Felon followed Passport to a long bar that ran the width of the ship. A topless woman stood behind it. Both of her breasts were pierced with long shards of rusted iron and her midriff was run through with a pair of gardening shears. She was in obvious pain, and moving slowly about her tasks. When she reached Felon and Passport she asked matter-of-factly, “What will you have?”
“Club soda,” Felon said, tossing his dead cigarette into an ashtray. Passport gave her a dismissive nod. His face had burst into an excited smile upon entering the Games Room, and he now turned this smile upon Felon.
“Threats?” Felon asked over the moans, lighting a new cigarette.
Passport’s smile widened. “Threats? Mr. Felon, what could you mean?” He followed the assassin’s gaze to the scenes of torture. His eyes brightened, comprehending. “Our guests! Oh, I understand. Mr. Felon, you misinterpret the activities. Each and every one of these guests has paid to be here. They enjoy this kind of thing, and we provide a service. Those you see here are extremely important clients of Master Balg’s. They just desire the luxury of surviving their particular kind of entertainment.”
“Threats don’t work on me.” Felon puffed a cloud of smoke, snarling at the Games Room.
“Most certainly, it has never been the desire of Master Balg to give such an impression. You must remember that all points of view are not equal. To my Master this gaming room is nothing more. Pleasure. Pain. Pain. Pleasure. It is just the firing of nerve endings. Had I brought you to the Room of Concubines, I’m certain you would think we were attempting to bribe you with pleasure—if you’ll forgive me the jest.” Passport looked away from Felon’s scowl. “I assure you these people want to be here.”
The bartender returned with Felon’s drink. He sipped from the glass, but found the acrid background stench unpalatable. The assassin put the drink down.
“You would prefer something else?” Passport had produced a long thin cigarette of his own, and gestured toward Felon’s glass with it.
“Fucking cowards.” Felon felt the distant power of a killing rage growing in him.
“Cowards?” Passport echoed, genuinely amused.
The assassin grunted at the violations being visited upon the bound people in front of him.
Passport smiled, nodding his head rapidly. “I see. I see. And you would like to show them? You would like to educate them about—how shall I say—real pain.”
Felon sneered around the room, and then started toward the door. “I’ll wait on deck.”
Passport cleared his throat. Felon turned to him, but saw that the Demon’s servant no longer occupied the space by the bar. A voice behind him spun the assassin around.
“I’m sorry.” Passport stood there now. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But it would be best to stay below decks where it is more secure. We lost a pair of Eyesores to the Swimmers last night. I’m certain you’ll understand that Master Balg considers you too important a guest to risk topside.” He wrapped both arms about his thin midsection and grinned. A little mischief crossed his features and his eyes rolled. “If you’ll follow me to Master Balg’s office, please? He has just returned.”
Passport walked back toward the entrance. Felon ground his cigarette on the rug. A voice came from his right—begging. Terror was in the woman’s eyes. She was tied to a table. An Eyesore was working his deformed member in and out of her. Felon bared his teeth with disgust and followed Passport.
23 - Powers
“No fun today,” Mr. Jay had told Dawn as he gave her a list of duties he wanted her to complete while he was away.
“But I thought we came to the City to entertain,” the forever child stamped a foot. She’d been laying out her costume when he gave her the bad news.
“Yes,” the conjuror said, smiling weakly. “But that was before I understood how much the City has changed. It’s grown too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Dawn had thrown her things onto the floor. Mr. Jay could tell she was performing, going through the motions of being upset. He knew that she was secretly pleased at his decision. “How will we earn money?”
“Yes,” Mr. Jay said, putting his list down and motioning her to the table. “I mentioned having friends here, well it is my intention to contact one that owes me a considerable sum of money. That should provide us enough to head north.”
“To Nurserywood!” Dawn had exclaimed and leapt into his arms.
“Yes,” Mr. Jay returned the hug. “But I’ll have to go out in the day, and quietly—so I can’t have Mojo along.” Dawn pulled away looking sad. “So I’ll depend on you to follow the rules and wait for me here.”
Dawn nodded dejectedly. “I wish I could help.”
“You can,” he said, chucking her chin, “as soon as we get out of the City. And you will be helping me now by letting me to go about my errands without worrying.”
“All right,” Dawn had sighed, and then frowned at the list. A chubby index finger whipped out. “Clean the cooking pots!” Her eyebrows formed serious line. “Without water!”
“We have leftover drinking, and scouring pads,” Mr. Jay said, rising to his feet. “And cleanser and rags.” He had crossed to his pack, threw it over his shoulder. “And that’s just one of the chores, my dear.” The conjuror knelt in front of her. “So please try to have them completed when I return so we can get away quickly.” He gripped her shoulder then. “And DO NOT leave the hideout.”
“I promise, Mr. Jay. Never. Never. Never!” Dawn had said, little tears suddenly appearing in her eyes. And he had hugged her then.
Almost two hours had passed since he had left her. He took public transit up one Level. The City’s Skyways were roaring with traffic and the sidewalks crammed with people as he exited the bus. Moving cautiously, Mr. Jay had kept a wary eye for anyone following him, and for any sign of a trap ahead.
If the Prime were using Powers, he’d be certain now that the magician was in the city. Any delay just increased the danger for Dawn.
Mr. Jay hated leaving her in the hideout, but he couldn’t risk getting her out of the City during the day and they would need supplies. His intention was to visit a bank on Level Three and make a withdrawal. He didn’t have an account there, but he had a few tricks for just such a financial transaction. It was easier to create a bank account than cash-on demand. He chose Level Three because that was a couple Levels away from Dawn, if this trick didn’t work and he had to make a run for it again.
He chuckled to himself, entertained by the vagaries of fate. A bank robber now! What next? But his humor disappeared when a chill ran through him. It was like the air had changed, became suddenly harder, colder. Powers! There were conflicting energies emanating from different sources in the City. It had been a dull background radiation throughout his stay. The Change was going into its final act. He paused in the street and opened himself to the sensations. Old enemies were at work. Always old enemies. And the conflict was coming, sooner than later.
He thought about his plan of abandoning the City and taking Dawn to the safety of Nurserywood. A wave of guilt ran over him.
How can you give up on them now?
“Fuck that argument,” Mr. Jay said aloud. A man walking past him heard the comment and frowned. The magician smiled and told said, “I’m not fighting your battles anymore.” He started moving with the crowd. No more. The bastards took everything before and learned nothing. Watched it, participated. And learned nothing. That wasn’t going to happen again. Already, in the limited time he’d spent among them he’d been forced to draw upon his darker purpose, his own energies. If people did not attract violence and harm, they created it. And then looked for someone else to clean it up. This time the responsibility is theirs.
And Mr. Jay suddenly cried out. Almost stumbled. A sudden searing pain had shot up his leg, through his right foot—felt like it tore his kneecap off. He gasped, bent over as the pain subsided. People slowed on the sidewalk around him but did not stop.
The magician looked up
. The day was so dark streetlights were on. So what?
Then he heard it. Quiet at first, but it was there: a chant. Was it from behind? He turned to look, saw a steady stream of citizens walking. They wore suits; they wore skirts. They carried umbrellas against the drips and drizzle from the drains and cracks in the Level above. He looked up. And turned, senses open, listening. The chanting. There. Toward the City center. The Tower? By the curious looks he was getting, he knew no one else could hear it.
Chanting. Deep and sonorous. Gregorian? No, just…
Another lighting bolt of pain shot up his legs. He screamed, staggering back, bumping into a man who let him fall.
A shiver ran through him as he lay on the sidewalk. The chanting was stronger now. It was familiar: an old language from an old world. Tears started rising in his eyes. No! A fire ran into his side. Pain burned his ribs and set flame to his hands and feet. “Fuck!” Mr. Jay rolled onto his back. His walking stick clattered out of his hand.
A man was kneeling by him. “You okay?” he asked, and then saw Mr. Jay’s tears and he frowned.
“No.” Again a blade of pain twisted in his ribs. “NO!” And now he sobbed, rolled into a ball. He couldn’t take this. What was this? Where was everyone? Where are the others?
“Hey buddy,” the man beside him said, “it ain’t that bad.”
Mr. Jay’s eyes glared blearily at him. He touched the stranger’s arm and a jolt of pain ripped his palm. “No!” And he collapsed in on himself, the day disappeared, the street, the stranger. And he saw a dark room. And on the floor was a pentacle drawn in blood. A circle of naked men and women knelt around it. Their voices chanted—sang. In the pentangle center, a dark-robed figure knelt. He was broad and bulky. In his hands, he held a crucifix. And the pentangle pulsed lambent red in time to the chanting. And the pulses echoed outward through the dark. Through the City. Thumped against the sidewalk under him. Burned along his nerves and out, to push forward.
He opened his eyes, and sat up. The stranger was standing away from him now, looking worried and frightened.
The chanting was growing quiet. The pulsations of power diminished. Mr. Jay pressed his palms against the sidewalk, followed the energy on hands and knees. There it was, a stain…a mark. Gone! People stopped to watch him.
Power had been unleashed. He cast around the sidewalk, snatched up his walking stick. Dark and dangerous things had been set loose in the City. He’d only felt their passing. Quickly they were burning through the City’s levels toward Dawn!
24 - Disclosure
“I called you last night.”
Karen broke from her afternoon nap at the sound of Juanita’s voice. She leaned forward in her seat, almost lost her balance—steadied herself. Her mouth tasted of ashes. Juanita stood across from her at the door.
“Are you okay?”
Sister Cawood pushed sleep from her eyes smiling weakly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You look like shit.” Juanita closed the door behind her and leaned there.
“Oh.” It took her a moment to get her bearings. “I was working with Jane. I haven’t been feeling well. And I took a little catnap.” She smirked trying to insert a little humor. “Don’t tell her I’m awake. She’ll have me signing papers again.” She feigned a sore wrist rubbing it. Juanita’s dark eyes remained sad. Cawood sat up gesturing at the chair across from her. “Come in, what is it?” Juanita crossed the carpet, her shoulders slumped and her expression unreadable.
She was wearing a white blouse, light blue jacket and skirt. Her hair, normally buoyant and full hung loose at her shoulders. Then Karen saw the dark rings under her eyes.
“You look tired.” Cawood leaned forward as Juanita dropped into the chair.
“Of course I’m tired! I didn’t sleep a wink.” The Mormon’s white teeth flashed angrily.
“What’s wrong?”
“I went by your place last night.” Juanita crossed her legs and arms angrily. “And called until two.”
“Oh, I was out late.” She saw the Mormon’s eyes glare. “At the office. Here.”
“Stop lying.” Juanita’s accent grew with her anger. “You were not here either. I live in the Tower too, remember?”
“I—did you come by here?” Cawood looked around the room, rose weakly to her feet. “You must have missed me.”
“And did security miss you too?” Juanita’s voice grew louder. “Just stop lying to me, Karen.” Her anger softened momentarily. “Are you in trouble?”
“No.” Sister Cawood moved shakily around her desk to lean in front of the Mormon. “No. I’m not in trouble. Are you okay?”
“Am I okay? I wait up all night worried about you, and that’s all you have to say!”
“Well.” Cawood cautiously moved forward, her peripheral vision on the door. “I want to know.”
“Yes, I’m okay.” Juanita looked up at her, by her posture Cawood knew she wanted to be held. “Whatever that means to you. I guess you’re in love.”
“In love?” Cawood’s head spun—vertigo! She wrestled with nausea. “I thought we talked about…”
“Not with me.” Juanita stood up now and moved close. “With someone else.”
“What?” The nun lowered her voice, and hoped Juanita would do the same. “In love?” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Whoever you spent last night with.” Juanita’s eyes flashed. “And who you’re lying for now!”
Cawood struggled to maintain her composure as memories of the night before convulsed in her. The floor felt flimsy beneath her—she steadied herself against the desk.
“I’m not in love.” She recognized Juanita’s crestfallen look. “With anyone else.” Then under her breath she said, “But I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t have to report to each other.”
“But if we are friends first, then what could it hurt.” Juanita’s look was penetrating. “You’re blushing. I knew it!”
Cawood stepped in closer. Part of her was becoming insanely, obscenely aroused by Juanita’s perfume. It was the hangover—all those toxins cleansing out…and Juanita smelling, being so fresh and close. She whispered into the Mormon’s ear. “We stopped being friends first when we started being lovers.”
Immediately, Juanita’s voice softened. “Then what is it that you cannot tell a lover? We always speak from the heart. That is…” She looked to the door and whispered, “Why I love you.”
Cawood shrugged. She knew it would look like reluctance to Juanita, but it was guilt crushing her down. “I’ll tell you then. But only because of what we have.” She clasped Juanita’s soft hand and dropped it. “I was with Able.”
Juanita scowled. “With?” Then the idea became ridiculous to her. But the implausibility of a physical liaison with the minister did not diminish her jealousy. “What then, what were you up all night with Able for?”
“He—you have to swear you won’t speak of this.” Cawood felt more guilt twist her guts as Juanita nodded innocently and crossed her heart. “Able saw another Angel.”
“Another Angel?” Juanita’s lips almost broke into a smile. “Oh no.”
Cawood knew that everyone in the Tower knew of Able’s first vision of an Angel and resulting redemption. The revelation had inspired the building of Archangel after all. But everyone Cawood knew had taken the vision as a psychological occurrence—a vision inspired by the minister’s potent but guilty mind. No one thought it was an actual visitation.
“Why would he see an Angel?” The Mormon was puzzled. “What has he done this time?”
“Oh, this one. I don’t know. He claims the Angel came to him with a new mission.” Cawood felt unsteady and needed the support of her desk again.
“What mission?” Juanita stepped forward yearning for closeness. “A mission from—God?”
“That’s what I took it to be.” Now that they were so close Cawood yearned for the comfort of the Mormon’s embrace. For a second she wanted to confess the truth. I’m a whore! But their connection was a si
n already—the new filth was tantalizing.
“What mission?” Juanita was struggling with some inner joke.
“He said. Well...” She reached out to caress the Mormon’s shoulder. “It was something about redeeming an Angel.”
“Redeeming an Angel.” Juanita frowned now, though humor still twinkled in her eyes. “A fallen Angel?”
Cawood shrugged and nodded, hesitant to take further part in this betrayal of confidence.
“Not Satan?” Juanita closed her lips and then let go with a great ring of laughter. She bent over, resting her hands on Cawood’s shoulders. “Satan?” She laughed again, this time Cawood couldn’t resist. Such a weight of guilt was upon her that the absurdity of Able’s concerns grew ludicrous.
“Redeem the Devil himself…” Juanita’s smile was wide. “Oh, that Able he does fancy himself a handy servant of God All Mighty.”
Chuckling, the nun pressed a hand over Juanita’s lips. “Hush…don’t say Satan!” They both giggled.
“Well who else would it be, Karen? The good Lord wouldn’t waste Able Stoneworthy’s time with anything less.”
Again the pair of them curled over with laughter. Tears of shame burning in her eyes, Cawood broke into giggles. “Tomorrow morning!”
They both started laughing uncontrollably again.
“Around eleven...”
They were overwhelmed and collapsed into each other’s arms. They continued like this for some time, Cawood immersing herself in the release.
A quiet knocking on the office door interrupted them. The nun straightened up. “Yes. Come in please.”
Jane’s broad-cheeked face came in the opening door. She smiled apologetically then stepped into the room smoothing her tasteful skirt and jacket. “Excuse the interruption, Sister.”
Cawood wiped at her eyes nodding. “That’s fine Jane, how can I help you?”
“Excuse me, Sister Powell. I didn’t hear you enter.” She looked politely back to Sister Cawood. “I didn’t like the look of Sister Cawood this morning, and with her having to nap earlier on…and with the sounds in here, I thought she might have taken a turn for the worse.” She smiled hesitantly.
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 13