Black and Orange (17 page)

“So he’s real. Is the Heart of the Harvest real?”

Cole made a right down a residential street crowded with delineators and cones. He squinted at every street sign, trying to find his way.

“So you don’t know either?” Paul prodded.

Headlights glanced off the face busy with scars. The Bishop adjusted the tight band of his black tie and smoothed it down his worn Armani. He turned down several more streets. “The Heart of the Harvest nourishes Cloth’s children, which are pieces of the gateway born into this world. They are the only creatures able to interact and open the gateway, but they must gorge themselves on the Heart before expelling such power. The Heart grows inside a different vessel each year and it matures on the Day of Opening.”

“Yeah, I know all that, but what happens when a Heart survives? I wasn’t in the Inner Circle yet, so I only know how success looks.”

“After the 31
^st
the fruit dies, the vessel’s body becomes just like any other mortal.”

The words came out before Paul could stop himself. “What a load of shit.”

“You may get to see it all happen, if you survive the Heralding.”

That did not set Paul at ease. He told Cole to pull over and once the car came to a stop he popped open the door and proceeded to vomit into a rushing storm drain.

Light pollution from Colton, San Bernardino, Rialto, and assorted neighboring cities cast a gross hue over the stars. It reminded Paul of when he mixed coke with milk as a kid. Out here in
Reche
Canyon though, one could probably see more stars than anywhere else, except the mountains maybe.
Fuck the stars
, thought Paul.
Fuck this place. Fuck the idea behind all of this.
It was for one woman? He questioned what had brought him to such lengths.

The headlights cut through a cloud of dirt. The brown particles looked electrified for a moment, turned to silver silt, like they were under a lake. Paul just wanted to leave. His nerves couldn’t take this a second longer—

Someone in black moved through the cloud and Paul shot up in alarm. His newly attuned awareness lighted from the marrow blossoms and suddenly his mind pushed forward.

“How—? Don’t!” Cole barked. “Cloth will kill us, you asshole!”

There was no stopping it now. Paul had sent something vicious outside of his mind to push Chaplain Cloth back into the Old Domain. Frantically Paul clawed at his seat belt. Couldn’t waste a moment, had to run—

“Quintana!”

Cole’s voice was a water molecule in a tsunami. Paul’s fingers dug at the buckle; his seatbelt came free and slapped the interior frame. Cole reached for his sleeve, but Paul already had the door open. He threw himself outside and felt the cold, dirty air squeeze his body. A vile taste gagged him. There was no way he was going to participate in this shit—there was no way. Run away. Run far. Get those heels kicking. Never look back. Forget the Priestess. She was just another whore like mother...

Paul slid downhill into tumbleweeds, fighting and ripping up his hands unlatching the skeletal plants. The limo headlights lessened and now Cole ambled across a dismal watercolor painting of browns and yellows and grays.

Gravel crunched to his left. Paul automatically sent out another push. This time he had no chance to feel anything cross over. Instead, the impulse returned, a two thousand pound fist that nudged him back. That was all it took. Paul lost footing and dropped.

Sounds of Cole’s searching through the dust grew louder on the hill above. Paul wiggled around and found his feet. With nothing left he charged into the hazy white light. Cole reached out with disembodied arms and tried to grab him. Paul slipped away. He heard new shoes pounding the gravel. He almost pushed out with his mind again, but wasn’t able to control it and kept running.

He darted out of the dust into the blue desert night. An arm stretched out, then a pearl white finger. Paul had seen this ahead, wanted to stop, to turn, escape. But he sent himself right into that finger and before it even had a chance to touch him, Paul went rigid and his nervous system exploded. A hiccup of stomach acid blasted into his mouth, his heart seized and guts twisted.

Cole ran up. Apologies were already forming through the big man’s heavy breaths.

“The new Bishop?” a silky voice asked.

Cole took a second to answer, either from lack of breath or confusion. “Yes, but he didn’t—”

“Very well,” answered Chaplain Cloth.

Paul managed to open his eyes. Cloth had melted into the surrounding, but his eyes floated in the night, one burning bright orange like a small sun and the other so black it sucked in the darkness around it, making the night seem gray.

“Come this way, brothers. I mustn’t leave the gateway unattended.”

Cole tucked a hand under Paul’s underarm and hefted him to his feet.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Cole grumbled in his ear. Louder, “What the fuck?”

“He startled me,” Paul said. It sounded just as stupid to him as he imagined it did to Cole, but it was the truth.

The men and the monster walked up the black hill to a looming grain silo. A giant mouth swelled in the silo’s side like a meaty abrasion. This was the first time Paul hadn’t felt the marrow blossoms since they were implanted. He had no doubt it was Cloth who had put them into hibernation. Now the blossoms were hiding. Paul would have hidden also had he the chance.

Something, a lot of things, lived inside that silo. Gears turning; the calls of bats; tangled voices; songs of hounds. The smell from inside came and went on the breeze, maggots and
Malto
Meal. Chaplain Cloth had retreated inside the silo, into the mouth of the gateway. All they could really see now was a single smoldering orange eye.

“I’m glad you came to visit. I have high hopes this year for the bounty.”

Cole sat on a hay bale, his curly gray hair looking like a Spartan helmet in the drizzling moonlight. He lowered his head, and despite feeling silly, Paul followed.

The
malto
-maggot scent peaked again and Paul’s empty stomach fluttered. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there after nearly attacking this thing. Paul tried to speak clearly, but it still came out as mumbles, “Can I ask something?”

“Can you?”

Paul was afraid this was a test, but carefully went on. “What will happen after the worlds come together?”

Lips smacked in the shadows. “Normalcy. Most of this world has already been populated with broken spirits, tenderized for us—blindfolded, gagged, bound and dropped into ethereal quicksand without much corralling. Its defenses have been lowered, especially in this land. Walking contradictions. The human animal has a dead heart but celebrates love and brotherhood. Funny.” Chaplain Cloth purred at the last. The bat songs, the howling hounds, the muttering insanity from inside the silo calmed suddenly. “The Eternal Church will begin its rule on them soon.”

“I’ve decided to have my own say in that rule, as it pertains to the Church of Midnight,” Cole said carefully.

“Would you now
?
” The orange eye flared and its color outlined its black twin. Chaplain Cloth was quiet for some time. The rain’s force lessened to mist.

“I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Really?” The eyes twinkled merrily. “And why?”

“When you learn what happened to
Sandeus
Pager, I want you to know it was me. I am more worthy than he. I will prove the Church’s greatness by sacrificing him for ineptitude and lack of passion to the call. And I—I’d like your blessing.”

“I’m a Chaplain in the Eternal Church,” Cloth explained. “There is no need to ask a blessing from one beneath your station. Besides which, I don’t involve myself in mortal pettiness, you understand.”

Cole looked away, embarrassed. “Certainly, Chaplain.”

“Now, I would think it wise to go build your strength for the Heralding. And take Bishop Quintana there. He smells like he needs a shower.”

The black and orange eyes watched them leave. There was a smile in the darkness somewhere. Paul was sure of it.

Cole slammed the car door and dropped his heavy body into the seat. A minute passed, with him searching around like a man on the verge of a breakdown. He drove a big fist into the radio and Paul shrunk back. “Motherfucking shit!”

Cole pulled back his big arm again and let another punch smash into the sagging plastic components. One of his knuckles burst and he ripped his hand away. He made like he was about to punch the console again, but threw his head back against the headrest and took a deep breath.

Paul found himself pressed against the passenger door. “Something the matter?”

Cole palmed his jaw wound absently and then sucked at his bloody knuckles. “He knows
Sandeus
should not hold the position. That twisted fuck knows that!”

“He doesn’t have a problem with it. Does having a blessing change anything?” asked Paul, warily.

“It does for me. After performing the Heralding year after year, being invaluable in tracking the Nomads, lasting all this time, gaining so many scars, I imagined Cloth would find me worthy.”

Paul relaxed a little. “Maybe Cloth knows you’ll be worthy only if you pull it off. That’s all that matters, Bishop.”

Cole turned over the ignition. “Forget it. This was a waste coming here. We need to get back to hotel. Conclave will begin soon.”

Paul fell back, heart still reeling. The limo shrugged left and right as they went onto the paved road. The lights from the city brightened the night. In the back of his mind, Paul heard Cloth’s children scratching at the shutter.

He turned to find Cole looking at him. “What?” he asked.

“I hear them too. They’re anxious this year Quintana,” Cole told him as shadows slashed over his distorted face. “And you’re going to open the door wider than ever. You will let them in.”

~ * ~

The
Church
of
Midnight
occupied four floors of the Double Tree hotel in
Ontario
. The drive from
Colton
took around twenty minutes and that gave Paul plenty of time to splash around in his dread. He was fairly convinced Cole needed him for the Heralding and there weren’t any plans to get rid of him, at least not right now, and he was also slightly sure Melissa would have her acolytes watching the situation steadfast, just in case. She couldn’t afford to have that video go public domain. If Cole didn’t break her neck, he’d find away to throw her out of her job in supply and logistics, maybe even toss her out of the
Inner Circle
. Paul couldn’t worry about it tonight though. Now that he’d lived through his meeting with Chaplain Cloth, tonight was all about the Priestess. He refused to not enjoy himself.

Cole checked them in at the front counter. The hotel was nicer than most places Paul had been to: red carpets, sitting areas, wide open and airy spaces. He sat in a daze by a potted fern across from the counter and looked around to see if anybody cared enough to watch.
Nope
, just a few sweeping bodies carrying luggage, waiting to put it down somewhere. Paul took out his quartz and practiced. The blossoms had unfurled again and he’d rather have had his mind on this rock than on the memory of those freaky eyes. Everything
could
be fine.

“Put the rock away,” Cole said, making him jump. “You do that in private. We don’t advertise.”

Paul slipped the stone in his pocket. Cole handed him a little envelope with the key card to his room. “Are your acolytes bringing up your luggage?”

Paul nodded a white lie. He still had to give the
lobotomites
a call. They were probably drunk by this hour. Hopefully they were only a little stoned.

“I’ll see you at conclave.”

Paul nodded, then he flipped open his phone and put it to his ear. Cole
Szerszen
stood there looking at him for an uncomfortable moment while the phone rang.

“Our bargain in the desert will always stand,” said Cole. “I want you to know that, no matter what, you have my word on that as a Bishop of Midnight.”

Paul didn’t know what to say. It was almost embarrassing. Cole clapped him hard on the shoulder and headed for the elevators. An exasperated sigh burst from Paul’s mouth.
That is one odd duck there, boys and girls,
he thought.

The ringing ended in a lazy sounding message: “This is Jake, um, I’m not here to take... your, um, message but if you leave me, uh, your number I’ll return your call. Thank you.
Buh
-bye.”

Paul hated
buh
-bye
.

“Hey fuckhead!” he started. Two passing elderly women toting carpet suitcases gave Paul sidelong looks. “Get your ass to the Double Tree in Ontario. Bring ten acolytes, strapped. The hotel is booked, so tell the rest they’re sleeping in the parking structure. Call me when you get this, which better be fucking soon.”

Paul smacked the phone shut and then rubbed at the anxiety locked in his face. It was okay. In a couple hours, conclave would begin and he would be in the same room with the Priestess. The thought of that practically floated him to the elevators.

~ * ~

Before a second knock could hit the door, Paul was off the bed. His bath towel fell off his hips and he almost tripped through its terrycloth layers. He cursed the towel and ripped it off the ground and stationed it over his crotch with one hand. What the hell had taken Vince so long? Paul took a breath and got his game face on. He’d stood toe to toe with Chaplain Cloth and renewed confidence flowed through his body like an electrical current.