tmp_ab131adc730627acb6e8cb55492d02d1_rmMCfR.fixed.tidied

by The Second Coming (mobi)

  Again Miguel opened his mouth. “Her mother is dead.”

  “And you chose not to leave her with the Church?”

  Miguel's face reddened and he cast an angry glance towards John. “One of us made that choice.”

  She gazed at John, fingering the cross about her neck. “You do not trust the Church?”

  What should I tell her?

  Miguel had already given away too much, but as John faced the woman, he felt the desire to speak only the truth to her.

  A spell?

  He shook it off, and of his own volition spoke no lie. “No, I do not. Our religion is a sham.”

  Miguel's face paled and he reached into his pocket to pull out the rosary.

  Ingrid nodded and smiled. “Indeed. It is a sham.”

  The fat friar's jaw dropped open. “But,” he stammered, “you wear the cross. You have one in the window.”

  The woman smiled. “Yes, it draws an interesting crowd. You'd be surprised how many people feel safe staying here because of this symbol. It's as if it redeems their actions somehow. I would sooner give up my soul than follow your God.”

  John laughed. “Clever. Not just the Church can capitalize on guilt, I see.”

  A twinkle lit her dark eyes. “You spoke the truth of your own accord.”

  John remained silent as Miguel wrenched his bible from his pack. “You could save your soul.” He slid the book across the table towards her.

  A smirk crept across her face. “You would have me read your little book? Your false religion? Why would I follow only one God when there are many?”

  He pulled back the bible, slipping it into his pack. Anger smoldered in his round eyes. “There is only one God.”

  “No,” John said.

  If she wants the truth, then I will give it.

  The burden of his cross lifted from his shoulders like no confessional could ever provide. “Everything that is said outside the Church is true. There is not one God. There are many.”

  ***

  Straining to see, Paine blinked. He made out the blurred edges of a figure that loomed over him; a brown-skinned man with hair that spilled down his back in reams of black silk. A craggy face with black orbs for eyes smiled at him. The man was not fully human. Neither was the deep voice that rolled off his tongue.

  “Welcome back.” The words resonated in Paine's chest. And then so did a sudden agony. He clutched at his heart.

  Lya!

  She was far, and moving south. As if by itself, his head rolled in her direction. He knew exactly where she lay; or rode. He could sense her moving further away from him, and fast.

  The sun shone overhead, breaching the crest of pines and maples that surrounded him. Paine groaned, his mind and memory sifting through heavy fog. He reached for the back of his throbbing skull, fingers caressing the dangling threads of a makeshift bandage that was wrapped about his head.

  “Where's Lya? And who are you?”

  Paine tried to sit up, but with a gentleness surprising for someone of his size the burly man forced him to lay back.

  “I am called Great Bear. Diarmuid left you in our care while he goes after your sister. She was taken by the Witch Hunters.”

  Paine propped himself up again, his head throbbing harder. He rubbed his chest. His heart ached. “I have to find her.”

  “Easy.” Again, the gnarled hands eased him down.

  Paine struggled. “You don't understand.”

  Great Bear's black eyes widened. “You have the courage of a badger, little one, but there is nothing you can do for her. Orenda is with Diarmuid and she can track your sister's falcon. Do not fear. They will bring her back.”

  Something moved at Paine’s feet. He yanked them back, startled.

  A wolf’s head appeared and he exhaled.

  “Fang.” Her presence gave him relief; even the pain in his chest subsided. The wolf sniffed him, turned her head at his soiled pants, and then wet his face with her leathery tongue.

  Paine wiped the drool from his cheek and heard a voice from over Great Bear's shoulder.

  “He’s awake!”

  Puck ran around from behind Great Bear. “You … awake.” He crawled beside Paine and patted his leg. “You okay … Paine.”

  Paine returned his awkward grin. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Puck nodded. He appeared fine with the exception of a red mark on his face.

  “Have you been near Hella again?”

  The young man lowered his head. His nod was slight this time.

  Truitt approached them, his stride slow, but steady. His angled features were solemn. Puck cowered at his approach.

  Truitt turned Paine around to examine the back of his head. The man was nowhere close to Great Bear’s size, but his manhandling was far less gentle. Paine tried not to wince.

  “You look better than when we found you,” Truitt commented. “I suppose you know what happened to Lya.” Truitt released him, like from a vice. Paine leaned back.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “From what we can gather from your simple-minded friend here, the Witch Hunters struck you from behind. They took Lya. The Witch Hunter that attacked you is clasped in silver.”

  Puck panted next to him. “They let her … live,” he muttered.

  Paine had a sudden thought. One he hoped was wrong. He attempted to stand.

  “I want to see her.”

  Great Bear held him down. “Not yet, little badger. You will get nothing out of her. She is being taken to Haven to be freed of the herb that binds her. We must learn what she knows. There is much at stake.”

  He gritted his teeth. “What does she look like?”

  He had to know.

  Puck cleared his throat. “Same one … t-t-take me.”

  ***

  Smoke sifted from the corner of Ingrid's lips, its scent pungent and thick, and rose to drift along the rafters of the small inn. John's tongue bonded to the roof of his mouth at the smell.

  Wick.

  She exhaled, and the herbal concoction tantalized a long-lost craving in him. She recognized it, and the half-breed smiled.

  “Would you like one? Most humans can't handle it.”

  In her fingers she deftly twirled a thin, coarsely wrapped wick and offered it to him. He took it and lit it from the tip of hers. John inhaled, and the mixed flavors of tobacco, hemp, and Wormwood wafted down his throat. He closed his eyes to savor the taste. It had been years since he had last smoked the leaf of the Wormwood, a forbidden, soul-binding substance. In small doses, its addiction was mind-numbing, but when taken pure, the craving was lethal.

  John had finally turned to a life in the Church to get himself off it.

  And to escape.

  Ingrid studied him for a moment, her eyes shifting over his frame and face.

  “Your fat friend left for his bath in a hurry. He didn't like what you had to say about your God.”

  He thought of the passage he had read to Miguel.

  And Elohim said, 'Let us make man in our image.’

  “He cannot accept that Elohim is a plural term; that there might be more than one god is unfathomable.”

  She laughed. “But it’s written many times in your little book.”

  “It’s not my book,” he said.

  Not anymore.

  “Does he know the rest? About who his God truly is?”

  There were many passages spelling it out, but one in particular was etched into his memory; the genocide, one of many, ordered by one of the ancient gods that could not stand to share his glory.

  But ye shall destroy their altars, break their images, and cut down their groves: For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.

  John shook his head. “I must break this to him over time. Too much at once he would not be able to handle.”

  “Why does he accompany you?”

  “I think he was sent to update the Cardinal. Miguel has a good heart, and has alway
s been kind to me, even when the Church imprisoned me for heresy, but he would crawl up the devil's ass if the Cardinal asked him. I don't think he's fond of our Pope.”

  Ingrid nodded. “I've heard she was once a blood priestess, but that was years ago. Does he oppose her?”

  “I don't know.” He paused to put the wick to his lips, flicking the tip with his tongue as he took another drag. He closed his eyes as the effects of the Wormwood tickled the recesses of his mind.

  The ecstasy.

  His loins stirred and his eyes shifted to the glint of the gold cross lodged between Ingrid's breasts. His face flushed with embarrassment and he averted his eyes to stare into hers.

  That was enough.

  He couldn’t do that again — ever. He was tainted.

  John butted the wick in an earthenware bowl and coughed.

  “Many are waiting for this Pope to abdicate. I'm not sure Esther is the sort though. She's strong.”

  Ingrid examined the wasted wick in the bowl. “The same was once said of Pope Joan.”

  He nodded. “I suppose.”

  “Did you know her?”

  He coughed again.

  Yes.

  “She was the opposite of Esther, dark where Esther was light, a mystery to Esther's sureness. Esther is purely human, Joan was not. But rumor has it she was either Lastborn or Firstborn. I always thought she might be Sidhe.” He studied Ingrid for a moment and the fine lines of her eyebrows.

  She sucked hard on the wick and blew the smoke from the corner of her mouth. “For all the good that does anyone.”

  “Are you?”

  She cleared her throat, but her voice was still low and chalky. “My father was. My mother was human.”

  “I thought Sidhe blood was never mixed with others.”

  “Like most Sidhe males, my father had little ability to control his carnal desires. And when there’s no one left to mate with, what choice is there? He fucked all kinds of humans, and not just women.”

  John nodded. He had heard that.

  Ingrid brought the wick to her lips and a stirring in his loins vexed him again. The smoke drifted in his direction, dancing along the rays of failing sunlight that clambered through the window. Outside the inn, a pilgrimage towards the Maze paraded along the street. Some played the flute as they walked; an eerie melody.

  Pan’s flute.

  John had heard he was looking for a bride. And he’d also heard that the horned being frequented the Maze.

  He looked back at Ingrid. “The Sidhe are scattered. Why?”

  She shook her head. “We lost the last surviving heir to the throne.”

  “Who?”

  She winked at him. “Pope Joan.”

  John nearly choked. “What?”

  Ingrid leaned in. “She kept that secret to herself. Sephirah‘s mother was Queen Maeve, who bred with the former Emperor of Valbain, among others. Sephirah would have been the ultimate ruler that would have united all the races, for she was bred from the all. Of course, any power she had was lost when Sephirah joined the Church. She discovered what sort of bastard child she was, rejected her position, and became a priestess. It is said she lost her skill when that happened. By the time she abdicated and joined the Rebellion, her talent in necromancy and bloodcraft was lost. Then she disappeared, and the hopes of the Sidhe with her.”

  Ingrid shifted in the wooden chair. It creaked and scratched the worn, wooden floor. She folded her hands on the table, her arms pressing her cleavage together.

  “Tell me something. Why did my spell not affect you? I felt you brush it off. No man has ever avoided spilling his heart to me.”

  John chuckled. “I sensed it. I have a talent myself. I can smell truth. I know when someone is lying to me. It is a gift I was given when I found my own.”

  “Yet you still spoke true to me. You could have lied.”

  He smiled. “Ah, but that is the curse of my gift. I cannot lie.”

  The corner of her lips curved slyly upwards. “Well then, tell me true, Churchman. I've been told some of your order still cling to the ancient notion of celibacy like a Razor Leech to a fat Baron. How long has it been for you? Would you like to take me in the Maze?”

  Ingrid's chest rose and fell in a rhythmic motion, reminiscent of a leisurely tide. Warmth surged up John’s neck and he longed to run his fingers along the thin, gold chain that traced a delicate line across her white flesh. He caught the scent of her over the Wormwood — faint lilac.

  He lifted his eyes to meet hers, and nearly drowned in the pools of lust that waited for him. The lingering Wormwood numbed his senses and his will. It had been so long, so agonizingly long.

  He shook his head and swallowed the lump in his throat.

  No. Never again.

  The longing faded, and he smiled. “I can choose not to answer you.”

  A smirk slid across her lips. “The fat friar returns. Perhaps it is for the best.”

  From the stairs, Miguel waddled towards them, Meega at his side. The friar wore multi-hued patchwork pants with billowing cuffs and a blue, silk top that hung nearly to his knees. Meega stood next to him, her hair clean and moist, hanging limp down the side of her face. Dressed in a bright red dress with a bow in her hair, she smiled at them; the first since the passing of her mother. The wooden doll hung at her side, its straw hair clenched in her tiny fist.

  John rose from the table, careful not to bang his head on the ceiling beams. He picked up the little girl.

  “You look very pretty.”

  She smiled, and held his face and his gaze. The innocence that shone within those blue eyes seeped into him and yanked at his heart. Then she plugged her nose.

  John laughed. “I guess I need a bath.”

  He put Meega down and she ran over to sit beside Ingrid who clapped her hands to summon the servants. A young man and woman, siblings as far as John could tell, slipped into the room from behind a sheer, violet curtain.

  “Prepare another bath and guide the good friar upstairs.” She then turned to John. “It was an interesting chat, Churchman. If you need anything from me later, you will know where to find me. You will likely not see me in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Ingrid. You have been most generous.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  John then followed the two servants to the bathing room.

  The hot water was scented with petals of lilac and honeysuckle, the former of which reminded him of Ingrid. He supposed he could have accepted her offer, if that's what he could call it, but this was no time for indulgences of the flesh. And he wasn’t sure he could anyway. After the incident where that spirit had seized his weakened mind and used him, he wasn’t sure that he could be with anyone again. It was too much remorse to bear some days. And he knew he wasn’t free of guilt entirely.

  Perhaps if he had not been addicted himself, he could have held out; perhaps he could have fought it.

  He shook his head at the folly of that notion.

  No. Who was he fooling? There was no fighting.

  Not that spirit.

  He poured water over his mangy head, as if to baptize himself.

  How much sin could he wash away?

  He remembered the encounter like it was burned into his mind.

  He poured water over himself again.

  What ate at him over the years was that some fraction of him took pleasure in the encounter. Hidden beneath his struggles to free himself from the god-damned spirit that had occupied his body lay longing, ecstasy, and power. His loins stirred at the memory of it, and another pitcher of water flooded over him.

  Why?

  He castigated himself, silent as he dug his fingernails into his skin.

  The pain sometimes provided relief.

  Then John wept.

  Five towering candles flickered in the corner, casting yellow light and dancing shadows throughout the room. Night settled in by the time he was sure he scrubbed out the last of the stench. He stepped out of the tub and dressed
in the silken orange nightclothes that awaited him. They were the perfect length, if a little loose, and he made his way to the room prepared for the three of them. He felt like there was an iron cross hanging from his neck.

  Miguel and Meega were already settled in for the night, the tonsured man reading to her from the Bible. He closed the book as John entered and said nothing. John blew out the candles and settled into the blankets himself, dreaming of mazes, a hoofed devil, castration, and a pregnant Pope.

  The following morning John did not see Ingrid in the common room, and after paying for their services, the two friars and Meega made their way out of Carnero, all dressed in lavish, brightly colored clothing with pairs to spare. John rather liked his new garments, but Miguel muttered something about trading it along the route.

  He got his wish in a small parish, three days later on the border of Portugal, where he traded the garb for friar's robes and reset his tonsure once more. John kept Meega far from the derelict stone church, insisting upon taking her into town to find her a riding outfit while Miguel saw to his spiritual needs. He could not allow Miguel the chance to leave her with the Church.

  He walked through the town where rumors swarmed like locusts. The sighting of an angel near old Madrid stirred religious fanaticism while the fear of horned demons near Rome drove the people to frenzy. John had heard such rumors numerous times before, along with sightings of Ganesh, Athena, and Isis. They were getting more frequent of late and they were always followed by reports of odd births — babes with stumps for arms and legs; children begat with claws or horns; and infants born with the tongue of a snake. He’d even heard of a little boy who’d been whelped with hooves for feet. That child did not live long.

  He penned another missive to the Pope before moving onwards, realizing he had little time to squander.

  Two days further, as all three stood upon the white, sandy shores of Baleal, he wondered what the Pope thought of his writings to her.

  Had she even received them?

  Meega splashed about in the waves. He picked her up and she put his face in her hands once again, staring into his eyes. It was a moment where nothing else existed, but her porcelain features and smiling face. She still said nothing, but she didn’t seem to need to.