Black & Orange

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

  “I hear them too. They’re anxious this year Quintana,” Cole told him as shadows slashed over his distorted face. “And you’re going to open the door wider than ever. You will let them in.”

  ~ * ~

  The Church of Midnight occupied four floors of the Double Tree hotel in Ontario. The drive from Colton took around twenty minutes and that gave Paul plenty of time to splash around in his dread. He was fairly convinced Cole needed him for the Heralding and there weren’t any plans to get rid of him, at least not right now, and he was also slightly sure Melissa would have her acolytes watching the situation steadfast, just in case. She couldn’t afford to have that video go public domain. If Cole didn’t break her neck, he’d find away to throw her out of her job in supply and logistics, maybe even toss her out of the Inner Circle. Paul couldn’t worry about it tonight though. Now that he’d lived through his meeting with Chaplain Cloth, tonight was all about the Priestess. He refused to not enjoy himself.

  Cole checked them in at the front counter. The hotel was nicer than most places Paul had been to: red carpets, sitting areas, wide open and airy spaces. He sat in a daze by a potted fern across from the counter and looked around to see if anybody cared enough to watch. Nope, just a few sweeping bodies carrying luggage, waiting to put it down somewhere. Paul took out his quartz and practiced. The blossoms had unfurled again and he’d rather have had his mind on this rock than on the memory of those freaky eyes. Everything could be fine.

  “Put the rock away,” Cole said, making him jump. “You do that in private. We don’t advertise.”

  Paul slipped the stone in his pocket. Cole handed him a little envelope with the key card to his room. “Are your acolytes bringing up your luggage?”

  Paul nodded a white lie. He still had to give the lobotomites a call. They were probably drunk by this hour. Hopefully they were only a little stoned.

  “I’ll see you at conclave.”

  Paul nodded, then he flipped open his phone and put it to his ear. Cole Szerszen stood there looking at him for an uncomfortable moment while the phone rang.

  “Our bargain in the desert will always stand,” said Cole. “I want you to know that, no matter what, you have my word on that as a Bishop of Midnight.”

  Paul didn’t know what to say. It was almost embarrassing. Cole clapped him hard on the shoulder and headed for the elevators. An exasperated sigh burst from Paul’s mouth. That is one odd duck there, boys and girls, he thought.

  The ringing ended in a lazy sounding message: “This is Jake, um, I’m not here to take... your, um, message but if you leave me, uh, your number I’ll return your call. Thank you. Buh-bye.”

  Paul hated buh-bye.

  “Hey fuckhead!” he started. Two passing elderly women toting carpet suitcases gave Paul sidelong looks. “Get your ass to the Double Tree in Ontario. Bring ten acolytes, strapped. The hotel is booked, so tell the rest they’re sleeping in the parking structure. Call me when you get this, which better be fucking soon.”

  Paul smacked the phone shut and then rubbed at the anxiety locked in his face. It was okay. In a couple hours, conclave would begin and he would be in the same room with the Priestess. The thought of that practically floated him to the elevators.

  ~ * ~

  Before a second knock could hit the door, Paul was off the bed. His bath towel fell off his hips and he almost tripped through its terrycloth layers. He cursed the towel and ripped it off the ground and stationed it over his crotch with one hand. What the hell had taken Vince so long? Paul took a breath and got his game face on. He’d stood toe to toe with Chaplain Cloth and renewed confidence flowed through his body like an electrical current.

  The door came open and he said, “Where the—?”

  Melissa stood outside. She was dressed in a black evening dress. Had she lost those silly horn-rimmed glasses she may have passed the minor league test for Paul, but as it stood she still reminded him of a boarding school teacher on her perpetual period. A parcel was tucked under her arm.

  He grinned at the box, then at her. “Why are you here? Come back for seconds?”

  She shoved him into the room and closed the door. “I need to get back to Cole. He really doesn’t need to know I’m here.”

  “No shit.” Paul wrapped the towel around his waist. It began to sag and he readjusted. “So you brought them?”

  She handed the box over. “I’m going to report them as stolen when we return to Mojave. You need to know that.”

  “Do what you have to.” Paul went over to the small gray safe in the closet and put the box inside. Twisted the dial. “I’ll test the seeds on someone sooner or later, so if you fucked me—”

  “I know you don’t care and you don’t even have a shred of decency, but all I have is Cole. Without him I would be nowhere.”

  “The Melissa Paterson story,” he said. “Next Tuesday at seven.”

  “Destroy that video. Cole doesn’t deserve to be hurt like this.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’ll offer my two best acolytes,” she said reluctantly. “If that’s what you require for this to be over. If there were plans made, you’ll be the first to know when they pledge to you. This just has to end already.”

  “More acolytes sounds good, but I don’t want anyone wittier than me. I just want them to be able to tie their shoelaces without the double loop trick.”

  Melissa put her hand on the bony ridge of her hip. The words were hard-formed, as though she planed over them. “You really don’t have to be suspicious. I think you know that if Cole found out, he’d only hate me.”

  “Yes,” Paul replied, “Cole’s not so bad. Ugly as a mutt on a butt-hunt, but I have no real problems with him. He wants to be the Archbishop, which after what I saw tonight that makes Cole either delusional or suicidal. I wouldn’t refuse an ally on that level. I certainly never want to slide into that position. Hell, I don’t plan to be in this Church forever.”

  “Sacrilege.”

  An obnoxious knock came at the door. Shave and a haircut. Paul shook his head, sickened by the sound. Melissa hurried to the peephole and squinted through it. “One of yours, I think.”

  “Please, I take no ownership.” Paul ripped open the door. A lanky, long-haired guy in a Slayer t-shirt swaggered over the threshold with Paul’s suitcases. He jangled as he walked, earrings, wallet chain, bracelets all announcing his arrival. “Awesome room, Quintana! Woh, put some clothes on, man.”

  Melissa stepped around Vince Stogin and ventured into the hall. Paul thumbed over his shoulder. “Do you see why I need new people? I’m not just being a dick.”

  “Yes you are,” she returned. “That’s all that you are.”

  “I hope you haven’t washed your hands since.”

  “The video?” she whispered firmly.

  Paul leaned back into the room and swiped his phone off the little round table. Melissa watched as he scrolled down to the video and selected delete.

  “And the copies? How do I know you’ll erase those?”

  “I’m not getting rid of them right away.”

  Skin bunched in her brow. “So why did I do all this? How do I know you won’t keep screwing me over—”

  “Because my dear, it’s very simple. I’m sick of looking at you.”

  Melissa’s mouth dropped as the door shut in her face.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cole waited in the hallway for Melissa for more than forty minutes and his patience had thinned to transparency. He’d tried his best to clean up his jaw and busted knuckle and comb back his donkey-gray hair, so that he looked as presentable as someone like him could possibly look. He wore the dress shoes she’d bought him even though they were too narrow and gave him blisters on his ankles. He also had sprayed his neck with that awful cologne she’d purchased for his birthday.

  His tuxedo felt like an anchor that grew heavier with every breath. He’d never grown fond of suits and dreaded the night of conclave when he had to put on the suit of all suits. It jus
t felt phony. People should not wear clothing that suggested achievement when they had none. He wasn’t worthy of a tux yet. He still felt like an old demolitions toady from the Monterey chapel, happy to do what was expected of him.

  Cole stood by a sign from one of the earlier Church seminars. Inner City Recruitment: Dealing with gang factions, reversal of loyalty and incentives. He thought that might have been a good one to take before going out this morning.

  The rest of the Church of Midnight lingered outside the ballroom, chatting and chortling and chugging cocktails from the bar. Many of the faces hadn’t changed. Some had grown older. The entire Inner Circle wasn’t present, of course, and this left all the international factions to send the most politically palatable members. They were ad hoc Bishops now, for sure, but Cole would see they received the titles someday. That there should be two bishops and an Archbishop and that they be American was something that some scholars interpreted from the Tomes. But it wasn’t there. It was projection. And it wasn’t fair. These men and women had done their time. They were worthy. As Archbishop, Cole wouldn’t kneel to tradition and hoard the marrow seeds. He would give the others what they deserved and they would love him.

  Where in the hell was Melissa? This was really beginning to worry him. He looked through the walls of tuxedos and evening gowns. Paul Quintana had come down moments ago and already had taken to a few women. Cole was somewhat impressed. Last year Paul hadn’t gotten past the hallway. Sure, a few ordained clergy had congratulated him on the gauntlet, but otherwise he’d been a glorified drink-fetcher and never even got to see conclave. At least Cole knew Melissa wasn’t with him.

  A hand clasped his shoulder, tight as talons, and he jerked around and caught the powdery fingers by reflex.

  Archbishop Pager stared back, startled for a moment. Sandeus’ face was not made up and it looked more male, sadder. With the plan at hand Cole got a sick feeling over seeing him in this light.

  “Bishop Szerszen, relax friend.” Sandeus undid his grip.

  “I’m sorry, Archbishop, forgive me.”

  “Don’t kiss my ass, Cole.” Sandeus folded his arms. “What’s that matter? Your visit with Cloth did not go well I take it?”

  “It went fine.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t accompany you. Perhaps next October, provided there is a next October. So how was the new one?”

  Cole’s eyes flitted to Paul again. He was feeding a maraschino cherry to the tall blonde envoy from Sweden. Instead of putting it on her tongue, he dropped it into her cleavage. She smirked, amused but not impressed by him, and fished the cherry out. “Quintana has some issues to work though, but he’s coming along nicely. I foresee the children being numerous this year.”

  “I still can’t believe Quintana isn’t out cold, what with the seeds so recently planted. It took you two weeks I think.”

  “Three,” Cole corrected.

  “Archbishop!”

  Sandeus stumbled forward as he was slapped hard on the back. The Scottish envoy had an elegant black beard tied in ebon bows.

  “Camden.” Sandeus took his gnarled hand and tried a hearty, manly shake. “I’ll be with you in a moment, brother.”

  Camden showed an imperfect row of teeth. “Good, good. Nice to see you too, Bishop Szerszen.”

  Cole nodded. He’d always liked Camden Amherst. The Scot wasn’t catty or marrow seed-jealous like the others. He was probably the best liked of the European contingency, bar none.

  When they were somewhat alone again, Cole resumed, “Quintana got spooked and tried to vacate Chaplain Cloth.”

  Sandeus’s face glowed with laughter that never came. “Are you messing with me?”

  “No,” replied Cole. “Cloth didn’t do anything to him. I thought we were done though.”

  “You should have been. Sometimes I don’t even know why we bother giving the seeds to the new Bishops. I should have stopped with you. Really. What’s the point? We only need one person, strong enough to herald the children. Backward tradition, nothing more. We should lose it altogether.”

  Cole ignored this, now feeling at ease again with his plans for his man. He didn’t try to respond because he would have screamed out loud for all the Double Tree to hear. They would be stronger against the Nomads with more Bishops. It wasn’t a difficult concept to digest for someone less of a power hoarder.

  More tuxedos plowed past, ushering the Priestess of Morning in their core. Sandeus and Cole shared a glance that said: We’ll take this up later. The caterers pushed carts with silver chafing dishes past. The aromas had Cole’s mouth watering. The meals at Conclave were always delicious, and always interesting.

  At the far end of the hall a woman turned the corner. She had mousy brown hair and glasses, so at a distance, Cole was relieved, but then as the woman got closer, it became more obvious she wasn’t Melissa. If conclave started, Cole had to be in there. He couldn’t just duck out to find his girlfriend. Every laugh from every stranger started to hurt, to feel wrong. He should be looking for her, searching the crowd. Black, and black, and black, and then his eyes found the Priestess of Morning in a honey colored ballroom dress—she was lovely, like an x-rated Disney heroine, but not prettier than Melissa.

  The double doors to the Empire Ballroom swung open and hungry church members rushed in like a dam rupture. Melissa, his desperate heart called.

  And then, Cole’s own priestess was there. Melissa was flush in the face, coming down the hallway in the evening gown he bought her. He didn’t want to ask where she had been, because if her answer sounded suspicious, even in the least, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d feel for the rest of the night.

  She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a weak squeeze. “I got held up with some slow acolytes.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Sure, sure. I had to free a couple from their pledges.”

  Breaking the pledge of an acolyte was a big thing. He had to suspect a lie. If Cole didn’t, he knew she’d take him for a fool. “We’ll talk about this later.” His words hardened her countenance, so he added, “Let’s just go in. I’m really hungry.”

  He offered an arm and she took it. Christ! thought Cole. That feeling of her little arm around his never got old. They walked side by side and as they approached the door, she leaned into his chest and said, “How was Chaplain Cloth?”

  Like many in the Church, Melissa had never met Cloth before, so when she asked about him it was like she was asking about a normal person.

  “He was ready,” Cole replied and they entered the ballroom.

  ~ * ~

  Paul tried. He tried in the hallway, he tried walking into the ballroom, he tried with the Priestess standing two feet from him in that golden gown. He tried to do what he’d been doing for almost an hour, which was to appear that he wasn’t completely controlled. He knew enough about women to understand that they didn’t want some sappy, slobbering guy that did everything they asked just to get a whiff. Women wanted men that they could change into that, but there was no fun in the game if they got a castrated bull from the start. Such a thing would leave them standing there with a pair of scissors but nowhere to snip.

  So Paul tried. He continued to try even as he could sense the Priestess standing nearby and felt electricity arcing between them. He smelled her and thought of a breeze over a meadow in heaven. His mother always had different flowers arriving from her various lovers and Paul knew their names and their scents. The Priestess contained them all: shrub roses, pineapple and trumpets and regals and oriental lilies, snowdrops, foamflowers—Paul shook his head suddenly. The Priestess had the scents of her own world baked into her flesh and he’d opened himself to the Old Domain to breathe them in. He didn’t even remember pulling the shutter open...

  Thanksgiving to the black feast! Children’s voices called from the backyard of his mind. He’d been ignoring them, keeping the shutter closed, but it was open now like it had been open for centuries. Cloth’s children picked up on his disquiet
and the voices cheered at the attention.

  Let us in!

  Blood bread! Bile stew! Blister-meat pie!

  Let us in!

  The shutter wasn’t moving. Let us in!

  “Fuck!” he blurted.

  The Inner Circle envoy from France coiled his lip. “Pardon, Bishop Quintana?”

  Paul grabbed his head. “Sorry—I’ve, uh, got headaches everywhere today.”

  “Shall I call an acolyte for some painkillers?”

  “No thank you, you’re kind though.”

  Just then Cole Szerszen walked up. He had taken Melissa to her seat like a perfect gentleman. It was apparent that Cole too was trying. Cole’s tux didn’t look half bad on him either. Paul surmised that Cole and Melissa were quite the pair: Booky and the Beast. He had to at that moment admit, however, that he was happy to see Cole. The big man had come to his rescue.

  “Brother Cornett.” Cole took the man’s limp hand, cranked it hard and tugged. “How are things in Rennes?”

  Cole knew as much French pronunciation as Paul, and that was saying little since Paul only had Pepe Le Peu as a primary source. So, the Frenchman winced at Cornit and Renz.

  While Cole chitchatted, sweat continued to pelt down Paul’s back. Twice he scrubbed away salt at his hairline. The shutter closed abruptly and the children’s voices left angry echoes. Paul looked for the Priestess. There were several strapping young men circling her at the head table like Makos in dark suits. Her bristly bodyguard—Eggert, Paul believed his name was—keenly watched these men, but kept a certain distance for the Priestess’s sake. That’s right, big man, thought Paul. Protect the honey pot.

  Cole and Cornett exchanged some spirited banter now and Paul’s attention slowly fell back on their exchange. The Frenchman’s eyes widened with shock. He’d clearly expected an argument from his last statement, which Paul hadn’t heard.

  “You agree with me, Bishop?” Cornett asked suspiciously.

  “Of course,” Cole replied. “I have a different outlook than Archbishop Pager. We need an adopted organizational structure for every chapel, worldwide, not just in the States. Everyone here, I feel, should be granted the title of Bishop in their own countries.”