Dark Series, The Color of Seven and The Color of Dusk (Books We Love Special Edition)

by Gail Roughton

  Sadie recognized him immediately. St. Barnabas’ charismatic newest member. Several of her friends, some widowed, some married, had been swooning over this man since his arrival. His black velvet voice, so at odds with his thickly muscled body, almost had them in physical combat as they fought for his attention at church suppers with heaping platters of fried chicken and fresh vegetables, the thickest pieces of pound cake, bowls of cobbler filled with dumplings.

  He always smiled, she recalled, accepting these offerings as his due, as though he conveyed great privilege to the ladies in allowing them to admire his rippling shoulders. She hadn’t liked him. No concrete reason, she just hadn’t, and so had avoided any contact with him.

  Now he motioned to one of his acolytes, who hurried forth with a tiny newborn calf. He pulled a machete from the leather scabbard at his side and raised it high, swirling it in swishing patterns over his head. Liquid firelight caught the blade and poured red rain back over the crowd.

  “Blood!” he shouted. “’De power be blood!” The machete descended in a wicked flash, decapitating the calf. Blood gushed from the stump and flooded into the basins held by his chosen lieutenants. Their hands ran with gore as the basins filled.

  Sadie closed her eyes and swayed. Hell. This clearing—an outpost of Hell.

  “An’ de power be in us! My peoples! Be you ready to show de white god yo’ power?”

  Shirts and dresses fell like rain. Sadie couldn’t distinguish many features in the mass of frenzied bodies writhing in the murky light of the glowing fires. Enough. She refused to stand and witness this degradation, people she’d known all their lives parodying Christian rites, reducing the highest expression of love between a man and woman to this bestial behavior.

  Moving as soundlessly as possible, she headed out of the woods, back toward Wharf Street. A tug on the hem of her skirt sent her heart into her throat. She swirled around, her hand grabbing the handle of the knife, but there was no one there. She glanced down. Her skirt had caught on a tree root. She gave a shaky sigh of relief and bent to loosen it, but it was caught firmly. She yanked, and the material ripped free.

  She burst through the front door and hurried down the hall. Paul sat in the arm chair, keeping watch over his brother, just as Joshua’d guarded Paul’s sleep the night he’d finally emerged from his office, three days after Chloe’s burial.

  “His name be Cain,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cain stood by the riverbank for a moment and watched his flock depart. Close. He was getting so close. He strode confidently through the darkest shadows on his way back to his rented room. A glimmer of something light caught his eye. He bent and plucked the scrap of cloth from the tree root. Someone had caught their clothing on the root and torn it as they passed.

  He frowned. None of his acolytes took this path. He knew the direction each took, both in approach and in departure. He cursed. Laxness. He hadn’t posted his sentries, those grisly skulls that guarded his secret rituals. He needed to rectify that. Immediately. Tomorrow night he’d hang them and hold the special ceremony investing them with their guardian spirits.

  He laughed and tucked the scrap of cloth into his pocket. Maybe he’d play with the intruder for awhile.

  * * *

  “You know him?” Paul pulled Sadie over to the armchair and made her sit. She trembled, both from reaction and the unaccustomed stress she’d inflicted on her body in the past hours. “Here, don’t try and talk yet. You need some brandy.”

  Paul walked quickly to his study and returned in a few moments with a crystal decanter and glass.

  “Hate dis stuff.”

  “You need it. Now drink.”

  She shuddered as the fiery liquid passed down her throat. She handed the glass back to Paul.

  “You know him?” he repeated.

  “Yes. And no. He at one of the Sunday services at St. Barnabas ‘bout, let me think. First time I seen him was back in February. Big man, Lord, he’s big. Coal black. His head is shaved but dat doan make him look nothing but even mo’ fierce. But it’s a fierce dat’s hid inside his heart, on de outside, he the most politest man you’d ever hope to meet. Got most of de ladies, married ones, too, ‘bout to swoon when he notices ‘em.”

  “Is he always there?”

  “Always. Never misses a Sunday. An’ probably doan miss much in between, but I doan know ‘bout dat, you know I doan fool with all that social foolishness.”

  “So Isaiah Gorley could maybe tell me where he lives.”

  “I doan know. From whut I seen, he doan come to church to pay much mind to Brother Gorley, he come to strut before de ladies. An’ de young folk, yeah, I ain’t put it together before but dey hang all over him. An’ when I think back on it, doan think Isaiah like dat too much, but it’s a church, what he goan say ‘bout it? He doan like a member takin’ up time wid de young peoples?”

  Paul sank down on the bed by Joshua. “Sadie, Isaiah was in here today.”

  “I know dat, I seen him. Must be somethin’ if Nona can get him in de office.”

  “He’s been having headaches, he says. Well, Nona says, Isaiah tried to play it down.”

  Sadie snorted. “Men all alike, weren’t for dere women, dey doan got ‘nuff sense to come in out of de rain. Nona only reason he come at all.”

  “Yeah, I know. But when I pushed, he admitted it. They’re real bad, real sudden, real strange. Worried me, can’t pinpoint any reason. Thought about a brain tumor, to tell the truth, from his description, but his eyes look just fine. Sadie, that smell, the one that came out of nowhere in Tamara’s cottage?”

  Sadie nodded.

  “He says, right before they hit, the headaches? That he smells something real bad.”

  “Well,” said Sadie. “I guess we knows whut dat is.”

  “Could he do that?”

  “If he be whut Tamara say, he can do dat.”

  “Is he? What Tamara says?”

  “I think he even worse.”

  “How so? What did he do?”

  Sadie bit her lip.

  “Sadie? What did he do?”

  “What did who do?” Everett stood in the doorway. He wasn’t a happy man. “Knocked the damn door down, you didn’t hear me? What’s the matter with Josh?” Everett came swiftly into the room. “Why the hell is he tied down?”

  “Papa, calm down.” Everett’s complexion edged from the florid red Paul found alarming enough towards purple.

  “Calm down, hell, I get back from a call, it’s later’n hell, Sadie ain’t home, ain’t sent word she’s goan be late or why—woman, you know better than that! Scared me to death, thought you’d gotten run over by a runaway buggy or attacked on the way home! Neither of you hear me pounding the damn door, I walk in and Joshua’s tied to the goddamn bed—”

  Paul grabbed his father’s arms. “Papa, sit down and shut up!”

  “What the hell did you just say to me?!”

  “Shut up, Everett!” Sadie exclaimed. “Just shut up! Or we ain’t goan tell you nothing! You understan’ me?”

  Everett’s face finished turning purple, but the shock of Sadie’s attack on top of Paul’s won. He sat down.

  “I’m listenin’,” he said.

  An hour’s explanation later, Everett’s complexion was so pale it seemed to have never held any color at all. He leaned over and stroked Joshua’s forehead.

  “Sweet, sweet Jesus,” he said.

  “You believe us?” asked Paul.

  “Son, I tell you true. I wouldn’t believe a word of it coming from anybody else. But it’s you and Sadie so yes, I believe. Question is, what are we goin’ to do about it?” Then a touch of his old fire surfaced. “And why the hell did you let Sadie follow the boys to the riverbank alone?”

  “Think I could have stopped her, do you?”

  “Well,” he admitted. “No.”

  “Good. I’m only human.”

  “Two of you ain’t goan get nothin’ done by sittin’ dere insultin�
� me.”

  “Ain’t an insult, Sadie, just the truth,” said Everett. And time for him to admit some other truths. He was getting old. His years hadn’t aged him but his profession had. His heart wasn’t all it should be. The shadow of an apoplectic seizure stood close to his side. He knew it, and he knew Paul knew it, too.

  Now, his family and his chosen people were under attack from this human who walked inhuman paths, and what could he do about it? Damn little. Any extreme extra exertion would likely kill him and Paul and Sadie sure didn’t need anything else to worry about right now, especially him. Both of them were exhausted too, they needed rest. He sighed.

  “Son,” he began, and Paul cut him off.

  “Papa, I know what you’re going to say, but you are not—”

  “Paul,” said Everett wearily. “Your turn. You just shut up for a minute. Now, I know you think I’m an old fool too busy takin’ care of other folks to admit what’s happenin’ to me. And I don’t want to admit it but I know. I’m old. This is a young man’s fight. It’s your fight. I know that. But what I can do, I can sit with Joshua tonight. You and Sadie got a busy day tomorrow. Need your sleep. And I’ll keep your office hours for you tomorrow afternoon so you can be out doing whatever it is needs doin’. Probably all I’m good for. Ain’t much, God knows. Hell, I hate getting old!”

  Paul looked at his father. Everett had never been a tall man, but he’d always been robust. Now his frame seemed shrunken. When had his hair begun to thin so, when had his hands acquired those tell-tale spots of brown? Where was his Papa, the man who, if he wasn’t always right, was wrong at the top of his voice, the man who occupied such a special spot, the king of the town’s medical profession? That man had just abdicated, passing his mantle of self-assumed responsibility to his successor. The king was dead. Long live the king. Tears pricked behind Paul’s eyes.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  * * *

  In his rented room in the boarding house near the railroad tracks on Seventh Street, Cain toyed delicately with the crude doll he’d formed from the corn shucks he always kept handy. The piece of cloth he’d plucked from the woods draped its form. What to do, what to do?

  Fire, now. Fire was good. These figures burned like, why they burned like dried corn shucks. Cain chuckled to himself. He’d taken care of a few busybodies in such fashion back in Tarper, including one who’d dared refuse the communion of blood. A mistake no one else made, not after the fiery spectacle that discriminating but unfortunate soul offered to the town when he burst into flames walking down the street the next morning.

  His hands ran lightly down the limbs of the figure. He could take this leg, now, and pull it out in a ninety degree angle, opposite the one nature intended it to go. Or this arm. Or both.

  He dropped his hand and caressed the head. He almost tightened his fingers. Then he laughed suddenly and dropped the figure back to the tabletop. If he killed the intruder now, they wouldn’t be back. And Cain wanted them to come back. Oh my, yes. With friends. You could never have enough sentries.

  * * *

  Joshua roused in the darkness of the early morning hours. It took several moments to realize he was tied to the bed. His eyes roamed around the grayness and settled on a slouched figure sitting in the armchair next to his bed. Paul?

  He didn’t feel well, not at all. His arms and legs were full of ground glass grating in his joints, his head stuffed with unginned cotton. His stomach churned and rumbled and threatened to revolt. But that wasn’t the worst of it. As fuzzy as his brain felt, it was far clearer than it had been in much longer than Joshua cared to think about. He heard Cain’s voice roaring in his ears. He saw the shoulder muscles rippling in the blood shadows of the flames. He saw fire glinting off the wicked, downward slash of the machete flying home, smelled the hot, metallic scent of blood.

  This morning. He’d done something awful. What? And what had he said to Paul? What had he done? He didn’t remember. He remembered the past weeks, Paul’s voice sending swarms of ants crawling over his skin. Irritation over nothing, irritation which had rapidly turned to anger and then transmuted itself by some mysterious alchemy to rage and then past rage, to blinding fury. Finally, this morning, to murderous wrath. Had he hurt Paul? He didn’t know. He’d wanted to kill him.

  Maybe he had. He was tied to his bed. But he’d be in jail, wouldn’t he? A tree limb’s shadow shifted on the wall and became a nest of writhing snakes. He’d seen snakes all day, scaly creatures from the pages of Bullfinch’s Mythology. But the creatures Joshua’d seen made the two-headed Hydra laughable, the Cyclops no worse than a child’s stuffed animal. Right now Joshua could look on the face of Medusa with no effect. He’d stared at visions much worse than Medusa all day.

  “Paul?” Joshua called softly. The figure started, shook its head. As the man moved, Josh knew this wasn’t the elegant shadow his brother threw.

  “Son?”

  “Doc?”

  “Hang on, boy, let me light this lamp down low here and get a look at you.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Ssssh. Don’t take on, now. Just want to check your eyes, get you some water.”

  A match hissed. Shadows jumped to gargantuan proportions as the lamplight flared, and then tapered slowly down to normal size as Everett adjusted the flame. Everett gently lifted Joshua’s eyelids.

  “Well. Bloodshot, but all things considered, guess you’ll do. What’s your name, son?”

  “My name?”

  “You ain’t had a real good day, son. Humor the old man. What’s your name?”

  “Joshua.”

  “Joshua what?”

  “Joshua Devlin.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Doc.”

  “My real name.”

  “Everett. Everett Devlin. Doc, where’s Paul?”

  “Sleeping. He’s had a right tiresome day himself.”

  “Is he—is he alright?”

  “’Course he is.”

  “What did I do? He don’t want to see me. Does he?”

  “Whoaaa, son. Here, sip this water.” Everett held the glass to his lips.

  Joshua drank. “What did I do?” he repeated. “Something awful, I know it was, did I hurt Paul? Or Sadie?”

  “No!” said Everett forcefully. “You didn’t hurt anybody. But somebody sho’ ‘nuff tried to hurt you. Now, I sat with you tonight so your brother and mother could get some rest. They been busy today, trying to figure all this out. Be surprised what they’ve come up with. And they goin’ to be busier tomorrow, trying to see what’s the best way to handle this mare’s nest.”

  “Ain’t no best way, Doc. I got to tell ‘em—”

  “You can tell ‘em tomorrow, son. For tonight, you look to be recovering nicely and tomorrow, what you can tell us, that’ll be a big help. You think your brother’s mad at you, don’t you, son?”

  “He should be,” Joshua said bitterly.

  “Well, he ain’t. Nobody is. Not your mother, not your brother, not me. And everything’s goin’ to be just fine.”

  “No, it ain’t. World’s full of monsters, Doc.”

  “Well, ain’t no monsters in this room, son. Just your ol’ Papa. You ain’t never called me that, and I understand why. But in my heart, son, I’ve always been your papa. And papas, they keep the monsters away. So you lie back. Tell you what, I’m goin’ take these things off.”

  Everett loosened the cloth bonds and slipped them off Josh’s wrists.

  “We didn’t like it, but we didn’t know how long it’d take you to come back to us and we couldn’t chance you hurting yourself. Now, you just go back to sleep and in the morning, things’ll be a lot better.”

  Joshua lay back. He didn’t think things would be a bit better in the morning, but it would do no good to argue. And Paul was alright. Joshua began to fall back towards sleep but visions of his monsters crept forward from the back shadows of his eyes.

  He glanced over at the chair. “Papa?” he murmured.


  Everett’s heart flipped in his chest. Joshua’d never called him Papa. Everett hadn’t believed he ever would.

  “What, son?”

  “The monsters. They are real.”

  “Well,” said Everett, “they ain’t coming past this papa this night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Paul strode briskly out the front door the next morning. First, he’d make the house calls he hadn’t made yesterday morning. His afternoon was free, since his father was taking his afternoon patients.

  Joshua was weak but clear-headed. After weak tea and dry toast, the boy wept in shame recounting the blood sacrifices, the sex orgies. He’d held nothing back, and Paul was a man on a mission. He was taking that son-of-a-bitch down. Paul halted abruptly. Bobby Ryles, Macon’s Chief of Police, dismounted at the gate and looped his horse’s reins over the wrought-iron fence.

  Apprehension swelled in Paul’s stomach. He’d certainly planned to meet with the man that afternoon, but he didn’t like the Chief coming to him. Bobby Ryles liked his position of authority. He didn’t move around Macon’s streets himself very often. His visit signaled a sure sign of something wrong somewhere.

  “’Morning, Paul,” called the Chief, heading up the walk. “Glad I caught you.”

  “You’re out early this morning, Chief.” Paul strode easily forward to meet him, holding out his hand.

  “Yeah, well, probably out chasing smoke clouds but what the hell? Got to earn my money somehow. You got a minute or two ‘fore you head out? See you already about to start your rounds.”

  “Certainly. Let’s sit on the porch. Or would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?” Paul didn’t want him in the house. Suppose Joshua had a sudden relapse and started screaming warnings of monsters? No choice, though. Southern hospitality made the invitation mandatory.

  “Oh, no, no,” disclaimed the Chief, dropping easily into one of the front porch rocking chairs. “Thanks, but I’ve already had my limit for the day. Where’s your boy?”