Paul thought for a moment.
“Hello?”
“Don’t worry about it. Listen, I need you to come up to the Priestess of Morning’s suite. Arm yourselves and watch your fucking tail.”
“I think the hotel security has been paid—”
“I’m not talking about the Doubletree staff. Just bring me a change of clothes and a first aid kit, along with someone who can suture without leaving Frankenstein scars. And I’m going to be hungry once I get all this upchuck off me.”
“Bishop?”
“Bring food,” he clarified. “Something quick.”
“Absolutely.”
“And most importantly—what was your name again?”
“Susan.”
The marrow seeds needed to be close at hand with Cole ready to cut his throat. Or send my head into the Old Domain. “Most importantly, Susan, I need you to bring the black box in the safe in my closet. It’s the only thing in there, so it should be easy to spot.”
“Yes, but the combination?”
“1031.”
“Um, may I ask one more thing?”
“You need to hurry.”
“Will Melissa be okay?” she asked.
Paul licked his chapped lips. “She’s fucked, Susan. Now get your ass in gear.”
~ * ~
The clumsy sutures were a little wide, scarring inevitable. Paul wanted to take it out on Eggert: drag him into the bathroom and send his brains down the bathtub drain. But according to his acolytes that wouldn’t be necessary. The Priestess’ manservant had either poisoned his body with all that 200 proof lighter fluid or filled his lungs with vomit. Either way, nobody here would have sent him to a hospital.
Paul carried the Priestess over to the bed, his sewn flesh contracting. Cool semen dribbled out of her vagina and over his arm. The warmth of her body and her breathing made him sense the hope he’d thought long gone. The thought of her slipping away made Paul want to break down, so he went to the bathroom for a quick shower. Hardly dry, he returned bedside at once. His acolytes chatted in the living room. It was a pleasant white noise and it made him somehow miss the children. You’re a sick bastard, Quintana. If your mother could see you now.
Just a few weeks ago he and Justin Margrave had T&Ts in his loft in L.A. and discussed their plans for this holiday. Paul smiled sadly. Justin didn’t have a clue then what would happen weeks later. Neither had Paul really. It had all come together perfectly in some ways. Now Paul was here and it was time to become something greater than they could have ever imagined. Life happened quickly.
Paul opened the glossy pine box and glanced inside the charred interior. There were a few rolled cigarettes and a sandwich bag of glittering gray seeds. Someone could easily mistake this as a teenager’s stash. There were differences however. The thin pods were about two inches long and half an inch wide. They appeared sharp enough to cut, like the chrome trimmings from some industrial machine. Paul’s face reflected in every marrow seed and he was reminded of staring through the eyes of a housefly. Next to the box, near a lamp, sat the tall bottle of water he’d half drunken to wash down his medium pineapple pizza. God bless that Susan McDonald.
If it came down to it, drinking the seeds would probably be quickest. Besides which, Paul couldn’t imagine another onslaught to his lungs—not now. The marrow garden in his chest was too dominant and fast-rooted to allow newcomers. Better to put them in his stomach and grow them in a new area. Then the thought assaulted him: what if swallowing them was worse? There was no time to go through a steeper magnitude of all of that hallucinatory shit again.
How could it be any worse?
There was no time to play with the idea. Shouting in the other room pulled him from his thoughts. Paul crept over, sutures burning with every step. “Hey!” he shouted, yanking the door open. His group of acolytes turned to him in surprise. “Do I have to ask what the fuck all the noise is about?”
Johnny Allen stepped forward. His baby-face looked stricken. “Sorry, some of us thought you should rest—”
“And?”
“Word just came in from one of Patterson’s acolytes. They’ve found the Heart Bearer.” Johnny held up his cell. “We have the address.”
The news hit Paul hard. He felt dizzy from the blood loss already and this almost made him faint.
“They were afraid to go because Bishop Szerszen will be there,” Johnny added with accusation in his tone. The other four people started talking angrily all at once.
“Knock it off,” Paul barked and his acolytes quieted. “We need to get the Priestess down to a car. I’ll need strong arms. I can’t carry her down there right now.”
“A limo?” Johnny asked.
“Something faster.”
“I have a Honda Civic,” said Susan McDonald. Her dark eyes fluxed from person to person. “But we all won’t fit.”
“You’re not going.” Paul went back into the bedroom, put the box of marrow seeds under his arm and came back out.
“Bishop, we don’t have to go?” Johnny asked.
“Just help me get her to the car,” Paul said with a besieged sigh. “We have to hurry. None of this is mentioned to the Inner Circle either. Pledge it.”
“This we pledge,” they mumbled in sync.
“Good,” said Paul.
Priestess, you’ll be back to see the Day of Opening.
~ * ~
Cole checked his gun for a third time and considered taking it apart and examining the pieces in greater detail. It was a quiet, coy little game, ignoring the five hundred pound gorilla in the room, or, to be more precise, the five hundred pound videophone message. And he wasn’t even in a room. He was at a park, on a bench. The rain had broken half an hour ago and neither the Priestess nor Paul had contacted.
Kids were letting off from a bus near a picnic area. They were dressed in dark costumes, laughing, screaming; for them, there was no misunderstanding about their age. The kids knew this was the time to scream and to really be human. Cole had never been that way. As a kid he’d wandered the playgrounds, stoic and impatient, awaiting a batch of foster parents that would remember just one thing about him. Nevertheless, he had made the same mistake every kid made. He believed adulthood an impossibility.
Hurriedly he put his gun away. Other than the school gathering, there wasn’t much going on at the park. Some idiot had driven across the lawn recently though. Deep tire tracks cut diagonally across the baked grass. Teenagers, thought Cole. Even worse than little kids.
Melissa had joked once that they should have a child.
Cole’s body quaked at her memory. He’d killed Church acolytes over this. Over her. He was almost past the fact that Melissa had done what she had. She’d lied to save his feelings—but she could have told him in the beginning, before they were serious. Now, of all times of the year, he had to deal with this.
All those faceless men were something Cole might get over, but seeing Quintana though, seeing him inside her mouth…
Cole shuddered. A child dressed in a Dracula costume yelled at another kid from across the field. His tiny, aluminum voice found its way over the distance: “That’s not fair!”
No shit, thought Cole.
Why had Quintana’s people sent the message? To be cruel? No—it wasn’t in Paul’s best interests—unless it was a form of revenge. Quintana could be dead.
Cole’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Checked it. Not Melissa. Not Paul.
“Yeah,” he answered.
His acolyte, Frank Ruben, sounded like a manic sportscaster, “Bishop Szerszen. We found the house! We found the house!”
“House?”
“Wenlock Way. The Hearts! We found the mailbox. There’s a duck!”
Cole would have never believed that phrase would make his heart thump a new rhythm. “You haven’t gone there have you? You haven’t been seen I hope?”
“We doubled back. Just like you ordered. Bishop Quintana has been contacted as well. He’s already on his way
.”
Oh. So you are still alive, Paul. Cole put that out of his mind for the moment. “Consider yourself invited to the Inner Circle, Ruben. Call Chambers, Lance, Phillips and Miles. Tell them to take separate cars. No limousines! What’s the major cross street?”
“Busch Boulevard.”
“East-west, north-south?”
“North-south.”
“They’ll meet half a mile north on Busch. Tell them to stagger cars. I’ll be going in alone at first.”
“Alone, Bishop?” The concern was deep. Frank probably thought his opportunity for Inner Circle would be compromised. “What if the Nomads are there?”
“I’ll chance that.”
“How can you be sure, Bishop?”
“Are you going to question me all day?”
Frank’s voice sharpened. “Of course not, Bishop. I’ll make the calls. They can be there in half an hour.”
“Get them there quicker,” snapped Cole. “I want to seal off all routes. Got it?”
“Yes Bishop.”
Cole hung up.
He wanted to forgive Melissa. It was the right thing to do. He wanted to find something to elevate him to that likelihood. Maybe this stroke of good fortune would work out. Or maybe he’d die without ever speaking to her again.
The kids squealed happily, running around through the park in masks and capes. Cole did not envy them.
THIRTY-THREE
Enrique cautiously added the next playing card to his little castle and his hand trembled as he retreated, warily, tenderly—then the cards blasted in every direction like escaping hovercraft. He pressed his lips together as he stared at the ruins. His wife, Samantha, had enjoyed building castles on the more mundane, rainy days at their flat. She never helped him sort through one that had collapsed though, said that fifty-two card pickup was a game for one soul. How right she was.
He stared down at the Queen of Hearts that had almost slid under the refrigerator.
When he left their home she’d been out buying groceries. The Messenger was not ambiguous in his wishes. Everything would be kept from her. Enrique didn’t know if that was the Messenger being thoughtful for his wife’s well-being or for the mission’s, but he had an idea where the truth lay.
So Enrique didn’t get to say goodbye. So he didn’t get to hug Samantha, kiss her. So he didn’t get to say he had no choice. Since birth he knew his time for duty would come. And to make matters worse, that entire hell-week beforehand Samantha thought he’d been screwing around. Couldn’t blame her: he disappeared sometimes without notice. Now he had been away for the longest time ever, going on two years. He knew he ought to start thinking about his departure as a little more permanent than an afternoon out, but Enrique couldn’t. It felt like an extended errand, like he would return to Bristol and find her waiting.
He’d spent a year wandering South Holland and then a year in Heerjansdam with the Jordons. Quiet people; nice people. Strong. The mother, Cybil, never shed a tear when he carried the babies away. Boy, Samantha wouldn’t have been able to stop screaming for her babies. They’d tried to have children for years but nothing ever came of it.
In a way, he felt relieved Samantha knew nothing about his fate. She should have predicted the outcome; Enrique had warned her in the beginning he wasn’t like everybody else. Maybe then she’d thought he had delusions of grandeur. But it was the only warning he was permitted to give within the Messenger’s boundaries.
The Queen of Hearts stared back at him with a squashed, dead face.
Sometimes he hoped his wife had found someone else and other times he just hoped she couldn’t find it in her. That wasn’t fair to expect though.
Enrique turned his eyes to the backyard door in the kitchen. He saw that the deadbolt was set, but he got up anyway and felt it, turned it, made sure his eyes weren’t fooling him. Locked. Good.
A rapid knock at the front door made him start. The pizza man had arrived in less than twenty minutes. Enrique patted his pants for his wallet. Another knock came, this one heartier. He hoped this racket wouldn’t wake the Jordons. They’d fallen back asleep after a long night of cat naps and he prayed this sleep would last long enough to invigorate him.
He didn’t see anybody out the peephole. The empty porch, bent under the lens’ concavity, was stale in the drizzly gloom. Enrique waited a few seconds and thought about going for his pistol in the silverware drawer.
Another knock came and he jumped.
In the view of the peephole lens he could see the pizza kid’s warped body. He recognized the pocked face, ears hanging with silver flesh tunnels and spiked butterscotch hair. “There’s my man,” he mumbled and pulled out his wallet.
As the door came open, the pizza man raised his hand to knock again and then smiled a bracey smile. “I remembered the ‘no doorbell’ rule.” He started to slide the boxes out of the warming sleeve.
“Yes, yes, let sleeping babies lie.” Enrique took out three twenties, his customary payment and tip for having the same pizza delivery guy. The less people that saw him, the happier the Messenger.
“And no pineapple,” Chris assured. “You and your company are safe.”
Company, yeah right.
“Thanks. We all know pineapple on pizza is only for ravenous mad men.”
“I like it,” Chris said and grinned. He accepted the money without counting it and put it in his back pocket. “I won’t be working tomorrow. Night school.”
Tomorrow would be too frantic a day to send the kid out for groceries anyway. “No problem. I’ll have leftovers.”
“Yeah, thanks again for the extra cash. This is a lot more than I usually accept.”
“Worth every penny. Don’t mention it.”
“I won’t. My boss would fire me.” The braces shined in the dull October afternoon.
“Thanks again, Chris. Study hard.”
“Sure thing!”
The door closed and the salty scent of pepperoni floated up. A while back this might have made Enrique’s mouth water, but now eating had become a dreary chore. All the canned food had been used up long ago. So there was stale pizza, baby food jars, rows of premixed formula cans, a carton of expired milk and a box with a spoonful of cracker-dust, and lots and lots of tap water.
Enrique set the pizza on the table and flipped open the box. After eating a slice like a starved bear, he knelt down to pick up the cards. One of the babies stirred in the basement. Oh great, now it begins. All over again. He loved them but his body couldn’t keep up with their need. Well, they would have to wait up. Seeing the spilled cards later on would just piss him off and make him feel less in control of his environment. Not that he didn’t have damn good control, checking all the doors like a manic compulsive.
Thinking on that, he glanced at the backyard door. It was slightly ajar. His body seized. Several cards twisted out his grip. Enrique rose to his feet and threw open the silverware drawer and snapped up his pistol. A few forks clattered to the sides and spilled out.
Hurrying to the back door, he hunkered down like he’d seen soldiers in movies do. His brain turned to a pile of sand. The doorknob was deformed, melted somehow. From the aperture in the side the deadbolt stuck out like a gnarled spike. Both bronze knobs had deflated like rotten peaches; the entire assembly was brittle, yellowish red, drained of density, as though most of the metal’s molecular makeup had been replaced with air.
Enrique pulled back the pistol’s hammer.
Downstairs the babies began to cry.
He knelt at the top of the basement stairs, pistol at ear level. His bowels quivered and he cursed the sound. Someone had come into the house, walked past him while he chatted with Chris the pizza guy.
The babies needed help and he was up here, miles away from soothing them. Shadows moved in the swinging light below. A bass voice shushed them.
Real good, Messenger. Keep the Hearts here and the Nomads over there. Real good planning. Enrique knew this would happen. He’d just known it! How did s
omeone get inside the house so quietly?
You and your company are safe.
Chris the pizza guy had seen someone walk past... right behind him!
Enrique’s stomach ulcers actively bled. He trained the gun downstairs. The gun sight swayed out of control. Once the perpetrator rounded the corner, he’d nest a bullet right in the forehead. He would try anyway.
Two cars roared up outside, suddenly, so close Enrique could hear their parking brakes chirping. Doors slammed. Footfalls were quick and intense on the sidewalk.
“Shit,” he breathed. The gun slipped through his fingers.
From the basement came a rustling. What was going on? Enrique edged closer, stomach roiling. Another pale shadow against the lower stairs darkened as the figure sloshed into the sick yellow light. One baby screamed relentlessly over a throaty voice, “Hush, hush now. Quiet.”
Sounded like Rebecca. She was such a fusser.
The front door shuttered and the hinges flexed. Enrique’s brain went through options with the frantic, incoherent pace of an auctioneer. I-can-shoot-through-the-front-door. Come-on-lets-go-can-I-hear-two-need-to-hear-two-come-on-two-do-I-hear-yes! I have two-but-then-leave-myself-open-to-the-basement-door- could-go-downstairs-three-hope-to-drop-babynapper-four!
Downstairs the shadow lumbered over the brick wall and a gun snicked, ready. Enrique thought Samantha-thoughts. He remembered how she washed her face every morning and looked like a squirrel drinking at a stream. It’d been so long ago and he wanted to remember something more meaningful but that was it; that was all... He’d never see her do that again, no matter what happened. But those Hearts, his babies, they had to be safe. Fuck it all—they still had a whole life to mess up. It couldn’t end here.
But how will you save them? he read the Messenger’s query written across the parchment of his cerebellum. You can’t protect them. Not here. You won’t survive what’s downstairs.
True. The Church of Midnight would kill him. And the Nomads would never know where the Hearts had gone. The gateway would open forever and life here would end, because of Enrique Gonzalez. Because of a stupid man who couldn’t think straight through his fear.
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