From behind sunlight burst into the living room as the front door flew open, chain busting. Enrique heard footsteps on the basement stairs. He shot out the backdoor. The house thundered with commotion. Shouts moved with the aimless ferocity of unspent adrenalin—Enrique shared this ferocity; it propelled him over the rotting wood fence and made him tolerate the coppice of splinters in his palms.
As soon as he hit his feet the same miraculous surge pushed him down the street like a maniac. Every breath felt like a tragedy stabbing his gut. After three blocks he stopped to catch his breath. Tears hung in his eyes and his ulcers stirred. He knew he had to form some kind of plan, although he had no clue what that would be. The Hearts, the baby Jordons, were going to be taken to Chaplain Cloth. To his hideous children. And not only would the babies die, they would be the food to strengthen the pathway between worlds—the sacrifice of their precious flesh would be the undoing of the world.
Reaching into his pants pocket, Enrique took out his cell and dialed the motel. That would do as a start. But by the time they got here—
It kept ringing.
A black Honda civic was just up the street. Some blonde woman slept in the back seat. Enrique never thought the day would come, but he’d have to do his first carjacking. There was no other choice.
Enrique would call again. He hung up and stuck the phone in his pocket.
He approached. An arm came from nowhere and hooked around his throat. The cold barrel of a gun pressed to his head. When he went still, the man said, “The Bearer, I presume. Drop the piece.”
Enrique wanted to fight this but couldn’t think of a way out. His gun clanked on the pavement. “Bearer? What are you talking about?”
The man released him. “Get in the car.”
Enrique slowly moved toward the Civic and the man stopped him. “Driver’s seat.”
Once they were seated in stuffy car, Enrique got a better look of the Church member. He looked to be suffering from some injuries though he was doing well at ignoring them for the moment.
“What do you want from me?” asked Enrique.
“Take me to the Nomads.”
“No.” Enrique shook his head. “No, I won’t.”
The blonde man sighed. He lowered his gun a little. “I don’t want to hurt them shithead—”
“You’re Church of Midnight! I won’t take you anywhere.”
“I don’t want to hurt them,” the man repeated. “My friend in the back needs their help.”
“So what?”
The man’s eyes heated and his voice was deadly steady. “Just listen to me you little fuck.”
Enrique swallowed but there was no saliva in his mouth. “Why would they help you?”
The man nodded as though this was a fair thing to ask. “I’ll make a deal with the Nomads. If they help me, if they help her, I’ll take them to the Hearts. My name’s Paul. I’m a Bishop in the church—I’ll know their location, trust me.”
“Bullshit,” whispered Enrique. “Why would we trust you?”
“Because you don’t have a choice. Not now. We have the Hearts. You’re just lucky that this woman here means more to me than they ever would. I’m giving you people a chance. There is no time for standoffs. We have to do this, and now.”
Yes, thought Enrique. He’s right. There is no time. I have to take him.
He turned the ignition.
~ * ~
Melissa looked down at her phone.
New Message - Cole.
THE HEARTS ARE IN CUSTODY. I’M NOT COMING BACK TO THE ROOM. I NEED TIME. CALL TOMORROW MORNING.
MAYBE I’LL ANSWER.
October 30th
THIRTY-FOUR
The Nomads often wondered why I handpicked them, and only them, to protect the Hearts. Was it because they’d mastered their power? Surely there were others out there who had. Out there in the big blue-green world...
Was it fate? Lottery? Did I draw names from a hat? And why didn’t I protect the Hearts instead? Controlling the weather wasn’t the feat of the average man; to them it bespoke God status—and yet, October 31st was always left up to them to handle alone.
I would have loved to tell them it was my choice and that I always selected the best of their kind to protect the Hearts of the Harvest. But the real reason, the truth, was more fatalistic than what they’d have cared to listen to.
~ * ~
Martin considered a different answer. The Messenger was waiting, rolling the dice, hoping this year wouldn’t be the time to step in. The Nomads had to hold out in the meantime. And that honor should have made Martin feel important. It didn’t. Sitting in Arrowhead Regional for all these hours, wearing body odor like a desperate cologne, drinking pungent cups of cafeteria coffee and considering eating everything in the vending machine from AA to ZZ, he realized how vagabond he was; the only home I want to go back to is an old van that we don’t even own anymore.
The next days would strike and disappear like lightning. It always did. Victory or failure, before Martin and Teresa knew it, they’d be driving again and the Wrangler would be singing along some highway. Many diners, many gas stations. What kind of carbon footprint had they left from all these years?
The Nomads would follow the two week rule: don’t linger for more than that waiting for the next letter to show. If you followed instructions, the Messenger found you, one way or another. Months could go by with nothing, but there were usually minor objectives during the regular year—last summer, not so minor, they had to incinerate a cache of Church documents in a crypt in Düsseldorf. He and Teresa had no clue what they were, just a bunch of numbers and equations that littered the pages of several large bound books. But it didn’t matter what they were. The Messenger didn’t want that information to exist and so they obliged their master.
There had been about twenty of the Church of Midnight guarding the vault. Well, they’d more likely guarded the gold bullion also present in the crypt. The Nomads had been there for the documents, but a third party had been tipped off about the gold. Bullets were exchanged. A few mantles popped in and out. Martin and Teresa achieved their objective, and leaving the Church to deal with the vault robbers, got the hell out.
And yet they were tailed for weeks afterward. Teresa’s coughing had started to become a real in-your-face kind of problem, Martin’s knee was bothering him, and their pursuers fearlessly assaulted them whenever they closed their eyes to rest. Finally ran the bastards off a bridge in Amsterdam, thought Martin, his bitterness renewed. Such was a lesson they’d learned: the church could kill you just as dead any time of year, not just on Halloween.
Martin had been thinking about that lesson quite intently since the rain in Colton had let up.
“You smell cheesy,” said Teresa.
He bolted up in his plastic chair and his spine stung at the movement.
Teresa scooted a few inches up in bed and her deep blue eyes went east to west in a drowsy sweep. The rest had helped. She almost looked as she had five years. Now that she had somewhat grounded herself, she appraised him. He’d never seen her eyes so cold and far off. “How could you do this? To them? To us?”
It was difficult to put an edge on his voice after all the hours he’d been awake. “You had an embolism and blacked out, smashed your head on the nightstand—What did you want me to do? Sit around and hope you regained consciousness on your own?”
Wincing, she touched the rough scab on her temple and inspected the ridges. “I woke up earlier and you weren’t here. I spoke to the doctor. You told them I want some procedure?”
“It’s non-invasive.”
“I don’t give a goddamn what they call it. There’s no time for that sort of thing and you damn well know that.”
He grabbed his head and wanted to crush the thoughts out of it. All the hard work and his veins felt empty, his heart’s chambers chafing together, his outlook fuzzy. He just needed a full day’s rest, not much really, when he considered everything he’d accomplished yesterday. Stil
l, he needed every minute of today to get his mental and emotional strength back for Halloween.
“Well let’s not talk about this. Just get us back to the motel. Is it still raining?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
Panic spread over her like palsy. Her mouth hung askew for a second. “When did it stop?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Nobody’s shown yet.” He flinched. “Knock on wood.”
She noticed the chest X-ray he’d set on her chest during his latest studies. Several of his medical books had been stacked on another visitor chair. She squinted at the monochrome image. “That’s it, huh? The tumor.”
“Yeah.”
“You thought I wanted to see this shit?” She tossed the X-ray at him. It spun to the floor and glided across the linoleum. “I can’t believe I’m here. I just, I can’t believe you did this.”
He ignored her and stood. The world bowed and he almost tipped over. Lack of sleep, too much work, gifts of the past two days.
“What have you done?” Teresa’s brow rose.
He shook his head. “I’ve been working.”
“I’m too tired for cryptic-Martin.”
“So get dressed and stop scowling. I’ll tell you about it later.” He hoped that would be enough but her scowl deepened. He met it with a grin. “I regret nothing.”
“Of course not, you’re a concrete-head. Have you heard anything from Enrique?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I checked the messages at the room.”
Her words tripped over each other, “How—how long ago?”
“Yesterday morning. We’ll check as soon as we get back.”
“He could have called.”
“He didn’t,” he insisted.
She slid her legs off the bed and sucked a short breath. “What did you do when I was out? Sit there and stare?”
“I set up a boom field at an abandoned train yard a few miles from here. There’s a Void there and it’s a great place to hole up. There’s vehicle access through one barbwired gate, which I’ve already padlocked. I’m just about through with the plastics. There’s this really sturdy train car too. Planted a shitload around it. With all the weeds and restricted escape routes—once you study the layout, you’ll love this area, really.”
“Thanks for asking my opinion.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m serious. This place is perfect. Anyhow, when I wasn’t there, I was here with you. I practiced the mantles a little.”
She sighed. “Well that explains your face. You practiced too much; you look like two-week-old road kill.”
Martin smiled. “Handsome two-week-old road kill.” He was exhausted down to his soul. He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice how exhausted because he was sure to hear more of it later.
“Wait—did you say you planted almost all of our plastics? I didn’t sleep through the next day, did I? Martin?” she demanded. “How long was it?”
“Let’s get you out of here,” he replied.
~ * ~
Platinum sunlight diffused through the cloud ceiling. Teresa thought it a sullen excuse for a morning. Her body felt better and mind worse. She’d really been out for more than a day? Hard memories stopped at the motel when she found the blood on her pillow and then there was this vague realization she’d been admitted to a hospital. She did remember some conversations with doctors throughout, but they were dreamlike. Several ghostly stoic, sterile visages had hovered above; their mouths moved but nothing substantial had issued forth. Martin had been there too, drifting in the fog, telling the medical administration the Messenger’s lies. Their existence: lies.
Her chest pounded with worry so long it had left her heart numb—or had the cancer made it feel like that? The white lump in the X-ray burned bright in her mind like a hunk of phosphorus. Under her ribs she felt its impassable boundaries. It was growing fast. Something else was wrong though. Something more important than her disease. Martin had to feel it also, even if he pretended not to.
The Hearts were in trouble.
The Wrangler sped over the cracked streets of Colton. They drifted into another lane a few times, Martin always returning them with a deliberate jerk. He looked like hell, like he was about to keel over—snowdrifts of exhaustion in his eyes, skin oily and tallow, a gap formed between upper and lower lip, breathing shallow. How could he be so foolish? They always set up the safe haven together. Building long-standing mantles could send the body into fits, make you puke and faint and ache. He’d done it all on his own, just to let her sleep off a head bump. The dummy... always trying to make up for the past. This heroic bullshit had to stop.
The rain had come again, but there was less and less of anything close to a downpour. Every dry intersection registered a warning in her nerves and every person in black sent thrills spiraling into her core. She hunched down several times without thinking, flinching with embarrassment. So exposed now.
“Do you think we’re being tailed?” she asked.
Martin’s eyelids sagged. “I haven’t seen anything. We’ll get a hold of Enrique, let him know the situation, meet somewhere different tonight.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “We don’t want to be wedged in.”
Suddenly he pulled over, in front of a yellow fire hydrant. The emergency brake trilled so loud it made her jump. He stripped off his seat belt.
“What’s... going on?”
“Can you drive?” This wasn’t a request. “I’m too tired to go on. Don’t want to wreck us.”
“Sure Martin, sure.”
They changed places. She adjusted all the mirrors and felt the warm reassurance of the accelerator under her sneaker. Before she had even gone a block, Martin was already snoring.
~ * ~
Martin jerked awake. His stomach was sour and his lips were fat, ready to spew bile. Sleep deprivation. This happened every time. His nap had only been fifteen minutes, if that. He’d hoped for a few hours back at the room but there would be no more resting; the screams had pulled him out of the darkness and back into the bright world.
Across the parking lot, the motel manager flew toward them, wholly out of control. He wore an open bathrobe with floral patterns, the pale bulb of a stomach lounging over bright white boxers. His cool demeanor had sunken so far below the surface he looked like a different person. Panic cut lines in his face and a shredded, smoldering cigar leaned out his mouth.
Martin rolled down the window.
“Men up there bothering other guests—I call police. You stay down here with me.”
“Who are they?”
“In your room, beating the walls. One have blood on him.”
“Did he have children with him? Babies?”
The man frowned in puzzlement and the cigar dipped. “Police never come. They never come.” He then said something incomprehensible through the cigar.
Martin sensed Teresa already found a mantle, but he didn’t dare try for one. “We’ll take care of it. He won’t bother anybody else.”
“No, don’t go up. Come inside.” The manager wrung his hands and made for the little office, bathrobe flapping behind. Teresa pulled up poolside. Martin scanned the upstairs and couldn’t make out any snipers. He jumped out of the jeep, not shutting the door and went to the hatch of the Wrangler. He’d cleaned and oiled their handguns yesterday but gave them a cursory check anyway before popping the cartridges in. He stuffed the ice cold weapon under his t-shirt at the hip. Teresa pushed hers up the wide sleeve of her rain coat.
They moved swiftly alongside a dark Honda Civic and ducked into the stairwell. The upper floor swam with looming, beastly shadows from sunlight cresting the foothills. Martin could feel several rogue mantles shifting into this world from Teresa. She regulated them well though considering her condition. The air in his lungs felt too hot. His head spun. There was no way he could make a mantle from all he’d done over the last two days. His gun would have to be enough for here and now.
Teresa took point and tucked her hand
into her sleeve. He flanked, palm resting on the handle of his own piece. After so many times in similar circumstances, his heartbeat kept time, his mind became a tunnel. Adrenaline still surged though and made him more alert than he deserved to be.
They passed the thrumming ice machine and Teresa peered around the corner. The door to their room had been left partially open. Shuffling noises from inside. They stood there, waiting a moment, before impatience got his better judgment. He cleared his throat. Loud.
Teresa glared back at him.
The door banged open and out came a blonde man in black holding a huge handgun. A resounding fuck echoed over the parking lot. Teresa struck his wrist with a sharp jab. The magnum fell like an anvil and twisted once. Martin lunged for it and out of the corner of his eye saw Teresa put the man into a full nelson. She shrieked, pulling her arm off him as though his skin had scalded her.
“He’s a Bishop,” she told Martin and backed up. A mantle heated instantly.
“Wait!” cried a voice in the doorway. Enrique stood there between them. “Wait!”
The Bishop had his hands raised. Martin just now noticed how badly injured the man looked. Several hasty stitches had been worked into his jaw and above his brow and from his sloping posture, Martin guessed there were many more injuries to accompany them.
Several doors to other rooms cracked open at the commotion.
“What is this Enrique?” Teresa demanded, not taking her eyes off the Bishop.
“Come inside the room,” he said. “All of you. Quickly.”
Martin wagged the man’s gun toward the room. “Church of Midnight first.”
The Bishop sighed through his nose and slowly made his way into the room, hands still up. He went into the room as though it were his own and sat down next to the body of a woman. Martin instantly recognized her. Mabel from the hole-in-the-wall bar. The déjà vu that belonged to someone else—
As she slammed the door, Teresa noticed the woman too. “What the fuck is that?”
“The Church found the Hearts,” Enrique said, more calmly than his face should have allowed for. “I tried to reach you.” He picked up their phone on the nightstand.
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