Black and Orange (19 page)

“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.”

Cornett was pleased with this but clearly not sold. “Titles are a start, Bishop
Szerszen
, but we’re not equals until we join bodies with the Old Domain, through the blessed seeds of Marrow Forest.”

A man with a thick handlebar mustache bullied his way between them. “Brother Cornett has more objections than suggestions.”

Cornett rolled his eyes. “This was not your discussion,
Brauer
.”

“I’ve made it my discussion, Pierre. Go practice your English elsewhere.”

Both men looked at Cole fiercely, who calmly answered them, “We’re working for some big changes this year. I administered several hundred grand in the church curriculum to all Great chapels and several that have applied for great status in the past two years. That’s only the start of bringing the Church together internationally. So patience, brothers.”

“You are a trailblazer Bishop
Szerszen
. The sessions here have been extremely informative,” said
Brauer
. “I meant to compliment you on the Tomes study groups, very enlightening. Though coordination was better this year, placing us closer to the Heart, I wish my plane had arrived earlier.”

“I’m glad you benefited. This is a good year to be at conclave. It may be
the
year.”

Brauer’s
deep brown eyes told that he didn’t completely agree with that and they moved over to Paul. “So what made you wish to take up the onus of this title, Bishop Quintana?”

“Huh?” Paul answered.

The ringing of a fork on glass disbanded every conversation, including their own. Cole guided Paul by the elbow. He probably looked as though he needed guiding, so Paul made no comment. He was going to be sitting to the right of the Priestess. She would be so close he would feel the warmth of her body.

Just as he stepped before his seat and she to hers, the shutter in his mind flew up again.
Let us in!

 
Opening and closing, closing and opening. The blossoms in his stomach began to drip astringent. Paul uneasily stared at the black and orange bone china before him. He was getting practice right now, whether he liked it or fucking hated it, and all the while she was sitting just to his right, an angel from the Old Domain. He hoped he wouldn’t blow vomit all over that dress of hers—he’d already puked once today and that should have relieved his quota. Yet, something inky churned, rising up in his throat.
Let us in. Maggots in a dead sow’s ass. Taste the treat. Spoon it up!

Paul swallowed but the acrid spit sat in his esophagus, halfway to his mouth.
Sandeus
Pager stood before a black lectern and spoke to the hundred-plus audience. He had been speaking for a while now, doling out
Thank
Yous
and pleasantries like they were attending an award ceremony. He looked odd without his makeup. Paul had seen him last year in the hallway, only briefly, and had thought the same. He looked powerless, almost brittle, like a bald Samson.

“And my friend, the Archbishop of Morning, told me once,” he said, “Archbishop Pager, years will go by, on and on, but so will we. Time cannot divide us forever.”
Sandeus’s
eyes had moistened with emotion. The audience began cheering and clapping.

Milk a bloody tit, swim the bowels, rip the treasure from the scrotum—

Paul put a fist to his mouth for a moment and then cautiously took it away to clap with the others. When the revelry died down,
Sandeus
stood there a moment, beaming. “I would like to welcome the Priestess of Morning to speak briefly on her own church’s behalf. She and her servant
Eggert
are the only members of the Church of Morning here tonight, and they honor us with their presence.”

Clapping again.
Sandeus
tried to speak over the frantic hands. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

The Priestess stood and grazed Paul with her scent.
So stupid!
he thought. He hadn’t even introduced himself. At this point she probably figured him to be some creepy pervert, which he figured he really was.

The Priestess stepped up the stairs to the small stage, helped by her faithful bearded guardian in a tuxedo.
Sandeus
kissed her hand and let her in behind the lectern. She leaned toward the microphone and took everybody in with a sweeping glance.

“Our thanks go to you all. We’re indebted for your hospitality and kindness, not to mention helping us adjust to a new home.” She retreated a little from the microphone’s boom. The audience shifted in their seats. “The Church of Midnight and Morning’s only true separation is the gateway—we have the same hope. Let us pray for the endurance of that spirit. Let us be strong together when we unite. Let no pride or self pity tear us apart. Let the Eternal Church thrive through our love!”

The standing ovation that followed almost killed Paul. He stood, trying to make eye contact and trying to clap louder than anyone else, but it wasn’t happening. Too many crazy, disgusting things bounced inside his head and forced him to take action. He braced himself against the table and slammed his entire mind shut. A burning-hot spike splintered the nerves in his skull. He ate it, gritting his teeth. After a moment, the pain went.

He lowered into his seat and realized the Priestess had already returned and was seated. Making a god-awful mistake, he looked into her satin eyes. She was looking straight at him.

“Great speech,” he mumbled.

She leaned over and a stray ringlet of hair tickled his cheek. Her engorged lips were in kissing-distance and he felt close to losing control. “I don’t like to drone on and on. The problem there is that I keep things shorter than some prefer. Nobody here seems to like when you get right to the point.”

“I liked what you said, very much in fact.” He stared at those lips and their every movement.

“It’s almost the same speech I made last year at the harvest celebration,” she told him placidly. “It sounds more like a lie this year, but the applause was louder.”

“Maybe they know it’s a lie,” Paul told her. His confidence felt partially restored with the voices gone. “I’ve never believed the unification would go smoothly.”

The Priestess’s eyebrow rose. “So why do they clap at all?”

“They aren’t clapping for your words.” He winked and turned away, hoping she liked him, wishing she would talk to him some more, and praying she wouldn’t.

Either way. He was still trying.

A bell chimed as the caterers started pushing their carts around. Dinner time. Two men, separate from the others, came toward the head table carrying platters with orange cloths draped over the food.

“Special treatment?” he asked the Priestess, going out on a thin, thin limb.

She only smiled and folded her hands in her lap.
Sandeus
Pager picked up his knife and fork, ready to fill his stomach. Cole did the same and straightened in his chair.

Thanksgiving to the eternal feast
, thought Paul. After a second he realized the thought had not come from him.

Paul couldn’t look away from his plate. The rest of ballroom dined on prime rib, creamed spinach, potatoes, French rolls: normal food. What had been set before him was an atrocity. There was a strange looking bird that had been roasted. A thin layer of crackling scales sheathed the gamy flesh and the bird’s neck coiled to the side with a head that became a startling reminder of
Sandeus’s
snake Alexander. An ice cream scoop of something rust-colored had also been plopped on his plate. The Priestess pointed out this treat was crushed
fireroot
, and then there was a dessert dish of tiny white beads that she explained were frosted
windcherries
. The smashed root and the cherries appeared edible and even smelled pleasant, but the rest of the platter had no place in this world. A cob of opalescent corn was cradled under one of the bird’s leathery wings. Paul slid the cob out with his fork and nearly shrieked. The kernels all looked like tiny staring fish eyes.

The Priestess peeled off the scales of her bird and ran her knife into the bruise-colored flesh. He looked over and saw
Sandeus
spooning great helpings of
fireroot
in his mouth. Cole had also begun work on his bird.

The
fireroot
and cherries
, thought Paul. But he wouldn’t touch the bird or corn. He could say he wasn’t that hungry.

“Be sure to try everything,” the Priestess whispered. “This is part of the yield that came with us through the gateway last year. It’s preserved all year for conclave. Our people used to assemble feasts much like this one and offer them to the gateway—they believed this would suffice in lieu of the Heart of Harvest.”

Paul lifted the limp bird with the far end of his fork. “Did it work?”

She smiled brilliantly. “That was superstition, something both worlds share in common, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure,” he admitted.

“You haven’t introduced yourself to me, Bishop.”

“Where are my manners?” He fell into business mode, ignoring her hair, her scent, her face. It made Paul proud to the bone he could accomplish this with his mind in knots and libido spinning like a windmill in a hurricane. “Paul Quintana.”

They shook hands. “I chose a name for this world. Mabel Milton,” she said.

“Priestess suits you better.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Very well.”

Paul scooped up some
fireroot
and shoveled it into his mouth. Needed salt and pepper. It was baby-food bland and he could only sense a gritty texture on his tongue. Next, he went for the
windcherries
and was surprised that they tasted like sugared grapes, yet their flesh had a pulpy citrus quality.
Not so bad
, he thought.

The Priestess bit into the corn. Her teeth burst the little eyeballs and a milky substance ran down her chin.

The bird next, Paul decided. He went about the process the same way she had, removing the fine layer of scales and then cutting away chunks of tender purple-blue-yellow meat. It would have been great to say it tasted like chicken, but he wasn’t that lucky. Astride of the fishy-
birdy
flavor, there was an extremely spicy aftertaste. Paul had no stomach for even mild spices. At once he felt his eardrums burning. He chugged his ice water, glad it wasn’t some kind of tar-soda from the Old Domain. Then he refilled the glass from a pitcher and drank more, trying to calm the inferno.

“Hot?” The Priestess laughed.

“Just temperature-hot,” he joked. He went for another bite but his willpower collapsed. His fork clattered on his plate. “No, it’s damn spicy. I don’t think I’ll be going there again.”

The Priestess chewed her bird daintily. A mischievous light came on in her eyes. “There’s something about you, Bishop Quintana. I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time. It’s calming in a way.”

“We saw each other briefly last year. Never spoke though.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you have a way of taking my mind off the obvious.”

“I suppose that’s a good and bad thing.”

“I lost something important today, so it’s a good thing.”

He took up the corn cob. The sick little ocean eyes gazed into him. She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t eat that. It’s horrible. I only took a bite to honor the ancestors. One show of respect should suffice.”

“But I thought you said to try everything.”

“That was before I decided I liked you.” Her smile melted Paul again and he dropped the hideous corn on his plate.

“Everything okay, Priestess?”
Eggert
leaned over them suddenly, his beard cordoning them off.

“Completely,” she answered and then glanced Paul’s way. “In fact, Bishop Quintana will be joining me in my room after our event to discuss church matters. Please arrange refreshment.”