The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  May you find comfort in the arms of an angel

  February 16th, 175.

  He had no birthday. Only a death day. The baby most likely never lived to see the light of day.

  Law didn’t want to make any assumptions . . . or give Doxy more credit than he had to. But there was no denying it. Coincidence couldn’t explain it all. The pattern told a story, one that did not have a happy ending.

  It only had a survivor. One who had the house, the practice, and life-saving skills that apparently did not work on multiple occasions. No offspring or step-children, no husband, no sister wives—as far as he was aware—and the Authorities didn’t seem to interfere in her business beyond what was routine. She couldn’t legally marry again, but otherwise, she was free to do as she pleased and had the inheritance to do so.

  With a dark spin or from the eyes of the law, death and misfortune looked a lot like luck.

  And no one is that lucky.

  Chapter 26

  Herald

  Even on the best of days, the Shipyard District wasn’t a pleasant place to visit. No one bothered to hide its grime because no one important felt like taking any notice.

  The vacant buildings didn’t do much to please the eye. And there was always a less than savory odor wafting through. It broached nauseating in the summer months. Those days were long over, so the fishy smell was only marginally detectable. Instead, then and there, it was the smoke from the combustion of materials not meant for human consumption that triumphed over all.

  It was a dangerous place to be. Strangely enough, that gave them the liberty to walk about at their leisure, assuming they could avoid stray bullets and falling debris.

  With Gospel leading the way, and Blasphemy assisting him—it was her turf—Herald wasn’t particularly worried about getting to the meeting with Jud Barrett. Staying alive through the negotiations, however, was another matter entirely.

  He swore to himself long ago that he would never stoop to Barrett’s level. Over the last few days, he had been warned by a number of his associates not to go there. Herald was the only one truly for it, even though he knew, deep down—and if the current ache in his gut was any indication—it was a bad idea to establish any sort of business relationship with “The Slaughterhouse.” And yet stiffing him wouldn’t be wise either. Barrett would remember, always. Perhaps it would be to their overall advantage to at least hear him out?

  Herald didn’t even tell Virtue where he was going. Barrett was that awful. Virtue probably didn’t even know who he was. Herald preferred it that way. Darkness did not agree with her . . . clearly. And he would avenge those who tried to bring her down to their abominable level. They almost succeeded.

  It’ll take time.

  Any progress was encouraging, and yes, she had made some since her fall to what she perceived as her ruin. But they were by no means out of the woods and perhaps they never would be. To say her wounds would leave scars would be an insult to the conditions she acquired that were both debilitating and lifelong.

  If he explained to her what his intentions were with Barrett, even just superficially, she wouldn’t understand. Did he lie to her when he left the cabin at such an unusual time of night? Yes. No question. A publishing emergency. No time to explain. I’ll hopefully be back by morning. No, don’t wait up.

  He felt terrible about it, but there was no way around it. He didn’t want to add to her distress. Lie to her or not, if he died, he’d have another burden on his conscience for all of eternity. And what was worse, so would she.

  So, he would make it a point not to die. Not that night.

  It could happen anywhere at any time, but there was nothing in their midst to make it a certainty. Not even Barrett. He didn’t exactly sprinkle bread crumbs.

  They were on Wharf Lane, the destination the three of them had extracted from the scribble on the back of a business card—some plumber that wasn’t named Jud Barrett. The narrow access lane beside a fish-processing plant had become a dead end, however. Everything was closed down, dark, locked up, and there was no one in sight.

  There was something or someone propped against the wall, though. A brush of movement caught their eye. They pointed the guns and clicked on the flashlight. They narrowed in on the Redeemer’s Mark—an Authority Figure—but he wasn’t going to supply much in the way of harm or help. They lowered their weapons. They’d have better luck asking the maggots or the gigantic rat.

  That thing could take down a feral cat!

  “Herald!” He broke away from his fixation and turned toward Blasphemy’s whisper. “Can I see the card again?”

  Once more, she stroked her beam of light over the unmarked doorways while he pulled out the card, handing it over. It was worth another look. They were obviously missing something.

  He and Gospel peered over her shoulders as she flipped and tilted it in the light.

  Wharf L.

  E6 4B

  11pm

  The plumber had a different address. A legitimate one. Somewhat nearby, allegedly. If “Ted Barnaby” was even a real person. It was worth checking out too, if all else failed. Based on what Law had mentioned, though, that didn’t add up. Barrett had made a point to pen something on the back.

  It was worth suggesting they move on, regardless. They shouldn’t linger where they were with any lights on. There was only one way out.

  But before he could say the words, Blasphemy’s posture changed. She tapped the card on the palm of her hand while she gazed into the distance. “It’s not Wharf Lane. It’s Wharf Landing. And that’s not an address. It’s a mooring. E is east and the rest is probably dock and location.”

  Herald swept his hand forward, urging her to lead the way. “You’re the boss.”

  Hustling out from between buildings, his smile was met with the glint of Gospel’s glare.

  “What? She is, isn’t she?”

  “It was your tone,” he lashed back.

  What tone?

  Herald wasn’t resentful or jealous. Law had made the right choice. Blasphemy’s steady rise to indispensability was really something remarkable. He had nothing but respect. “One of jest and nothing more. I promise.”

  Gospel simply ignored him. He was far from surprised. Gospel didn’t say so in so many words, but he had grown weary of cleaning up after Herald’s mistakes. This Barrett endeavor would supposedly be another one. There was a reason Gospel was providing his protection and expertise, and it was clear who that reason was and wasn’t.

  “Put it behind you,” Blasphemy advised them, and rightly so. “We need to present a united front. Or Barrett will eat us for an early breakfast.”

  They turned to face the breeze rolling off the bay. Once they crested over a slight hill, the waves loomed in the distance, rippling in the moonlight. The boats were bobbing to the same rhythm.

  As they stepped upon the docks, the clouds overtook the moon. The boats were many. The lamps and markers weren’t abundant, but Gospel had a mind for patterns. At that time of night and since they were well past boating season, only so many of them were aglow with activity. They found their way.

  At their approach, a shadow shifted into the form of a man. He was on the dock beside a yacht, modest in size, but still, clearly a yacht.

  He summoned them on deck with a spectral wave.

  Once they saw the figure in better light, he wasn’t any less terrifying, but he was just a man. He was too daunting to trifle with, however. And when he unlocked a safe box, grunting, “weapons” at them, Herald followed Gospel’s lead and placed his handgun inside. “We will get them back, right?”

  Gospel’s glance was a scold and the guard’s look was cold and blank.

  I’ll assume that means yes.

  He shrugged at Blasphemy and she gave him a playful grimace. Sure, he needed some underworld training, but he wasn’t alone in that regard.

  It took Gospel much longer to unload. The rifle, two handguns, knives, metal spikes, rope, wire, a hammer, a grenade. It was
amazing he could store those items on his person and still get around on his one good leg with a lightness that was uncanny.

  Once he was through, the guard patted each of them down. He pulled out Gospel’s lighter and held it in his face to demand an explanation. “What am I going to do? Light him on fire?” was his response.

  Herald kept what he thought was a straight face. But he looked down and brushed an arm over his brow to hide any potential show of amusement.

  It didn’t matter anyway. The man grunted in disapproval and chucked Gospel’s lighter into the box. After locking it up and nudging it out of the walkway, he led them below deck.

  Even from the top of the stairs, the odor was pungent and had a few identifiable layers—cigar smoke, liquor, food waste, and sweat—from uncleanliness or just plain indecency.

  After all Herald had seen and done, it shouldn’t have been a great shock to see two Fallows groveling around on their knees, completely bald and fully naked, except for the chains at their wrists and necks. It was the kind with spikes, as if they were vicious dogs demanding discipline. They looked trained not to tug, but still, there were bloody marks everywhere the chains touched and bruises everywhere else.

  With listless eyes, they were serving malt whiskey to “The Slaughterhouse” and an associate of his, someone who was younger but resembled him. Perhaps a son? Surely, he had many, but this one appeared to be “in training.”

  Once Barrett gave the official “wave of dismissal,” the lookalike gave them a glare of sheer hatred that seemed to single out Herald. Then, with the Fallow traipsing after him, they all disappeared behind a closed door at the back of the boat.

  They were out of sight, but hardly out of mind. Chains went taut, flesh met flesh with an audible crack. And Barrett was smiling at them as if they were simply his next appointment and this was all standard procedure.

  He blew a puff of smoke into air that was cloudy already and then snubbed out his cigar. “Have a seat.” His eyes darted to the bench across from him.

  It was a small table, but the three of them did as they were told and squeezed on. He couldn’t speak for Gospel or Blasphemy, but just sitting there felt dirty and hypocritical.

  You can only fight evil with evil. And once we’re through, hopefully we’ll have enough of a soul left to make amends. He was seeking solace from his own words. Would they help him muddle through?

  “Where’s the lawyer?” Jud inquired, narrowing his eyes over them. “I told him to be here.”

  They exchanged glances. Gospel was on the far right by the porthole window and Blasphemy was in the middle between them. Beneath the table, she nudged Herald to provide the answer. “He sends his regrets. He had an important matter to attend to.” In his mind, this was not an exaggeration. Law was at the cabin on watch duty. He was working on his revisions, and that was assuming the night remained uneventful. Someone had to be there in case Virtue or Hannah were in need of assistance.

  “If he’s not here, who’s in charge?”

  Herald bobbed the side of his head at Blasphemy. “She is,” he replied, and Gospel said the same thing at the exact same time.

  Barrett’s laugh burst out from deep in his gut, which may have been perceived as “jolly” if they hadn’t known any better. “Come on, hon,” he eventually said, his face a bloated red. “Run along and let the big boys do their jobs.”

  Blasphemy took that a whole lot better than Gospel did. “Disrespect her again, and. . .” he had enough good sense to trail off, but it was hard to miss his intent. Or the flagrant insult to it. . .

  Let the big boys do their jobs. . .

  There was a rhythmic banging against the wall of the back room. It was really picking up some momentum. Every so often, the low, angry grunts were punctuated by the muted whimpers of pain.

  “I’ll regret it?” Barrett bantered back, threading his fingers over his girth and leaning into a casual position against the wall. He hoisted his legs up on his empty bench and crossed them at the ankle, obviously both relaxed and amused. “I like this guy.” He was looking at Herald but jutted his thumb at Gospel. “He’s got a lot of nerve.” The way he had said that, it was meant to be a compliment.

  Blasphemy then declared her purpose. “I’m here to keep him calm and him on task.” She used one hand and then the other to point them out. “Yes, Law put me in charge since he can’t be here.”

  “All right, then. What can I do for you?”

  He poured himself another drink and gave her a glance of minimal acknowledgment.

  “Didn’t you invite us here because you want something from us?” Herald asked once he received a nod from Blasphemy. Herald was by no means an expert negotiator, but he had his share of business dealings as Editor in Chief. And he was the one who wanted to take the meeting. It was therefore his responsibility to take the lead.

  “We’ll get to that. First, I want to know what you have to offer?”

  He gulped down half of his liquor like it was water. And it was a robust whiskey glass. He didn’t even bother to add ice.

  After the outburst that shook the whole damn boat, the banging in the back finally let up.

  “We’re short on funds at the moment,” Herald said, as soon as he could find the words. “But time is of the essence. Our next publication should sell better than ever. If all goes well, it’ll be out by Monday under a new name. You’ll get a one-time offering for helping us with a specific task, and then we can hopefully coexist peaceably from then on.”

  Barrett chuckled and finished off his glass. “It doesn’t work like that. We’re either friends . . . or we aren’t.”

  That was left there for them to ponder, corrupting the air that was practically unbreathable already. All while Barrett had to field an interruption.

  “Boss?”

  Barrett’s initial reaction seemed to be one of irritation. But he beckoned his lackey into the area anyway.

  As the man, different from the one before, whispered something in Barrett’s ear, the scar on his cheek hit the light. Even below the graying stubble, it was striking. And so was the fact that another man stepped into the room. He must have been the first man’s twin. He even had an almost identical scar, on the opposite cheek, though. If they were face to face, they’d be a near perfect mirror image of each other.

  The two men didn’t pay them much mind. And the feeling was mutual, or so it would seem. But that all changed when the one who delivered the message gave Gospel a second glance. Gospel, meanwhile, was already well committed to a contempt that had to be the most he was capable of. And Herald had seen him at what he thought was his worst. The man across from him was angry, but Gospel looked hellbent on knocking over the liquor and starting everyone associated with him on fire. If only he still had his lighter. . .

  Barrett, attempting to stay on top of the situation, shifted to one knee and placed a hand on half of the problem. “Aren’t you that kid?”

  His brother strolled over, his meat-packing arms flexing as his nose flared.

  Gospel sprung to his feet, his expression daring them to say something else or do what they were clearly hired for.

  Blasphemy rose from her seat too, providing words of caution in Gospel’s ear and a steadying grip on his arm. “Can you excuse us for a moment?” she asked Barrett.

  Like the king he essentially was, he offered them amnesty for their offenses with a lazy flick of the hand.

  “Herald?” she asked as she was guiding Gospel back the way they came in. With a haunted gaze rather than words, she asked him, Will you be all right?

  Herald nodded as he took a shallow gulp. He could handle this. Perhaps. . .

  Barrett was at the tail-end of receiving the rest of the message that must have been of some importance. After delivering his brief reply, the twins ambled toward the back room.

  “I have to get going. But I have time for one more drink,” Barrett said to Herald as he poured himself another full glass of whiskey.

  Maybe there
was an exit out the back and the twins had better things to do. But—no such luck—the ruckus resumed with new users. And this time, everything was times two, even the pace and volume.

  This was an example of where Virtue could end up if his efforts failed again. It was no wonder she was so torn up inside just imagining it.

  Barrett cleared his throat to get Herald’s attention. He had set a glass down in front of him. Barrett was tilting the bottle, offering him a drink.

  Herald’s assent and graciousness were dispatched a bit too sluggishly to evade Barrett’s notice. He already had an eyebrow lifted by the time Herald found his tongue. “Sorry. Yes. Thank you.”

  He didn’t want to blur his senses, but declining was not an option. Herald was supposed to consider it an honor.

  “You’re Maxwell Hargreave’s son, aren’t you? I can see the resemblance.”

  “I am,” he replied . . . hesitantly. And he probably wasn’t well heard over the competition he had in the back. “But I doubt he’d call me ‘son’. . . not any more willingly than I’d call him ‘father.’”

  “Then you won’t mind me asking . . . what’s his weakness?”

  Herald’s laugh was weak and dry. Did he wish his father dead? He had to figure that out before answering. And did his father even have a weakness?

  He had a heart of stone for the most part. As for his wives and children, he could take them or leave them. He fulfilled his moral obligation to “spread the light,” but he wasn’t driven by sex or wired to “fall in love.” He wasn’t typical in that regard and that’s probably why Barrett was asking. The status his father sought was more about reputation, success, and wealth. To chip away at that would hit him where it hurts. Scandal wasn’t a way in, however. His father was many things, but crooked wasn’t one of them. He was upright and law-abiding under any circumstances. He was truly a fanatic. It was disgusting, warped, and scary in its own right. But, without a shred of doubt, Maxwell Hargreave the Third’s money was as “clean” as his conscience supposedly was. And that meant he and Jud Barrett crossed paths in the real estate market . . . and that was it.