Black and Orange (34 page)

Her chest pounded with worry so long it had left her heart numb—or had the cancer made it feel like that? The white lump in the X-ray burned bright in her mind like a hunk of phosphorus. Under her ribs she felt its impassable boundaries. It was growing fast. Something else was wrong though. Something more important than her disease. Martin had to feel it also, even if he pretended not to.

The Hearts were in trouble.

The Wrangler sped over the cracked streets of Colton. They drifted into another lane a few times, Martin always returning them with a deliberate jerk. He looked like hell, like he was about to keel over—snowdrifts of exhaustion in his eyes, skin oily and tallow, a gap formed between upper and lower lip, breathing shallow. How could he be so foolish? They always set up the safe haven together. Building long-standing mantles could send the body into fits, make you puke and faint and ache. He’d done it all on his own, just to let her sleep off a head bump. The dummy... always trying to make up for the past. This heroic bullshit had to stop.

The rain had come again, but there was less and less of anything close to a downpour. Every dry intersection registered a warning in her nerves and every person in black sent thrills spiraling into her core. She hunched down several times without thinking, flinching with embarrassment. So exposed now.

“Do you think we’re being tailed?” she asked.

Martin’s eyelids sagged. “I haven’t seen anything. We’ll get a hold of Enrique, let him know the situation, meet somewhere different tonight.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “We don’t want to be wedged in.”

Suddenly he pulled over, in front of a yellow fire hydrant. The emergency brake trilled so loud it made her jump. He stripped off his seat belt.

“What’s... going on?”

“Can you drive?” This wasn’t a request. “I’m too tired to go on. Don’t want to wreck us.”

“Sure Martin, sure.”

They changed places. She adjusted all the mirrors and felt the warm reassurance of the accelerator under her sneaker. Before she had even gone a block, Martin was already snoring.

~ * ~

Martin jerked awake. His stomach was sour and his lips were fat, ready to spew bile. Sleep deprivation. This happened every time. His nap had only been fifteen minutes, if that. He’d hoped for a few hours back at the room but there would be no more resting; the screams had pulled him out of the darkness and back into the bright world.

Across the parking lot, the motel manager flew toward them, wholly out of control. He wore an open bathrobe with floral patterns, the pale bulb of a stomach lounging over bright white boxers. His cool demeanor had sunken so far below the surface he looked like a different person. Panic cut lines in his face and a shredded, smoldering cigar leaned out his mouth.

Martin rolled down the window.

“Men up there bothering other guests—I call police. You stay down here with me.”

“Who are they?”

“In your room, beating the walls. One have blood on him.”

“Did he have children with him? Babies?”

The man frowned in puzzlement and the cigar dipped. “Police never come. They
never
come.” He then said something incomprehensible through the cigar.

Martin sensed Teresa already found a mantle, but he didn’t dare try for one. “We’ll take care of it. He won’t bother anybody else.”

“No, don’t go up. Come inside.” The manager wrung his hands and made for the little office, bathrobe flapping behind. Teresa pulled up poolside. Martin scanned the upstairs and couldn’t make out any snipers. He jumped out of the jeep, not shutting the door and went to the hatch of the Wrangler. He’d cleaned and oiled their handguns yesterday but gave them a cursory check anyway before popping the cartridges in. He stuffed the ice cold weapon under his t-shirt at the hip. Teresa pushed hers up the wide sleeve of her rain coat.

They moved swiftly alongside a dark Honda Civic and ducked into the stairwell. The upper floor swam with looming, beastly shadows from sunlight cresting the foothills.
 
Martin could feel several rogue mantles shifting into this world from Teresa. She regulated them well though considering her condition. The air in his lungs felt too hot. His head spun. There was no way he could make a mantle from all he’d done over the last two days. His gun would have to be enough for here and now.

Teresa took point and tucked her hand into her sleeve. He flanked, palm resting on the handle of his own piece. After so many times in similar circumstances, his heartbeat kept time, his mind became a tunnel. Adrenaline still surged though and made him more alert than he deserved to be.

They passed the thrumming ice machine and Teresa peered around the corner. The door to their room had been left partially open. Shuffling noises from inside. They stood there, waiting a moment, before impatience got his better judgment. He cleared his throat. Loud.

Teresa glared back at him.

The door banged open and out came a blonde man in black holding a huge handgun. A resounding
fuck
echoed over the parking lot. Teresa struck his wrist with a sharp jab. The magnum fell like an anvil and twisted once. Martin lunged for it and out of the corner of his eye saw Teresa put the man into a full nelson. She shrieked, pulling her arm off him as though his skin had scalded her.

“He’s a Bishop,” she told Martin and backed up. A mantle heated instantly.

“Wait!” cried a voice in the doorway. Enrique stood there between them. “Wait!”

The Bishop had his hands raised. Martin just now noticed how badly injured the man looked. Several hasty stitches had been worked into his jaw and above his brow and from his sloping posture, Martin guessed there were many more injuries to accompany them.

Several doors to other rooms cracked open at the commotion.

“What is this Enrique?” Teresa demanded, not taking her eyes off the Bishop.

“Come inside the room,” he said. “All of you. Quickly.”

Martin wagged the man’s gun toward the room. “Church of Midnight first.”

The Bishop sighed through his nose and slowly made his way into the room, hands still up. He went into the room as though it were his own and sat down next to the body of a woman. Martin instantly recognized her. Mabel from the hole-in-the-wall bar. The déjà vu that belonged to someone else—

As she slammed the door, Teresa noticed the woman too. “What the fuck is that?”

“The Church found the Hearts,” Enrique said, more calmly than his face should have allowed for. “I tried to reach you.” He picked up their phone on the nightstand.

“I—” Martin started.

“Just stop! I don’t even care.” Enrique closed his eyes a moment.
 
“We don’t have time. Just listen to this man’s offer before it’s too late.”

The Bishop glanced to both of them. The handsome man didn’t seem to be used to being on the other side of power and it took him a moment to consider his words. “I know where they’re taking the Hearts. I’ve been there twice now to visit Cloth,” he told them steadily. “But I’m not telling you—”

Martin cocked the gun. The man didn’t flinch. “—I’m not telling you anything, until you bring her back.”

Teresa’s eyes narrowed at the passed out woman. “Back?”

The Bishop turned and put his hand on the sleeping woman’s leg that poked out from under the thin comforter. “Part of her consciousness has gone into the other world.”

“Bullshit,” spat Martin.

The Bishop shook his head. “I can’t pull her mind back from the Old Domain without your help.” His face trembled on the border of stark emotion. Martin could tell this was something new for the man because it didn’t fit his face well. “You do that for me, I’ll take you straight to the Hearts.”

“And fall into a trap? No, you’ll bring the Hearts to us,” said Teresa.

“There’ll be too many Church members and another Bishop.”

“How do we know you’ll keep your end?” Martin asked.

The blonde man nodded as though he’d thought of this. “I’ll take you there. Once you feel I’ve lived up on my end, we’ll go our separates.”

“You wouldn’t do that to your Church,” said Martin.

“Just watch me, mister.”

“This is a trick,” Teresa said. She was rubbing several bright red fingerprint burns on her arm that Bishop had left behind.

“Sorry, reflex,” the Bishop muttered, looking at the burns.

Martin lifted the gun for effect. “How about you just take us there now?”

The Bishop glanced down at the gun, not clearly intimidated. “You can hold that on me until your arm goes numb, but I’m not telling you a damn thing until she’s back. Don’t think I’ll cave just to save my own life—if the Church finds out I’m doing this, I’ll be dead before long anyway.”

Enrique rubbed his eyes. He looked like Martin felt. “I don’t see that we have time to discuss this. It’s the only chance we have now. The Church took them—they took the babies.”

Teresa glanced over to Martin and after they shared looks of doubt, she shrugged. “I can’t do what he’s asking. There’s too much relative placement and displacement of the ghost matter—the shaping is beyond me. What do you think?”

The Bishop’s face filled with panic as he waited for Martin’s answer. Truth be told, Martin understood the concept behind connected locations of ghost energies. It was entirely different than pulling ghost matter and more taxing. He wasn’t sure he had the strength left after the hospital. But this might be a chance to save the babies. He put the cold gun into his waist band. “I could give it a shot.”

The Bishop stood. His eyes grew sharp, resolute. “You won’t hurt her though—”

“Do you want me to try this or what?” He didn’t wait for an answer and looked at Teresa. “Keep your eye on him. If I manage this, we need to be sure he’ll still play.”

She turned a hawk-like pair of eyes on the Bishop.

Sidling up to the bed, a cold wash fell over Martin. He at once felt the displacement in the young woman. It stuck out in the ether, a ladder with missing rungs. He knelt beside the bed. His body quivered. The permanent mantle he’d created had caused him to pass out a few times through the night. Martin had emptied everything he had into it. But it had to be done. Now, with his energy just rebuilding, he would donate a mighty portion again. But this had to be done also.

For the Hearts
. With shaking hands, Martin pressed his thumbs into the woman’s clammy temples. The energy scattered as he groped mentally at the other end of her connection and sensed the raw, misappropriated neurological power. He concentrated on tugging it across the divide. It started to move quickly and Martin relented—he didn’t want to bring it over as a mantle. This had to be done with deft mental hands. Slowly, the rungs to the ladder started to fit into place and Martin’s body hollowed with every fix. His abdominals twisted.

“Is it working?” he heard the Bishop ask.

“Just wait,” Teresa said lowly. “
Something
is happening.”

Pain tethered around Martin as all the pieces fell in at once. He clenched his teeth and they creaked under the stress. Then, without warning, the connection restored itself and Martin’s body flung back as though struck by a god-fist. The Bishop awkwardly caught him and hauled him to his feet.

“Thanks,” Martin muttered. The Bishop at once fell to the bedside.

“Oh shit! You’re bleeding!” Teresa grabbed three half-used tissues from the nightstand. Something warm ran from Martin’s ears and down his nostrils. He took the tissues and wiped away the bright red. Teresa hovered over him. “I’m fine,” he said. But he wasn’t fine. His mind went in and out in rapid-fire succession.

The Bishop stroked the woman’s damp face. “Her eyes opened a little—I think she’s going to be all right.”

Martin pulled the magnum out of his waistband. “Now,” he breathed. “Your end.”

The Bishop regained composure. “Let me just get her into my car—you can follow me there.”

“Not hardly,” Teresa answered. “You’re coming with us in the Jeep. Enrique will follow in your car, with your girl.”

Something dark settled over the man’s face. “Whatever you say, Nomad.”

The air smelled old. Half-fascinated and half-worried sick, Cole leaned against a damp beam, watching an acolyte administer droppers of cough syrup to the Hearts. Cole wanted the babies to shut up too but questioned the method. There wasn’t time for much else though. None of his men knew anything about babies and no women members were present yet, and even if they were, most of them hadn’t started families.

The medicine dosage wasn’t the only thing that worried Cole. This place was no nursery; ragged holes in the ceiling and drafty tunnels of light through the walls, the musty barn could hardly be called shelter anymore. The whole structure was getting ready to take a
shit
. Carefully he removed his weight off the beam and stood back.

Jake
Weins
twisted the cap on the Robitussin and rubbed the stickiness away between thumb and middle finger. The babies, seeming content in their mother goose patterned pajamas, wiggled in the makeshift bassinets of spoiled grain. Aside from medicine, the babies were nice and full of formula, but Cole’s thoughts were still wild with anxiety. Was he missing anything?
Three had taken a dump and been changed: asses wiped, diapers replaced. What more was there?
He tried to make the babies as comfortable as possible, like giving veal calves extra slop before slaughter. They were so damned fragile. What if he did something wrong? What if one of the men dropped one during their bottle feeding? Would the fruit die in all of their little chests?