I sighed. Why could things never be easy? I had donated the painting anonymously, that’s why, I told myself. They would have to authenticate it first. Like Lily’s Water had ever been for sale before, so they should know it had come from me. Though I suppose in some twisted alternate reality universe someone could have stolen it from me and listed it for sale without me ever knowing. Because, you know, things like that are just so easy to hide.
Details, details, details.
I could take care of those details concerning the authenticity with one phone call and I intended to as soon as I got back to my studio.
“I’ll see what I can do to expedite that for you,” I told him. Movement towards the back caught my eye and I noticed the man in the suit glance up at us. I practically felt him swallow and recoil in fear as he stared at me.
I resisted the urge to turn and growl openly at him. I didn’t think Mallory would appreciate that.
“Thank you,” Mallory said, not seeming to notice the man. I, however noticed that he kept glancing back at us.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” I said to Mallory. I already knew Aleksander had been there, but it didn’t hurt to ask if he’d spoken to anyone. He hadn’t had any problem speaking to Gayle at the hospital.
“I can try,” he replied, waiting patiently for me to continue. He must have aced every class on patience he took in seminary.
“Has there been a gentleman here asking after me?” I watched his face, noting the subtle changes in his expression. Acknowledgement. Recognition.
He’d be a terrible liar. Truth was obviously a large part of his beliefs.
“He’d be a little shorter than me, with thinning blonde hair. He might have had a faint accent. He’d have been dressed fairly well and possibly had a woman in black with him.”
“Yes,” Mallory nodded and I could see the faint creasing to his forehead. “They were just here this morning. He wasn’t asking about you, though, only mentioned you were a friend. He just looked around and asked about what time services were on Sunday.”
I had to try very hard not to snort at that one. The very idea of Aleksander attending any church services was laughable.
Marcella would have snorted. Then cackled that laugh of hers.
I glanced back at the man in the suit when he looked up at us again. There was something wrong in how he was watching us now.
“Did you need something?” I called back to him, not bothering to soften my growl. If anything, I tried making it more obvious.
“You are Mikhos Dorian?” he asked, his voice heavily accented. Perhaps Austrian. I gave the air a faint sniff. He wasn’t one of us. There was a faint scent of fear, though, but one he was trying to control.
“That depends on who you are,” I returned, giving him my full attention now. I flexed my fingers slowly as he stood from the pew and walked with deliberate steps to the end. He seemed to favor one foot and used the back of the seats to help balance himself. I moved slightly to the side, putting myself a bit more between him and Mallory. As he approached, I tilted my head to look at him with my clear eye.
“I have a message for you from Aleksander Weir.”
So that was the name he was using now. I was sure I’d forget it as quickly as I had all the others he’d used.
“And this message would be?”
“He is wondering if you have considered his proposal.”
Now that raised an interesting point. Had I really considered it? No. Not really. I remembered Marcella’s suggestions of why he wanted my help. But if he already had an old one working with him, why would he need me?
Hmm, maybe I had considered it after all. Maybe I should consider it more.
“Tell him I’d like to discuss it with him in person,” I told the man. “And to leave his pet home this time, I’m not really in the mood to clean up after her again.” I couldn’t help but wonder what Mallory was thinking right now. At the very least that I didn’t like pets. If he only knew.
The man nodded slowly then turned to leave the church, still favoring his right foot. I concentrated on it briefly and could hear the faint grinding of the bones and tendons in the ankle. It was obviously a recent injury, but not one that would incapacitate him.
“Are you in any kind of trouble, Mr. Dorian?” Mallory asked when the door had closed behind the man in the suit. I could hear the faint concern in his voice. Even for me, a virtual stranger.
“I don’t think so,” I said, turning back to him. “But I suppose that remains to be seen. I’m not too worried about it. Aleksander is an old acquaintance.”
Just how many understatements could I fit into one response, anyway?
“You’ll forgive my saying so, then, but judging from his stance and your tone, I don’t really believe you.”
I paused to consider this. It’s not like I’d had my claws out. But then again, I didn’t intimidate and I didn’t like Aleksander sending his flunkies to find me. Perhaps my bristling hadn’t been as much in my mind as I’d thought. I should work on that.
“Let’s just say it’s a job offer I’m not too keen on accepting.” There I go with the understatements again.
“If it’s something you question that deeply, Mr. Dorian, then perhaps your conscience is trying to tell you it’s a bad idea.” Mallory walked a bit away, picking up some crumpled papers on the pew beside us then tossed them in a small trash bin by the wall.
My, the understatements were flying in full formation today.
“My conscience and I came to terms with Aleksander a long time ago,” I told him. “But he’s sort of like the childhood friend you just can’t get away from, even though you’ve moved off in different directions in life.”
Mallory seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding slowly. “I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’.”
I had heard it, a number of times. And hearing it again I realized that was a very accurate saying where Aleksander was concerned. Perhaps I was going about this from the wrong angle. Perhaps the way to go wasn’t to pick off his followers and work my way up to him, but to walk right in at his side and tear his little operation down from the inside.
I wondered just how much discontent I could stir up before he caught on.
Most artists are rabid pacifists, you know. We aren’t given to violence.
I didn’t even need Marcella there to hear her snort at that.
I sighed, half to myself, half to the room in general. My mind twisted and turned, jumping from one idea to the next, dropping some, latching tighter onto others. Openly scoffing at still more. Still, there was something to the idea of at least pretending like I was going to join in with his campaign. It would give me an idea of how many people he had. Who he was trusting and who he wasn’t. Where he was planning on going next in this scheme.
Except for the whole part about having to at least look like I was working with him. That idea I was going to need some time to come to terms with. We’d spent time together in the past and it had never turned out well by the end. Though on the one hand, maybe this time when we went after each other, Marcella wouldn’t be there to break up the fight so it could finally be put to an end. Of course, that meant on the other hand, if Aleksander did have an old one working with him, that one might be and it would be in Aleksander’s favor.
I realized Father Mallory was looking at me with an expression that was a mix of concern and curiosity.
“Yes?” I asked him, wondering briefly if I’d actually been speaking out loud. I didn’t think I had, but you never know what habits you might pick up over the years when you lived in solitude.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anyone carry on a complete argument with themselves like that before, without ever saying a single word.”
So apparently that much was obvious. Either that or he was very good at reading expressions. I somehow wanted to believe it was the latter. It just felt right. Especially since I knew
my scars kept most of my expressions from being obvious.
“I actually do it quite frequently,” I confessed. “You should see what I go through trying to decide what color to paint something.”
“I’m sure,” he nodded, then paused for a moment, studying me. “You seem to be at a crossroads. Is there anything you want to talk about that I might be able to help with?”
“No offense, Father,” I shook my head. “But I doubt you want to get pulled into my problems. And I’m not all that keen on religion anyway. I’ve seen it ruin too many good people and not save enough of the bad ones.”
He tilted his head slightly as he raised his eyebrows and I could tell I’d piqued his interest with that.
Oh good. Another priest open to philosophical and religious debates.
I wondered which of us would drag the other to hell first.
“You’re a curious man, Mr. Dorian,” Mallory noted.
“If that’s the worst thing you ever have to say about me, Father,” I returned. “I could be content with that for the rest of my life.”
I had been called far worse than ‘curious’ and thought far worse of myself for a very long time.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
I shrugged. “Only if you don’t mind if I might not answer.”
“Fair enough,” he nodded. “How did you get your scars?”
I paused, surprised. I hadn’t expected him to ask me that. Usually if people asked, it was out of some morbid curiosity. But I didn’t sense anything like that from him. It was an honest question, asked in an attempt to perhaps understand me better and why I thought like I did about people or religion. He was still working on that understanding part of his job description.
It had been a very long time since I’d thought about how I’d gotten my scars. I’d lived with them for so long they seemed like they’d always been there. I had even found myself thinking I had them in my memories from before, even though I’d only had them about seven decades. Less than half my life.
I wasn’t even sure I could remember all the details at this point. As I tried to recall the exact timeline, I slowly lowered myself to sit on the pew. Father Mallory took my lead and also sat, several feet between us. Enough room to keep our conversation private if anyone else came in, but far enough away to respect personal space.
Yes, he was a very good priest. He knew all the rules.
“I was younger,” I finally replied, choosing my words carefully. I didn’t want to use exact ages or dates; that would make him think I was insane. And it would possibly give him something to research, which would only raise more questions. “I was homeless for a while and living in a shelter because it was too cold to sleep outside. One night a fire broke out. I’d been sleeping in a room towards the back and managed to get out through a window.” I paused, flashes of memory coming back to me. Voices yelling. A dog barking. Crackling, searing heat from flames that rose twenty feet high. The cracking and groaning of the wood as it collapsed inside. A child crying.
The child crying. That was what I’d heard that spurred me into action. The building was nearly engulfed on the ground floor, nobody could get through it and survive to reach those trapped inside. Nobody who was a normal human, that is.
I found the man and his son huddled toward the back of the kitchen. The boy was no more than five. I remembered them from earlier that day. The boy’s mother had died and his father had lost his job, so they had ended up on the streets. It was their first night in that shelter.
“There were people trapped inside,” I continued after I’d sorted the details in my mind into something comprehensible. “The front of the building was fully engulfed, but I found a way in from the back, where the fire hadn’t gotten that bad yet.”
That part was mostly true. I’d had to jump past a number of flames and through a wall to get to an area where I could get my bearings so I could get through to them. That had also involved taking out another wall to get there.
“I found a man and his son trapped inside and helped them escape,” I finished. “They were in the back of the kitchen, hiding under a counter. As we were getting out, the roof collapsed and a beam landed on me, breaking my shoulder and catching my coat and shirt on fire.” I paused again. I remembered the searing pain clearly, even after all this time. The smell of burning wool and flesh had been sickening and seemed to completely encompass me. “The man left his son outside and ran back to pull me free.”
Father Mallory was watching me, studying me. His expression was unreadable. I heard his heartbeat pick up, however and hold a steady, fast pace. Something I’d said had triggered it, I was positive.
I hadn’t needed help when the beam had fallen on me, I’d have gotten myself out within another second, but the man had come back for me. Even with a frightened child and his own injuries and coughing from the smoke, he’d come back for me. He’d been afraid I was going to die saving them. I suppose there had been a very slim chance I could have. Very slim.
I shrugged. “That’s pretty much it. The shelter was a total loss. Everyone who’d been staying there who survived moved on to other places. My shoulder eventually healed and the burns healed into scars.” I didn’t mention that I’d healed within a week. I already knew my wounds would take a normal person months, if not years to recover from.
Mallory continued to look at me, still not speaking for a long moment. Finally, he stood up. His heartbeat was still faster than normal, but had slowed slightly from the sudden jump it had taken a few minutes before.
“Would you come with me, Mr. Dorian?” he asked, his tone quiet. I could hear emotion in it, but couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. I wondered briefly what was going on. There wasn’t anything in my story that should have alerted him to where or when it had happened.
“Is something wrong?” I asked him, standing up. He led the way to a small door off to the side. Unlocking it with a key from above the door, he led me into a small office.
This was obviously his personal office. It was smaller than the one where we’d met about the painting. A small desk sat against one wall, with two chairs close together in front of it. A simple wooden chair was behind it. The shelves had a number of books on them, ranging from an assortment of bibles and religious documents to dictionaries and general reference guides. An assortment of photos were arranged on two of the shelves, family and key events through his life. It was easy to recognize him even in pictures from his childhood. He apparently had six brothers. Or a lot of cousins.
Mallory opened a door at the bottom of one bookshelf and took out a large album type book. He motioned for me to sit down in one of the chairs, then took the wooden one and opened the album. Inside were an assortment of yellowed newspaper clippings, black and white photos and other memorabilia. As I sat down, curious, he turned slowly and carefully through the pages, taking great care not to damage any of the old papers or photos. Finally, he stopped on one page and turned it towards me.
A newspaper article on the shelter next door from when it burned down. I scratched absently at one of the scars on my right arm. Back before it had been rebuilt into a women’s and children’s shelter.
Yes, April, I knew the one.
Before I could try denying any connection, Mallory turned the page again, a black and white photo of a man and young boy of about five standing together by a fence there on the next page. The boy was trying to smile while the man looked serious.
Like the sort of man who’d lost his wife and almost lost his son in a fire.
I recognized them even after all this time.
I glanced up at Mallory, really not wanting to continue this conversation since I knew where it was going to go now.
“My grandfather told us all the story of the man who saved them when he was a boy,” Mallory said, his voice quiet. “How the man had been hurt trying to save them and how he’d disappeared once they were safe. It was a story he always retold in great detail.”
&nb
sp; I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I had nothing to say.
“My grandfather built this church because of that night,” Mallory continued. “I became a priest because of him and the values he taught me.” He paused, his eyes pinned on me as he closed the album. “Because of the values you taught him that night.”
I sighed.
I wasn’t the monster.
Chapter Fourteen
Transcendence
Most parents try to teach their children to be honest and tell the truth. They try to instill values and ethics. The very smart parents also teach them that there’s a time to tell the truth and a time to leave out information that might not be necessary at that time. They don’t teach them to lie, but only to tell as much as necessary.
I’ve thought many times over the years that my father, at least, was very smart. He taught me early on that just because someone asked me a question, it didn’t mean I had to provide the answers to five more unasked questions.
Father Mallory had questions. A lot of questions. I suppose he was entitled, he was intelligent enough to know that certain things weren’t adding up right. At this point, he couldn’t even make them add up wrong. Unfortunately for his questions, I wasn’t about to provide him with all of the answers.
One thing I had learned very quickly after I was infected, was the less detail I shared, the better for everyone.
“How is this even possible?” Mallory asked me, shaking his head slowly. “My grandfather’s story never changed or embellished and you know the details he told the rest of us many times. Details only the person who rescued them would know, like where they were hiding and the fact that he was crying. Where and how their rescuer was hurt, that his father went back for the man.”
I sighed. I wanted to try denying it, but knew it would be about as useful as telling your mother you hadn’t stolen her fresh-baked pie while you still had cherry smudged around your mouth and fingers and the crumb-covered pan hidden under your shirt.
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