With few viable alternatives, they were about to desert the quaint street Virtue began her life on.
Law moved to Gospel’s stretcher. “How ya holding up, kid?”
“Been better,” was his faint reply, said with a weak smile. It was either a good sign or they were losing him to delirium.
Now with three extra people to help, they would be able to move him with less strain . . . on his body and everyone who took part.
Their progress came to a halt, though, when Virtue’s father stepped onto the scene. “Though I admire your audacity, it won’t pay the bills.” He stuffed a few banknotes into Herald’s jacket pocket.
Herald acknowledged the money and his former mentor with a glance, and then he looked away. “Says whom?”
“Thank you, father,” Virtue answered in Herald’s stead.
“It isn’t much,” her father said to her, shrugging, his hands in his pockets. His eyes wandered away from the heat of the conflict as well.
It was almost hard to believe the two men once had a dynamic teacher-student relationship. Her father was the one who inspired Herald to try his hand at satire and get it published in The Verity Chronicles, what it was before Herald inherited it, expanded it, and improved upon it. And through his unequivocal talent and dedication, he compelled it to be more widely read. Her father backed out of the project early on, once their words breached the line, crossing into treasonous territory. Herald never quite respected him for that and their relationship only deteriorated once her father found out about her involvement.
Herald probably saw him as a coward. And he saw Herald as a shameless rebel who seduced his daughter with his robust “ideals.” It wasn’t meant to end well, and that was where things stood. The end was near. This was goodbye.
For her sake, were they able to remember what they had in common? A passion for writing and a willingness to speak out on behalf of those who had no voice?
“I hope you’re angry, Wallace,” Herald said, finally breaking the silence. “You should be. Enough to do something.”
Virtue’s father simply gave her a peck on the forehead. “Take care of yourself. And each other. It’s going to be a long winter.”
He turned to walk away. And it was a lot to internalize. The tears she wiped away with her mitten couldn’t possibly portray the magnitude with any justice.
“Wallace. . .” Herald called out. “We appreciate it,” he conceded at last. “We’ll pay you back as soon as we can. And I promise. She won’t go hungry. And I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure this never happens again.”
***
Just as they had suspected, there was an Authority presence at the residence of Dr. James Ashforth, the scientist they knew as Corollary. The only one they could see was stationed on the road in front of Corollary’s house. He wasn’t quite as daunting as what they allegedly encountered at the Braintree Compound. Even so, they couldn’t just walk up to the front door and knock.
Being where they were—in the woods behind his bungalow—an opportunity did eventually present itself. Corollary’s youngest child, a girl of seven or eight, came out to play. The tire-swing she chose to divert herself with wasn’t far off from where they were crouched and hiding.
“Psst. Blasphemy. . .” She turned to Law. He tore off a piece of newsprint from the Divinity Daily he acquired from a rubbish bin along the way. He scribbled something onto it with the pen he somehow conjured up as well. “You have a kid. . .”
“I have an infant,” she commented dryly in response, but she held out her hand anyway.
Law dismissed her concern with a hand flutter as if to say, How different could they really be? And you can handle it. Just as a gust of wind was about to whisk the piece of paper away from him, he secured it in her grip. “Who are we supposed to send? Herald?”
Blasphemy was now wearing a couple of Virtue’s sweaters, shielding from view her lower layer of gore. Herald had his blazer back on, but the white sweater he had on underneath was a bloody mess. And his one eye was still black and blue and a bit droopy where he took the hit a few days earlier. The thought of him coming out of the woods and approaching a young girl at such a spooky time of year gave Blasphemy and even Virtue a reason to approach a smile.
Herald, however, did not join them in that sentiment. In fact, he probably missed Law’s attempt at humor entirely.
While Virtue resumed shivering up a storm, Blasphemy darted into Corollary’s backyard, never more obvious than a shadow. She had clearly learned a thing or two from Gospel.
And the girl didn’t run away. She appeared attentive and unafraid. For this job, Law was right. Blasphemy was undeniably the most qualified.
Blasphemy crouched down and talked to the child for no more than a minute or two, pointing to where they were hiding, probably giving her some version of the truth. My friends need your dad’s help.
The piece of paper was reluctantly accepted by the child. She went running inside.
While they waited for her to return, Law opened the untorn portion of the Divinity Daily and skimmed what was most likely the second half of the cover story. Judging by the horrid black and white photo of the gallows plastered on the front, the article was most likely about their escape. “Just wait until tomorrow,” Law stated, closing it back up. He offered it to Herald. “Then we’ll really be front page news.”
Virtue could almost picture the following day’s headlines. BRAINTREE MASSACRE . . . REBEL ASSASSINS ON THE LOOSE . . . LEVIATHAN LEADS FAMILY IN PRAYER. . .
Herald declined to take it. “Why should we care what they say about us? It’s so over-edited. So one-sided. Why waste the time? It’s not even entertaining.”
“You’d be surprised,” Law replied, stuffing the paper in the back of his waistband when no one else had any desire to look at it, either. “They have this new ‘opinion’ columnist who has been taking a more moderate position. Once we get our stories out there and outsell them for a change, my guess is that he’ll want a piece of the action. They’ll be sniffing around for an interview. And hey . . . any support we can get, we should take.”
“Hmmm,” Herald grumbled, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
He was too preoccupied, bobbing his head around to see through the branches. Corollary’s face appeared by the closest window. He waved to them and then the back door opened. The girl trotted back over with a piece of paper in hand.
Blasphemy went to collect it and when she returned, it was clear she had good news to share.
“His handwriting is terrible.” Law handed off the note to Herald.
“Worse than yours?” Herald accepted it from him and took a look for himself. As their editor and a former professor, he was probably much more used to reading the otherwise illegible. “Dr. B. E. Breckenridge. Surgeon?” he asked, showing both Virtue and Blasphemy. From the seated position in his lap, Virtue shrugged, believing his guess was as good as any. There was an address scribbled down as well. The numbers were somewhat easier to read. The street name, less so. “Ask for . . . Bernie?” Herald concluded aloud once he tilted the note into better light. He shrugged and showed Law again.
“Dr. Bernard E. Breckenridge,” Law repeated loftily. “Sounds like he’d be quite the charmer at dinner parties.”
“Sounds like a man we should avoid at all cost,” Herald added, sighing. “But, what choice do we have?”
He climbed to his feet, lifting Virtue with him as he rose. He looked upon her with such concern. Then he gathered everyone together right away and prepared them for departure.
They had quite a distance to travel if they kept to the woods. And the weather was steadily deteriorating. The persistent wind brought in the clouds, and soon, a steady drizzle made their course slick and miserable.
Virtue just had to hang on, stay warm, and stay awake. And she was failing at all three.
She was about to give up. Let sleep . . . or death take her. It took an interruption in the moisture and a doorbell to jar her back to semi-c
onsciousness.
They were standing on the veranda of a manor house that was much too refined for the problems they’d bestow.
“Can I help you?”
It was a woman’s voice. Soft. Gentle. Young.
After that, the panic, the facts, and speculation began pouring in . . . and it all dissolved in the howl of the wind. The extra light the woman provided when the door opened then dimmed and went out.
Virtue’s fate was no longer hers to control.
***
It was hard to say how much time had passed. Eventually, though, Virtue had bright warmth beaming through her eyelids.
Opening her eyes was an epic feat.
Light came in from behind what could have been an angel, for all she knew. Her savior had perfect skin and caring blue eyes that were a touch distraught or tired, perhaps both. She had strands of strawberry-blonde hair falling from her ponytail and a boxy lab coat over her flawless frame. But even so, her beauty was something timeless and transcending.
Was she real?
“Welcome back,” she said to Virtue, giving her a smile. “I’m Doctor Breckenridge.”
Virtue lifted a hand toward her face. The tubes in her arm, though, were enough to confuse her and interrupt the curious outreach. “You’re a woman?”
For an instant, she was amused by that, and then she rose from her stool, quick to return to the business she probably abandoned once Virtue’s eyes opened. “It’s Bernadette not Bernard. A common misconception, one I don’t go out of my way to correct.” She hung something from Virtue’s IV pole. A smaller bag of liquid to accompany the others. It brought attention to the huge diamond ring on her finger. In the Maineland, it was a woman’s only armor. And the bigger the better. “And I apologize for the accommodations. . .” the doctor continued, her tone now full of displeasure. There was a blindingly bright arched floor lamp overhead that was a challenge to see beyond, but once Virtue made the effort, she found her “room” to be more of a supply closet. “I’m not supposed to treat the Fallow, not without written consent.”
“I’m sorry. You’re angry. . .” Virtue tried to sit up. But couldn’t, not without feeling the need to scream or lose what was left of her stomach. “You have every right to be. We never should have . . . I . . . just tell them there was nothing you could do.” The tears were flowing before she even realized it. They were a bodily reflex at this point. Was it the outpouring of pain, grief, or despair? How could she tell one reason from another? “And let nature take its course. I’ll be out of everyone’s hair in a day or two.”
“Shhh.” She eased Virtue’s upper half back onto the pillow and pulled up the blankets for her. “Your friends told me what happened. They’re very persuasive,” she added, her eyes shining bright with what almost looked like affection. “And by no means did I put you in the closet to die. It’s for your own safety. Now, the only thing you need to focus on is getting better. Leave the rest of the worrying to me.”
Virtue nodded and stroked her face dry. A shiver here. A sob there. They wouldn’t quite let her be, but at least she found enough peace to let her legs and arms relax. They burned and ached on top of everything else. She could only imagine how Herald must have felt. He was the one doing the carrying. All Virtue had to do was hold on and she could barely manage that!
“You should feel much more comfortable once the fluids and meds take effect. I’ll be back to operate on your foot as soon as possible. We’ll see if we can save it, but be prepared for the possibility that we can’t.” She strolled toward the door. “The gunshot wounds have to come first, though.” She paused before leaving, hugging the clipboard to her chest. “Before I go, do you have any questions? And is there anything you want to tell me? About what happened?”
“I. . .” Virtue shook her head. When she closed her eyes to concentrate, more tears ran loose. “Don’t know everything. When he—that doctor—tried to cut off my foot. . .”
“You were awake for that?” she inserted, the soft but unmistakable anger in her voice was intended for the perpetrator, not the victim. Before, Virtue had trouble hearing that distinction.
“Yes. I wasn’t . . . behaving to his standards. And he . . . did things . . . and made threats. And . . . I guess I’d rather know . . . if he followed through?” she asked, easing her eyes open, one at a time.
The doctor nodded, her lovely face tense with solemnity. Virtue’s rambling had brought about a higher understanding she felt only a woman could truly attain. “All right. We’ll figure it out. And it’ll stay between us.”
Corollary did them a great service.
“Thank you, doctor,” Virtue sighed, the heavy burden lifted as if she had been forgiven for her many sins.
“Please, call me Bernie.”
Chapter 20
Blasphemy
Doctor B. E. Breckenridge wasn’t taking any chances. She didn’t seem the type to ignore the plea of the truly needy, but she ran a legitimate business. There was a clinic quartered off on the side of her home. She had other patients. The severity of their conditions varied, and so did their station in life and their political and religious allegiances.
Beds required forms, identification, banknotes set aside as a deposit . . . which belonged to the Maineland. This tax earned her a Maineland-issued medical license and in return, she received the standard allotment of medical supplies, equipment, and life-saving medicine. And it had to be properly reported—every diagnosis, procedure, prognosis, every pill, syringe, cotton swab, all the way down to the very last wad of gauze.
And their entourage, wounded to some extent in every way possible, waltzed in, uninvited, and didn’t take “no” for an answer.
“Bernie” wasn’t thrilled. She didn’t say that in so many words, but her face didn’t lie. She was beyond overwhelmed. Almost every bed was full. A few cases would even qualify as “critical.”
On top of that, two of her patients were injured Authority Figures. Bullet wounds, no less. And only one group of “rebels” had been bold enough to take up arms against them.
But Bernie didn’t turn them away, despite her grounds to. After name-dropping out of desperation, she admitted that she was Corollary’s half-sister. And she was relatively up-to-date in regard to their misfortunes. Plus, she followed their work. Truth was her only religion, it seemed. And as Herald maneuvered the listless Fallow in his arms, Virtue’s blood still caked to his hands, it didn’t take more than a glimpse of Virtue’s back to affirm what Bernie stood for and whom she was against.
Before they could even peel off their damp clothing, Bernie carted away the suffering—she would find a place for them—while her nurse ushered everyone else out of the lobby—thankfully empty—and into the parlor of Bernie’s living quarters.
There was heat emanating from the furnace. The drawstring of a table lamp was connected to a source of electricity. When pulled, it brought gentle light to the upholstered furniture, the plump pillows, the wrinkleless frills, and the Dark Times antiques scattered about in a tasteful manner.
Everything was quaint, cozy, and idyllic, like something from a previous world. And they were the exception. They brought in the grit, the tension, the uncertainty, and the danger. Even when their bodies were still and their mouths were closed, their minds were likely churning over the possibilities . . . and the likelihood of obstruction at every crossroad.
Blasphemy felt guilty for sitting down, but what more could they do? Gospel was in surgery. Virtue was next. It was a waiting game. And truth be told, it wasn’t something any of them were good at.
Herald was pacing by the hallway that led to the clinic, mumbling every now and again, like he was having a one-on-one with God. What would he offer in return if everything turned out all right?
Surely, his soul.
Parody kept pulling aside the lacy curtains to get a view of the walkway out front, a habit that seemed risky.
Doxy was perusing the shelves, not particularly interested in the vast book collec
tion but rather the décor. Hopefully she wasn’t about to filch something. She was who she was. The affluent, no matter what they did to achieve their worth, were all the same to her. And she didn’t quite owe the doctor the same debt of gratitude as someone like Herald did.
Caleb was sitting on the couch on Blasphemy’s right and had soon fallen asleep. The early wake-up call was just too much for his system. He didn’t have much of an emotional investment in the outcome of this stopover, either. Maybe he would have left already if they had given him the choice. He knew too much. And even Blasphemy agreed. She trusted him enough not to do something vindictive but couldn’t guarantee he’d proceed sensibly. For now, they were stuck with him. He was their prisoner. And strangely enough, he didn’t seem troubled by that. He was even helpful without having to be asked and had a good grasp of when to be quiet and do as he was told. That was Caleb.
And for some reason, Law resembled his distant cousin in that aspect. He was on Blasphemy’s other side, about a half cushion away from her, but he may as well have been in another dimension.
He had been relatively talkative and in good spirits earlier on. He tried to inspire the rest of them to follow suit. They were all still alive and had their freedom. He called that a victory, even if by the end of the day that changed. It was a day more than anyone had planned for them.
And at the front of the line, the first to knock, the first to demand entry, Law was well prepared to barge into the clinic, his words ready to blast through walls if need be. From Law, they’d expect nothing less. But Herald was the one to get the words out first and with the ardency, eloquence, and efficiency that Law suddenly lacked. Herald didn’t care if Bernie was a man, a woman, a Fallow, or even a bona fide witch. If she had healing “powers,” she was damn well going to use them to save the love of his life!
Law, in the meantime, fell to a place of shadow. He didn’t make a sound and put one foot in front of the other as if simulating the motion of others. His body was taking up space, but it was clear he was otherwise absent.
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