Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (21 page)

The burns were massive, but the damage appeared to be post-mortem. He surveyed the front of the body, looking for other forms of damage, knowing that the cause of death may very well be smoke inhalation, the leading cause of death in a fire. However, dark and crisp blood stains indicated something more sinister.

Lifting the body, he found what it was he was looking for. A puncture wound, at least three centims wide: stabbed. She bled to death before the fire got to her. She was the victim of unspeakable violence, and they had no idea who committed the crime. Hopefully that person died in the fire, too.

“I will inform the Matriarch.”

+++

Seeing Healer Phineas Gage at her door, Axandra knew why he came. Miri was dead. She'd known for hours now, when Miri failed to reappear from the chaos of refugees and victims several floors below. Axandra had hoped, desperately, that Miri had chosen to offer her services where they were required, rather than waste them catering to a woman surrounded by Elite protection deep underground. She would not have faulted the young woman for the decision. Yet, having worked in close quarters with the aide for so many months, Axandra understood Miri's priorities, and the Protectress was at the very top.

She closed her eyes immediately as tears developed. Gage hadn't even said a word. He stood respectfully still before her in the doorway.

“The fire?” she questioned as the tears dripped from her round chin onto the bodice of her dress.

“While we found Miss Stockers on the staff floor, she was not killed by the fire, Madam,” he explained. “The cause of death was a stab wound to the lower back, piercing several vital organs. At this point we have no evidence pointing to a particular attacker.”

She clamped down on her emotions, refusing to cry. Her jaw and throat tightened like a vice, and a quiver manifested in her thighs. She dared not take a step for fear her legs would fail her.

“I grieve with you, Protectress,” Gage said, his gravelly voice touched with sympathy.

“Thank you. I—” Her voice caught in her throat, frozen with unspoken questions and answers she did not want to hear.

“Madam,” Gage spoke as though to save her embarrassment. “I will speak to her parents personally as soon as they can be located. I have asked Commander Narone to speak with Mikel Brown—”

“Mikel? The guard?” The reason Miri asked for the evening away. Selfishly, she didn't think of Miri's parents or the friends who had known her longer. She didn't think of the other victims of the fire, though there were at least a dozen. She made a wish and hoped that Miri would simply materialize out of thin air in perfect health. Axandra would forgive them both for the ruthless prank.

“Yes, Madam. The two were…seeing each other personally.”

Nodding, she confirmed her knowledge of the relationship. “Thank you.”

Gage peered past her curiously. “Is your husband here?”

“Yes. Quinn is asleep. He's exhausted.” She found her own arms wrapping tightly around each other like writhing serpents, trapping her straining heart in her chest. Gage had every right to be concerned for her safety at this moment. She wasn't certain what she might do with herself in the next few minutes.

“I will remain here until Rhea can replace me—with your permission.” The tone of voice equated a demand, not a request. He was only being polite.

At this point, he moved forward, hand carefully positioned to block the doorway behind him and herd her toward the safety of the room's interior. Axandra did not resist. Instead, she turned and headed straight for the wine rack on the far wall. Hands trembling, she poured a full glass from the uncorked bottle she'd already taken from while waiting for the good Healer to make his appearance. Without the intoxicating lubricant, she doubted she'd be so calm at this moment.

“May I trouble you for a small glass of wine, Madam?” Gage requested.

She cast him an inquisitive gaze, finding only the back of his graying head and the nearly invisible bald spot at the center of his crown. He kept his hair just long enough to disguise the sign of his age, at least twenty-five years her senior. She quickly decided that he was just as susceptible to grief as any man and that he deserved a moment to allow his emotions to surface. “Certainly. I have a rose open, but if you prefer, I have—”

“Rose will do,” he accepted.

Carefully balancing one stemmed glass between her bandaged fingers, she managed to arrive at the divan with both beverages in one trip. Gage took the glass offered to him as she eased onto the plush cushions, her eyes avoiding his face.

“I have not known Miri for very long,” he stated. “But I found her pleasant and dedicated to her work.”

Axandra said nothing, but concentrated on bringing the wine to her lips. Her nostrils were inundated by the pungent aroma of the fermented fruit overpowering the musk of Gage's cologne and the scent of rain hanging heavy in the air. She executed three gulps of the transparent pink liquid before coming up for air. Within moments, the haze of alcohol became apparent on her brain, just as she wished it to.

“I shouldn't have let her go,” she whispered.

“She was only seeing to her basic needs,” Gage stated. He listened clinically to her tone of voice and delivery, assessing her current state of mind. “You had no reason to stop her.”

“I could have found one. I could have saved one life while I was cowering in the shelter.”

“We each have a life we wished to save last night.”

They each finished their drinks in silence until a knock on the door signaled Rhea's arrival. The Healer's aide entered once he opened the door. After exchanging a few words in whispers and a final perfectly pronounced, “Please keep the Protectress company,” Gage excused himself, and Rhea quickly offered to refill the empty glass.

“Thank you. I appreciate your company.” Axandra made certain to say words of appreciation instead of trying to chase the woman away.

“I doubt that, Madam, but thank you for saying so,” smirked the matronly nurse. “After you finish that glass, I suggest you find your way to bed as well. You look like you haven't slept for two days.”

Through the alcoholic haze, Axandra managed to chuckle. “Not much. I can't. What did Gage tell you? Obviously, he's concerned about my well-being.”

Rhea was one of the most blatant individuals Axandra knew. Whenever she wanted to speak her mind, she did so honestly and openly, never hiding behind pretense or courtesy. “He has you on a suicide watch, Madam. He thinks you're going to throw yourself off the balcony. Frankly, I don't think that's at all what you're going to do.”

Considering how many times she had poised herself on the balcony, gazing down at the peacefulness of the garden, leaning against the balustrade without fear, wondering what it would feel like to fly, even if only for a few seconds, Axandra wondered why Rhea would disagree with the Healer. “No? What would I do? Drink myself to death? Drown?”

“None of the above. You're not going to kill yourself. If you were, you'd have done it already.” Rhea made the statement with such
savior-faire
, Axandra couldn't help but agree.

“I guess you're right.”

“Yes, I am. You, Madam, are the reason we keep fighting back against these Stormflies. You just don't stop,” Rhea went on. The nurse had poured herself a glass of the wine as well and took a long sip. “Hope you don't mind. I need a little relaxation myself. It's been a long day—three days long.”

“Help yourself. Tell me, what do you mean? I don't stop?” Axandra pried, feeling a new spark of energy in her body, keeping her eyes open for now. If she fell asleep, she would just dream of the Stormflies and Prophets and pain and death. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep.

“I don't know anyone who's gone through all that you have. You've been infected by a Stormfly and lived. You've been tortured to the end of your life and come back. You suffer every day, and you carry on. Lots of people have ended it over a lot less,” Rhea described. “If you can keep going through all of that and get married to the man you love, you're not going to give up now. Miri would never forgive you if you gave up because of her. She'd want you to keep going. That girl had a lot of respect for you. Don't let her down now.”

Axandra thought of Miri's pink face and straight blonde hair and the pale brown freckles that dotted her cheeks. She closed her eyes, but the face projected on her eyelids. Instantly, the tears sprang forth. Curling her face to her knees, she pressed her eyes into her fists and wailed against her will. She didn't want to cry. She wanted to keep it in and bury it.

“Let it go, Madam,” Rhea encouraged, embracing her shoulders. “Let it out. You'll feel better. I promise.”

31
^st
Trimont (Matersday)

Dawn broke, and Axandra found herself in her bed. Letting out a huge sigh of relief, she stretched beneath the feather-filled comforter and sank further into her pillow. Perhaps she would be rewarded with a few extra minutes alone. Quinn was already up and his side of the bed was vacant, giving her ample room to stretch. He preferred to rise early to start his day; but considering the recent traumatic events, she wondered if he'd slept well at all. She suspected the only reason she had slept through the night was a surreptitiously placed sleeping aid in her wine. Considering her improved physical condition, she had no right to complain. She considered doing the same to her husband the next night.

After the two irregular days, she felt out of synch with the suns. Not feeling completely rested, falling back into sleep took only a minute or so. When she opened her eyes again, she was still alone and clouds draped the sky in iron gray. The balcony doors and the windows about the room were open, allowing the sound of windless rain to serenade her sleep. Quinn had come back, seen her asleep and left her alone, an occurrence evidenced by a jacket and shoes abandoned by the door. Seeking out the clock, she saw it was nearly ten.

She felt less rested now, sluggish and morose. She decided she needed to get up and move around, have something to eat and get dressed. If nothing else, the activity would ease the ache in her joints from the barometer shift. Hot graham flower tea would sooth the pulsing pain in her hand.

She realized that without Miri, she didn't have that extra voice or the extra hands to get any of this done. Having become accustomed to the aide's assistance over the past several months, suddenly being without Miri felt disorienting. Axandra had to consciously think about where items were kept, including her calendar, though most of the appointments on it were waylaid due to recent events. Since wardrobe was arranged methodically, locating an appropriate pair of slacks and a tunic took but a minute. For now, she ignored her shoes.

Realizing that Quinn was actually home, she sought him out in the second bedroom. He stood hunched over his center worktable, one of several that replaced the child's bedroom furniture that formerly occupied the space. He pondered over several pieces that he believed fit together, a puzzle that was missing numerous other pieces, increasing the difficulty. He received new artifacts almost every week.

“Good Morning,” he greeted, glancing up briefly with a wan smile. “Feeling better?”

“Not really,” she shook her head of tousled brunette curls. “I'm still groggy. I'm going to go downstairs and find something to eat.

“I'll send for something,” he offered. The thought of letting her out of his sight gave him a nervous twitch. He shifted pieces around on the padding that protected the shards of pottery from further damage against the table, making room as he unpacked others from a nearby crate.

“No. I need to take in some different air. I'll be back soon.” Making her way out and down the main staircase, Axandra moved at a slow pace, absorbing each smell and sight. The building reeked of smoke; the sooty flavor coated her tongue and throat as she breathed. As she passed the third floor landing, she spied the dark oilskin tarp suspended as a barrier between the damaged and undamaged corridors. The tarp filled the horizontal and vertical spaces completely, leaving no room for peeking. The sound of the rain could be heard entering through empty window cavities. The tarp breathed in ripples from the cool moist wind.

On the second floor, pounding hammers in a varying rhythm fashioned a wooden frame where a wall of planks would replace the tarp. At the same time, workers moved pieces of art and furniture to store in the basement. Marta directed them in which storeroom each piece belonged, whether damaged or intact. Water and fire foam leaking down from above caused the most damage, but many pieces could be refinished with work.

“Good morning, Madam,” Marta greeted briefly, her hands still gesturing to the workers.

“Good morning,” Axandra responded without a pause in her steps. Neither spoke the words with any optimism, and entirely out of courtesy.

The first floor buzzed with activity. Food from the kitchen was carted across the hall to the Council Room to feed the refugees. Many people appeared to be on their way out, no longer afraid of any immediate danger. People embraced. Tears were shed both in joy and grief. Those departing were going home, or at least somewhere safe. Embedded in their own moments, they took no notice her, so she observed unseen the emotional reality of the tragedy. She etched their reactions into her memory, knowing she would need reference in the near future when making decisions about retaliation.

Continuing toward her intended destination, Axandra made it as far as the rear kitchen entrance before Paris stopped her. “Madam, there's no need for you to go in. It's extremely crowded with extra help. Can I bring you something?”

“Whatever they have prepared will be fine, and a large glass of juice if possible,” she requested, marginally disappointed not to have a chance to scrounge in the larder for some bit of forbidden sweet cake. She realized the pantry would be nearly bare feeding the refugees. Heaving a loud sigh, she attempted to decide where to go next. Then she remembered an outstanding request. “I will be in a meeting with Healer Gage.”

“I'll bring the meal down to you,” Paris promised. “I'm sorry for not coming up. I was told you were sleeping in.”

“I was. Don't worry about it,” Axandra assured. She and Miri had developed a comfortable system that wasn't likely to be replicated in a few hours. Replacing the aide would take time as well as willingness. It was much too soon today.

“Of course, Madam.” The younger woman was an intern last year who decided to stay on full time. Still a bit timid around VIPs, Paris strived to do her best at all times and rarely accepted leniency even when granted by the highest authority.

The Protectress proceeded down to the lower level, already knowing she would find Healer Gage in his office among reports and patient records. She had questions for him, questions she didn't have a chance to ask the night before, nor the capacity to absorb the answers. He welcomed her with the least amount of protocol allowed, a cool glance and a bow of his head.

Closing the door and finding rest in a chair facing his work desk, Axandra ignored pleasantries. “Do we know how it happened?”

Gage did not require any elaboration of the question in order to answer. Though he cared for numerous patients within the last seventy-two hours, the Protectress had only one individual on her mind at this moment. “According to the evidence we are able to view, Miri had just walked out of her apartment when she was attacked and stabbed. There were no signs of a struggle, so it seems plausible she did not have the opportunity to fight back. She was surprised by the attack, so I believe the attacker was someone familiar. The fire started shortly thereafter, and Miri succumbed to blood loss and smoke inhalation,” he described in brief, maintaining a forced stoic expression.

“Do you know if that person was infected?”

“Undoubtedly, but without a body, we cannot confirm this,” he stated with displeasure. “We found partial remains in the residue of the fire, as well as several bodies burned too severely for any form of autopsy that would reveal conclusive evidence about infection status prior to death.

“If the brains of the victims were intact,” Gage continued to explain, “examination would show if the lobes exhibited physical lesions as a result of infection, especially in the areas of memory. Miri was not infected. We also believe it is likely that whoever murdered Miri ignited the fire. The origination of the fire is Miri's apartment.”

“So you believe the perpetrator of Miri's murder became a victim of the fire?”

“It is the most likely scenario. Once the flames spread, and they did so quite rapidly, escape from the upper floors was almost impossible,” Gage informed. “The fire suppression systems were locked off, preventing the alarm from sounding or the fire foam from dispensing. Otherwise, the fire would have been contained to the single apartment. Several victims would still be alive if the system had functioned as programmed.”

“Will it ever be possible to know the identity of the…murderer?” Axandra's tongue refused to wrap itself around the unfamiliar and foul word, nor did she want to become used to the pronunciation.

“It is highly improbable,” he responded, attempting to mask his disappointment.

Letting her eyes drift toward the sliver of window built high into the wall, Axandra forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. She counted the drops of rain clinging to the glass. She could not be upset with Gage for the lack of information. Undoubtedly, he had done all he could to discover the details of the crime that robbed several staff members of their lives. “You mentioned something about memory…?”

“Yes. The hippocampus is one section of the brain adversely affected by the parasites. The Healer's Assembly has been conducting further investigations into the damage caused by the parasites, hoping to understand what instinctual need drives them to feed on their victims. Since you are no longer the sole survivor of infestation, we have other sources to study. A cross-examination of the population indicates a preference for certain age groups and a capacity for certain mental talents—”

“Remoters,” she interjected. When Gage favored her with a curiously arched brow, she expounded, “When the wide-spread attacks began, I asked Councilor Lelle if that factor was taken into account. It made sense to me that remoters would be valuable to the creatures to make feeding more efficient and…energetic, for lack of a better word. Healer Adese pointed to that factor as well in her reports.”

“You supposition is correct,” he said as though to congratulate her. “In fact, nearly all of the victims taken in those first few days were remoters, particularly telepathic remoters. Empathic remoters composed the second highest population effected. They appeared to use the remoters to draw supplemental energy from nearby individuals without direct harm. An incredibly efficient process.”

“It
is
why they used me,” she pointed out. “I am the most powerful remoter on the planet. The Goddess must have been constantly drawing energy from the dozens of people I came in contact with through my travels. Only I shut down they process when I refused to give the Goddess or her Prophets complete access to my mind. It's possible none of this would have happened if I had played by their rules.”

“It is unwise to fret about events that you cannot change,” Gage warned.

“Don't misconstrue my meaning. I made those decisions willingly, and I would not change the course of my life even if I were given the opportunity.” The admission left her with a feeling of resolve. Her best path was forward, not forgetting the past, but allowing it to fall behind her, in its rightful place.

“You are a woman of strong character, Madam,” Gage complimented. “You are fortunate.”

“I wish I felt fortunate,” Axandra said, silently wishing her character was as strong as Gage suspected. Unfortunately, she felt weaker at every turn of the day. “Thank you, Phineas.”

+++

Ty Narone surveyed the bodies kept in this carefully cordoned area of the cremation facility. Other bodies waited in tidy rows, labeled, most holding cut flowers or mementos to carry with them to the beyond, gifts from the families that would miss them. These particular bodies had no one left to miss them, no one who would claim them or treat them with any care. He counted them carefully while Healer Sampson and her assistant photographed each face for historical record.

“Thirty-three,” he announced. “Plus our seven detainees. That accounts for all known Prophets who survived the Great Storm raid.”

“I take it that's good news?” the Healer questioned, though her eyes did not rise from her notepad where she recorded this information.

“Neither good nor bad, Healer, merely useful,” Ty stated flatly. “Seven living Prophets still gives the Stormflies a willing source of energy, though the pool is much smaller.”

Healer Sampson glared. “You aren't considering—”

Narone's copper eyes stopped her mid-sentence.

“No. Of course not,” she retracted. “Though I will tell you I doubt those seven will live for much longer, even with intervention. Their bodies simply cannot tolerate living any more. They are the most curious human beings I've ever examined.”

“What do you mean?” Narone asked.

Finishing the last line of her handwritten notes, Sampson glanced over her shoulder, obviously checking to see if anyone else were around to hear her. She spotted the crematory workers preparing the next body for entry into the incinerator vault. “We should discuss this privately, Commander. Let's find a quiet room.”

As they exited the preparation room, Sampson handed the nearest worker the written consent to cremate the bodies of the Prophets and have their ashes scattered randomly in the fields, giving them back to the land. Then she led Narone to a small side room along the corridor, one of four providing a quiet space for families to pay their final respects to their loved ones.

“I haven't officially formulated my opinion, Commander, because these Prophets have me somewhat baffled,” the Healer admitted as she paced the short length of the room with one hand on her back and the other on her freckled forehead. Fly away strands of brunette hair escape her braided bun, evidence of humidity and overwork. “I have looked at everything, both on the living and the dead, and there are details I simply haven't been able to explain, characteristics so unique I haven't got a name for them.”

“What sorts of 'characteristics' are you talking about? And why do you believe they won't live very long? You've piqued my curiosity, so I am interested to see how you satisfy it,” Narone prompted.

“Characteristics like organs that don't exist in normal humans and a part of the brain dedicated to psychic abilities—most likely the part that allows for their magic tricks. The rest of us have something similar but small, very small compared to theirs. They won't discuss it, of course. I wouldn't either if I were in their shoes. I dare say they aren't even human anymore. There are enough consistent differences to distinguish them as another species entirely.” The woman sounded rattled, her voice rising in pitch and her mannerisms becoming exaggerated and fidgety. Knowing that Sampson usually reacted coolly to any situation, Ty recognized how disturbed she felt by her findings. “Healer Controy is coming next week and expects a preliminary report, and I honestly doubt myself to give him anything coherent.”