The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  And it was unnerving.

  “What’s with you?” Blasphemy nudged his leg to ask.

  He shuddered out of his trance and made brief eye contact. A twitch of a smile lit up his face. Then it left just as quickly. He shook his head to claim nothing is wrong or I don’t want to talk about it and nestled himself thoroughly into the cushion at his back. He supported his head with his hand and the arm of the couch and closed his eyes.

  But Blasphemy wasn’t convinced that tired was his best excuse. They were all tired. But their supply of adrenaline seemed limitless, as it had been all day. And if someone fell short, they could certainly borrow some from Herald.

  The conversation with Law died before it even began, and yet Doxy strolled over to add her two cents. “Must have been all the liquor.”

  That caught Herald’s attention and not in a good way. Law simply frowned on one side of his mouth when he heard Doxy’s voice, but the rest of his face remained restful.

  “Or maybe, for once in his life, he’s been silenced by a woman. And he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.”

  That earned her a vengeful eye. Just one, and it was merely a flash. Law tried to withdraw it, snapping it shut. He grunted deep in his throat, barely audible, and curled into himself as if for comfort and warmth. But Doxy clearly pinched a nerve.

  With Law’s lack of any inclination to defend himself, she made her way over to Herald with a loud sigh.

  Herald had apparently stopped paying attention and didn’t hear her footsteps until she was practically upon him. He whirled out of his roving state of misery, a bit surprised, and then he was ready to receive her item of concern. “We’re going to take off.” She summoned Parody over to her with a glance. “We’ll be at Gospel’s until he’s back on his feet. We’ll check in tomorrow.”

  “All right,” he said, caving almost immediately. “Be careful. And thank you for everything.”

  Their help had been essential, but it also incited more conflict and controversy. Everyone had their motives for sticking around. But not all of them were aligned. For everyone’s benefit, it was time to cut back on togetherness, until, that is, they were ready to write again. And they certainly had a whole lot of “story” to tell.

  Maybe Blasphemy would have a chance to look at the documents she stole from the Vault. It was taxing to lug them around all day, but she assumed they’d be worth their weight in gold. Backed by the photographs, the Braintrees and those associated with them were about to be the center of the biggest scandal in Portsmith history.

  If there was anything the Braintrees could do to prevent it, they’d do it, no matter what the cost.

  Law assured everyone they were arrogant, dysfunctional, and slow. But she didn’t find that particularly reassuring. They were also filthy rich, powerful in every realm, well-staffed, and they had absolutely no right to claim the moral high ground. They’d do anything to keep their secrets contained—deep within their circle and behind walls, bars, chains, and layer upon layer of lock and key.

  Could she ever lean back and doze off on the couch between the idealistic Braintree youth?

  Definitely not.

  But unlike Herald, she aimed to accomplish something with her restlessness. She found a sitting room table just beyond the archway that separated it from the parlor. She was about to sort through things when Dr. Breckenridge made an appearance.

  Blasphemy was beside Herald to hear the news not more than a moment later. “His vitals are holding,” the doctor said of Gospel.

  Blasphemy nudged Herald, and in return, he gave her a quick squeeze around her shoulders. This was their turnaround. For once, she could feel it.

  Then came the bad news. . .

  “The bullets chipped his pelvic bone and tore through a lot of tissue, luckily missing the artery. He’s going to be in a lot of pain for a while. He may have trouble walking. And he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s ‘B Negative’ and that’s not one I see every day. I have nothing to replace it with. Even if I did, it’s strictly regulated. Does anyone know their blood type?”

  Caleb and Law were listening now was well. Blasphemy gave out hers, A Positive, though she knew enough about it to understand that hers wouldn’t help. Herald believed he was also an A.

  And then Law spoke up. “I’m O Negative,” he offered, no doubt in his answer. “I was the only one who could help my mother,” he said to satisfy the curious glances. “We were a match.”

  The doctor smiled at that, satisfied. “And that, sir, makes you my new best friend.”

  At her call forward, Law rose from his seat, calm and professional. But for the first time in a while, there was some buoyancy in his demeanor.

  When Law was about to pass, he gave Blasphemy a wink.

  Then he casually set his hands in his pockets. He strolled along to catch up to the woman who caught everyone by surprise. She also happened to be gutsy, accomplished, a humanitarian at heart, plus she looked good in uniform, even in a surgical cap and scrubs tailored for a man.

  Too bad she was married. To her career and whatever man gave her that ring. Hard to miss. . .

  Doxy’s jab from before wasn’t likely coming from the softest place in her heart, but she may have been on to something.

  As a fallen Braintree who had holes in his pockets and every Authority Figure in Portsmith on a mission to kill him and everyone in his company, Law needed more than charm to win her over.

  It would take nothing shy of a miracle.

  But if there was one thing true about Law. He was a dreamer. A pragmatist. A deep thinker and a smooth talker.

  Anything was possible.

  ***

  Dr. Breckenridge led Blasphemy past a row of hospital rooms. Blasphemy wore a hat and had Virtue’s coat on. Her collar was up relatively high. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but she was analyzing in great depth everyone else, as much as she could with the side of her eye.

  Big, burly, and in bad temperament . . . the most likely to be Authority Figures. Room 1 and 6. One was conscious but bedridden. The other one, however, was up and about. He was on crutches, but he seemed mobile enough to be problematic.

  After Room 7, they arrived at a corner. An unmarked room came into view on the right—where Virtue was supposedly waiting. But they turned left. There was one additional room. Bernie unlocked the door with a key and cracked it open to take a look inside.

  From behind, Blasphemy caught a glimpse of the interior. Tiny and austere, a quarter of it filled with boxes—it wasn’t likely in general use—but it was perfect for Gospel.

  Most of the other rooms had a window to peek through or the doors were left open. Gospel had a metal door, no window. Since it required a key to enter, his room appeared more secure than anywhere else.

  But if someone wanted to get in, how hard would it have been? Guns were very persuasive that way. . . .

  Pulling the door further open, Bernie granted her entry.

  “Is he awake?” Blasphemy whispered, hesitating.

  “He’s coming around. He asked for you . . . I believe. I assume you’re Blasphemy?”

  “That’s right. Good guess.”

  “I’m trying to keep you all straight.”

  “It gets easier. Once you get to know us.”

  Her smile was pleasantly self-deprecating, as if she was buried in too much information already. “Good luck,” she finished, leaving the open door in Blasphemy’s possession. She had other life-or-death tasks to complete and didn’t likely have time to chat.

  Thanks. I’ll need it.

  Blasphemy went inside, light on her feet. When she sat on the rolling stool, it made a slight squeak, but Gospel didn’t react to it. She knew his situation was serious but seeing him so out of it made her feel sick.

  Gospel was on his side, facing the wall. Each shallow breath seemed to take all the energy he had.

  He had a hospital gown on, loosely tied, covering his shoulders. His blankets came to the bottom of his p
ronounced ribcage. He was far from “exposed.” But even so, the keyhole of skin on his back was more than she ever expected to see. He revealed no secrets.

  And clearly, he had something to hide. A lot to hide. His skin was so misshapen, it looked like something else.

  Scars. Layers of them. The bullet wounds would blend right in.

  How did he survive and get through it . . . stronger? She wanted to curl up and die just looking at them. Crying over them didn’t seem like enough.

  But it was all she could do at that moment. And it was about time. It was hard work holding herself together for so long and she was exhausted.

  Gospel’s shoulders rolled and then shifted. He turned onto his stomach, but his face flipped over to her side, maybe at the sound of her distress. She was doing her best to keep it muffled, but he was still Gospel. He had a higher sense when it came to someone else’s pain. But he was incredibly discerning . . . when to care and when to coldly dismiss.

  He wasn’t pleased with her last she knew. Should she be worried? She didn’t think so. They had been through so much since then.

  His eyelids began to flutter. And when he set a hand down by his face, she reached for it.

  Her touch startled him awake and his hand into a recoil. But then he realized who had made the contact. The terror subsided. The pain, however, didn’t. He pinched every facial feature closed as if he regretted moving at all.

  Once it finally dulled as well, he placed his hand at the edge of the bed and within easy reach. It was as if he was asking for her to try again. And when she did, he surrendered to the touch of someone else.

  “Weird,” he croaked out.

  “What?” She scrambled to help him. “Do you need water or something?” She didn’t see any. “I can get you some.”

  As she tried to get up, he snagged her index finger with his pinky. The gesture was weak and yet somehow adamant that she should stay where she was.

  His eyes fell shut in a slow blink and then he shook his head. “I didn’t think anyone would ever miss me.” His long eyelashes swept back open. She had never noticed them before. Never had a chance to. He didn’t usually look anyone in the eye for long. And when he did, it was just a glint of flint and fire.

  “Well, we would, so. . .” She clenched onto his hand, and with her free arm, she wiped her face dry with her sleeve. She hated the show of any vulnerability. In that way, they were the same. “Don’t scare us like that again.”

  He did his heavy blink again, his way of agreeing that she found comforting. She hadn’t seen it in what felt like ages. And honestly, the world as she knew it wouldn’t be the same without it.

  They settled into a comfortable silence. He was drowsy and on heavy medication. And she was fine watching him rest with one eye always on the door. There was no one better at “look out” than Gospel, but it was someone else’s turn for a change.

  Before long, there came a timid knock. She ignored it. And it didn’t go away. In fact, it became louder and more persistent. It made Gospel’s eyes open.

  Blasphemy rose to her feet with a sigh. The doctor had the key, Herald was probably hovering around Virtue, now in surgery, Law was hooked to a needle and tube in Bernie’s office, and everyone else had left, so. . .

  She was right. By process of elimination, it had to be Caleb. “I dug up some food that Bernie said we could have,” he said a little too loudly. He edged his way into the room, a brown bag in hand. “How’s he doing?” He bobbed the side of his head toward Gospel.

  At that exact moment, she caught Gospel’s eye. And then he turned his head back toward the wall, pulling the blankets up to his ears. Blasphemy could practically feel him shrivel into a tight ball of hostility.

  She was guessing the resentment wasn’t just directed at Caleb, either. She was the reason he was irrevocably linked to their circumstances.

  “Why does he hate me so much?” Caleb asked as she tugged him into the hall. The door clapped shut, loud enough to rattle her nerves even more. When she released Caleb’s sleeve, his face lit up with understanding. “You two are. . .”

  He wagged his finger back and forth to suggest the connection.

  “No, we’re not together!” she fired back. “He has his reasons. And it’s. . .” Was it about Gospel’s past? Or the Braintree name? Not entirely. He didn’t turn against Law when he found out. Was it about her? Or the baby? Or specific to Caleb? “It’s hard to explain. And I shouldn’t have to! Just keep your distance, all right?”

  “I’m sorry,” he crumbled, in tone and posture. “I can’t do anything right. Story of my life, really.” He handed her the bag of food. “You can have it. I’m not that hungry. And besides, I have no right to be.”

  And he began plodding down the hall like he had no reason left to live.

  He was being so . . . so . . .

  Caleb.

  She suddenly had the urge to pull her own hair out . . . if she still had any!

  “Caleb,” she called him back. “I’m sorry. You back down too easy, do you know that? The only thing any of us should be is grateful. We wouldn’t have made it this far without you. Yes, Gospel’s being unfair to you, but that’s just the way he is sometimes.”

  He shrugged and his mouth twitched, down more than up. And then he wandered off, not much more verve in his step.

  Blasphemy was left there, alone, and shaking her head. And when she reached for Gospel’s door, she should have known it would lock upon closing.

  She slipped to a seated position against the wall, setting the paper bag of food down on the floor next to her. Despite her rumbling stomach, she had no appetite either. But she couldn’t resist a look inside.

  A chunk of bread, a slab of butter wrapped in wax paper, and of course . . . an apple.

  The fruit she swore off. A reminder of the Hell they’d been through. A chastisement of biblical proportions.

  It brought a couple of people to mind. The Captain, obviously, and his “generosity,” and another handsome devil she wished to humble somehow.

  How did she get here? This time. This place?

  She blamed herself, first and foremost. Always.

  Besides that, Leviathan Braintree would be proud of himself. Her life was her own. Her mistakes were hers to make. But he was like the hand of God. His firm push had put so many people on a course that had no happy ending.

  ***

  Neoterra Feast Day was typically one of the most celebrated holidays in the Maineland. If someone could afford to take the day off, a person usually would. Although the ports were busy and so were the inns. Otherwise, businesses closed early the night prior and remained that way throughout the following day. Whether one was rich or poor or somewhere in between, it was a chance to celebrate with family and friends, and to wish everyone good health and prosperity for the year to come.

  Blasphemy, however, didn’t take days, evenings, or even weekends off, even if it was considered a “holiday.” She couldn’t afford to. Since her mother could no longer work, she had to work twice as hard. Three times if she ever intended to get ahead, which she did.

  Someday. . .

  Her early mornings were spent on the docks unloading ship cargo. She couldn’t lift as much as her male counterparts, but she was twice as fast, and significantly less chummy and break happy. It took a while, but eventually her supervisor noticed and raised her pay to match the rest of the crew’s.

  Afternoons, she had her camera and went to work for her new post at The Verity Chronicles. She’d read the drafts of the stories in progress and would take shots in support. Then, time permitting, she’d hunt down new material. A picture could launch a story just as often as a story could benefit from a picture. The pay wasn’t much, but she had admired their work for as long as the publication had been in print, and she considered it an honor to take part.

  She’d do it for free if she had to.

  Herald thought she had “a good eye” and paid her a flat rate for every picture he selected, but he
was reluctant to hire her as a permanent staff member. Money was his primary concern. So she made it her goal to improve sales by at least threefold.

  She was so close. And she was ready to state her case and show him those numbers. One more big story and perhaps he’d say, “Welcome to the family.”

  During the evening hours, she was a server for the supper and late-night drink shift at Summit’s Wharf, a seaside inn. The establishment was always hopping. They were known to serve the best appetizers and seafood entrees in town, and the tips made the stress and strain worth it. Usually.

  But not on this particular Neoterra Feast Day. Summit’s Wharf was also a catering business and Mr. Gordon Summit, the owner, whom she didn’t particularly care for, sent half of his staff to the Braintree Compound for an event. Blasphemy would lose out on tip money, but she was still among the first to volunteer. It was as close as she would ever get to going to a Feast Day party, and she was hoping with all her might that she’d stumble upon something newsworthy. She wished she could bring her camera with her for that reason. But there was no chance in Hell they’d let that happen.

  She was just “Rita” when in service mode. If the Braintrees only knew about her alter ego and how hard she’d work to dethrone them, they’d undoubtedly bar her from stepping foot on the premises. And then they’d make her “disappear.”

  Good thing they didn’t know.

  Once she was cleared for entry—no weapons or recording equipment, no arrests, warrants, no trouble of any kind—all temporary and permanent staff members sat through the task briefing. It was a wedding celebration. The aging Solomon Braintree had, for once, decided not to marry another Bearing Age bride.

  Apparently, Hell had frozen over this winter.

  He’d be attending, but the whispers suggested that his health was declining. Seventy-five years of living life to the fullest—earning a fortune, and fertilizing over thirty-six wombs, often more than once—would do that to a man.