The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  She wished she could sleep for days or weeks, however long it took so that she’d wake up feeling “refreshed.” That’s not possible, her mind chimed in. But the drugs claimed otherwise, enough to confuse her.

  Herald stroked her stomach and set his mouth on her neck. It raised her degree of consciousness. She floated further into the curl of his body and into the vigor of his kiss and embrace. She felt small, though in a feminine way, and therefore safe and protected in his arms. And she was wanted, still. She had her doubts—how could he ever look at me the same way?—but the stir and rise against her lower back didn’t lie.

  But he didn’t let himself get carried away. He unhanded her breasts and his touch settled on her lap. With a deep sigh, his excitement dwindled back to neutral. “Is now a good time to talk?”

  It was a much better time to talk, but she couldn’t necessarily control what would come out of her mouth. And maybe that was a good thing. “All right,” she dreamily agreed.

  “I’ll start. I should apologize for last night,” he went on as if his speech was already well thought out. “You had enough going on. I realize that now. You didn’t need another moral quandary to carry as a burden. And I was wrong to pile that upon you without discussing it first. And—”

  “That’s not what this is about,” she chimed in.

  “No?” he leaned all the way back, directing the question at the ceiling. “The timing. The morning after. It seems like it might have been a contributing factor.”

  “You helped lift a burden. Honestly,” she turned her head to add. Meeting his eye, he gave her a relieved hint of a smile. “I wanted to feel you, and nothing else. And I certainly don’t miss my virginity or the stigma surrounding it.”

  “Well, that’s one less thing I have to punish myself for.”

  She was the object of his affection once again. It would have been so much easier to give in to the moment. Lead him away from a tough conversation. But he had said his apology, which was actually unnecessary. And that left her with the obligation to explain.

  She was good with words. And excellent at putting emotion into expression. Usually. So was he. But still, she struggled to make sense of the lunacy that burst from her with such vehemence. It was a first for her. But would it be the last?

  “Do you want to know what they really did to me?”

  He stopped short, mid-kiss, mid-caress. In a snap, the reinvigorated mood was gone. And she could sense that he was measuring his words very carefully. He wanted to know . . . but he didn’t. “Anything you want to tell me, I want to hear.”

  “They’ve . . . crippled Virtue,” she finally sputtered out.

  “The irony is not lost on me.”

  “I looked in the mirror this morning. . .” She pulled in a deep breath and a sniffle in an attempt to quell her compulsion to cry again. The tears she had shed left well-worn tracks on her wellbeing. It would require less effort to let them slide right back on course. “And I came face to face with what I’ve become. I am my own worst fear. I’m weak. I’m insignificant. I’m nothing. Virtue is as good as dead.”

  “That’s not true!” he replied, his dissent causing his voice to rise. “You’re a writer and a good one at that. That’s something. And aren’t you aware that you mean everything to me?”

  “Is that really the truth? It’s been only a day and I already know I can’t live like this. Hidden away from the world. Completely reliant on other people. I’ll feel guilty for holding you back. I would never purposely do that to you. You’re too important. But if I give my all-encompassing blessing, you’ll run off for every adventure, like you were about to do this morning!” He sighed at that, his way of fretting and at the same time, announcing his wrongdoing. “Meanwhile, I’ll be left behind, worrying if and when you’ll ever return. And what would become of me if you didn’t come back?”

  Herald gave himself a chance to digest that. Was he angry? She didn’t think so. But he seemed contemplative as he reached for the soap on the floor. Working up a lather, he began smoothing it over her back. He was gentle, but the bruises were still tender. She had to close her eyes to get through it.

  He moved on to his arms and hands, and then rinsed. Along with the soapy white hue, the dirt and caked-on blood from their skin gave the resulting wash water a pinkish-gray tint.

  How much better would they both feel once the filth went down the drain?

  “I don’t intend to go anywhere for very long,” Herald eventually said. “I’m a wreck without you. But if, by chance, tragedy should befall us, I’m sure the others would see to your needs.”

  “Yes, but then I’d be even more of an inconvenience. Taking care of me wouldn’t be out of love but obligation.”

  “You are loved. And not just by me. You have supporters. Fans. People who are hoping to hear your voice in this time of crisis as well.”

  “And what if we start a war . . . and lose? I’d be trapped here or somewhere else. And the next time it could be with real chains. I don’t belong to me or to you. I belong to him.” She lifted the tattoo again . . . as if she needed to remind him. In truth, he most likely had every disturbing letter and revolting number memorized, something she didn’t even have the inclination to do just yet. “This movement is important to me too, now more than ever. But Herald, I can’t cope with the constant fear. I want out. You said we could run away together. Imagine that. Run. You said name the day and I had no doubt you’d follow through. Things have changed. I’m well aware. But if you love me . . . if I’m truly your priority . . . you’ll make it happen anyway. You’ll be the pair of legs that I no longer have. I won’t end up anywhere good without you. I’m not like the others. I can’t whore, or steal, scheme or street fight my way out of trouble. That’s not me. It never will be. I hope you can accept that and love me for who I am.”

  “I do,” he came back quickly. “And I’m not in disagreement. But what I need from you is patience. You need to recover, and we have a long winter ahead of us. Now is not the time. Too many people are counting on us. We need to not only share the truth but also make the changes we’ve been clamoring for. Or this was all for nothing.”

  She let him finish washing her. His hands were all over her, but her thoughts trickled to the past—the long flowing hair, the dream of a white dress—and then they leveled in on their potential future. Could she be so bold as to assume they’d still have a happy one? “Can you promise me something?” He didn’t automatically answer in the affirmative, so she continued: “Please don’t put yourself directly in harm’s way . . . not on my behalf. It’s not worth it. I just want to publish and then leave . . . together. As soon as we can. That way, we’ll both be safe.”

  He took his time before responding. And that was not a good sign. “I will do my best. But I won’t make a promise that I can’t, in all cases, keep.”

  At that, she rattled herself to pieces again. The water was growing cold and her composure was so brittle to begin with.

  He pulled her body to be flush with his and pressed his face to her shoulder as if begging for forgiveness. “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

  “You can’t fight evil with good,” she gushed out. “Evil will always win.”

  “You’re right,” he so simply agreed. “You can only fight evil with evil. And once we’re through, hopefully we’ll have enough of a soul left to make amends.”

  Chapter 25

  Law

  There was much that could have gone wrong in forty-eight hours. They had places to venture, tasks to complete, sources to check, other rebels to collude with, a whole lot of information to compile, and a strict deadline to meet. And yet they somehow managed to avoid any further crises.

  They were officially underground again as well, perhaps safer and more empowered than ever before. They had a Chronicles home base—Bernie’s cabin—a computer, a working printer—thanks to Gospel—and now that Hannah was safely in Blasphemy’s arms, they had one less loose end dangling in their former
lives.

  It certainly helped that Gospel was back on his feet, keeping a close watch on things from the shadows, a bullet ready for anyone who meant them harm. He was never seen, never heard, unless there was a problem.

  The Braintrees weren’t any less dangerous and they had been quicker and nastier than Law had expected. But they had spent the last two days crawling out of the grave they dug for themselves. The failed massacre had been a public relations nightmare for them. They had been pointing fingers, denying claims, making statements, and then retracting them. They couldn’t come up with a consistent story, not one that corroborated any of the eyewitness accounts.

  The Authorities’ attempt to stabilize the Shipyard District had not gone well, either. By the time they returned with what they thought were ample numbers, word had spread. Rebels from other districts had joined the revolt. It was officially a war zone. Fort Braintree was even threatening to send in the army unless Solomon Braintree could reestablish order and execute the “rebel leaders” in a timely manner.

  Why did the Authorities feel the need to punish so many innocent people in the first place when no one had any knowledge of “Rita Murray’s” alter ego? And where did it all go wrong?

  Fourteen people died in the initial barrage. Ten of them were Authority Figures following the orders no one would take credit for. Those who knew for certain were among those who had died. Or they had decided, for whatever reason, not to talk.

  The Divinity Daily arrived first at the scene to report the story. And Law was not too concerned about that. The Verity Chronicles did not have a story, but the story . . . all in good time. The Divinity Daily had merely set the stage for them. People were now angry and waiting to hear more. Plus, the Daily failed to give the events that unfolded a divine spin, not to the administration’s advantage, that is. The people were too fixated upon the “miracle” that saved them. That miracle had a name as well, and it just so happened to be Adam Braintree, the “true heir of the Redeemer.”

  It was worth a chuckle every time the thought came to mind. Law was still in an amused state of shock that a) Blasphemy had said that, b) the people there had taken her word for it, c) the Daily actually reported it that way, and d) the Braintree family had “no comment” when asked to take a position on the matter.

  Law would have to gift the Daily something for that once he had the money. Thanks to the groundwork they had laid, sales weren’t likely something the Chronicles would have to worry about for a while. And once people received their first look, the Braintrees would have more than just a failed massacre to answer for.

  The pictures alone. . .

  “You’re smiling. Like an idiot,” Blasphemy commented, bringing him back to the ground, the way she usually did . . . except for that one time.

  “Just reviewing all the ways I intend to bring light to the world!”

  She adjusted Hannah on her hip. “That’ll keep you busy for a while,” she bantered back. She hadn’t taken the death of her mother well, but she was beginning to come around.

  And since God had a sense of humor too, Law practically tripped over his own feet as if on cue. Or something had thrown off his tread. Must have been his pant cuff, he determined, hearing the tear.

  They were in the woods, at dusk, heading along the path to Bernie’s cabin, as requested of them. It would have been smart to keep his head out of the clouds and pay more attention to where he was going. He could have said that about a lot of things, really.

  In a gust of wind that felt as cold as the opposition, the heady amusement he was previously experiencing shifted into a nervous shudder. There were expectations now and it was his responsibility to fulfill them. He had some support from his colleagues, though nothing official or in writing, so the extent of it had yet to be determined. He intended to bring it up at the meeting, but he had been running around non-stop for days, and hadn’t had the time to prepare anything. He would have to wing it and hope for the best.

  Gospel, meanwhile, blew out a breath. His exasperation was audible once the wind subsided. “You should go on without me.” He had been hobbling with his cane alongside them, but apparently, he couldn’t keep up anymore. “I’m making you late.”

  The injured leg he was hauling around looked like dead weight and the steep, muddy, rocky terrain wasn’t doing anyone any favors. Gospel only took that one night to rest, and he had been going strong, around the clock, ever since. It was a work of God that he was still on his feet at all.

  Law dismissed that idea with a backhanded swish. “Herald can wait five extra minutes. I think he’ll understand.”

  “Here,” Blasphemy said, shoving her daughter into Law’s unprepared hands. “Hold her.”

  She relieved Gospel of the rifle, slinging it over her shoulder, and she was the perfect size to support Gospel underneath his arm. She had that way about her. She did the right thing and once she had her mind made up, she didn’t take no for an answer. And Gospel found it in himself to accept help when it was being offered.

  My, how times have changed.

  But that left Law in a bit of a predicament. It wasn’t quite dark enough outside to evade Blasphemy’s notice, either. “She’s just a baby, Law. One you’re related to, let’s not forget.”

  He realized he was holding Hannah out in front of him at almost a full arm’s length. “I know, but . . . she’s about to. . .” Just as he was about to say cry, Hannah’s little face crumbled into a demoralizing pout. It looked on the verge of exploding into something leaky, viscous, and loud. “N-n-n-n-n-n-no!”

  Why did he always have to be right!

  Hannah threw her head back to voice her disdain for him, and then it lolled toward her mother. She cast a look that was both pleading and outraged. With a glance back at Law, it was double the outrage.

  “Babies don’t like me.” Or maybe it was women in general, all sizes. He was having a bad string of luck in that realm. Bernie, well . . . he could walk on water and she’d be like, “That’s nice. Maybe you should raise the dead. Then, I might be impressed.”

  “You’re not trying very hard!”

  “All right. Uh. . .” He had to admit, she was a cute baby, even in her throes of despair. He pulled her a bit closer. Set her on his forearm. Patted her back. If he put his mind to it, there wasn’t a task he couldn’t do and do well.

  But that didn’t work. She was squirming too much, still loathing his existence. Now what?

  Law had never been more relieved to see Bernie’s cabin. And the first time, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to find it!

  Blasphemy helped Gospel up the steps and then released him to take her daughter back, allowing Law’s heartrate to dip back into the zone of not deadly. Then Hannah, just to prove Law’s incompetence beyond reasonable doubt, stopped crying instantly.

  “Thanks . . . Rita.”

  Gospel seemed to enjoy using her real name every chance he had. To be fair, he probably knew her name since her day of hire, if not earlier. He undoubtedly knew everyone’s and then some.

  “Hey, what’s Parody’s name?” Law asked him. That was one he didn’t know yet.

  “Cho. Means ‘butterfly,’” he answered without pause.

  “Herald’s?” he quizzed him, seeing if he could stump him.

  “Ernest.”

  “His father’s?”

  “Maxwell Hargreave the Third, slumlord extraordinaire.”

  Sounded right.

  “My Fallow sister!” That would get him. He wasn’t there. How would he know?

  “Teresa. Goes by Tess.”

  Law threw his hand up. I give up!

  “When are we going to find out your name?” Blasphemy then asked, opening the front door for him. They had put it off long enough. It was time to get down to business. “It’s only fair.”

  “That’s for me to know. . .” he said with a lilt in the doorway, shaking his head at her, and she wasn’t one to take that. With just her eyes, he earned a brazenness that was wildly out of
proportion to her stature.

  “And us to find out?” She adjusted Hannah on her hip, placing a quick kiss on her emotionally drained head of curls. And then she turned to go inside, letting Gospel win that round, but not without a final punch. “Fine. Play hardball. But someday, I will get it out of you.”

  Law followed them inside, smiling dryly. The two of them. They needed to have their way with each other and get it out of their systems. The sexual tension between them lately was practically making his teeth grit. Or maybe there was just something in the air. No one seemed able to reach a place of true satisfaction, not even Herald or Virtue. Their circumstances wouldn’t allow for it.

  Herald was at the head of the table. A lantern was set in the center and the whole downstairs area was gleaming with candlelight. Hunched over the laptop computer, Herald was typing a mile a minute in the greenish haze it supplied. But he made immediate eye contact and called them forward with his hand. “What do you have for me?”

  “Law still thinks he’s God.” Blasphemy tossed Law a grin over her shoulder as she handed Herald the folder of photographs. He began shuffling through them without any hesitation. “And that would make Gospel his archangel. So they both think they’re holier than thou.”

  “Tell me something I didn’t know.”

  Herald smiled up at her and then he moved it to Law as he approached too. Herald was already in better spirits now that he had the photo evidence in his hands. Law had seen everything already. They all ought to be smiling. There were great group shots of the before when it was still sunny and hopeful. The pictures that followed were of the lighthouse and the orchard. The fog looked particularly ominous. For the most part, they came out clear in the Vault. There was one of Herald pointing the gun at the man who was undeniably Asmodeus. Herald didn’t have to fake any of his enmity for the camera’s sake and Asmodeus looked every bit the lunatic. And the pictures of Virtue on the table, blood everywhere, and what they did to her . . . were truly appalling. There was one of her in Bernie’s clinic where her back was bared and her head was turned to the side. Both tragic and hauntingly beautiful, it captured the pain as well as her sadness. That picture could, singlehandedly, set change in motion.