“I was thinking, soon. . .” He received a deep kiss. I guess she likes it. “We could get everyone together. Have a little ceremony.”
Her hands slid down his left arm and hand. Uncurling his fingers, she slipped his wedding ring into place. “This can’t be our ceremony?”
“Well, I suppose. . .” She shifted to her knees, and she was marching on them behind him. Submitting to the tug across his shoulders, he reclined to the pillow. As he brought his legs onto the bed, she climbed astride his waist. “I wanted to get you a proper engagement ring too. But with winter being the way it is. . .”
She pulled off her nightshirt.
“So that’s a yes, then?” His hands went to her shoulder blades. His thumbs swiped across her breasts, fuller than ever, and her soft pink, highly engorged nipples. Now that he knew what was growing inside of her, the changes to her body were obvious . . . and arousing beyond recall.
She nodded and swooped in, brushing her lips against his before reaching for his shirt buttons. Meanwhile, he set his hand down on the piece of parchment, still partially rolled, even without its bow.
“You’re not going to read the letter first?” He lifted it for her to acknowledge. “I worked very hard, I’ll have you know!”
Virtue took it from him, and disembarked, much to his dismay. “If you insist.” She collapsed onto the bed beside him and unrolled her Letter of Intent, crossing her feet at the ankle, all so very casual, as if she was fully dressed and not bare right down to those little white briefs.
Why was he so inclined to mention the letter?
Oh. Right. . .
On the night of their first kiss, he bragged that he’d use his brilliance to write something spectacular one day for a very special woman.
And you think you could do better. . .
Oh, I could do a lot better. . .
And here was the moment of truth. Did he succeed?
“Miss Cornelia Alexander, my Beloved Virtue,” she read aloud.
He rolled onto his side, supported his head with one hand, and smoothed his other over her stomach. He still couldn’t believe it. They’d be the loving family he never had.
“They can look. They can try. They can curse us, hate us, vow revenge, and keep the fear of God in us. But they don’t know you or what you mean to me. On the best of days, and the worst of days. We are unbreakable when we are together. And bound even when we are apart. They couldn’t possibly understand to what lengths I would go to keep you and our child safe.”
It was the sound of her voice. It was the way her bare thighs flexed and shifted while she read. The underwear didn’t have a whole lot of staying power.
At his tug, she lifted her hips for him. Once lower than the knee, she removed one leg from the confinement, then spreading and lifting both knees.
His mouth began forging a path up her inner thigh.
“Be my wife and I will love you every day of my life. Every day of yours. Every day after. We’ll be together until the end of time. And if some outside force were to interfere, know that I will not rest, hesitate, or lose faith that I will find you.”
She stopped reading. He glanced up as she set the letter on her chest. “I was wondering, Mr. Hargreave, if you could be any more distracting? I am trying to concentrate here!”
Those were her words, of course, but her exposed flesh, though its purpose had been fulfilled, seemed proud to be alive and well, eager and ripe for any distraction he could offer.
He’d start things off with a kiss. And her gasp inspired his love to linger.
“Wear our rings,” she continued, near breathless, “and we will conquer any feat. What’s mine is yours and we will share our strength, courage, knowledge, hopes and dreams as if we are one.
“I don’t just want. I need. I can’t survive without your love, patience, reassurance, and affection. And I will be your arms and legs, your strong back and persistent mind. No matter what lies ahead, we will now and always be perfectly matched and forever equal.
“Without further ado, I will ask and say a humble please. Will you marry me?
With unequivocal love and ardent anticipation,
Ernest Hargreave, and your Herald, forever and always”
She set the paper aside. “Yes,” she called out.
At that, he brought his new bride to the only heaven they could achieve on earth. And she thoroughly, generously, and all rather quite quickly did the same for him. After which, he closed his eyes and took his sweet Virtue into his arms.
Together, as one, they fell into a sleep so sound and peaceful, it had to be a gift from God.
***
Winter was everywhere. It was in the cold, still air. It drifted down as snow from a cloudy, turbulent, sunless sky. Some heaven it was turning out to be.
Blasphemy was set back in the woods. The snow, ankle deep, was untouched where she stood, except for the tracks she left.
It would have been wise to move on, but it was as if her feet were frozen in place.
Since she had to be present, both in body and mind—she owed him at least that—she made every effort to be reverently still. And yet the constant shiver wouldn’t allow for it.
She wondered if they were as cold as she was. Yes and no. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the occasion. She didn’t even own anything that would hold up to a chill this grave. The Braintrees had their long black coats and leather gloves. Their wool slacks, fur-lined hats, scarves, and collars. But she actually had tears in her eyes. By the time they dripped from her chin, however, they were as icy as Leviathan’s soul.
Or Caleb’s casket.
She couldn’t even stand to look at Leviathan. And yet she couldn’t peel her eyes away . . . for the five minutes he was actually present.
The cold-hearted bastard.
For a family as large as theirs was, there wasn’t a great turnout for Caleb’s funeral. Twenty people, give or take, and one was a reporter from the Divinity Daily. His associate was a photographer. Three others were Leviathan’s body guards, marching him back and forth from his black armored SUV, their automatic weapons in hand. Everyone else, including Caleb’s dry-eyed mother and ex-girlfriend, now his father’s very pregnant wife, began filtering out before the last of them had even arrived.
She was surprised Leviathan even bothered to make an appearance. He was a murderer after all. She had no proof, but she knew. It was always a possibility. He would find a way to get back at them. He’d act quietly and mercilessly . . . on Christmas Eve. Everyone was busy. No one was looking. And he’d stay ahead of the publicity game. His word was the first word this time.
The worst part about it all? The hypocrisy. He had distanced himself from the scandal. I’m not sure where the pictures originated. It brings my family shame to acknowledge that they even exist in our exemplary town.
He blamed but didn’t blame his father. Solomon has done his very best for many years. He was truly unaware of the darkness that resides within the common man. Mark my words that times have changed. New leadership is in order. And the cry for change will be answered.
And on that day, for five whole minutes, he was patting backs and shaking hands. Making statements. To lose a son. There is no greater pain. He ate up the condolences. He made his weak excuses. Caleb was a troubled young man. If only I had seen the signs. I have failed him as a father.
Leviathan was “grieving.” And he’d come out with his pious hands clean.
He always did.
Blasphemy was aware that Gospel was probably somewhere behind her, close but not too close. For a reason that alluded her, he decided to end all pretenses. Without making a sound, he appeared at her side. “You shouldn’t be here. They might see you.”
Who was left? One old woman in black fur and a gaudy hat with a veil that concealed her face. She was deep in prayer over her Au Courant Word of God. There was one Authority Figure at a considerable distance. Most of the others had already wandered off. Cars were now pulling away.
“You’re here,” she replied. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
He glanced at her face. He tried to be sly about it, but she was expecting the inquiry. He wanted to know how she was coping. She didn’t bother to hide the tears and she could easily spot his discomfort and chagrin. She was crying over a man he had no love for.
And he didn’t know how to process that.
“Don’t worry. They’re tears of guilt,” she admitted as if she had no choice.
“I didn’t ask.”
There was just something about Gospel at that moment. He didn’t ask, but somehow his presence was demanding a full confession.
“Well, I told you anyway.”
“You read the Daily. It was suicide,” he stated, and she cast off that theory with a bitter laugh. “I take it you don’t agree?”
“Do you?”
The grave diggers, who must have grown tired of waiting for the old woman to leave, began spearing the snow with their shovel blades. They had their work cut out for them. By the sound of it, they were soon butting against solid ice.
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he decided after a pause for consideration. “Caleb made his own choices. He didn’t have to go back to them.”
“Maybe they found him. We have no idea! But the fault is ours because . . . we pointed guns at him. And then, and then. . .” she trailed off, a sudden flush of heat constricting all breath and thought. “Just when I thought he’d choose and choose us, you pushed him away!”
“I pushed him away?”
Her sigh was an angry admission. But, nonetheless, it did help to clear some of the resentment out of her system. “You’re right. You’re always right.”
“I’m not going to apologize.”
He crossed his arms, as cool and haughty as ever, and turned to walk away. There was no reason to stay any longer and he must have known she’d follow.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“And you shouldn’t blame yourself, either,” he bantered back, a faint inkling of concern now slipping into his tone. “For what he did to you, he—”
“And what did he do to me exactly?”
Gospel stopped in his tracks to stare. His jaw clenched. Fury touched his cheeks and sparked in his eyes. Did he want Caleb to be a villain in this story? Yes. No question. Only then would he be able to look her in the eye with some pity.
“Here’s the thing. . .” When in doubt, go with the goddamn truth! It will set you free. She charged forward, deeper into the woods, and this time he followed. “I hate to shatter the illusion, but he wasn’t the predator. I was. He was the vulnerable one. I gave him comfort. I told him what he wanted to hear. He fell for me. It was almost too easy! I wanted a story. I wanted to get into that family so badly. I would have done anything. For the first time in my life, I had a plan. Everything did go according to plan until Leviathan supposedly said no. I was probably too Ungodly for the family and their connections. He wouldn’t waive me through . . . pregnant.”
She could practically feel him wince. “You don’t need to tell me this.”
“Yes, I do. Just listen! Caleb was afraid of Leviathan. Now we know he had every right to be. And when he said he needed more time, I couldn’t handle any more lies. So, I left. I didn’t think I’d ever go back. I wasn’t even convinced that Caleb asked for his permission. If he loved me, he would have, right? Or he would have fought harder than he did. If I loved him, maybe I would have been less angry and more patient. Or . . . I don’t know. . .”
It was so hard to explain. That’s because she didn’t know how she felt. Then. Now. The guilt was too pervasive. It always was. Even when things were going according to “plan,” she never felt good about it.
And now he was dead. He never even had a chance to meet his daughter.
“Maybe I did love him, or the idea of him. At least I cared, unlike his family. A marriage wouldn’t have been the worst thing ever, in that case. I saw him as my one shot to live a better life and do what I was born to do. It would help him in the end. That was my rationale. But I failed. Miserably. Hannah was my punishment. But she became my redemption. I had to do right by her. I want to be someone she’s proud of. Someone who would never do that to someone to get ahead. So, there it is. The truth hurts everybody. Even you. Go ahead. Just say it. I fucked up. And now you think less of me.”
They veered toward the road. But they stopped short, still a safe distance from being seen and heard. “You couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking.”
“I suppose not. You know you could find it in your heart to tell me something.”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to trudge through the snow parallel to the road. “Yeah, I get it. Maybe some other time.”
They had a long walk ahead of them. If they kept moving, maybe they’d keep warm. She turned back when she realized Gospel wasn’t joining her in the direction she chose.
“Rita . . . I’m leaving.”
She let that sink in. “Of course you are!” And it didn’t sit well. She was foolish enough to believe she had shed her last tear for the day. How wrong she was! “Are you ever coming back?”
“It’s hard to say.”
There was a significant gap between them. And he wasn’t doing a thing to close it. “Let me do the talking, then. We won’t last a month without you!”
“I taught you what I could. You should be all right.”
“It could never be enough. Can you at least tell me why?”
She waited and made sure her raw, swollen eyes hit him someplace it would have an impact. But he stared back, unmoved, it seemed. He had likely spent his whole life with the shutters closed. Why would he open them now? Just for her? Did she really think she was special?
Left to wallow in silence once again, she shook her head and turned away. She’d keep walking even if he intended to go in the opposite direction. What a lousy goodbye!
“Can you think back to the documents you stole from the Braintree Compound for a second?” he unexpectedly called out to her. “Do you remember when you asked me about that symbol? It looked like junk, but. . .”
She stopped to shake her head. Just when she thought she had him figured out—and she could finally close the book and end her suffering—he drew her right back in. “You’re my source for facts. I’ve asked you a lot of things,” she said as she engaged in a full turnaround.
“Does this help?”
He unbuttoned his trench coat. From his slacks, he carefully removed one flap of his shirt. Scrunching up the sweater he wore over it as well, he revealed no more than a few square inches of skin on his stomach. And still, it was more than she ever expected him to expose on purpose.
There was something there . . . a strange design.
Slowly—she didn’t want to spook him—she returned to him, and stopped face to face, only a pace away.
Blasphemy dropped down for a better look. He was holding his breath and pointed his eyes at the sky. He flinched when her cold fingertips made contact, but he didn’t do anything more to object when she ran her fingers over it.
It wasn’t a tattoo. It was a brand. It looked like two “F’s” written in calligraphy. They were placed at angles and one was flipped backwards, making them mirror images of each other, except where they overlapped at the bottom.
And yes, she had seen it before. It brought back the memory of the paper’s rough edges and odd dimensions—cut with scissors, not quite square. The pencil-shaded symbol it bore could have been a doodle, but it had a code scribbled at an angle beside it.
Compared to the bulk of what she stole, it looked like a useless scrap of nonsense, but she sorted it into her question mark pile. It could have been a shorthand note or phone message. Not that it had mattered. No one she asked could tell her anything about it . . . or at least that’s what they led her to believe.
“You said you didn’t know what it meant.”
“I don’t.” He dropped his shirt as soon as her hand lifted. He tucked eve
rything back in and re-buttoned his coat. “I think it’s the mark of a secret society. A few other boys had it too, in various places that weren’t supposed to be seen. I wish I knew more, but. . .” he drifted off. He didn’t have to continue. She was able to use her imagination. But then he started again: “The Masters. They wore armor and masks. And we were usually blindfolded . . . or in the dark. I figured out who one of them was, though. It was his scent that finally gave away his identity. It was a heavy, musty old-man cologne that mixed with the smell of decay.”
“Your old Headmaster,” she filled in. “Is Holy Reclamation Academy their headquarters?”
“Not anymore. They float around . . . for obvious reasons.”
“But, scribbled down on that sheet of paper, there was also a code. One, I’m assuming, you recognized. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. Probably the same reason he didn’t tell anyone anything about his past or personal life. If he had been wiser, faster, fiercer, or numb sooner, would it have made a difference? Probably not. But there was likely a sense of shame and accountability.
“It was an Employer Identification Number. I used to help with the taxes at Saving Grace Orphanage. I was twelve when I moved on to HRA. I was spared until then. But now . . . these are little children.”
HRA was right in Portsmith. Every boy destined to be somebody went there. For an orphan, it would have been a “privilege.” Even if he had complained—which, knowing him, was never going to happen—what good would it have done? The Headmaster was, indeed, a Master.
This part of his past was a lesson, but not his destination. Gospel was going to save the orphans in the village of Trinity, a rural area outside of Fort Braintree. He’d be on turf he was familiar with. And he had learned more than enough to beat them at their own “game.”
At least that’s what she told herself.
They had that note in their possession for a couple of months, though. And who knew how old it was when they retrieved it?
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