It felt easier on his soul to be released from the Hearts. Not that Martin wouldn’t miss them. Uncontrolled love and devotion for the little ones would be dialed up until November. There was no getting around that, like it or not.
He shut the Quadravan for the last time. “Bye, old girl.”
The only thing left inside was the passenger door. He’d miss the crackling speakers and the faint mildew and clove scent: they were the van’s signs of life. Maybe he was getting softer as he approached his middle years, but he couldn’t see the point in switching for a newer vehicle.
Teresa and Enrique were loading the shiny black JK Wrangler Unlimited with supplies. All and all this new vehicle would be a faster, more streamlined transport with less room than the Quadravan. Had to be dealt with. The wooden crates of dry goods and bottled water had to be cut down to a week’s supply. The assorted ammunition, concussion and incendiary grenades had to be reduced to a fourth. They only retained their M-16 rifles and their personal handguns. The Messenger had freshened their plastics and detonator kits—couldn’t have enough of that stuff in Martin’s opinion.
The leftover freight would be left with Enrique. Teresa hefted one last crate on top of another and a cough echoed through his dusty garage. After the coughing passed, her shot, watering eyes found Martin. “Everything out?”
He lifted up his toy aquarium and shook it before reaching through the passenger window and sticking it on the Wrangler’s dash. “The important stuff, yeah.”
There was no real amusement in her smile; all of her energy had been spent and left her despondent. Resting at the motel would be good for her. She looked like she needed some uninterrupted sleep.
Enrique jimmied a case of flares inside to fit. Several packages of formula and baby food had been set in plain sight among the crates of weapons. They were pretty much set, except for the two rear-facing car seats. Bases for the seats had been tied in the back of the Wrangler for an easier transition when he dropped the babies off at the motel. Martin shook his head at the thought. Babies—we don’t know a damn thing about them. They were so fragile. The idea terrified him.
Enrique ducked out from the back and closed the hatch wearily. His head craned to the sky. The Bearer put his palm up. Martin noticed his hand was shaking. Wide bands of light cut through the clouds and crept over the distant homes, slowly at first, and then began to build momentum like a radiant fungus spreading down the hill.
“In the car!” Enrique shouted. “They’re trying to see you again. Stay under the clouds! Go to the motel. Go now!”
The Nomads yanked open the doors and jumped into their seats. Martin fumbled with the keys and the new configuration.
“Hurry!” Enrique’s yell was dull outside the jeep. As fast as his stumpy legs could take him, the Bearer made for the house. Yes, get to the babies, thought Martin frantically.
The Wrangler rolled into the street, bottoming out with a metallic crunch. Martin threw it in first gear and they lurched forward. He had to get used to this new clutch. Teresa held her breath. Warmth from the sunlight touched his neck and the rearview mirror dazzled with golden beams. It felt like someone with burning eyes stared through his back.
Martin crammed the accelerator against the floor.
The Wrangler’s wheels squealed as he brought the jeep around to the main thoroughfare. Industrial buildings flew past. The stone giants leered as they plunged through withdrawing shadows.
“There,” Teresa said.
He saw. Fifty feet ahead the sunlight swept out between two steel plants. The light dripped over the buildings’ surfaces and colored every drab square foot. The light was searching, stretching, licking the world for a taste of them. Martin cranked the wheel left and sent them into another sparkling pool. Teresa cried out in surprise as the jeep squealed the opposite way.
“We’re all right,” he said through teeth.
A T-intersection; a stoplight. Martin’s heart machine-gunned. A veritable parade drove past: truck, 4-door, truck, truck, 2-door, truck, truck. Everything that crossed was painfully long and lumbering, and the drivers oblivious. The signal was clearly on a sensor system.
“Where do they all come from?” he asked. “Doesn’t anybody work anymore?”
Sunlight filled the east and seemed to catch sight of them and charged forward.
“Martin—we have to go!”
“It’s a red light.”
“Go!”
“Hang on!” He took off, switching from first to third in only moments.
A Buick swerved with a snarl of its horn. In rearview a bald man stuck his head out and cried something that sounded like, “You shit-ass!”
Their tires hummed up a handicap ramp into a park and took them onto the grass. Martin went diagonal across the field. A Frisbee flew surreally over the hood. Teresa turned, her eyes hard. “Where are you going?”
“Like I know!”
Two boys walking a gray terrier were suddenly in front of the hood. They’d come out of nowhere. They didn’t see the jeep. And why would they be looking for one driving across the park? thought Martin in terror. Two boys. One dog. He was going to slam right through them. He aimed left and closed his eyes.
A mantle flung out and Teresa gasped. The boys and dog were sent sideways. Martin watched them twist like paper dolls down the grassy slope. The dog started barking and the boys picked themselves up, hollering.
“Get us on the road!” Teresa pointed.
He went off the curb into the street again. In the rearview he could see two rotund men in baseball jerseys and a few other adults leading a futile chase after them.
The light closed around the jeep in bursting honeycombs. Every time they built speed, he had to slow down to turn away from it. Stay under the clouds, he reminded himself.
Right.
Left.
Engine purring and shifting.
Another right. He turned down an alley behind a strip mall. Sunbeams macheteed through the side alleys. Burnt rubber lifted through the vents. He went sharp into another alley. Another orange ray clawed its way out.
Right-Left.
They hit another wave of traffic with a stoplight. He jammed on the brakes and their bodies punched forward, he against the wheel and Teresa against the dash. Not speaking, they both pulled on their seatbelts now.
“Martin?”
He watched for an opening. Down the street, light filtered through the gloom. Just after a few more cars. Then he would take the red light. He counted and at the same time looked sideways at the brilliant wash headed their way. An opening formed and they rolled out.
Teresa put her hand out. “Don’t go.”
“Are you crazy?”
On the other side a train rumbled across the street.
The streetlight lingered red. Lazy eastern clouds moved. The train slowed. A rail change? Martin edged the Wrangler out. From the right, the sunlight gained a striking distance of twenty feet, and from the left, maybe ten. The train rolled on, no end of the boxcars in sight. Sweat bowled down his ears. Teresa watched like an eagle ready to take wing. Light jabbed from both sides, five feet away. And three.
A big rig pulled up with a hiss and pushed a looming shadow over them. The streetlight blinked green and they pulled out with the truck. The train had made its way through. They bounced over the tracks, keeping with the bar of cloud cover narrowing on the street. Once they were around the corner on Mount Vernon, he drove the accelerator down again and shifted up to fifth. They were only a couple blocks from the Happy Moon Travel Lodge.
Teresa’s eyes stretched above. “The rain’s starting up again.”
The covered sky glowed from the light beyond. They pulled into the motel parking lot and rain began drumming nosily overhead. Thunderheads hugged the sky again.
Maybe the Messenger had taken back control.
After he killed the engine and pulled the parking brake, Martin leaned over to Teresa. She was trembling, but he could not muster a single consolation. He’d never seen her frightened in a chase. Her trembling worsened. She never liked being doted over. She wanted to be stronger than steel most times. But still I should hold her, or at least ask if she’s all right. But before he could open his mouth, she took out her cloves and patted her pocket for a lighter.
~ * ~
The Priestess pressed her head against the slider. She was still naked, still beautiful, didn’t even leave a greasy forehead print on the glass, but the sound of disgust that came from her throat was ugly. Paul cringed and stepped away.
“You saw them though. Didn’t you?” he asked.
“Not long enough.” Her eyes smoldered with tears, her face was filled with self betrayal. An image came to Paul’s mind: his mother, when she turned on the bedroom light and found him beside her in bed; not her boyfriend, but her son. He smiled in that time of triumph but Paul couldn’t smile about it now. It was hideous memory, yet strangely a perfect moment.
Paul had dressed once the Priestess began having visions. The warmth of his suit felt nice after a night of stinging gooseflesh. He had a mission now. The Priestess wasn’t happy and that had to be remedied right away. He felt he’d bitched-out for the balcony and almost with that poker—but he would not bitch-out again. She could only have what he decided to give, even if he decided to give everything.
He took out his cell phone and dialed. The practice stone still rested in his pocket. In a way he looked forward to getting back to work. The shutter to the Old Domain had been closed too long and once the Priestess started using her sight again Cloth’s children had writhed with energy, a dark hum from beyond the surface.
The other side picked up suddenly. Cole’s voice was flaked in ice. “Where have you been? You were supposed to call.”
“And just what am I doing right now?”
“It’s already noon, jackass. I wanted to go over your exercises. The Heralding is tonight.”
“Tonight?”
That must have been why the children were pulsing like they were. Paul sucked in through his nostrils and blew out through his mouth. This made him feel slightly less soul-fucked. “You could have called me too, you know.”
“I did. More than once.”
“Stop being grumpy,” Paul said. “I have good news.”
“Can’t wait,” mumbled Cole.
“The Priestess regained the Nomads.”
“What?”
“It was real quick,” said Paul, “but she saw them again.”
“Where were they? Where did they go?”
“She has an idea of where they were.” Paul picked up the old champagne bottle from last night. He casually sniffed its interior and winced, unsure why he’d done so.
“Are you going to tell me?” Cole almost shouted.
“At the Bearer’s house.”
“How could she tell it was the Bearer?”
“She’s from the Old Domain. The Priestess felt the Hearts’ influence, said the whole area in her vision was nearly on fire with their energy.”
“Their?”
“Yeah Cole, she tells me there are four Hearts this time.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“They’re babies, Cole. No more than five months old.” Paul sat on the cushy divan and regarded the Priestess’s rump. Raindrop shadows rolled down the milky slopes like dark static. He smiled a little at the dried streak of brown blood on her thigh. He’d done that. Wasn’t proud of it at the time, but he was proud now. Would he have put the poker on her? Hell no was what he wanted to believe.
Cole’s giddiness was too apparent. “Are you sure the Priestess knew what she was seeing?”
“It’s what she says. I don’t know, damn.”
“Have you told anyone else?”
“You’re the first, papa bear.”
“Well don’t drop this on anyone else, understand? Not even trusted acolytes. I’d prefer to relay the information to the Archbishop, if you take my meaning.”
“I might have shit for brains,” Paul replied, “but I know how a politician’s filter works.”
“Is the Priestess ready to talk details?”
“Priestess,” Paul called. “Bishop Szerszen wants to talk about what you saw.”
She nodded but held at the darkening window. Lightning made a brief radioactive glow around her figure. Paul’s gaze went top to bottom, bottom to top, and made for another trip when Cole Szerszen grumbled, “Paul?”
“She just needs to powder up a bit, but she’ll be ready by the time you get up here.”
Paul dropped the phone back in his pocket and jumped up. He cupped his hands around the Priestess’s warm breasts.
“Why don’t you want Archbishop Pager to know?” she asked.
He thought she’d ignored his conversation. “You uh—”
“So why don’t you?”
He cleared his throat and took his hands off her. “I think that’s a private matter... for the Church of Midnight.”
She twisted around and a bleak smile cut her pretty face. “I don’t care for how Sandeus Pager looks at me.”
“How does he look at you?”
“As if he wants to jump inside my skin.”
“Can’t blame him there.” Paul slid his finger down her belly and through the coiled butterscotch hair below. “You better get ready. Cole will be here soon. He’s anxious to know what you saw.”
“I saw little. I am not worthy.”
“You are.” Paul nodded. “The worlds can come together, stay apart, or end altogether and it doesn’t matter, just as long as I’m yours.”
Her arms locked around his neck and she kissed him, until his mouth bled.
~ * ~
On the way to the restaurant, Cole struggled to recall the exact words of the passage about the folly of personal pursuits. It wasn’t even found in the main body of the Tomes of Eternal Harvest—the Mizon’s Fall appendix (section Q&z:II or R&a:i). All of this vainglorious running around in the past year had taken Cole from his studies. He was to blame. There was no excuse. Never put off time for enlightenment.
This was the first lesson he’d learned in prison. His cellmate Rufus had pulled out a Tome from under his mattress one day and changed everything. Had Cole never been caught and sentenced, he may have never joined the Church of Midnight. He supposed he owed much to Vehicular Manslaughter without drugs or alcohol but with gross negligence and he owed much to Rufus, his first real teacher, who unfortunately had his skull split with a Nomad’s mantle the October after his prison release.
Cole jaywalked across an empty intersection toward the restaurant, Rufus’s craggy voice still clear as a bell in his mind: “Every October Szerszen, you put your ugly head down and fuck the consequences. You show ‘em you’re worthy and you’ll last forever in this outfit. You buddy up with a Bishop or get on the Archbishop’s good side—secure a spot in the Inner Circle. Fuck, if you got worth, you got it made. And how’s that done? Easy. Stay clear of the man with one black and one orange eye—don’t even talk with that one if you don’t have to. Just put your soul into nabbing just one sonuvabitch a year and the rest is cake. Prove your worth, shit, it’s good then.”
According to the Priestess there were four sonuvabitches now. Her clues were more confounding than anything else. North side of Colton. A duck painted on the mailbox, the street name had something to do with a lock..? What the hell could it mean?
Cole’s best people had already set out to scout and Paul had donated twelve of his own acolytes, two of which Cole recognized from Melissa’s stead—that was something he’d like to know a lot more about. Something was off there. Instruction, thought Cole, rubbing the raw patch on his jaw. He had to pry Paul away from the Priestess and continue a crash course in marrow blossoming. The Heralding had to go off without a hitch. He certainly couldn’t assassinate the Archbishop if Cole himself had to participate in the Heralding; it had to be Paul, all the way.
Deep in thought, Cole hadn’t realized he’d walked into Marcos’s Italian restaurant, and joined Melissa at a booth. He picked up the red leather menu and opened it.
“Well hello to you,” she said. It had been her idea to forego the hotel bistro and come here, for a change. It was her idea of being romantic and Cole had obviously punched a hole through it.
He shook his head free of the mental cobwebs. “Sorry, too much going on.”
“I know.” She skimmed her slim hand over the table.
“You okay?”
She pushed up her glasses. He loved her glasses. “Remember when I told you I had a nightmare last night?”
Cole hadn’t. This morning he was too concerned with Paul Quintana to process anything. “Sure,” he replied and put his hand on hers. “But I don’t think you said much about it. Did you?”
Her face said she hadn’t, but also that she didn’t believe he cared.
“Tell me.”
She dragged her hand out from under his and her fingers rapped the checkerboard table cloth. He thought she’d just tell him right then. Instead, she picked up her menu.
“What—?”
“Good afternoon,” said a bald waiter with horrible beard stubble. The waiter wore slacks and a chambray shirt, had a cell phone on his hip. Must own the place, thought Cole. Some kid probably hadn’t shown up to work. Youth, what a wasted lot.
“Can I start you with some drinks?” asked the waiter.
“Water,” Melissa told him.
Cole looked at the man, who smiled patiently and masked his degradation. “Do you have any white port here?”
“Certainly sir, we have Trentadue Viognier. It’s a dessert wine.”
“I’ll buy a bottle.”
“Very good. I’ll get that and be right back.”
The waiter disappeared into the region of unoccupied tables in the back.
“What’s the occasion?” Melissa sunk back into the booth, maybe to look at him better. He didn’t like people looking at his face too much, especially her, but it was what it was.
“Your dream is the occasion.”
Melissa sat there, silent and uncomfortable.
“I didn’t listen the first time,” said Cole. “I’ll listen now.”
“It’s okay.”
He looked over the lunch menu and the Veal Parmigiana called to him. When he was finished with perusal, he set the menu down. She was staring at him. “What is it now?”
“I don’t like keeping things from you. But what if I knew that telling you would upset you?”
He stopped breathing. “This is about Quintana?”
When she nodded everything rent inside and Cole just wanted to reach across the table, grab her hair and slam her mousy head into the table. He dry-swallowed instead and waited for the blow.
“We do have somewhat of a past together.”
Cole’s skin burned. The marrow blossoms in his chest clenched to fists and filled. “Past? What’s that mean? You told me you’d never—”
“Calm down. It’s nothing big. You are my first.”
He mumbled a hateful chuckle from the corner of his mouth. The waiter returned and presented the wine bottle label. Cole nodded fiercely, then watched the man uncork the bottle and pour a sip. He picked up the glass and tasted the syrupy yellow wine, looking at Melissa the entire time. “It’s not quite what I expected.”
“Does it taste okay, sir?”
“For now,” Cole coldly stated. “I want to see how it plays out.”
Both glasses were filled. Their orders were taken. The waiter left again. Mercifully. Cole looked down. His hands grasped the sides of the table. Muscles quaked through his chest and thighs. The blossoms inside were provoking a heart attack. He opened himself and heard the distant call of the children.
Melissa glanced away. This time, Cole could not help himself. He clutched her face, yanked it to his, made her face him. “You don’t deserve to be the Priestess of Midnight if you can’t be honest with me. What did you do?”
She wedged her hands between his and shucked them off. “I kissed him once—when I was drunk. And you know what? I even liked it. So shoot me already for kissing someone before we were even together!”
Burning air escaped his nostrils. “Kissed?”
She picked up her port, turned away from him and drained it. She made a face from the alcohol and said, “I told you it was nothing. Just calm down.”
“A kiss? So you gave him something in return to keep quiet for a fucking kiss? Two acolytes and what else?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure.”
Cole hammered the table. His fist caught the edge of his wine glass and toppled it. He didn’t bother to wipe up the mess and instead reached for the bottle to pour another. “I’m not jealous,” he hissed.
“I said to calm down.”
“Why?” he spat. “We’re the only ones in here.”
Her spectacled eyes implored him for a moment before another long drink. She set the glass gently down. “It wasn’t easy to tell you, you know.”
Cole dabbed at the spilled port with his napkin. The mess had gotten to him. He exhaled slowly. “No, it probably wasn’t easy.”
“I wish I hadn’t kissed him. I wish you could have been the first, and I—”
“Why did you do that with him?” he whispered. “He’s a sleaze.”
A handsome sleaze, he thought bitterly.
“Cole, I—”
He raked his fingernails over the scabrous plains of his face. He’d have given anything to leave, to not have to look at her. He felt lost. He felt small. It took him a while to find words. Slowly he tapped his chest. “Don’t you understand why I’m like this? Can’t you see? I—I could never be like Quintana. Don’t you see why that would bother me?”
Melissa’s eyes misted, but she tried to remain strong, unashamed. “I should have told you everything in the beginning. But I was too scared to hurt you.”
“I’m not hurt,” he returned.
“Oh, can’t we just forget this? Can’t we move on, please? I just wanted you to know. I don’t like keeping things from you. This is something small, really. Nothing has changed. We had good news today, and we should act like it.”
Cole’s back went straight as a board and he ignored his boiling insides. He knew it would return once his mind began to think endless over this again, but he canned it, for both their sakes. “Sure,” he breathed out in fake relief. “Let’s enjoy lunch. This is wasting time anyhow. I have to get going soon. So…” He tried to find a new thought, new words, something, “… Did you call your people out yet?”
Melissa nodded and tipped back her port to taste the golden drop at the bottom of her glass.
Their food arrived. The Veal Parmigiana was not as juicy as Cole would have liked. Melissa played with her pasta, doing pirouettes with the noodles around her fork and then letting them fall, unattended. It was a nice distraction for about ten minutes.
“Tell me your dream.” Cole was determined to forget everything that had happened from the moment he walked in until two seconds ago. It wasn’t working but he was damn sure trying.
She simpered. “Did you hear me shout?”
“I think the shower was too loud. I couldn’t hear anything. Was it a long dream? One of those weird ones with different parts?”
“No,” she replied. “I think it started on a cliff overhanging the shore of some ocean.”
“Sounds all right.”
“This ocean looked like blood, in a way.”
He put his fork down. Cloth’s children clamored at the back of his mind to hear her words. Cole had long ago learned to keep them contained, but sometimes they were tenacious buggers.
“You were there with me—I slipped off the side of the cliff. You tried to reach for me, but it was too late. I fell off and went deep into the blood.”
The waiter sauntered up. “Well, well, are we doing okay—?”
Cole snapped, “Yes, goddamnit!”
“Super.” The waiter bounced back through the tables.
Melissa laughed and Cole reached over and adjusted her spectacles. “So what came next?”
“I don’t remember. I think I drowned when I tried to scream.”
There was his Melissa. He’d made her terrified of him. She couldn’t even tell him something trivial about her past without him losing it. “Just a dream, sweetie,” he told her.
Her lips tried a smile but then fell. Cole didn’t want to think about those lips pressed into Quintana’s. “I’ll never let you slip, Melissa,” he said. “Just be honest with me from now on. I’ll always be there. I’ll never let go. I promise.”
Cole finished his lunch and the rest of the port. By the time they left he felt a powerful buzz from the wine, but he’d have rather thought the feeling activated from love. He didn’t want to think otherwise. It would kill him to have this love taken away. It was love. Wasn’t it?
Cole would be Archbishop soon and that would change a legion of things for the better. When Melissa became the first Priestess of Midnight that kiss with Paul would fade forever from her mind. And with any luck, his as well.