Black & Orange Read online

  “Yes, you know the simple version, the child’s story. You know that Chaplain Cloth comes to visit once a year with his children, to hunt and kill someone special, but you have no clue of the significance of the act itself. Every time the Nomads fail to protect the Heart, like last year, things move more quickly—that gateway to the Old Domain may be large enough now to open permanently. Finding this year’s Heart is essential to our future. And I’m not just talking about the Church of Midnight. I’m talking about you and me, Paul. Our futures. So you need to listen.”

  “Whatever you say, Bishop.”

  Paul’s throat constricted under Cole’s forearm and everything lapsed into pain and suffocation. “I have no time for flippancy.”

  Paul gulped for air.

  “Will you backtalk to the future Archbishop of Midnight. Will you?”

  He couldn’t shake his head but Paul did so with his eyes. Cole released and he gagged as his Adam’s Apple righted itself.

  “Just keep listening to the children’s call and we will be fine at the Heralding. Take this obligation seriously and you’ll get your Priestess.”

  Paul’s voice was burning and hoarse. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Cole drifted back and the darkness ate his hulking form. “After the Heralding, everything will make sense. Just keep listening to Cloth’s children.”

  Paul waited in the dark, with the cold and with the ghosts, hoped for morning. Everything drained from his old life and filled into his new life. When things had finally been righted he opened himself up again. Listened for the call.

  October 27th

  TWELVE

  Sunshine and morning, two of Martin’s favorites. All he needed was some fair-trade coffee and he’d despair through this big mistake just fine. After Teresa went to sleep the previous night, he tossed and turned a little. She went right to sleep, probably since her demons had poured out and the burden of containing them had left. Martin, on the other hand, had to fight the urge to wake her up every minute and throttle some sense into her about this Flagstaff visit.

  This morning he woke and felt no better. He pulled out a medical book to delve into the mysteries of the lungs’ pleural cavity. He’d been reading these same two books for a few months now, but Teresa couldn’t have named them if you asked her. She rarely gave notice of his books; she read magazines and romance novels and he read an occasional DC comic book chased by surgical manuals and acupressure guides. The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy and Cancer Treatment: Complimentary and Alternative Medicine, a nice mingling of Western and Eastern. If he actually got Teresa to a hospital, no glassy-eyed doctor was letting his Teresa die, not out of indifference. Not on Martin’s watch.

  After they haggled with the tire shop to take a bad check, they got back on the road. His stomach was past the point of needy, angry, snarling, twisting ache. Now the organ was cold-silent like an ocean mine ready to detonate. He released his eyes from the road for a minute. Teresa sat beside him with little indication of the same painful hunger, even if the truth surfaced in her fading skin and crabby circles around her eyes.

  “We could try that credit card again.”

  Her women’s magazine had her fixated. She swept a page to the side and smoothed it down. “The canceled one?”

  “I thought that identity was still clean.”

  “The card-holder is in collections. We broke our ties with that one back in Duluth, remember?”

  “Are you positive the card no longer works?” he asked.

  “You’d have to swipe all four pieces.”

  “You cut it up? Do you still have the pieces?”

  “Hold down your desperation, kid. Do you really want the law on us again?”

  “Do you really want me to answer a rhetorical question?” asked Martin, almost to himself.

  Teresa took out a fresh box of cloves from her shirt pocket.

  He persisted. “We don’t even have money for another tank of gas—this is cutting it close.”

  She shook free a black stick and regarded it with dreary impatience. The expression made her look well beyond fifty.

  Martin laughed in dismissal. “We’re losing our touch. We should have talked Señor Swindle into a better deal—no way was that tire eighty bucks. It hardly looks better than the one that blew out.”

  “He took the check, you could give him that. We’re lucky they had a tire for this hunk of crap.”

  “This hunk of burning nostalgia, is what you mean.”

  “You’re going to miss the exit.”

  She was right. Martin cranked the steering wheel right and cut off a fluorescent-lime jeep, which promptly barked with its horn. The van hitched at the sudden redirection and Martin prayed the new tire would prove worthy, just like this detour.

  ~ * ~

  A few years ago they’d gotten adventurous and drove through Teresa’s parents’ neighborhood in Flagstaff. It wasn’t the first time they had made a drive-by visit and Martin figured it was enough for Teresa to see whether her father’s Cadillac was still parked sideways in the driveway or that her mother’s rose bushes remained trimmed. He’d spent enough time with Teresa to realize that visits here were never easy for her; even though she could stare something daunting directly in the eye on Halloween, Martin often sensed the silent aftershocks of her missed youth after their trips to their neighborhood. She’d wanted to knock on their door for some time now.

  This time, as Martin wheeled the van around every suburban turn, the weight of that last visit must have stymied her courage. Teresa looked absolutely pale with the prospect of meeting her parents again. Martin couldn’t imagine their roles reversed. He was scared to death for her. If you told him his family was just ten feet away, he’d have probably run in the opposite direction and kept running until his legs gave out. Not that he hated them or anything, just that he wasn’t supposed to see them ever again.

  And that must have been the feeling in the air this morning. Something heavy pushed down on the Santa Fe tiled roofs and crisp greens lawns. The homes slowly resembled terracotta monsters with wide-hinged jaws. Maybe the rosebushes would be dead. Or the Cadillac would be under a greasy tarp. How would Teresa react to seeing something like that? They were breaking the Messenger’s fundamental ground rules: No permanent contacts. No family. No friends. You must keep moving. Always moving.

  He noticed Teresa sat straighter. Her fulsome almond hair had become slightly oily without showering, but for the most part she scrubbed up nicely in the auto shop bathroom. She saw him looking and said, “My mother was always anal about appearances. How do I look?”

  “No makeup?”

  She poked his shoulder sharply with two fingers. “Ass.”

  “You look awesome,” he said.

  “You should think about seeing your parents too, while we’re on this coast,” she said.

  “They’ll be the same, which means they won’t appreciate the visit.”

  He could tell Teresa prepared to argue, but they pulled alongside the humble mission-styled home, which was older than the others on the block. The house had finer tiling and stucco, and the lawn looked freshly-mown. Sunrays bent off the blue shell of a Cadillac sitting in the driveway and the rosebushes had reached full bloom. Martin glanced over. His partner’s face had become stricken at the sight of them.

  ~ * ~

  Teresa waited before the old cedar door, a step from a straw welcome mat with pumpkins and ghosts. With Martin standing close behind, she glanced to a sun-faded cardboard witch peering through the leaded-glass window. These tired decorations were things for other people, for acquaintances, for trick o’ treaters, not for the people who lived in this house. Her parents would have skipped this holiday completely if they had the choice, and Teresa could scarcely blame them.

  “Are you going to knock?” Martin asked her.

  She rapped the door so softly she doubted her knuckles had made contact.

  “For crying out loud.” Martin slammed the knocker
three times against its bronze plate. A door shut somewhere inside and Teresa took a step back.

  “It’s going to be fine.” He took her by the arm.

  She said, “Maybe this was stupid. We could go begging for change—”

  The door opened.

  Teresa couldn’t deny this woman was her mother. This woman was an older Teresa with flowing gunmetal hair, eyes set sharper and owl-like, no possibility for humor. Had her mother been born to this world, her features may have been described as Hispanic, but no, the soft nose and subtle cheekbones were in an exotic class of their own.

  “Here to serve the papers?” Her voice was in need of oiling though.

  “Are you Mrs. Abigail Celeste?” Teresa asked.

  The door closed an inch. “Should be.”

  Teresa tried a smile. “I’m your daughter, Teresa.”

  “My daughter was kidnapped when she was a teenager.”

  “There’s no reason to put on an act. You knew where I was going that day, mom. We were all together when I left. Why not let us in for a minute, so we can talk?”

  Teresa waited a moment but the old woman looked frozen. “Abigail,” said Teresa, “I’d like to come in a while. We had nowhere else to turn. There are a few things we need to discuss before we get back on the road.”

  Abigail’s resolve drained from her face. “You weren’t supposed to come back. Ever.”

  “Things have changed, you see—”

  “So I see. You’re sheet white. You look bad, not just older.” The woman appraised her with eyes that could blanch the skin off an apple. Then she turned on Martin. “And who is this? He’s not the black one you left with before.”

  “David passed away about eighteen years back,” she said softly.

  Abigail’s cruel eyes boiled but Teresa bulldozed her way inside. The old lady shuffled away, astonished, as Martin followed with an apologetic grin.

  “I should call the cops,” Abigail pointed out, slamming the door.

  “You won’t call anyone,” answered Teresa. She changed the subject. “I see the Caddy still gets waxed every week.”

  “I have an immigrant kid do that.”

  “Dad’s not—?”

  She sniggered. “He’s not dead. Just gone.”

  “Is he coming back soon?”

  “To hell with him. Just tell me what you need so you can be on your way.”

  Teresa brought up two hard coughs into her fist and swallowed down the pain. “He’s my father—this was my only chance to see him again.”

  “Oh fine and dandy, you just want me to open up my business to a complete stranger, is that it?”

  “I’m not a stranger,” Teresa shot back. Martin steadied at her side.

  “Do you want to know how he left me? It’s a good story. I tell everybody. It just amazes the hell out of me for some reason.” An angry light flickered behind her eyes. Abigail took two steps closer to them and they both went rigid. “I was at the table with a mouthful of pancakes. I couldn’t even answer the son of a bitch. Like he planned it that way! Serves me right, I guess, my blood sugar and all. I hadn’t even finished swallowing before the front door shut. Talk about a quick getaway.”

  “Why did he go?”

  Abigail didn’t have any interest in the question. “The wetback kid also takes a Polaroid of the car to send to your father. I write threats at the bottom about rubbing bird shit into the paint with some Brillo Pads, but it doesn’t faze him like it might once have. Maybe one of these days I’ll get the nerve to just set the thing on fire. That’ll be a nice shot. I think I’ll do it landscape.” She crossed her arms over her sheep pajamas. Something hit Teresa then. “You didn’t recognize me. You thought we were here serving divorce papers?”

  “Yeah,” her mother replied blithely. “Bastard’s in Texas, went to some red-headed whore who could stomach his bullshit, not to mention his retirement check and real estate.”

  “Dad’s into real estate?”

  “Interested are you? Did you come here to learn about him? Why don’t I send you to the source? I can give you his address. Then you can leave me to my crossword puzzles.”

  “We’re actually here for money,” Martin cut in. “I’d like to say we’d pay you back, but it would be a lie.”

  “Oh, the truth! How wonderful it is to hear,” the old woman sang.

  Teresa shook her head. “Aren’t you happy to see me? It’s nice to see you.”

  Martin smirked but said nothing.

  Abigail hitched over to a small kitchen area and sat at a round table where a bottle of butterscotch syrup and a half-eaten breakfast rested. The bacon looked cold and deformed. Teresa and Martin grabbed a pair of uncomfortable wrought iron stools at the bar. Abigail lifted a coffee mug with a smiling duck painted on the side.

  “Martin likes coffee,” Teresa hinted.

  “That so?”

  Martin shrugged.

  “Well, there’s a Starbucks down the street. Have at it.”

  Teresa’s eyes narrowed. “What are you mad at? That dad left? Or that I did? I came here to tell you that I’m sick. I don’t have much time left—this might be our last chance for words.”

  “I thought you were here for money.”

  “We are,” Martin assured. “We don’t have a penny. We haven’t eaten, and there are important matters headed our way.”

  Teresa’s throat went dry. “I just wanted to say that over these years I thought about you and dad all the time. I missed you. I’ve been here a few times before, but I was too afraid to come inside. I wondered—I sometimes wondered what my life would have been if the Messenger hadn’t chosen me.”

  “Well I never wanted to remember you, Teresa.” The woman winced, obviously not prepared to say something so acerbic. “What would be the reason? The letter told me I would never see you again. The Messenger doesn’t lie. And here you are, after all this time, back to beg for dollars.”

  “The letter said you shouldn’t ever see me again. Do you remember that you told me to come back if I needed help?”

  “Did I say that? Well if I did, I was wrong. It’s best not to finagle different meanings from the Messenger’s letters. His word’s usually plain.”

  “You think the Messenger’s a man?” asked Martin. He was always interested in this subject.

  “Of course he is,” Abigail replied, “he’s obviously got a heart the size of a cherry pit. I don’t need any other proof.”

  Tears waded in Abigail’s bloodshot eyes while the old woman sipped some more coffee. Teresa looked away. Her voice sounded dry, but her words felt stronger than intended. “What does life mean without family?”

  Abigail raised her thin eyebrows. “Family? Family did you say? Families go away. Our situation is not as unique as you want to believe. When you were a little girl I never told you anything about my life because I didn’t want to scare you. See, I lived in the Old Domain until I was seventeen, with six brothers and eight sisters, a mother and father. I would have died to protect every last one of them. Now I can barely remember their names, but I remember feeling my loyalty.

  “So the Messenger sent word about temporary gateways, kept secret from the Church. The letter arrived a day after my womanhood trials. I was to be a concubine to the Church of Morning if I didn’t leave as soon as possible. My oldest brother had to invoke the gateway and I believe it twisted his body in such a way that he probably died shortly after I came here.

  “But something had to be done. Hearts were dying every year. The harvests were sickeningly effective back then. Hell, back then the Nomads were born earthbound without your power. The Nomads of my time had only their wits to survive on and it wasn’t enough to avoid Chaplain Cloth and his children. My destiny and those of many others were sealed. Do you think it was easy? Hardly. But I said goodbye to my family at almost the same age you did. Because I had to, Teresa.”

  Abigail picked up a remote control and a flipped on a small TV on the kitchen counter to a game show. She
tapped the volume down a little before dropping the remote next to her plate.

  “Your father had already lived in Arizona for eleven years when I crossed over. He remembers less of our birthplace, which has caused him to be foolishly idealistic. He remembers only good things about that place, none of which were actually good but he recalls them that way. I realize I escaped something terrible. I’m happy here, and yet, here I’m indentured to seclusion.”

  “Would you ever go back?” asked Martin, not hiding his curiosity.

  “I’ve tasted nightfire and one taste is enough. This world has its own insanities, but you can avoid them more easily.” Her gray gaze wandered. “I miss certain things though. The quiet of the Onyx wilderness, the splendor of the Castle of Trees, the Olathu Ocean stretching off into the night. Every day of my youth it seemed I peered into the silver wells to pick jellyroot from the sides, sometimes until my fingers bled. I won’t see such things ever again... although I will dream. And then one day it won’t matter; I’ll lay face-first in a pancake, or trip over a brick in my rose garden—I’ll die doing the same things I’ve done for the past fifty years.”

  “You have an interesting way of—”

  “Putting things?” Abigail finished and nodded. “Of course I do. What else do I have, other than levity? Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my puzzles and there’s a show on.”

  Teresa slowly stood from her stool. Martin rose to join her. “We won’t bother you any further,” she said, and meant every word.

  Abigail slid a wallet off the counter and with two fingers forked a collection of twenties from inside, then a yellow business card. Her withered hand held out the offering. Teresa didn’t budge, but Martin cheerfully took what they’d come for and nodded his thanks.

  “Look your father up when you get the chance. I’m sure he would enjoy seeing you.”

  Teresa glanced away and concentrated on keeping her eyes bone dry. “I would… but this was my last chance to say goodbye.”

  “That’s what you think.” Abigail huffed. “I thought we already had our last goodbye.”