The Bishop: A Tanglewood Novella

by Skye Warren

  “Maybe a hit man. For this revenge he wants so badly.”

  I drop my forehead to his, as if I can fuse into him, protect him from everything bad that might ever happen. The Sorensons are the terrifying possible ending to every love story. Mr. Sorenson continued to care for the poor after his wife’s attack, after her eventual death, but he never smiled again.

  “Would you?” I ask softly. “Hire someone? Or would you do it yourself?”

  Large hands tighten on my hips, holding me flush against his, hard enough that his erection feels like iron at my core. I know that what will come next is an affirmation of life in the most carnal way. His eyes study mine, sorrowful for even the possibility. “I would destroy the whole world.”

  Chapter Four

  Anders

  The underside of a moss-damp rock. The insides of a rotten stump. The Rose and Crown Motel attracts those who slink away from the light. It breeds violence and decay. The idea of the mystery woman here makes me uneasy. Men will assume the worst about her. They’ll think she’s for sale. They may not even ask how much before taking what they want.

  Of course, she might be a prostitute.

  She also might be the thief who stole my chess piece.

  A series of inquiries through the fabric of criminals and lowlifes in Tanglewood led me to this motel. That’s a generous word, motel. It implies there would be a place to rent rooms, for one thing. Instead there’s a phone number written in black marker across a dark window. A pair of cats yowls their battle cries from somewhere close. A woman in fishnet leans against the broken brick. She smiles at me, revealing black spaces where teeth should be. “Do you good for twenty?” she says, her voice slurring. I really shouldn’t, but my mind can’t help but diagnose her ailments. A disturbing number are visible. I can guess the rest. I pull a hundred dollar bill from my wallet and hold it out.

  Her fingers tremble as she reaches for it. I don’t let go.

  “A woman. Dark hair. Lush body. A voice that sounds like music.”

  She licks her cracked lips. “You aren’t gonna hurt her?”

  For years I’ve lived by that edict—do no harm. It came to me as easy as breathing. There’s only one thing that could make me break the rule. “Not if she gives me back what’s mine.”

  A brief pause. “Room forty-nine.”

  I step over sleeping bodies and around used needles in the breezeway. Murky water ripples gently in an ancient rectangular pool, hiding trash and vegetation and possibly more than one dead body. A palm tree looks disturbingly cheerful in the silhouette of the sky. It took me twenty-four hours, almost a lifetime when it comes to a theft involving a million dollars.

  The sensation inside me is almost… hope. That she would be long gone. I don’t want to hurt her. Do no harm. As easy as breathing, unless you made a promise on your father’s deathbed.

  I sense the difference before I turn the corner. A disturbance. Danger.

  The door to room forty-nine stands open an inch.

  No one would leave their door open here. No one would leave their door unlocked in the entire west side of Tanglewood. This isn’t the goddamn Little House on the Prairie.

  No one would leave a million-dollar chess piece unguarded.

  I don’t carry a gun. It’s a matter of principle. What you carry, you might use. When you use a gun, no matter how good your aim, people tend to die. Which means I’m walking in unprotected. Not harming people increases my own likelihood of dying. Such is the way of the animal kingdom.

  A bed in disarray. White sheets. A bedspread with faded pink roses half on the floor. Cigarette burns on worn carpet. That’s what I can see in the sliver through the doorway. I push it open another two inches. Someone searched this place. The table leans on its side. A thin cushion has been cut through, spilling yellow foam. Clothes lie scattered around a duffel bag, as if there was a small explosion.

  I step into the room with caution. Silence. Stillness. I’m alone here.

  Or the person in the room with me is dead. Both sensations feel about the same. More things torn apart, flipped over. I reach the bathroom. Feminine lotions and makeup criss-cross the counter. No dead bodies. Relief flickers inside me. I’ve learned to stay detached. That mother from before. The baby. They die often enough that I can’t get attached. But if I’d found the woman, the body full of vibrancy dead in this motel room, it would have hurt. Even knowing she’s probably a criminal, and most likely working with the men who killed my parents, doesn’t mute the strange warmth I have for her.

  A sound, like a kitten. No breathing. Not even my heart can beat in the second I listen for intruders. Have they come back to search more? Then I hear it, the haggard breathing of a human fighting to live. I’ve heard the sound enough to recognize it. I turn the corner, my senses on alert to danger, but there’s only one body in the alley.

  I bend and check her pulse. Thready.

  “Can you hear me? Wake up, sweetheart.”

  There’s muck on her from the slick gravel. It’s muddied her hair, her face. I brush some of it away to reveal small cuts from where the pebbles grated her skin. There’s an ugly bruise on her cheekbone. Somewhere lower there’s blood. I’m not sure whether it’s some doctor’s instinct that tells me that or the metallic scent of blood. It’s coming from a deep gash above her left clavicle. I tear off my T-shirt and press it against the wound.

  She moans in protest.

  “I know. It’s going to hurt.” A brief patdown reveals no broken bones, though the pain can almost be worse this way than a clean cut. “Wake up for me.”

  Her eyelids flutter. And then her breath stops.

  For one terrible moment the alleyway’s in complete silence.

  I shake her—too rough. “No, goddamn you. No.”

  The body wants to avoid pain. It’ll do anything, sometimes—even drift away slowly. Even die. I’m not going to let that happen. I refuse to let that happen.

  You don’t get to take her.

  Chapter Five

  Natalie

  The pain is far away.

  It bursts through my awareness like flickering firelight—sparks that fade into the night. I don’t want to get closer. It will burn me if I do. It’s safer in the shadows of my consciousness, where I don’t have to think about what happened or wonder where I am now.

  A flare of color in the burn, enough to make me gasp.

  Something’s dragging me out of the dark.

  Something’s tearing my arm out of its socket.

  Someone’s squeezing my ribs until it feels like they’ll crack.

  A moan cuts through the heavy black. It raises the hair on my arms. It sends a chill down my spine. Suffering. Grief. An animal that should be put out of its misery. Wake up now, says the darkness. I don’t know how it can speak, this faceless void. Is it death?

  You have to drink something. If I don’t get liquids into you soon I’ll have to take you to a hospital, and somehow I think you’d like that even less than I would.

  Darkness sounds like… a man.

  Something cool touches my lips. My head is tipped back. Liquid slides across my tongue. My throat swallows without my permission. Dew in the early morning. Warm rain in the spring. It breathes life into me, despite my fervent wish for oblivion. The water wakes up every throbbing, broken part of my body. It seizes every muscle. My stomach. My throat. The last drop makes me choke.

  “Easy.” Strong hands help me turn to the side. I cough against a pillow, every spasm wrenching something open in my chest. “Breathe. In and out. There you go. Keep breathing.”

  When I was lying in that alleyway I decided I’d had enough of breathing, enough of living. Part of me resents this man for taking that choice away. It’s impossible to take stock of my injuries. Every inhale brings a new hurt. Every exhale makes me dizzy with exhaustion.

  The darkness wraps its tentacles around me. It drags me down.

  * * * *

  The first thing in my head isn’t a thought—it
’s pounding.

  The rhythmic beat of a hymn. My mother singing Hosanna. She doesn’t like to go every week. Mostly she goes for appearances, but she does love the music. Every week we’d flip open the hymnal to see what we’d be singing.

  Louder and louder and louder. It’s no longer a sound; it’s a thumping in my veins. It’s slamming through my body on every quarter beat, heavy notes echoing in my joints.

  I’m alive. The awareness comes only a split second before I remember the fear—the certainty that I would die in that alleyway. Stinking. Dark. Alone. I must not have been entirely alone. Even muted with agony I know I’m no longer on pavement. A twitch of my pinky finger. It’s all I can venture. I’m rewarded with an ache that resounds through my arm, my shoulder, my entire body. My sensory awareness catches up. The sheets are cool to the touch. Soft. Softer than my motel bed? Yes. Which means I’m not safe. Does he have me? Panic shoots up my spine, followed by searing pain. I have to get away from here. I have to—

  “Hey. Take it easy. You aren’t going anywhere.”

  The words could be a threat. Of course they are. The whole world is a threat. I’m trapped in my own bruised body. I can’t even open my eyes. They’re glued together. I force them apart. A low moan fills my ears, and in a moment of horror, I realize it’s coming from me.

  “You’re determined to pull those stitches, aren’t you?”

  It’s not him, but that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. The world is full of men determined to take advantage of a situation. As soon as one falls away, another takes his place. My mother didn’t believe in God. She believed in scarred wooden pews and colorful stained glass, because they were things you could touch. She believed in the peace you could find in a fleeting song.

  No one could take that away. Hosanna in the highest…

  “Easy.” The voice is closer now, more rumbly. “Easy now. You’re a mess of bruises right now. By rights you should be in a hospital hooked up to a nice comfortable morphine drip. Instead you’re stuck with me. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

  It’s not his words that force me to stop. It’s the blinding pain. It steals the air in the room. It makes everything feel dark and murky, as if I’m about to pass out.

  “There you go. In and out. Breathe in and out.”

  Simple instructions. My mind follows them without thinking. It occurs to me that this could be intentional—to make me dependent on him, to coax me into following directions. Start with small things like breathing. Once I’m in deep enough he can make me do anything, right? Like steal a chess piece. Except I already did that. My stomach clenches. “Where—” I force the words through painful, cracked lips. “Where am I?”

  “Somewhere a lot cleaner than that alley. Smells better, too.”

  The memory comes back to me in a rush of blurry fear—the slick gravel beneath my feet, the sound of heavy breathing behind me. The heavy slam of a large body into mine. I didn’t smell anything except the sharp metal tang of blood. “Need to go.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere. Unless you want an ambulance.”

  “No.” Fear spikes in my stomach. “Please.”

  “You got something against doctors?”

  He’ll be looking for me in a hospital. The one who holds my fate in his hands.

  Meanwhile this man watches me with eyes an unearthly blue. There’s a day’s growth on his square jaw. Pale blond hair. He looks like some kind of Nordic god, passing judgment. I don’t think I fare well in his scale. Maybe I should call an ambulance.

  I might not be safer here at all.

  My jaw clenches as a fresh wave of pain overcomes me. “Don’t need one.”

  The Nordic god walks to a side table laden with bottles. He fills a syringe with something clear and ominous. “I think you need one, but you’re in luck. Because of all the people who could have found you in that alleyway, it was me.”

  “I’m fine.”

  That earns me a quirk of his lips. “You nearly died. Still might.”

  Still might, if I don’t get that chess piece back. “Really. I feel better.”

  “This is heading straight toward a Monty Python sketch.”

  Throbbing grows second by second. The pain is almost unbearable. I’m ready to beg for whatever’s in that syringe, even though it could be anything. It could be poison. Part of me wants that, too. The sweet relief of being done with it. “I don’t trust you.”

  Then he’s leaning over me, that arctic blue gaze only inches away. “I don’t trust you either. Now that we have that out of the way, perhaps you can tell me your name.”

  My eyes narrow. “You first.”

  “Anders Sorenson. I thought you’d know that. I’m the man you stole from.”

  That’s the only warning I get before a sharp pain stabs my arm. I glance down to see him ease the syringe into place. He holds me steady with his other hand while he presses the liquid into my body. It feels ice cold, the same as his eyes. He makes a sound, one that doesn’t have a name. Almost like tch sound, and it makes me feel better than any fake assurances could have. It’s the sound of someone with empathy, isn’t it? I search the hard planes of his face for some proof of that. He’s focused as he pulls the needle away and replaces it with a bandage.

  He knows I stole the chess piece. Then what will he do to me? And more importantly, why would he give me medicine to ease my suffering if he knows what I’ve done?

  “What’s your name?” he says, his gaze intent.

  My lips press together. Stubborn, my mother would say. Tears prick my eyes.

  “Don’t you dare cry. No, goddamn you.”

  Then again, maybe it’s designed to make my pain worse, not better. Maybe it’s an instrument of torture, along with the other bottles and needles on the dresser. Except I can already feel the relief as it whips through my veins. I already feel the milky comfort envelop me.

  Sleep tugs at my consciousness, making him appear softer than he is.

  “What will you do to me?” The question comes out slurred.

  “I’m going to get answers,” he says, sounding far away. I wonder how I ever thought he might have empathy. His voice is completely devoid of feeling. “You’re going to tell me where the chess piece is. You’re going to tell me who you’re working with. We’re going to know each other very well by the end, but for now let’s start with one thing: what’s your name?”

  “Natalie,” I whisper, because there’s no resistance where I’m floating now. There’s no friction. Only a painless expanse that never has to end.

  A brush of warmth on my forehead. A kiss. “Goodnight, Natalie.”

  Chapter Six

  Natalie

  Quiet. That’s the first thing I notice. Not the heavy beat of pain. There are still aches and bruises. Something particularly dark in my side, but I can breathe without crying.

  Golden light stretches across the ceiling. It’s late in the day, but I know without asking that more than a few hours have passed. The memories are disjointed, the pale blue eyes watching me, the shots and the sweet relief. It must have been days since the attack at my motel. It feels like an eternity.

  I manage to lift my head to see the rest of the room—it’s spacious, larger than I realized in my haze of pain. Aside from the ocean-sized bed I’m in, there’s are nightstands and a dresser and armchairs tucked around a fireplace.

  A man sleeps in one of the armchairs, his head leaned back against the wing, lips parted. Even from this far away I can see the dark circles under his eyes. I can see the heavy growth of blond scruff on his jaw. He wears a dress shirt and black slacks, both of them rumpled but still somehow formal, especially in contrast to his bare feet on the carpet.

  Without the pain or the medicine clouding my mind, I understand more clearly how I came to be here. This is the man at the Den, the man who owned the chess piece. Like he said, this is the man I stole from. And he brought me here to get it back.

  I understand more clearly how much
danger I’m in.

  The door is only a few feet away. Is it locked? That’s assuming I can get out of bed without falling on my ass. Even with the pain lessened that’s still not a sure bet.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that.” His voice sounds sleep-thickened and rough.

  My gaze snaps back to meet his pale blue one. “Why not?”

  “A few reasons. Starting with the fact that you’d collapse in less than eight hours without medical care. And ending with the fact that you’re naked under that blanket.”

  A hitch in my breath. Carefully I move my hand enough to confirm what he’s saying—there’s only warm skin. “You got me naked? When I was asleep? And injured? That’s—that’s—”

  “You’re welcome. Unless you would have preferred to sleep in sewage for four days.”

  Four? My God. I struggle to control my expression, but holy shit. Four days. That chess piece could be halfway to Antarctica by now. I lift the blanket with a still shaky hand, cringing at the shadows of my breasts. He saw this. “Wasn’t there someone else who could have... A woman?”

  “The hospital would have female nurses, but you said not to take you there.” He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. Even tired and surely sore, he looks competent. That’s terrifying in someone who’s my enemy. “Let’s get one thing straight. My priority was keeping you alive. My next objective is to find the chess piece. Your naked body was nothing but a means to an end.”

  He’s lying. The thought drifts across my consciousness, curious because it doesn’t bother me as much as it should. I’m lying naked in a bed with a man in the room, but it has nothing to do with sex. Except that he thought about it—while washing me, while tending my wounds. There’s an allure in having someone take care of me, even someone who hates me. I’ve been alone for so long.