forest.”
A man with a thick handlebar mustache bullied his way between them. “Brother Cornett has more objections than suggestions.”
Cornett rolled his eyes. “This was not your discussion, Brauer.”
“I’ve made it my discussion, Pierre. Go practice your English elsewhere.”
Both men looked at Cole fiercely, who calmly answered them, “We’re working for some big changes this year. I administered several hundred grand in the church curriculum to all Great chapels and several that have applied for great status in the past two years. That’s only the start of bringing the Church together internationally. So patience, brothers.”
“You are a trailblazer Bishop Szerszen. The sessions here have been extremely informative,” said Brauer. “I meant to compliment you on the Tomes study groups, very enlightening. Though coordination was better this year, placing us closer to the Heart, I wish my plane had arrived earlier.”
“I’m glad you benefited. This is a good year to be at conclave. It may be the year.”
Brauer’s deep brown eyes told that he didn’t completely agree with that and they moved over to Paul. “So what made you wish to take up the onus of this title, Bishop Quintana?”
“Huh?” Paul answered.
The ringing of a fork on glass disbanded every conversation, including their own. Cole guided Paul by the elbow. He probably looked as though he needed guiding, so Paul made no comment. He was going to be sitting to the right of the Priestess. She would be so close he would feel the warmth of her body.
Just as he stepped before his seat and she to hers, the shutter in his mind flew up again. Let us in!
Opening and closing, closing and opening. The blossoms in his stomach began to drip astringent. Paul uneasily stared at the black and orange bone china before him. He was getting practice right now, whether he liked it or fucking hated it, and all the while she was sitting just to his right, an angel from the Old Domain. He hoped he wouldn’t blow vomit all over that dress of hers—he’d already puked once today and that should have relieved his quota. Yet, something inky churned, rising up in his throat. Let us in. Maggots in a dead sow’s ass. Taste the treat. Spoon it up!
Paul swallowed but the acrid spit sat in his esophagus, halfway to his mouth. Sandeus Pager stood before a black lectern and spoke to the hundred-plus audience. He had been speaking for a while now, doling out Thank Yous and pleasantries like they were attending an award ceremony. He looked odd without his makeup. Paul had seen him last year in the hallway, only briefly, and had thought the same. He looked powerless, almost brittle, like a bald Samson.
“And my friend, the Archbishop of Morning, told me once,” he said, “Archbishop Pager, years will go by, on and on, but so will we. Time cannot divide us forever.” Sandeus’s eyes had moistened with emotion. The audience began cheering and clapping.
Milk a bloody tit, swim the bowels, rip the treasure from the scrotum—
Paul put a fist to his mouth for a moment and then cautiously took it away to clap with the others. When the revelry died down, Sandeus stood there a moment, beaming. “I would like to welcome the Priestess of Morning to speak briefly on her own church’s behalf. She and her servant Eggert are the only members of the Church of Morning here tonight, and they honor us with their presence.”
Clapping again. Sandeus tried to speak over the frantic hands. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
The Priestess stood and grazed Paul with her scent. So stupid! he thought. He hadn’t even introduced himself. At this point she probably figured him to be some creepy pervert, which he figured he really was.
The Priestess stepped up the stairs to the small stage, helped by her faithful bearded guardian in a tuxedo. Sandeus kissed her hand and let her in behind the lectern. She leaned toward the microphone and took everybody in with a sweeping glance.
“Our thanks go to you all. We’re indebted for your hospitality and kindness, not to mention helping us adjust to a new home.” She retreated a little from the microphone’s boom. The audience shifted in their seats. “The Church of Midnight and Morning’s only true separation is the gateway—we have the same hope. Let us pray for the endurance of that spirit. Let us be strong together when we unite. Let no pride or self pity tear us apart. Let the Eternal Church thrive through our love!”
The standing ovation that followed almost killed Paul. He stood, trying to make eye contact and trying to clap louder than anyone else, but it wasn’t happening. Too many crazy, disgusting things bounced inside his head and forced him to take action. He braced himself against the table and slammed his entire mind shut. A burning-hot spike splintered the nerves in his skull. He ate it, gritting his teeth. After a moment, the pain went.
He lowered into his seat and realized the Priestess had already returned and was seated. Making a god-awful mistake, he looked into her satin eyes. She was looking straight at him.
“Great speech,” he mumbled.
She leaned over and a stray ringlet of hair tickled his cheek. Her engorged lips were in kissing-distance and he felt close to losing control. “I don’t like to drone on and on. The problem there is that I keep things shorter than some prefer. Nobody here seems to like when you get right to the point.”
“I liked what you said, very much in fact.” He stared at those lips and their every movement.
“It’s almost the same speech I made last year at the harvest celebration,” she told him placidly. “It sounds more like a lie this year, but the applause was louder.”
“Maybe they know it’s a lie,” Paul told her. His confidence felt partially restored with the voices gone. “I’ve never believed the unification would go smoothly.”
The Priestess’s eyebrow rose. “So why do they clap at all?”
“They aren’t clapping for your words.” He winked and turned away, hoping she liked him, wishing she would talk to him some more, and praying she wouldn’t.
Either way. He was still trying.
A bell chimed as the caterers started pushing their carts around. Dinner time. Two men, separate from the others, came toward the head table carrying platters with orange cloths draped over the food.
“Special treatment?” he asked the Priestess, going out on a thin, thin limb.
She only smiled and folded her hands in her lap. Sandeus Pager picked up his knife and fork, ready to fill his stomach. Cole did the same and straightened in his chair.
Thanksgiving to the eternal feast, thought Paul. After a second he realized the thought had not come from him.
Paul couldn’t look away from his plate. The rest of ballroom dined on prime rib, creamed spinach, potatoes, French rolls: normal food. What had been set before him was an atrocity. There was a strange looking bird that had been roasted. A thin layer of crackling scales sheathed the gamy flesh and the bird’s neck coiled to the side with a head that became a startling reminder of Sandeus’s snake Alexander. An ice cream scoop of something rust-colored had also been plopped on his plate. The Priestess pointed out this treat was crushed fireroot, and then there was a dessert dish of tiny white beads that she explained were frosted windcherries. The smashed root and the cherries appeared edible and even smelled pleasant, but the rest of the platter had no place in this world. A cob of opalescent corn was cradled under one of the bird’s leathery wings. Paul slid the cob out with his fork and nearly shrieked. The kernels all looked like tiny staring fish eyes.
The Priestess peeled off the scales of her bird and ran her knife into the bruise-colored flesh. He looked over and saw Sandeus spooning great helpings of fireroot in his mouth. Cole had also begun work on his bird.
The fireroot and cherries, thought Paul. But he wouldn’t touch the bird or corn. He could say he wasn’t that hungry.
“Be sure to try everything,” the Priestess whispered. “This is part of the yield that came with us through the gateway last year. It’s preserved all year for conclave. Our people used to assemble feasts much like this one and offer them to the gateway—they believed this would suffice in lieu of the Heart of Harvest.”
Paul lifted the limp bird with the far end of his fork. “Did it work?”
She smiled brilliantly. “That was superstition, something both worlds share in common, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure,” he admitted.
“You haven’t introduced yourself to me, Bishop.”
“Where are my manners?” He fell into business mode, ignoring her hair, her scent, her face. It made Paul proud to the bone he could accomplish this with his mind in knots and libido spinning like a windmill in a hurricane. “Paul Quintana.”
They shook hands. “I chose a name for this world. Mabel Milton,” she said.
“Priestess suits you better.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Very well.”
Paul scooped up some fireroot and shoveled it into his mouth. Needed salt and pepper. It was baby-food bland and he could only sense a gritty texture on his tongue. Next, he went for the windcherries and was surprised that they tasted like sugared grapes, yet their flesh had a pulpy citrus quality. Not so bad, he thought.
The Priestess bit into the corn. Her teeth burst the little eyeballs and a milky substance ran down her chin.
The bird next, Paul decided. He went about the process the same way she had, removing the fine layer of scales and then cutting away chunks of tender purple-blue-yellow meat. It would have been great to say it tasted like chicken, but he wasn’t that lucky. Astride of the fishy-birdy flavor, there was an extremely spicy aftertaste. Paul had no stomach for even mild spices. At once he felt his eardrums burning. He chugged his ice water, glad it wasn’t some kind of tar-soda from the Old Domain. Then he refilled the glass from a pitcher and drank more, trying to calm the inferno.
“Hot?” The Priestess laughed.
“Just temperature-hot,” he joked. He went for another bite but his willpower collapsed. His fork clattered on his plate. “No, it’s damn spicy. I don’t think I’ll be going there again.”
The Priestess chewed her bird daintily. A mischievous light came on in her eyes. “There’s something about you, Bishop Quintana. I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time. It’s calming in a way.”
“We saw each other briefly last year. Never spoke though.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you have a way of taking my mind off the obvious.”
“I suppose that’s a good and bad thing.”
“I lost something important today, so it’s a good thing.”
He took up the corn cob. The sick little ocean eyes gazed into him. She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t eat that. It’s horrible. I only took a bite to honor the ancestors. One show of respect should suffice.”
“But I thought you said to try everything.”
“That was before I decided I liked you.” Her smile melted Paul again and he dropped the hideous corn on his plate.
“Everything okay, Priestess?” Eggert leaned over them suddenly, his beard cordoning them off.
“Completely,” she answered and then glanced Paul’s way. “In fact, Bishop Quintana will be joining me in my room after our event to discuss church matters. Please arrange refreshment.”
The bearded man cocked his head. “Priestess?”
Her gaze leveled on her servant. “Was what I asked for complicated?”
“No, but—”
“You understand then. Go right now and make preparations, please.”
Eggert nodded, dumbstruck, and left the head table, visibly disconsolate.
“Oh but I’m presumptuous. We don’t often have single mates in the Old Domain. You don’t have anyone, do you Paul?” the Priestess asked him.
“I—no, no. Nobody. Not anyone. Nothing.”
She laughed softly and rubbed the side of his foot with hers. “I had several in my land special to me. There hasn’t been time since I arrived here. There still isn’t now, but...”
“Yeah?” he squeaked.
“I like how you make me forget, Bishop Quintana. I haven’t thought about today at all since I saw you in the hallway. You have a spell over me, I think.”
He trembled now. Trembled! “It’s over us both.”
Paul knew this was it. He should have been happy it all came together this easy. He felt like this had to be a dream. He’d waited for this moment for over a year. He’d even killed Justin, blew his best friend’s head into vulture kibble, just to sit in this chair, just to say hello to her.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
The Priestess didn’t answer him and instead delved into a discussion with Archbishop Pager.
Soon everybody got up and mingled. Cole left with Melissa shortly after and Sandeus went out to hobnob with the envoys.
“After conclave, Room 8128,” the Priestess whispered, tickling his ear. Paul wanted to say something in return but she was already submerged in tuxedos.