8:52 AM
Thorn materialized inside a tent near the Domizien border, just seconds before the Ordizien army began dismantling the encampment. Her thigh twitched, a reminder of the last time she wrestled a demon there, just a day ago. She’d reflect on the insanity of returning to the lower worlds as soon as she had some time. In five days, she guessed.
The closest Ordizien town—Riverland—was still a couple of miles away. A small settlement lay by the riverbank, its soil alive with greenery, a gentle contrast to the harshness of the Domizien desert. The town’s fortified walls climbed the fertile hills all the way to the small church, barely visible from a distance.
She took a breath. At least, for now, the ghosts—all the girls she didn’t save—were gone. Lilly and all the others Ron had hurt because she hadn’t called the police when he hit her mother. She wrapped her left hand around the bracelet she wore on her right wrist, massaging her scars with her thumb. She peeked outside.
“Keep your eyes open,” an Ordizien shouted as others uncovered each tent, leaving the oak frames standing, and no place to hide.
Sensing trouble, she retrieved the letter of safe passage from her pocket and stepped out of the tent, coughing loudly. “I need a horse,” she declared, thrusting the unrolled letter towards the one giving orders.
“What’s your business here?” The woman growled.
“I'm here to protect the high priestess. She summoned me.” As Thorn spoke, her fingers slid to the hilt of her sword, caressing its worn handle. The Ordizien woman's eyes widened, sweeping over Thorn with a flicker of doubt. “A horse, or I’ll report you.”
The woman, dwarfing Thorn in size, hesitated, her gaze fixated on Thorn's iron-plated leather jacket of Domizien style. Engrossed in choosing her weaponry, Thorn had overlooked the distinct fashions of the worlds before materializing.
The familiar glitches unsettled Thorn. Rapid shadows darted across the morning sky, casting an eerie gloom over the encampment. She strained her ears. The sounds were reminiscent of bodies crashing above. Impossible… Perhaps a thunderstorm, but one filled with darkness rather than light.
The woman's eyes widened, tracking the black streaks across the sky. She turned to the nearest group of soldiers and flicked her hand. One man rushed promptly to the open stable; its roof already disassembled.
Thorn's eyes narrowed in confusion. What the heck is going on here? Are they suddenly allergic to closed spaces? She decided not to push her luck, swiftly mounted the horse she was given, and headed for the closest town.
She stopped by a meager fruit stall along the road, hoping to get some more information. Its minder—all skin and bones—was much in need of the three moldy oranges she was peddling.
“Hey, where can I find January, the High Priestess?” Thorn asked the scrawny girl, her dirty rags barely covering her private parts. Ghosts everywhere, reminding Thorn of her failures.
The child offered her an orange with her good hand. “Lady January is going from town to town. She’s spreading the good news herself. Such a great story!” The teen stood sideways, a futile attempt to hide the smashed in shoulder—an old injury—arm twisted the wrong way. “Do I know you?” she asked, tilting her head in curiosity.
Thorn lowered her gaze, allowing her curls to shield her eyes. “What good news?”
“God’s back and brings salvation.” The kid flashed her rotten teeth. The four or five she had left. “A true story!”
“Is that so?”
“They ain’t coming back, you know? The Lucky Ones be gone…if we keep an eye on him.”
“An eye? Is the poet with her?”
“Yeah! That’s what the lady’s sayin’… We keep an eye on the poet. Every eye. To keep him safe and please God. She learned it from a story in the, umm, Mausoleum of Books. Yeah, that’s it.” Another smile, wholesome and filled with hope. “A place full of dead stories. Some worth resurrecting, she told us. Like, umm, Nineteen Eighty… something or rather. We’ll all watch the poet with our eyes, and we’ll all spread the good word—our poet’s prayers—and we close our ears to all else, because that’s only propa… Umm… Propagation?”
Fracking hell. A cold knot tightened in Thorn's stomach as she realized the preachy priestess was smarter than she looked. Thorn had prepared for difficulties, but this? Her mission was spiraling into an unexpected chaos. How was she going to take the poet to Pluriz with no enclosed spaces and all eyes on him? “Which way?”
The girl gestured eastward, beyond Riverland, in the direction of Granaria. Thorn recalled her previous visit to the town. Dominated by a semi-troglodyte church partially chiseled into the stone, the quaint town clung to the side of a vast limestone plateau.
Thorn vacillated, struck by the state of the child, and the ghosts returned, dead girls—half skull, half beauty. Wearing white gowns, they danced around her, each giggling hauntingly in her ear.
“What’s your name?” Thorn asked.
“Skunk! They call me Skunk.”
“Cute! Can you see the ghosts?” Thorn asked, and the girl stared at her as if she was mad. “You should travel north with your goods; it’s safer up there.”
“Nah, I have faith in God. This time next week I’ll be drinking ale in heaven with our heart.”
“Frack the Gods, fair lady.” She tempered her rage with a half smile.
“You’ll end up in hell if you don’t hold your tongue.”
Thorn didn’t have the heart to tell the girl she lived in it. That for a soulful being, this was the worst place in the worlds. She looked at the bruises covering the child’s body and pulled her dagger from her boot.
“Here.” Dropping the weapon and every coin she could spare, she said, “Stab any bastard that comes near you.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “You…you. I know who you are. God’s killer! The devil.”
“A friend. Come find me if you need me.” Resisting the urge to take the girl with her, she galloped away. “Oh... God doesn't drink ale,” she shouted. “He'll have a virgin margarita.”
* * *
Thorn dismounted the whinnying horse and crossed the humpback bridge. Her ghosts followed in procession. The gorge below gobbled up the water cascading four-hundred feet down the rock’s steepest wall. The horse snorted, bothered by the waterfall’s roar and the black lightning cutting open the blue skies. She reassured the anxious creature by scratching its withers, reminiscing about Preppy’s motorcycle. Kudos to the gal; she knew how to pick a machine. Thorn chuckled, amused by memories of the Goddess’s vexation.
Lost in her thoughts and the mist’s rainbow, she almost didn’t notice the eyes watching her. Hooded figures stood on each tower, lined the stone walls, peered from murder holes, and guarded every door. All doors were locked, with an eye painted over each frame. She hoped she'd find a way to materialize out of Granaria with the poet.
Handing the horse’s reins to the nearest guard, Thorn said, “One of yours. Where’s the lady? She summoned me.” She waved the letter in front of his eyes.
The guard, eyes wide with horror, stared at her, clearly more afraid of Thorn than her ghosts. Just like the little girl, he probably didn’t see them and, apparently, it was Thorn who terrified him.
She sighed, “Yes, I killed him. And then I saved him—twice.” She showed her teeth. “Now, where’s the lady who asked for me?”
He pointed upwards with his dirty nose. “The main square by the church of our sacred heart.”
Thorn gripped her sword's hilt. “Spread the word. I’m here at the priestess’ request. I have enough death on my ledger, but I’ll slaughter anyone who comes near.”
And just as she hoped, whispers rippled through the crowd, likely reaching the priestess’s ears. Hearing the buzz, she wondered what the priestess would make of her claim.
Navigating a maze of muddy roads and passing several gateways, she eventually found a cobblestoned street, a clear sign it led to the main square. She moved with a purpose, reminding her of the hustle of New York during rush hour. Whispers preceded her, and people made way.
Everywhere she went, eyes followed her. No one seemed surprised or scared by the flashes of darkness or the procession of ghosts escorting her. She scanned the streets for the missing travelers, suspecting they too were affected by the hallucinations. Travelers were easily spotted because of the drama unraveling wherever they went. Many looked out of place, like a stylized, over dramatic version of their boring selves as they channeled whatever idol tickled their fancy; their own version of Kara “Starbuck” Thrace.
Finally, she spotted one, a slave master, peddling a sturdy boy in chains by the side of the road. A small crowd gathered as the traveler pulled on the boy’s blond curls and grabbed his jaw, forcing the kid to open his mouth and exhibit his perfect teeth. And there they were, the traveler’s ghosts, older women this time. They kicked through him and spat through his face, cursing the day he was born. Versions of his mother, she guessed, as the man shared the ghosts’ aquiline noses. For a moment, the slave master’s eyes met hers. Within them was terror and something else, perhaps anguish. No wonder he was the only traveler in a world usually congested with bullies.
He shoved the slave into the wall and attempted to wave away the ghosts. His eyes scanned all the shut doors and guarded alleys, and then he looked up at all the eyes on the city walls. He was trapped there with no way to leave. She wondered what Down Below’s procedure was to deal with such situations. Eventually, he’d need real food and water.
In the square, Preachy made her last remarks standing by God’s statue. A naked God—waist wrapped in fine cloth—holding a bleeding heart close to his hollow chest. Pulling a cigar from the back pocket of her trousers, she scanned the curves carved in marble. She decided the Motya’s proportions weren’t quite right. The real thing was the very definition of perfection, impossible to reproduce. Only…he was a reproduction. She’d never met the real thing.
Placing the cigar on her lips, she lit it, meeting the eyes of the poet who had caught her staring at…well…at the statue. She narrowed her eyes, expecting some dirty look, an intense growl, or a spear of lightning scorching her where she stood. Instead, he lowered his head, his face still swollen from the previous day.
There was no fire in Storm’s gaze. He wore the rich clothes of blue-blooded Ordizien nobles—mostly travelers, when they were in town. His wounds were clean and his hair tied back into a perfect bun. Still, he had none of the lure of Nathan Storm, the performer. Just a broken soul, hiding under the shadow of his heart. The heart she shot, pale marble bleeding above the poet’s sunken head. What a fracking mess.
Some in the crowd glowered at her and then at the bleeding heart, and she guessed a piece of paper would be a poor shield against their hate. January lifted her hands above her head, palms forward, as her long open fingers sliced the sunlight, always rusty in that part of the worlds.
The crowd settled, silence spreading like a wave of stillness. The absence of sound allowing her words to travel far, perhaps even beyond the curtain wall. “Eyes, I lost them twice, blinded by love both times.” She dropped her head. “But I see clearly now, and I must ask you to lend me yours—your eyes.”
“Under our eyes, beneath open skies,” the masses chanted, joy piercing through the silence. “Five days to salvation.”
People scattered, some heading in her direction, showing teeth. A black thunder—charged with desolation—crossed the skies horizontally, disappearing over the city walls.
Thorn's boots crunched on the gravel as she strode toward the priestess and the poet, fingers twitching near the hilt of her sword.
“What are you doing here, butcher?” The priestess asked.
“God sent me to protect him.” She leaned her head toward Storm. Why lie, when the truth was good enough?
“He doesn’t need your protection. We have all eyes on him.”
“Wrath’s temperamental,” Thorn said. “Trusting her word is as stupid as French kissing a white shark.” January stared, confusion in her gaze. Instead of explaining the reference, Thorn rolled her eyes and moved on. “I’m here to protect Wrath, too. She needs to travel up north.”
“You know my sister?” Tentatively, Storm tested his words in his mouth.
Thorn nodded, confirming what he already knew. “She’s my friend, sometimes.”
“Hope…” Storm murmured.
January stepped in between Thorn and Storm, hands on her hips. “We’ll rehabilitate her once she delivers salvation. If she needs it then.”
Thorn exhaled the smoke out through her nostrils. “It’s not just Orwell you’ve been reading, is it?”
“Not the same story. It’s a brand-new story. Perfectly aligned to the values of my people, to free my people.” January moved her head from side to side while she spoke, adjusting her braid.
“That’s how it starts.” Thorn shot a glance at the poet, but his eyes were set on his heart and she couldn’t see any other ghost around him. That one was enough, she guessed.
“I’m fulfilling God’s will. The one who sat by me at the top of the hill, returned my eyes, and urged me to create better stories.” January spoke with the same fervor as a beloved dictator. She belonged to that royal blue world; the type of leader her people would follow.
Thorn shrugged. “Dictatorship, surveillance—it’s the same old story.”
“Kindly listen! Don’t confuse me with your tyrants—all male—or paint me to be one of the witches or evil queens of your stories. I won’t be burned or beheaded for speaking truth to power as they did.” January sang her words with passion as if she was defending the honor of a virgin at Sunday mass. “I didn’t create fear. I’ll deliver the end of it. And I don’t spy on my people. We use surveillance to keep leaders in check.”
Thorn smiled. She quite liked January. Perhaps the priestess would cooperate with her to help the worlds above.
“The blasts of darkness and…hallucinations… Is he well?” Storm asked, never looking Thorn in the eyes.
“Mass suicides in Pluriz and Holiz. Courtesy of her footage,” Thorn said, pointing at January with the tip of her cigar.
Storm’s eyes raced to meet hers, and he was back—the man she once followed—no words needed.
January looked up at the skies. “So, this is what’s causing the black storm? Good. Good. A few sacrifice for the sake of the many. We feared the disruptions would stop, now that we’re here without technology. We have the people’s chain to spread our poet’s words, but it’s a weak replacement.”
Thorn dropped her gaze, concealing her disappointment. There was no way January would allow her to take Storm higher up. Buying herself some time to think, Thorn inhaled the cigar’s smoke into her mouth and slowly exhaled it through her nose. The fumes took the shape of a girl whose long braids morphed into horns and charged Thorn’s face before they disintegrated into the ether.
She shook off the hallucination and turned to Storm. “Shadow’s working on it, but the worlds need a…tsunami of change.” She narrowed her eyes. “More than he can handle alone. He needs help.” Change’s Tsunami—that was Nathan Storm’s secret name back in the days they conspired to save the world. He got it, eyes blinking once.
“Shadow’s got five days.” The priestess glanced at Storm, flashing a supportive smile. “And we don’t want you here.”
“He won’t be effective unless he knows Storm is safe. And my skills are useless up there. I can help you…with Wrath and the Domizien.”
“You’re here to take him.” January called Thorn’s bluff.
“The poet is safer here with you than anywhere near Twist and Stella. Everyone knows that.” Thorn bit the tip of her cigar. She wasn’t lying, nor was she telling the truth. She continued walking the tightrope. “And my loyalties lie with the girl. I want her salvation as much as you do.”
Storm’s eyes, filled with some sorrow, clung to the littlest of Thorn’s ghosts. The one she avoided at all costs. The angel with her dress torn between her legs, triggering bouts of rage and grief in her older sister. “Let her stay. She knows more about the Domizien than any of us do,” he said.