P.N.E. (The Wolfblood Prophecies Book 4) (24 page)

‘I can imagine some advantages. I would prefer to keep her close; bound to me in as many ways as possible. Otherwise I fear she will grow beyond my – our – control. Her potential is extraordinary. Especially her potential for evil.’

‘Hmmm. Well, rather you than me. I prefer them trusting, innocent and compliant. And transient. Lethe is like a cobra – beautiful and deadly. Your logic, however, has merit. Should we perhaps seek to expedite this union?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Lady Annabelle has served our purposes well enough, but the absence of offspring and her indifferent health are not assets. A merciful release can be arranged.’

‘Perhaps later,’ said Titus calmly. ‘Meanwhile, I can seek to bind Lethe to me through her entirely unethical research and her apparently insatiable lust for wealth, whilst contriving to keep her dangling. I believe that will whet her appetite as she slowly realises just how much she stands to gain as my wife. In the end she will be begging me to have her.’

‘I will, of course, watch with interest. Farewell, until our meeting in Geneva.’

The line went dead. ‘I’m sure you would just love to watch,’ observed Titus caustically to himself before crossing the room to a door that Jo had assumed to be another example of
trompe l'oeil
but which in fact led to a bedchamber.

As Titus shut the bedroom door Matthew and Jo emerged from behind the curtains. Matthew looked slightly shell-shocked.

Jo had only one thing on her mind. ‘Please, Matthew, tell me you’ve seen enough! Can we go home now?’

Chapter Seventeen - Deadwood

The Reverend Obadiah Moon slept fitfully, twisted memories returned to him in his dreams. As he tossed and turned amid the sweat-soaked sheets he managed to find calm in the storm as he remembered meeting Jo Lakota. Her presence in his dreams helped him to drift deeper into a more relaxed state of mind where he relived the events of the previous summer.

‘It’s time you two kids had a break,’ the Pastor had announced to Hawk and Jo the afternoon before the performance. ‘We’re taking the old Burlington Northern railroad track into the hills. I’m going to show you my hometown… a place like nowhere you’ve ever seen, Jo. I found Hawk there, bang in the middle of Main Street, singing for his supper. Reckon he was all set to be an outlaw or a gambler, like most of the lawless, Godless population, but he chose the Lord, and now he’s on the straight and narrow path.’

Hawk had mumbled something about actually choosing a hot meal in preference to starvation but Obadiah let it pass.

‘Did you say the railroad?’ Jo had asked. ‘I love train travel.’

‘Better than that,’ Obadiah grinned. His enthusiasm was infectious; lifting his customary austerity. Jo was clearly excited about the trip. However, her excitement was short-lived. Obadiah saw Jo’s heart sink when she saw him astride Gleam and Hawk riding Snowflake, a beautiful Appaloosa. Obadiah was leading Patch, a docile buckskin. He knew that Jo was still aching from her first ride to visit Summer Moon, but he also knew that she would be safe riding Patch.

The journey was mercifully short. Jo noticed an old, faded sign to Mystic. The name had intrigued her.

‘Used to be called Sitting Bull, said the Pastor. ‘Name got changed when the railroad came through. During the Black Hills Gold Rush they set up a gold mill at Mystic, but it was a failure. Place is a ghost town now. Best part of thirty miles away.’

In the distance were the hills and sacred mountain that always gave Obadiah pause to wonder. He drew great strength from its endurance and was in awe of its raw beauty. Jo recognised the landscape she had originally seen in her dreams, and then as a reality during her first ride on Patch.

So it was the three of them had ridden into Deadwood. Their horses’ hooves clattered on the brick-paved Main Street.

Obadiah had pointed out a white clapboard church across the fields. ‘That’s the home I share with the Lord,’ he said proudly. ‘And any lost souls seeking to mend their ways. And right there - that’s the hotel where I found Hawk.’

They were passing Bullocks, a fine Victorian building. ‘They say the first sheriff, Seth Bullock, haunts it still. He must have had a mighty uphill task trying to keep law and order with a pack of miscreant miners prospecting for gold and good-time girls.’

‘Wild Bill Hickok lived here for a while,’ Hawk said to Jo. He’d been lost in thought most of the journey, but now he enjoyed pointing out the landmarks. ‘He was a gambler and a gunslinger, and he died playing poker… right there, where number 624 is. It used to be the Nuttal and Mann’s saloon.’

The Pastor took up the story. ‘After he was murdered they buried Wild Bill in the Deadwood cemetery at Inglewood, then moved him to Mount Moriah. Calamity Jane is right next to him. One complicated woman – hankered for him real bad but only ever got close to him in the graveyard.’

Hawk was more interested in the poker playing than Calamity Jane’s infatuation with James Butler Hickok. ‘His last hand was a pair of aces and a pair of eights – they call it the Dead Man’s Hand.’

Talking of poker,’ Jo had asked, ‘who was Poker Alice?’

‘A widow woman from England. Smoked a cigar and kept a straight face. Men came from miles around to beat her, but she mostly won. She’d say,
Praise the Lord and place your bets. I'll take your money with no regrets
. She vowed she never cheated.’ Obadiah looked around him and sighed. ‘It’s going downhill now. They made the whole city a National Historic Landmark twenty years ago, but it’s going through a rough patch. That’s the thing with boom towns. They easily turn to ghost towns.’

‘It must have been amazing when they first found gold,’ breathed Hawk. ‘I wish I’d lived here then.’ It was obvious he found Deadwood exciting.

‘It wasn’t all drinking and womanising,’ admonished Obadiah. ‘Mining’s dangerous work. Black powder and candlelight – a bad combination.’

Jo shivered, remembering the disused gunpowder factory on the Essex marshes where Titus and Lethe conducted their horrific experiments on children. Her train of thought was interrupted by loud singing and banging on drums.

Ahead of them a long procession came round a corner onto Main Street, waving banners and carrying signs. ‘It’s a protest march!’ said Jo.

Obadiah Moon turned austere again. ‘The authorities just closed the last four whorehouses. Not before time. And a lot of the locals want them opened up again. See that block there? Last year the whole place was nothing but brothels.’

‘I read that the miners lined the streets and cheered when the working girls arrived,’ said Hawk. ‘Madame Mustache and Dirty Em came in on the wagon train. Great names.’

The Pastor did not approve of Hawk’s enthusiasm for Deadwood’s colourful past. Thankfully Jo managed to quickly change the subject.

That’s a beautiful house,’ she said, indicating an elegant, Queen Anne-style home.

‘Sure is handsome. The Adams House. Local folk called it the grandest place west of the Mississippi. It was built when Deadwood was on the rise, trying to escape its disreputable reputation, but fires and the smallpox and economic hardship just keep dragging it right back down.’

‘If it’s such a dump why don’t you go somewhere else?’ snapped Hawk. ‘All you’ve done is moan about it since we got here.’

Obadiah had looked surprised. ‘But I love it here,’ he said simply. ‘When our Lord returns, his love and compassion for sinners will transform places like this.  Dead trees will blossom into flowering rods. Until then I am his hands, doing his work.’

The trio had stopped outside Pastor Moon’s dilapidated old church. As he tethered Gleam, he turned to tell Jo some more of the history of the town of Deadwood and was surprised to find himself alone. That dream was over and another one took its place.

He looked up as the sky turned a dark and ugly red. A noise louder than any thunder shook the very ground as a blinding flash momentarily blinded him. Howling winds ripped through the town, shredding the buildings like confetti. As the enormous mushroom cloud unfurled before him, Obadiah reached for his cross and in so doing, found himself stood in the same spot on a beautiful summers’ day. An old song, Del Shannon’s
Runaway
, was playing loudly, and the sound of laughing children greeted ears still ringing with the roar of devastation. He headed into the church and caught sight of his reflection in the windowed door; the years had been stripped away and before him was the young man he had almost forgotten. Before he could take in the rest of his surroundings, he heard the sound of a car. A first meeting that would change him for the rest of his life was unfolding.

Sebastian wove his way in and out of the dreams drifting through the sleeping Glory Heights hospital. Mary and Matthew dreamed of finding and losing one another over and over and over again. Reg stumbled blindly through a ruined city while Paul sat on a riverbank crying tears of guilt and betrayal. Titus relived the nuclear accident and wandered a radioactive wasteland. All of them felt anguish and helplessness and in turn each of them dreamt of the mushroom cloud. All except for Ali and Lucy, who could not dream at all.

Jo slept deeper still and could not be reached. Sebastian crept through all of their sleeping thoughts until he found his way into Lethe’s dream and the moment that had changed his life forever.

After finishing college and taking up Titus’s offer of unlimited research funding, Lethe had relocated to America and begun her IVF work for the VMN in earnest. Returning to the scene of her own father’s death had been surprisingly disconcerting and the events of that fateful day often returned to haunt her. In an effort to push past the distraction, she had unearthed the many files that Titus kept pertaining to the events of that day and it was there that she had discovered the Deadwood folder.

In her dreams Lethe too relived the fateful encounter.

Lethe’s sleek white Cadillac deVille pulled in to the side of the road. She checked her hair and makeup before stepping out of the car. She opened a rickety wooden gate and set off across the field towards a white clapboard church. An old song, Del Shannon’s
Runaway
, was playing loudly, and in the distance half a dozen small boys were running around the graveyard, spraying each other with water from a hose, making an unholy racket.

‘Can I help you, Ma’am?’ A tall, slim man, dressed entirely in black, stood in the arched doorway.

Lethe had a sudden desire to sit down. Her knees seemed to have stopped working. As she gazed into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, under a tousled thatch of silky black hair that just cried out to be touched, she found herself momentarily lost for words.

‘The Reverend Obadiah Moon, at your service,’ smiled the man, extending his hand, and as their fingers touched Lethe thought it a distinct possibility that she would faint dead away.

‘I’m Lethe,’ she began, her mouth so dry the words barely passed her lips.

‘I know who you are.’ The warm smile had disappeared, to be replaced with a frown. ‘You’re working with that agent of Satan, Titus Stigmurus. What brings you to my church, Ma’am?’

Lethe felt as though she’d been doused with ice-cold water. She gathered her wits about her and spoke with all the dignity she could muster.

‘I believe you have a small boy in your care. An orphan.’

Obadiah indicated the group of boys playing among the gravestones. ‘I have several small boys in my care. It might suit you to call them orphans, but we both know different.’

‘Is one of them called Sebastian?’

‘Maybe. Why do you want to know?’

‘So I can help him,’ said Lethe simply.

‘How, exactly?’

‘I have some ideas, but I would welcome your suggestions.’

Obadiah searched her face for a long time. ‘You feel responsible,’ he said finally. ‘How come, Ma’am?’

Lethe tried not to cry. She fought the urge to confess everything and marshalled her pride. ‘My conscience is my business, not yours, Reverend Obadiah Moon.’

Despite himself, Obadiah found himself smiling. ‘Consciences are my speciality, Ma’am. It comes with the territory.’ Against his better judgment, he felt himself drawn to this woman. ‘Please. Call me Obi.’

Lethe sensed the shift in him and inwardly rejoiced. Nevertheless she maintained her composure. ‘Only if you stop calling me Ma’am. My name is Lethe.’

‘A lovely name,’ he murmured. Suddenly the air around them was electric. He thought for a moment. ‘Seneca wrote, ‘
Lethe, measureless in sweep, glides smoothly on with placid stream, and takes away our cares.
’ He sighed deeply and for a moment Lethe saw his aching loneliness laid bare. All her pride and arrogance seemed to be melting away in the presence of this man. She forced herself to stay focused.

‘Regarding Sebastian. If you agree, I will visit him regularly and write to him often. At Christmas and on his birthday I will remember him. And when he is older I will make sure he has a place to live and work he enjoys.’