Black and Orange (31 page)

“What did I take?”

Eggert’s
lower lip trembled as though he’d been the one popped in the face. “We’ve sent many of our own through the gateway. The Archbishops use
Ekkians
for
personal guards
—” The word didn’t fit well on
Eggert’s
lips. “Mere sentries guarding the vanity of power stricken fools? We do not complain. Though our blades lust for the Hunt, we are made to govern hallways.”

“What the fuck does this have to do with—”

Paul flinched as the knife rose in the air.
Eggert
thought a moment and lowered it. “You’ve taken my only reason for coming here.”

Paul opened his eyes slow, like movie curtains. “If you would just—”

Eggert’s
laugh was a hound’s cry. It made Paul wince.
Eggert
twisted the jagged blade in the air. Dull, rainy light from the windows patterned the silver surface. His nostrils flared. “Only the Nomads could undo what you’ve done.”

“Let’s find them, now, tonight. Untie me—”

“Stop talking! Stop your foolish throat!”

“You don’t want to save her?” Paul demanded.

Eggert
pointed at the Priestess’s inert body. “She’s already
dead
. All that remains, I will enjoy.”

“Her heart still beats. We have a chance.”

Silence filled the space between and sucked the oxygen from the room. Paul glanced to the Priestess, then at the shattered cell phone near the wall. His acolytes would be looking for him. Where the hell were Melissa’s people? They were supposed to be keeping an ear to the ground too.
Oh but wait
, thought Paul.
Oh shit—there was more to this now
. He hoped those assholes hadn’t finally followed through with one of his orders.

Eggert
ripped through Paul’s right pectoral. The incision didn’t hurt at first. He was still partially numb. But the cut flared in the seconds following. It flared and then
raged
. Paul screeched. A trickling flow from the chest wound went down his stomach and into his thicket of pubic hair. He spit at
Eggert
, but the bloody wad did not find its intended home. “The hotel will come, you know. You can’t cut me to pieces without them sending someone up here.”

Another wildcat grin. “They’ve grown accustomed to screaming in this room. They’ve been paid to ignore it, in fact, and the other adjoining rooms are inhabited by Church members who know the Priestess’s tastes. So you tell me, will the magistrate really send soldiers here?”

Paul just wanted to fold into himself and die. The cut didn’t hurt as much now, but it bled steadily. Not gushing though;
Eggert
would torture wisely.

Then Paul’s voice hit a note he’d no idea he was capable of hitting. The grain alcohol boiled in his wound. Through his tears he saw
Eggert
take a swig of the pure alcohol as though soda pop. He brushed some droplets away from his beard and breathed out through his teeth. “The only libation here that comes close to
Ekkian
mead. It will empower me for all the pleasure to come.” Then he raised the knife.

~ * ~

There were seven cuts Paul remembered. Despite the lyrics of that popular song, the first, then the
third
and then the
sixth
were the deepest (in that order), and consequently these cuts were also the most brutal coupled with the
Everclear
. Piss-ass drunk,
Eggert
became sloppy with the knife around the sixth cut, although the seventh, not deep, was a nasty drag from armpit to hip. It marked the skin like a red highway.
Eggert
took a minute-long swig and his eyes bloomed with the taste. He’d already thrown up on Paul two times. Laughed about it the first time. Laughed
through
it the second. Then went on cutting.
Eggert’s
eyes had become pasty and self-aware of his drunkenness. Through the careless torment, Paul’s eyes roamed to the Priestess, just to see, to be sure he hadn’t lost her. She still breathed.

The big man pulled his pillow closer. The smell of the alcohol had the intense quality of nail polish remover and the leftover vomit hit Paul’s nostrils with a caustic tang.
Eggert
scooted a bit more, careful not to get within touching distance—he might have been drunk, but he knew the power Paul possessed and wouldn’t risk a fate worse than the Priestess’s. Paul couldn’t have done anything though. His pain muddled everything. He’d tried to dissolve the zip ties several times but couldn’t break through the anguish. In the beginning he might have had a chance if
Eggert
hadn’t beat him unconscious. Since then the voice of the marrow blossoms had gone mute.

“You not
blee
-ding,”
Eggert
slurred, “enough. Enough. Enough.” His bushy head rolled to the Priestess as though it might fall off his shoulders. He whimpered at the sight of her and his swollen, blood-flecked fist clenched the knife so tight it looked like a speckled dinosaur egg. “
Sho
beautiful. Wanted her
sho
badly,
sho
long. Followed her to this land. Now
shuy’s
gone home.
Lef
-me. I want
t’feel
the knives o’ her voice… just one
mores
time.”

Eggert’s
crying eyes turned. His arm went up. The knife point sailed high with a perfect trajectory for Paul’s throat.

This was the end. Paul’s eyes clamped shut. And for three terrifying seconds nothing happened. He waited there, wondered,
Eggert’s
dried vomit sticking to his lap. Paul had looked down at it only once before. Half-digested flies and cockroaches and bones of unusual shape and sharpness matted the sludge. It had made him dry heave before, but now, carefully, his eyelids peeled back and focused on the mess. It might be the last thing he saw... his head lifted slightly, carefully—
fuck, you need to be slower—
and finally he got another view of his torturer.
 

Eggert
leaned sideways now, knife across his lap. His strength had waned; his skin had turned the color of pus. He swiped up the alcohol and fumbled. Both paws battled the bottle for a moment before he found balance. When he did, his lips flickered with a stillborn smile. The bottle flew up. Clear, burning fluid splashed through the brown beard. The last ounce disappeared and the bottle fell hollow on the carpet.
Eggert
put his wide hands over his face and raked up and down, side to side, giggling silently. Paul swallowed. Waited some more. The hands came away, crimson fingernails.
Eggert’s
blighted eyes stared back through the crosshatches he’d created. The eyes were more determined than ever. So Paul knew how this would all end.

Eggert
fit the knife in the crook of Paul’s neck and shoulder. The blade stung as it sawed the soft flesh away and took a downward course. Paul tried to savor his last bit of blood-free air, right before the final slash. Something loud and visceral was spilling down. His ears picked up on it: the noise was his body being unfastened in such a way that he could actually hear the division.

But that was terror-induced hallucination. Paul’s body wasn’t the one coming apart.
Eggert
was vomiting again, although this time hearty blasts of orange bile fell out of the beard. He was on all fours, knife still in hand but pinned to the carpet. His body rocked side to side and the beard swayed like soggy brown moss. Paul watched in some bleary-eyed satisfaction as the man rolled into the fetal position and convulsed.

After a few minutes Paul rose up, baby-naked, bloody, covered in puke. He hopped for the kitchen. His penis bounced as he went and even in the moment this seemed really funny. Laughter wasn’t really possible though; each hop created an impact that sent shocks of raw pain through the zip ties on his ankles.

Eggert
shot up behind him. More vomit exploded over his face and choked him. He circled around and pressed his forehead against the carpet to contain the release. The big man concentrated on his body’s slow death again.

“Motherfucker.” Paul spat but nothing came out.

When he got to the phone in the adjoining room Paul felt near to blacking out. He knocked the phone off the cradle. Blood sprayed over the tile counter in bright wisps. He dialed Vince’s number from behind his back, leaned over and pressed his ear onto the headset. The phone rang several times before picking up. It wasn’t Vince.

“Who’s this?”

The voice went high pitched. “Susan McDonald. It’s great to hear from you, Bishop Quintana! Some of us thought something bad had happened.”

“
Who
are you?”

“I used to be pledged to Melissa Patterson. She sent our pledges to you—”

“Where’s Vince?”

She paused. “Dead, Bishop.”

“The Nomads?” he asked, almost hopefully.

“This morning Bishop
Szerszen
shot him through the eye—we believe the Bishop responsible because of the phone… message that went out.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Vince forwarded me.”

“Asshole,” said Paul, shaking his head. He did have to wonder what this girl thought about the video. Paul decided to ask her sometime.

“We came to clean up the room,” she went. “We’ve been holed up here for some time, actually. Nobody seems to know and we were just about to send word to the Archbishop. We were hoping you would call and let us know how to proceed.”

He was glad he’d acquired some of Melissa’s people. They were already paying off. “Good girl. Let’s not bring
Sandeus
into this.”

“But the Archbishop—”

“Trust me.”

“Yes, Bishop Quintana. But do you think Bishop
Szerszen
will come after any of us like he did Vince?”

Paul thought for a moment.

“Hello?”

“Don’t worry about it. Listen, I need you to come up to the Priestess of Morning’s suite. Arm yourselves and watch your fucking tail.”

“I think the hotel security has been paid—”

“I’m not talking about the Doubletree staff. Just bring me a change of clothes and a first aid kit, along with someone who can suture without leaving Frankenstein scars
.
And I’m going to be hungry once I get all this upchuck off me.”

“Bishop?”

“Bring food,” he clarified. “Something quick.”

“Absolutely.”

“And most importantly—what was your name again?”

“Susan.”

The marrow seeds needed to be close at hand with Cole ready to cut his throat.
Or send my head into the Old Domain.
“Most importantly, Susan, I need you to bring the black box in the safe in my closet. It’s the only thing in there, so it should be easy to spot.”

“Yes, but the combination?”

“1031.”

“Um, may I ask one more thing?”

“You need to hurry.”

“Will Melissa be okay?” she asked.

Paul licked his chapped lips. “She’s fucked, Susan. Now get your ass in gear.”

~ * ~

The clumsy sutures were a little wide, scarring inevitable. Paul wanted to take it out on
Eggert
: drag him into the bathroom and send his brains down the bathtub drain. But according to his acolytes that wouldn’t be necessary. The Priestess’ manservant had either poisoned his body with all that 200 proof lighter fluid or filled his lungs with vomit. Either way, nobody here would have sent him to a hospital.

Paul carried the Priestess over to the bed, his sewn flesh contracting. Cool semen dribbled out of her vagina and over his arm. The warmth of her body and her breathing made him sense the hope he’d thought long gone. The thought of her slipping away made Paul want to break down, so he went to the bathroom for a quick shower. Hardly dry, he returned bedside at once. His acolytes chatted in the living room. It was a pleasant white noise and it made him somehow miss the children.
You’re a sick bastard, Quintana. If your mother could see you now.

Just a few weeks ago he and Justin Margrave had T&Ts in his loft in L.A. and discussed their plans for this holiday. Paul smiled sadly. Justin didn’t have a clue then what would happen weeks later. Neither had Paul really. It had all come together perfectly in some ways. Now Paul was here and it was time to become something greater than they could have ever imagined. Life happened quickly.

Paul opened the glossy pine box and glanced inside the charred interior. There were a few rolled cigarettes and a sandwich bag of glittering gray seeds. Someone could easily mistake this as a teenager’s stash. There were differences however. The thin pods were about two inches long and half an inch wide. They appeared sharp enough to cut, like the chrome trimmings from some industrial machine. Paul’s face reflected in every marrow seed and he was reminded of staring through the eyes of a housefly. Next to the box, near a lamp, sat the tall bottle of water he’d half drunken to wash down his medium pineapple pizza. God bless that Susan McDonald.

If it came down to it, drinking the seeds would probably be quickest. Besides which, Paul couldn’t imagine another onslaught to his lungs—not now. The marrow garden in his chest was too dominant and fast-rooted to allow newcomers. Better to put them in his stomach and grow them in a new area. Then the thought assaulted him:
what if swallowing them was worse?
There was no time to go through a steeper magnitude of all of that hallucinatory shit again.