Black and Orange (30 page)

The mantle bubble rolled into the lake with a subtle splash. Dull gray-brown fluid hugged the mantle and drank him in. The lake dipped to about ten feet deep in the center. He dropped under the surface completely and sat down inside the stuffy bubble. Snaky silver movements in the dark indicated fish, but he couldn’t see them through the darkness and silt. Regulating his breathing in short gasps, Martin reached into his coat and pulled out the medical file folder. The chest X-ray was on top. He couldn’t see the image but he knew the white blob sat there on the cold paper, displaced from its environment, just as he was right now. More than anything, he just wanted to bring Teresa here, or somewhere deep in the ocean, and wall them in with a mantle that would last forever. Doing something like that would be worth the agony of creation—to be away from the world. They’d be like his little fish in its plastic bubble aquarium.

And you’d both suffocate, dumb ass.
The thought came with a sharp gasp.
Inside a permanent mantle they would wither and die. Would they decompose? Or would their bodies remain preserved at the bottom of the ocean?
That was an interesting thought. He tucked the file into his coat, stood up and began rolling his way back to shore. He felt done with his communion with nature and his mind raced with new ideas.

His eyes broke the water’s surface. A sedan sped down the road. When its headlights vanished, Martin crept forth. The weak fibers of his mantle crackled. He pressed his fingers one more time into the wall. No matter how they were shaped, weak mantles tended to feel like warm sandpaper. He’d never enjoyed touching them. Once he was firmly on land he let the mantle go, grateful for fresh air.

The half-formed plan stuck in his mind like an arrowhead. His steps back to the hospital quickened. This time he wouldn’t balk. He would make it work. All he had to do was set up some kind of fallback for Teresa if something happened to him. A safe zone like none they’d ever built. Safe for her and the Hearts, not for the Church. But the safe zone was the easy part. If Teresa didn’t regain consciousness tonight, he could go out tomorrow morning. Then he had to use what little time they had remaining. That would be where all his energy would go…

The automatic doors of the hospital lobby parted with a sigh. Martin’s blood felt enriched with hope. It was a new feeling, knowing exactly what to do and why. He almost wanted to sing out for the first time in this unending chase. He understood the near future, despite the underpinnings of his decision. Something harsh and irrational howled inside him, promising that with a slight misstep this plan could destroy them both.

Well, he guessed it might. But that was love.

Cole tried not to go for his gun right then. He could tell the acolyte had just pulled himself out of bed. For the look the grungy man had probably been awake earlier, grabbed a bong and smoked himself back to sleep. He smelled as though this were the case. Lennon’s
Instant Karma
played somewhere in the background haze.

“What’s up dude? I mean,
shit
, how may I help you, Bishop?” A drowsy terror constricted the man’s gaze. “I’m not ready for the Hunt. Bishop Quintana he said I didn’t have to—”

“Calm down.” Cole shifted his weight.
Sandeus
often sent out acolytes to trip the Nomad’s minefields. This guy had probably heard as much, but the Hunt was the least of this one’s problems. “I’m inquiring about Bishop Quintana,” said Cole. “This is where his acolytes are staying, correct?”

“Yes, Bishop. Well, just me and Vince.” The man scrubbed his hand through his greasy hair and ran it down the side of his zit-riddled jaw. “The others found a motel in Rialto.”

“And his new acolytes acquired from Melissa Patterson?”

“Same place I think. So can I ask, Bishop, sir, what’s this about?”

“I can’t get a hold of Quintana. I wondered how he was holding up. He performed that Heralding last night, as you might know.”

“Yes, I know,” he said lowly.

“Has he called in from upstairs?”

The acolyte shrugged. Several oblong holes opened the stitching of his t-shirt. Cole saw a pimple on the shoulder peering up through the cut like an angry eye. These people did not belong under a Bishop of Midnight. It showed how little Quintana cared for the title. It made Cole’s hand itch for his gun again, but he ate the pain of it.

“We knocked on the Priestess’s door last night,” said the acolyte. “Vince went this morning. We didn’t get an answer. Her bodyguard wasn’t outside neither.” Realization brought down the sky-high gaze. “You think it was the Heralding?”

“No,” Cole put simply. The man blinked. By his demeanor, it was obvious he and the others figured something fatal and nasty had happened to Paul—it didn’t break them up too much, but that wasn’t a surprise.

“Vince has been taking care of everything. But Bishop Quintana gave him instructions if we couldn’t get in touch. We’re pretty worried.”

“I can see that.”

“Bishop?”

Cole turned to walk back down the hall and sensed the door start to close. Now it all came down. He wheeled around and the man blinked again, askance. “Oh, yes,” Cole said. “I forgot. If I want to call back later and check in with you guys, is your cell number 5612?”

The guy rubbed his crusted eye with his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s Vince’s.”

Cole’s .45 swung out. The first silenced slug collapsed the man’s right cheek, a surprisingly dry cave-in; the second darted through his gaping mouth and smacked the door behind him, sending it flying against the stopper. A tooth fragment split the skin near Cole’s left eye socket. He waited a moment in the hallway, to listen for any sudden movements in any other room, or any doors flying open. A minute went by. He fanned the air for the
gunsmoke
smell.

Cole stepped over the acolyte’s body. With his foot he pushed the mushy head to the side and shut the door. The layout of the room was similar to his, except there were only two bedrooms and the kitchenette was half as large. The corpse’s room was ajar. Pungent marijuana smoke drifted out the threshold. Cole went farther into the living room, knowing the flow of murder had only just trickled in the mighty river to come.

The other bedroom door came open. Vince
Stogin
padded out with a bowl of cereal held close to his crunching jaws. His long hair was up in a ballerina bun with a florescent orange hair clip biting into it. Through slurps and crunches, “Hey fool,
wanna
see that thing with the Bishop one more time—?”

When their eyes met, the bowl dropped. Soggy golden squares scattered over Vince’s flip-flops. His hands went up so high his knuckles smacked the doorframe. “I just did as Bishop Quintana told me. Please don’t kill me. Oh fuck! I’m so sorry. Please. It’s Paul’s fault. He made the fucking thing!”

Cole lowered the barrel a hair. Red thoughts still burned in the forefront. His ears drowned in hysteria.

Vince laughed nervously. “It’s no big deal—right? You weren’t with her then—a lot of people do this kinky shit. Don’t get carried away.”

The next moment Vince’s brains strafed over the ceiling in a stunning orange detonation.

~ * ~

Melissa watched the pixilated penis slop out. Naked male bodies thronged around her. Her mouth ran with syrupy white strands. Paul’s puppet strings. Astonished wasn’t the word for how she felt.
After I stole those damned seeds too!

The video played ten times before she deleted the file. The video had also been forwarded to Cole. That aspect hadn’t really settled yet. Cole had left their room early, in good spirits, to track down Paul. That had been about fifteen minutes before this thing infected her phone. Maybe someone killed Paul last night and that’s why his acolytes sent this—one last fuck-you.

She hoped the bastard was dead, or at least suffering somewhere. Wishful thinking. This shouldn’t have happened. Melissa should have been more firm with Paul. In some way she didn’t think he’d really follow through. There could be some hope though. It was possible Cole wouldn’t check the phone. He hated technology most times and refused to learn anything new about cell phones other than how to send and receive a call. He even remembered most phone numbers rather than build a contact list.

Oh Cole! This is so fucked.
She couldn’t take this back, not after lying. All she could do was try to make him understand that she hadn’t wanted to lie. The truth was too much. Maybe if he overlooked the message, she could delete the video. As Cole often liked to quote the Tomes:
You will set yourself free, no one but you
.

Melissa gripped the comforter until her knuckles cracked. The room had become frigid. The rain was hissing outside. She had to entertain a bitter prospect: Cole knew. Avoiding that as a possible outcome could prove fatal. Could he really do that? He loved her so goddamn much. Too much, yes? He wouldn’t do anything. Would he? Wouldn’t lay a hand on her. Don’t be naïve, she told herself. She was going to die if she didn’t champion through this.

I do love him. I do. I do love him. I do.

It wasn’t a reassuring mantra. Her breathing matched her heartbeat. She wanted to bawl but the fear of clouding her vision burned the tears away.
He forgave me the kiss. He can forgive me this. It’ll be difficult, but he’ll come around in time. He needs you.

What if he doesn’t?

She deserved it then. Was that it?

Several solutions existed, even though they were painted in pessimism.

Her phone’s alert went off and she shrieked.
Main Menu. Text messages
.
Inbox
.

NEW MESSAGE –
COLE
. The sweaty pad of her thumb touched the select button and held there. She could use what
Sandeus
had told her to get his mind back on Halloween. It was time she told him about that anyway. But—no, it wouldn’t be as easy as changing the subject. She could beg forgiveness and try to reassure him that one encounter wasn’t important to her. Because that’s what this was really about—she was ruined when they met. This was a male thing, a pissing on a hydrant thing. If reassuring Cole wasn’t appealing, she could always drive far away and never return. But Cole wasn’t some estranged ex-boyfriend. He had those seeds growing inside, making him a surrogate denizen of the Old Domain. What if they guided him to her? What then?

Her thumb descended on the button and she read Cole’s text message.

VIDEO SENDER IS DEAD. JUST LIKE US.

He’d learned his phone after all.

Outside the raindrops fell quicker, a countdown to zero.

Paul watched
Eggert
grinning like a feral cat, gnashing his teeth, moaning in husky
ohs
and
ahs
, rolling his eyes to the whites. The coitus was preformed not but two feet away, which Paul figured intentional. The barrel-chested grizzly propped his bulk up with one planted arm, and pulled up his pants. He whistled a sigh of relief and his eyes lowered to Paul’s. “Excellent,” he said and cleared his throat. “I was hoping you’d wake soon. You missed everything that went on before. I’ll have to go again to show you how it’s done.”

Paul stared away. He couldn’t assemble his thoughts into anything meaningful. The only fully-realized concept took little deconstruction: this was a
bad
situation and this man would probably kill him soon. Paul’s body twisted at the notion. Threads of fire stringed into every nerve and his wrists throbbed where the zip tie cut into them. Sweat stung his flesh.

The Priestess lay there, eyes up and
out
, a pool of honey hair around her precious, empty face. He saw her breasts rise and fall, lifting gently with the expanse of her lungs. Paul wanted to weep. Her body was keeping alive somehow—maybe a part of her still lived deep inside? After he quit the throes of self-admonishment, Paul cupped through the muck layering his own consciousness. The room cleared and images redefined.
Had to get rid of
Eggert
.
 
Had to bring her back. Had to.

Eggert
set a pillow from the divan on the floor.

Paul refused to show an emotion. When
Eggert
sat on the pillow, he saw two other things he’d brought over: a full bottle of
Everclear
grain alcohol and a hunting knife that could have once belonged to a Mongol warrior. The big man dissected him with crocodile eyes. Paul tried to
will
himself into passing out again.
Eggert’s
voice crept through the darkness of his mind. “You don’t understand a thing about us.”

Through the hum of his swollen lips, Paul said, “Is this where you give me a lesson?”

His head cranked to the side and a million
starbeams
snapped in half and collided.
Eggert
had struck him with something short and blunt. The impact had broken a piece of tooth and drove it into Paul’s gum line. He felt the blood dam up behind his bottom lip and rush over the side.

“I won’t waste my time educating you,”
Eggert
replied a moment later, with not so much as a deep breath. He was holding the butt of his knife up and tapping his chin with it. “But you do need to know what you took from me, what you took from our land, from the
Ekki
fields.”