The Second Coming (21 page)

But ye shall
destroy their altars, break their images, and cut down their
groves: For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose
name is Jealous, is a jealous God.

John shook his
head. “I must break this to him over time. Too much at once he
would not be able to handle.”

“
Why does he accompany you?”

“
I think he was sent to update the Cardinal. Miguel has a good
heart, and has always been kind to me, even when the Church
imprisoned me for heresy, but he would crawl up the devil's ass if
the Cardinal asked him. I don't think he's fond of our
Pope.”

Ingrid nodded.
“I've heard she was once a blood priestess, but that was years ago.
Does he oppose her?”

“
I don't know.” He paused to put the wick to his lips,
flicking the tip with his tongue as he took another drag. He closed
his eyes as the effects of the Wormwood tickled the recesses of his
mind.

The ecstasy
.

His loins
stirred and his eyes shifted to the glint of the gold cross lodged
between Ingrid's breasts. His face flushed with embarrassment and
he averted his eyes to stare into hers.

That was enough
.

He couldn’t do that again —
ever
. He was tainted.

John butted
the wick in an earthenware bowl and coughed.

“
Many are waiting for this Pope to abdicate. I'm not sure
Esther is the sort though. She's strong.”

Ingrid
examined the wasted wick in the bowl. “The same was once said of
Pope Joan.”

He nodded. “I
suppose.”

“
Did you know her?”

He coughed
again.

Yes.

“
She was the opposite of Esther, dark where Esther was light,
a mystery to Esther's sureness. Esther is purely human, Joan was
not. But rumor has it she was either Lastborn or Firstborn. I
always thought she might be Sidhe.” He studied Ingrid for a moment
and the fine lines of her eyebrows.

She sucked
hard on the wick and blew the smoke from the corner of her mouth.
“For all the good that does anyone.”

“
Are you?”

She cleared
her throat, but her voice was still low and chalky. “My father was.
My mother was human.”

“
I thought Sidhe blood was never mixed with
others.”

“
Like most Sidhe males, my father had little ability to
control his carnal desires. And when there’s no one left to mate
with, what choice is there? He fucked all kinds of humans, and not
just women.”

John nodded.
He had heard that.

Ingrid brought
the wick to her lips and a stirring in his loins vexed him again.
The smoke drifted in his direction, dancing along the rays of
failing sunlight that clambered through the window. Outside the
inn, a pilgrimage towards the Maze paraded along the street. Some
played the flute as they walked; an eerie melody.

Pan’s
flute.

John had heard
he was looking for a bride. And he’d also heard that the horned
being frequented the Maze.

He looked back
at Ingrid. “The Sidhe are scattered. Why?”

She shook her
head. “We lost the last surviving heir to the throne.”

“
Who?”

She winked at
him. “Pope Joan.”

John nearly
choked. “What?”

Ingrid leaned
in. “She kept that secret to herself. Sephirah‘s mother was Queen
Maeve, who bred with the former Emperor of Valbain, among others.
Sephirah would have been the ultimate ruler that would have united
all the races, for she was bred from the all. Of course, any power
she had was lost when Sephirah joined the Church. She discovered
what sort of bastard child she was, rejected her position, and
became a priestess. It is said she lost her skill when that
happened. By the time she abdicated and joined the Rebellion, her
talent in necromancy and bloodcraft was lost. Then she disappeared,
and the hopes of the Sidhe with her.”

Ingrid shifted
in the wooden chair. It creaked and scratched the worn, wooden
floor. She folded her hands on the table, her arms pressing her
cleavage together.

“
Tell me something. Why did my spell not affect you? I felt
you brush it off. No man has ever avoided spilling his heart to
me.”

John chuckled.
“I sensed it. I have a talent myself. I can smell truth. I know
when someone is lying to me. It is a gift I was given when I found
my own.”

“
Yet you still spoke true to me. You could have
lied.”

He smiled.
“Ah, but that is the curse of my gift. I cannot lie.”

The corner of
her lips curved slyly upwards. “Well then, tell me true, Churchman.
I've been told some of your order still cling to the ancient notion
of celibacy like a Razor Leech to a fat Baron. How long has it been
for you? Would you like to take me in the Maze?”

Ingrid's chest
rose and fell in a rhythmic motion, reminiscent of a leisurely
tide. Warmth surged up John’s neck and he longed to run his fingers
along the thin, gold chain that traced a delicate line across her
white flesh. He caught the scent of her over the Wormwood — faint
lilac.

He lifted his
eyes to meet hers, and nearly drowned in the pools of lust that
waited for him. The lingering Wormwood numbed his senses and his
will. It had been so long, so agonizingly long.

He shook his
head and swallowed the lump in his throat.

No.
Never again.

The longing
faded, and he smiled. “I can choose not to answer you.”

A smirk slid
across her lips. “The fat friar returns. Perhaps it is for the
best.”

From the
stairs, Miguel waddled towards them, Meega at his side. The friar
wore multi-hued patchwork pants with billowing cuffs and a blue,
silk top that hung nearly to his knees. Meega stood next to him,
her hair clean and moist, hanging limp down the side of her face.
Dressed in a bright red dress with a bow in her hair, she smiled at
them; the first since the passing of her mother. The wooden doll
hung at her side, its straw hair clenched in her tiny fist.

John rose from
the table, careful not to bang his head on the ceiling beams. He
picked up the little girl.

“
You look very pretty.”

She smiled,
and held his face and his gaze. The innocence that shone within
those blue eyes seeped into him and yanked at his heart. Then she
plugged her nose.

John laughed.
“I guess I need a bath.”

He put Meega
down and she ran over to sit beside Ingrid who clapped her hands to
summon the servants. A young man and woman, siblings as far as John
could tell, slipped into the room from behind a sheer, violet
curtain.

“
Prepare another bath and guide the good friar upstairs.” She
then turned to John. “It was an interesting chat, Churchman. If you
need anything from me later, you will know where to find me. You
will likely not see me in the morning.”

“
Thank you, Ingrid. You have been most generous.”

“
Good luck to you.”

John then
followed the two servants to the bathing room.

The hot water
was scented with petals of lilac and honeysuckle, the former of
which reminded him of Ingrid. He supposed he could have accepted
her offer, if that's what he could call it, but this was no time
for indulgences of the flesh. And he wasn’t sure he could anyway.
After the incident where that spirit had seized his weakened mind
and used him, he wasn’t sure that he could be with anyone again. It
was too much remorse to bear some days. And he knew he wasn’t free
of guilt entirely.

Perhaps if he
had not been addicted himself, he could have held out; perhaps he
could have fought it.

He shook his
head at the folly of that notion.

No.
Who was he fooling? There was no
fighting.

Not
that
spirit.

He poured
water over his mangy head, as if to baptize himself.

How much sin
could he wash away?

He remembered
the encounter like it was burned into his mind.

He poured
water over himself again.

What ate at
him over the years was that some fraction of him took pleasure in
the encounter. Hidden beneath his struggles to free himself from
the god-damned spirit that had occupied his body lay longing,
ecstasy, and power. His loins stirred at the memory of it, and
another pitcher of water flooded over him.

Why?

He castigated
himself, silent as he dug his fingernails into his skin.

The pain
sometimes provided relief.

Then John
wept.

Five towering
candles flickered in the corner, casting yellow light and dancing
shadows throughout the room. Night settled in by the time he was
sure he scrubbed out the last of the stench. He stepped out of the
tub and dressed in the silken orange nightclothes that awaited him.
They were the perfect length, if a little loose, and he made his
way to the room prepared for the three of them. He felt like there
was an iron cross hanging from his neck.

Miguel and
Meega were already settled in for the night, the tonsured man
reading to her from the Bible. He closed the book as John entered
and said nothing. John blew out the candles and settled into the
blankets himself, dreaming of mazes, a hoofed devil, castration,
and a pregnant Pope.

The following
morning John did not see Ingrid in the common room, and after
paying for their services, the two friars and Meega made their way
out of Carnero, all dressed in lavish, brightly colored clothing
with pairs to spare. John rather liked his new garments, but Miguel
muttered something about trading it along the route.

He got his
wish in a small parish, three days later on the border of Portugal,
where he traded the garb for friar's robes and reset his tonsure
once more. John kept Meega far from the derelict stone church,
insisting upon taking her into town to find her a riding outfit
while Miguel saw to his spiritual needs. He could not allow Miguel
the chance to leave her with the Church.

He walked
through the town where rumors swarmed like locusts. The sighting of
an angel near old Madrid stirred religious fanaticism while the
fear of horned demons near Rome drove the people to frenzy. John
had heard such rumors numerous times before, along with sightings
of Ganesh, Athena, and Isis. They were getting more frequent of
late and they were always followed by reports of odd births — babes
with stumps for arms and legs; children begat with claws or horns;
and infants born with the tongue of a snake. He’d even heard of a
little boy who’d been whelped with hooves for feet. That child did
not live long.

He penned
another missive to the Pope before moving onwards, realizing he had
little time to squander.

Two days
further, as all three stood upon the white, sandy shores of Baleal,
he wondered what the Pope thought of his writings to her.

Had she even
received them?

Meega splashed
about in the waves. He picked her up and she put his face in her
hands once again, staring into his eyes. It was a moment where
nothing else existed, but her porcelain features and smiling face.
She still said nothing, but she didn’t seem to need to.

He held her to
him for a time before she wriggled free to splash about once more.
John breathed deep, inhaling the briny air, and watched the little
girl laugh as the waves knocked her over. He removed his boots, and
waded through the shallow waters, feeling purified by the ocean's
cool caress. It was a moment's peace before the journey over sea; a
moment of heaven before stepping into hell. He gazed out. Four
Portuguese galleons set sail as two returned.

Would the Pope
know what to do? Did he? And could he bring himself to do what was
required?

John relished
a further moment of peace as they strolled northward. Gulls crossed
overhead, squawking as they scoured the beach. They approached a
small stucco building with a framed archway perched at the edge of
the port-town. They stepped through the doors, where they were
greeted by a man who was two heads shorter than John, yet his face
was set with the same definitive jaw.

The man smiled
wide, opened his arms and gave a hearty laugh.

“
John! It has been a long time, my brother. How are
you?”

John returned
his fierce embrace. “Manuel, it is good to see you. You look well.”
He took stock of the small bar with its white and blue fresco tiles
that climbed half the wall, some a little chipped. Manuel had run
the establishment since they were young men.

He sat at a
round, wooden table and grabbed a ceramic bowl of olives, popping
two into his mouth. Meega and Miguel pulled up chairs next to him,
both sampling the black olives. Meega’s face grimaced as she put
them to her tongue.

Manuel looked
at Miguel and then Meega.

“
Hello, little one. How about some fresh pineapple juice?
Perhaps some cod cookies? Rosa made them this morning.”

John smiled at
the mention of Manuel's wife. “Rosa. Where is she?”

As if on cue,
the woman stepped through the kitchen door, an apron tied about her
waist. Her dark hair was shorn in a bob that highlighted a round,
pleasant face.

Both the sun and the moon reside in those eyes.
If only…

She laughed as
she sized up the tall friar, music to John's ears.

“
John! I am so happy to see you. How are you?”

She kissed him
on both cheeks and held his hands. “We miss you. You don't visit
often enough.” She glanced at Miguel and Meega. “Who are your
friends?”