Black and Orange (3 page)

Before he could answer, Cole said, “Traven, you’ll be driving Quintana’s car back to the chapel.”

Ray winced in the spreading sunshine. “Paul, is that Corvette a stick? I can’t drive a stick for shit.”

Cole’s eyes settled gravely on Paul again. “Are the keys in the ignition?”

This was insane. Paul shook his head to gain back reality. It didn’t work. “Just what are you trying to accomplish here, Bishop?”

Cole’s caveman hand dropped on his shoulder and squeezed. From the raw strength Paul felt a roadblock of blood in a neck artery. There was something bizarre in the grip too, a hint of power that only a Bishop could know. “I want what’s best for the Church of Midnight. Through you, Paul, and through Chaplain Cloth, I can bring our new era.”

Paul’s body felt stickier than before, sticky and cold. “You’re going after the Archbishop, aren’t you? You want to ascend.”

Cole’s scarred lips hooked into a smile.

Martin was stir crazy. Traveling for most of your life required overcoming restlessness at every stage. Being a nomad meant ignoring your shaking leg, your tapping fingers, your racing mind. He and Teresa used meditation, exercise, and pleasure reading to battle the anxiousness between Halloweens. Today Martin forgot to read his books this morning, didn’t have a chance to go for a run before they headed out, and couldn’t think of any meditation effective enough to numb his overactive mind. He felt a slow insanity creeping out of the endless white dashes in the road.

Teresa was wheezing again. The wheezes soon led to soft, rolling snores, which usually indicated serious snoozing. That was good, he thought, good for her, get some rest honey. But the snoring and the incessant hum of tires had brought on road dementia and Martin ached for the radio, even the condescending barking of commercials.
No radio though.
He wouldn’t try that unless he wanted to arouse a sleeping nicotine-fit waiting to happen.

But still—maybe just turn on the radio real low—his fingers fondled the volume knob for a moment. He checked his passenger; Teresa had an aura around her, as though a kinetic challenge floated above her.
Go ahead, try me.

To hell with that. Martin withdrew his fingers and his intent.

There was a suicidal lull to the desert’s grays, browns and yellows—he hadn’t noticed at first touch, but he was deep inside the odd part of his mind now, tapping that glacial pinprick in his cortex. A shiver raced from the cold
shiv
and surged to his eyes. They felt frozen from behind and burning on the surface. He took a healthy fistful of ghost-matter from the place of his ancestors, the Old Domain.

Mantles were a reflection of matter from the other world. Here they could be made to interact like physical matter, but couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. With a lifetime of practice he and Teresa learned to use them as shields, knives, crude explosive devices, and sometimes as tools for espionage. Mantles formed in that cerebral zone where epiphanies lived. No matter how many times he’d conjured one now, summoning a mantle always sustained a moment of revelation.

Martin concentrated left of the road, just inches above the flying carpet of dirt and piss-weed, and found himself gripping the steering wheel harder. The cold point in his brain churned and wrapped over itself again and then it was a here and a there and a slip and a stand and a glimmer and a dying black hole—a salty metal taste spread in his mouth and this signaled his mind was at the ready.

Building mantles took several minutes but once he had hold he could go for hours. Teresa had a different proficiency. She could build one at a moment’s notice, no waiting required, but creating complex shapes had always been difficult for her. For years Martin worked on speeding up creation to match hers and she’d struggled to create less elementary structures, but they’d finally come to terms with the fact that some people had it, some didn’t, and some who tried hard to have it, never would.

But Martin felt he’d conquered other mental mountains. Creating mantles inside structures had also once been a problem and now he could see
through
things using them. He could fold one into a lock pick and insert it into a keyhole and see the tumblers turning inside the lock. Duration was another challenge he’d almost mastered. He was fairly certain he could create a permanent mantle, one that would never vanish from this world. Doing something like that would probably kick the everlasting shit out of him, probably put him into death throes, but he knew it could be done with the right amount of energy and time.

A cautious look to Teresa, Martin sucked in a breath and drove out the mantle like an axe blade. Cacti along the road began to slide in half.
Thomp
,
Thomp
,
Thhhuwump
.
The succulents leaned to every direction and dust clouds coughed up. A rapid-fire succession of new
thomps
sent green flesh spinning. With a hollow sounding punch, a fist of cactus struck the hood and buggered off the side.

Teresa bolted up. “—the shit?”

“I think a bird hit the van.”

At once she slumped back over, closing her eyes. “Poor birdie.”

Quick as light, Martin brought the mantle back, only three inches away from his window. He couldn’t see it, but felt it just outside. The transparent guillotine pulsed with activated heat. Even through the window he could feel the friction burn on its sharp edges. With an exhale, he launched it as far as his mind could track it, and then reeled it back—it was the flexing of a muscle. The more he did it, the better. Even if Teresa said building one drew unwanted attention, he had to practice for the 31
^st
. These mantles weren’t just used for barriers, after all. And he wasn’t going to lose another Heart of the Harvest. Not this year.

Something roared beneath them. The steering wheel violently jammed to the left—Martin hardly heard the tire explode when his shoulder momentarily popped from the socket and bucked at the counterforce. The blowout had sent the van sideways. The tires shrieked and the desert shrugged to one side. Somewhere to his left, the mantle thinned into the atmosphere. A big rig’s horn blared another time. Martin’s hands sought power uselessly—the creation had thrown mud over his reflexes. He cried out, still spent from bringing the mantle. A thought trickled down his mind and into his heart.
I can’t believe I did this to—

—Teresa’s hand caught the steering wheel. The van jumped off the road, the truck rushed past, and the world jackknifed around in a sepia screech. Martin threw up his hands to block his head. He heard Teresa’s knuckles strike the van’s ceiling and she shouted so loud his ears rang. The radio had turned on and unintelligible music cut through the buzz of surprise.

And as soon as it all happened, it stopped.

The big rig had come to a stop a quarter mile up the road. The driver was probably emptying his pants out right about now, but nobody was hurt, no damage was done. Martin didn’t look over, but his heart lighted when he heard Teresa’s voice. It was sweet to hear the forgiveness in it, despite the ragged quality of her tone.

“Goddamn tires were only a month old.”

They both fell asleep waiting for the tow truck. Martin had fought against dozing off, but with no spare tire, no radio reception, no outside world, there wasn’t anything left to do. It was strange how his dream took him to somewhere completely different and yet he never thought to question the absurdity. Sense no longer mattered. He drifted in a hot air balloon over eighteenth century
London
. Should he feel this was absurd? In the real world he possessed an ability few knew possible, so anything could happen; it was perfectly reasonable to suddenly be in a royal purple balloon, swinging over Baroque architecture. Forget rationalization—he was above everything; this was heaven.

He curled into a tight ball in the corner of the balloon’s basket. The wind burned his face. There was a jet of fire overhead—it nosily blew upward. After brief inspection, Martin’s body stiffened. There were supposed to be sandbags in the basket. Weren’t there? Where were the sandbags? Didn’t he need those? How would he get down? This was a dream, so he shouldn’t care. But he did. He peered over the side. Buildings swam beneath. Above, a ripping sound went from east to west. His heart lashed out, caught in its cage.
This balloon was deflating.
Why had he chartered something so asinine?

But there was a trapdoor in the bottom of the balloon.

Of course there was
.

He tugged the handle, and rather eagerly, maybe grasping this was a dream again. This was the only intelligent way to escape the sky—to fall out of it. If he lost Teresa to cancer, this life didn’t have much more in store for the likes of him anyhow.

He dropped through the trap door. It felt like he left someone behind. Falling was sluggish, as though he’d been dropped into an atmosphere of transparent worms. His chin and fingers raked across something slimy. There was too much pressure, too much terror for him to open his eyes, so there was nothing, there was black, but the black came apart in hot colored shapes that rained upward and stabbed sideways.

And that was it. He was sobbing and balling and grunting and he lost energy weeping—he was spitting out slime. He was, once again, losing composure, many times after vowing never to take so seriously tangled dream logic forged from Chaplain Cloth’s taunting.

He shouldn’t have brought Cloth into this. He shouldn’t have thought of him.

Evil had its eyes on Martin now. The slime had coated the wall of an alley. He hadn’t been falling really, just standing in the alley, clawing at the bricks and freaking out. It was daytime. Steam lifted from rain puddles and dragged heavy through the air. The sunlight sawed away at the plumes of dark factory smoke. Martin blinked into the alley to see something, anything that would make a shape he would understand. He shielded his eyes, but his arms had stuck in the slime. Tears came from the light’s attack and he tried to kick... something had closed over his legs too. Animal sounds of panic rumbled in his throat as he tried to conceive something different, something happy and from a different place.
But there were things filling the alley.
He knew what they were too. He’d seen Cloth’s children too many times to not recognize how they moved and breathed, even if he couldn’t distinguish their little bodies in the rapiers of unfriendly light. He tried to create a mantle but in his dreams he was a normal man: feeble. The children fell around him, swiping away tufts of skin with spread green claws. Their bloody fangs drank the light. He squirmed, locked to the wall, ready for more abuse, their bare-bone abandon, their clandestine abattoir, their delightful abdication from all mercy. Hair and flakes of skin and red streamed into the air in celebration. There were footsteps in the back of the alley. Cloth came. He walked the cobblestones, laughing like a sick jester, his expression hinting to the black things he would do with Martin’s body. The sun cut through and between two tresses of light he saw Cloth’s eyes, one black and one orange. His heart valves slammed closed. Evil had its eyes on him.

~ * ~

Martin shot up in his seat.

Teresa and the tow truck man wheeled around. They stood a few paces up the road. Martin sank a little in the seat, his back dream-sweaty and face hot with embarrassment. Before they looked away he searched around for the real crazy man who’d yelled out. There was only desert though.

Luckily the drive to the next stretch of civilization was short on distance and conversation. The little town wasn’t much to speak of, but there was an automotive repair shop located right off the highway, even if it was closed today. The tow truck driver had almost an opalescent sheen to his slick black hair and his
pocky
skin looked like charred cherry wood. “Sorry there. It’s bad timing, I know.”

Martin used what Teresa called his Buddha voice. “We would have to wait until tomorrow. Isn’t there something else around here?”

“You could find someone to give you a lift to Kingman, but it’s another sixty miles. Sorry I can’t.”

Martin laughed. “It’s a lovely town but I don’t even see a Mickey-Ds.”

“There’s a bar,
Jarrie’s
Place
. They serve sandwiches sometimes.” The man shifted at the blaring reality of the statement and quickly returned to the subject of the auto shop. “So they work four-tens every other week to fit the trucking schedule better. It’s their rules. I can’t do
nothin
’ about that. They open early tomorrow, around
sixish
—”

Martin smiled. “Come on. It’s only one tire. Our roadside is covered, right? We’re good. If someone rolls one out, I’ll put it on all by myself.”

The man shrugged. “Not
happenin
’ guy. It’s the shits.”

Martin sighed through his teeth, and with two fingers scratched his head. He hoped if he stared at the guy long enough it would change something.

Didn’t.

“Thanks for your help,” he said.

“Hey, no problem. Stay
outta
the sun.”

Martin walked back to the van, opened the door, and draped his body over the seat. After a manic moment he rolled his eyes back. “For fuck sake.”

“What’s going on with the tire?” asked Teresa.

“Oh that.” He leaned back. “Well, I guess we’re going to camp out here until tomorrow.”