The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (11 page)

We slip under the table and huddle around the metal post as he stalks through the food court. I pull Ethan to me on one side, Mage on the other. Clay scoots up behind me, his body a taut wire. Rayburn balls up like a hedgehog.

Kemuel stalks through the play area, his gun out, arm extended. His cheeks puff in and out with panting breaths. A chair scrapes and he aims at it.

“Where is he?!” he screams, flecks of spit raining from his mouth. “Where's the Messiah?”

No one answers. Somewhere a child wails. My eyes flick toward the exits. We're right in the center of the room. If we bolted, we'd be a target for sure.

“No?” Kemuel screams, veering our way. “The coward won't face me? Then give me his daughter.” Beside me, Mage stiffens. I rub my hand up and down her bare shoulder. “Where's Mage?!”

Stephen stands, unfolding his bulk from under a table. He holds out his hands, smiling. “Kemuel, my boy, why don't you just put the gun down and we'll go talk to the Messiah. I'll get him to reinstate you, brother. Just put down the pistol.”

Kemuel aims at Stephen, the gun barrel bobbing around. Silent tears trace down his pale cheeks. “You made me scrub out pig pens with my bare hands.”

Stephen holds his hands up, still smiling, though it's fading fast. “Listen, little brother, it was all in good fun. We do that to all the boys before they're Named.”

Kemuel wipes a sleeve across his eyes. “You rubbed it on my face. That wasn't
fun
!” Kemuel fires.

The gunshot cracks through the food court. Stephen's mouth drops open and he turns, but too late. The bullet burrows into his chest, spinning him, arms wide like a dancer. A spray of blood flies from his chest, then his back. He falls and lands hard and heavy. There's the slow patter of blood as it dribbles on to the concrete. One foot twitches. Then he is still.

I stare at his body, blinking. Dead. He has to be.

People scream. Someone bolts toward the exit. Kemuel moves like a man stuck in molasses. He shakes his head, murmuring, the gun loose in his hands. He stares at the man he just killed. Before we can bolt, he turns. His eyes land on Mage beside me.

“Go!” I scream, pushing them away. Kemuel runs at a full clip. Ethan scrambles forward, bumping into Rayburn, who's unrolling. I push Mage from behind, but she's stuck too. Tears stream down her face, her limbs move like noodles. I shove her. “Go! Now!”

A hand grabs my collar. I'm yanked back. A chair skitters and smacks into the concrete. Above me stands Kemuel. He aims the gun. The dark round barrel centers between my eyes, a hungry black void in the center. I throw my arms over my face.

He shoves me away. I wheel through space until my back and then my head bang against the concrete with twin thuds. Stars burst in my vision. Above, the ceiling blurs.

The sound of a scuffle. I push myself up, my head swimming. He's got Mage by the arm. He hauls her upright and presses the gun to her temple.

The table flies forward as someone explodes from beneath it. Clay. He dives at Kemuel and tackles him. Mage falls back, skidding across the concrete. Clay lands on Kemuel, his hands around the boy's throat. Kemuel aims his gun at Clay's head.

“No!” I scream. I stagger toward them, hands out.

Clay slams his head into Kemuel's, their foreheads cracking with a sound like two eggs smashed in a bowl. The gun flops. Clay pins Kemuel to the concrete, teeth flashing, veins pulsing as he drops his forearm on the boy's neck.

The sound of thudding feet brings me out of my daze. Men latch onto Kemuel, pin him, and tie his hands. Another man grabs the gun. Clay staggers back and wipes blood out of his eyes, a bright red smear appearing across his forehead.

Behind the men, Andrew appears with the Messiah holding his arm. Mage runs to her father and jumps into his arms. Cradling her like a toddler, he strokes her golden curls as tears drip down his face. It's the first time I've ever seen the Messiah act like this…like a human being.

I stumble over to Clay. There’s a cut on his forehead that isn't too deep, but he needs medical attention. I press my sleeve to his head, wrap my other arm around his neck, and draw him close.

“God,” I whisper. “You know how to get a girl's blood pressure up.”

“If that's all I gotta do...” He wraps his arms around me. I know people are watching, but at this moment I don't care.

We pull apart. The Messiah stands, waiting for us. I blush and drop Clay's hand.

“Clay,” he says, “you saved my daughter’s life. I owe you my heart. Please, come. Let me repay you.” Mage is still wrapped around her father like a baby monkey.

Clay shakes his head. “It weren't nothing. I just hope she's okay.”

The Messiah nods. “She will be. Please, you must come. Both of you.” The Messiah gestures to Clay and me. “This way.”

The Messiah's chambers swirl with incense that makes my head buzz. Clay and I sit on the couch in the candlelight, backs straight, ears alert. My eyes flit around the room as if by cataloging all the strange items I'll be able to figure out what this prophet has up his silk sleeve. To the right of our couch, paper calendars hang at odd angles. One calendar shows a pug-faced kitten in a shoe. Another has a watercolor painting of a sunset. Another shows a faded picture of a boy in a black cloak with round glasses and a wand. I peer closely at the black, numbered grids below the pictures. Each shows different months —January, July, April—and different days are circled violently with what looks like…blood? Many of those days are crossed out with a big black marker. What's the significance of those days? It might matter. Then again I don't even know what month we're in, let alone what day, and most of these calendars are decades old. Who can know the mind of a madman?

Every time I close my eyes I see Stephen twirling, arms out, the shocked expression spreading on his face just like the blood spreading on his chest. Dead. They covered him with a sheet and dragged him away. What'll happen to Kemuel? The boy was obviously sun-baked enough to think that he could take on a whole compound with one gun. Makes me wonder where he got that gun. Haven't seen any inside, but they gotta be stored somewhere.

I clench my hands together and look at Clay. “What d'you think he wants?”

Clay takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Probably just to congratulate us for helping Mage or somethin'. Don't worry,” he says, flashing a put-on smile. “I got this under control.”

It's the first time I've seen a smile on his face since we were taken. Saving Mage must have puffed him up some. At least all that awfulness did some good.

The door swings open and we both stiffen. The Messiah floats in with Andrew in tow. The prophet sweeps around, candles flickering. Andrew stands in the back, watching every move through his large, goggled eyes.

“Well, well, well. Our saviors,” the Messiah says, sweeping an arm grandly. “Thank you so much for joining me. We have much to discuss.”

I nod and Clay says, “Happy to help. Mage is a great kiddo.”

The Messiah nods. “My daughter is one of the greatest joys of my life.” But, no joy floods his face when he says this. Maybe they're different here, but when Mama talks about us, her eyes glow like a campfire. The Messiah's are dark as day-old ash.

He clasps his hands and continues. “I've been meaning to speak to you two for some time now, but the Gods have kept me busy these days.” He lifts his face to the ceiling, smiling as if his Gods watch us. He gestures to a side table. “Please, have some refreshments.”

I stare at the bounty: cheeses; big, plump fruits; a large jug of purple wine. My stomach lurches with want, but I don't trust the offering. Clay gets up and makes himself a heaping plate. I scowl at him when he sits down.
What?
he mouths.

The Messiah pours a glass of wine and sits in a plush chair across from us. He turns his cloudy eyes in my direction. “Riley, do tell me about your time in the Breeders hospital. Did they perform any of their experiments on you?”

I wrap my hand over my sleeve where the ankh brand rests. The images flash before my eyes before I can stop them: the lifeless women strapped to beds, Betsy on her final push in the delivery room, Clay's father bleeding out on the tile.

I shake my head. “Rather not.”

“I see.” The Messiah's voice is caked with disappointment. He turns to Clay. “Your father was the self-appointed Sheriff of a town north of here. Is this correct?” He runs a finger around his wine glass, though he hasn't taken a sip. Clay's finished half of his. I'd kick him, but there's no table to hide behind this time.

Clay's body goes stiff at the mention of his father. “Yes sir. My pa took care of the town, but was…overzealous in his practices.” He clears his throat. “We didn't see eye to eye on how he run things.”

“I gathered as much, since you killed him.” The Messiah leans back, tenting his hands.

“How d'you know so much about us?” I ask, leaning on my elbows. “You got someone inside the hospital? A spy?”

Clay sputters on his wine and shoots me a worried look. I ignore it. There's no more time for beating around the bush.

The Messiah's expression doesn't change. He strokes his trim beard thoughtfully. “You don't believe the Gods told me? You don't believe in prophetic sight?”

I shrug, picking my next words carefully. “The Gods never showed me nothing.”

“Are you sure?” he says, leaning in suddenly. “Are you sure you've never seen something from
above
?”

“I sure don't think so. And I don't know anyone who has.”

The Messiah stands, his face animating. “What about you?” he asks Clay, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Have you heard from
them
? Do they
give you sight?”

Clay shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“I told you, sir,” Andrew says, stepping up. “They're nothing but filthy nonbelievers. They don't have the Sight. Let's put 'em back in the dust where they belong.” He leers at us through his goggles, his eyes bulging under the lenses.

“I don't believe it!” the Messiah shrieks, his arms flying up. “One of you.” He points an accusatory finger. “One of you has it. I was told.” He whirls around. “Andrew, get the sacrifice. We settle this now.”

“Sir.” Andrew places a tentative hand on the Messiah's sleeve, but draws it back when he sees the anger on his leader's face. He turns toward the door and leaves.

“What's goin' on?” Clay tries to stand.

The Messiah puts his hand out. “Please,” his voice is calmer, his eyes not so frenzied. “No harm will come to you, but I need you to do something for me. Just be patient.”

“I think we're done here.” I stand. “Thanks for the cheese.”

The Messiah strides to the door and blocks it. “Neither of you may leave or your families lives may be in danger.”

Goosebumps run up my arms. “You're gonna hurt them?”

He shakes his head, his brown hair whipping behind. “Not I.”

“I don't underst—”
Andrew slides back through the door with a small, squealing animal in his palm—a pink piglet, barely old enough to open its eyes. It thrashes its legs and makes a noise like a crying infant. Nothing about this feels right.

“What's that for?” I ask, pointing at the little pig, my finger beginning to tremble. “What're you gonna do?”

Its little pink ears shake as it bucks in Andrew's hand. The Messiah draws a knife from his belt and begins muttering. That distant, frenzied look is on his face. He raises the knife. “Sight, Sight, Sight,” he murmurs.

“Don't!” I cry.

He plunges the knife into the bucking animal’s throat. The piglet lets out an awful, tortured squeal and then it's limp. The only sound is its blood pattering on the floor.

“Why did you…” I whisper, falling back to the couch. I've killed to survive, but never a baby and never with such awful joy. The Messiah's expression is one of pure rapture. My stomach churns.

The Messiah cups his hand under the dead piglet’s sliced neck and begins collecting blood. He's still murmuring something about “the gift of Sight, the gift of Sight.”

Clay pushes up, but Andrew draws his knife and points it at Clay. “Sit down.”

Clay sits, his hands fisted. He looks at me.

What the hell have we gotten into?
The Messiah strides forward, his hands dripping in pig blood. I shy away, but his fingers wipe the blood on my eyelids. I lurch back, the warm wetness slipping along the creases of my eyes. “Stop!”

But he doesn't stop. Still chanting, his eyes roll back until only the whites show. He does the same to Clay, smearing blood on his eyelids. Clay grits his teeth, both hands dug into the couch cushions.

“Are you satisfied now, you psychopath?” Clay asks, flashing a gunslinger look that means only trouble to the one receiving it. “No goddamned gift of Sight. Now let us outta here or we got trouble.”

But the Messiah's still murmuring. He goes back to the piglet in Andrew's hand and begins cutting. I can't look. I drop my head and try not to gag. The smell of blood is everywhere. When will this nightmare end?

When I look up again, the Messiah is chewing on something, his chin dripping with blood. He's eating the piglet's eyes. Through it all Andrew watches us, knife extended like his only desire is making sure we don't move.

Bile rises in my throat. The smell of blood is everywhere.

When the Messiah swallows and wipes the blood on his sleeve, he turns to us. The frenzied look is gone, replaced with the hopefulness of a child. “Well?” he asks like we've received a package and he can't wait to see what's inside. “What do you see?”

I shake my head, feeling sick. “A dead pig and a couple of sickos.”

“Yes, yes.” He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “But do you
see
anything? From above?”

I grit my teeth. “I see pig blood on your beard.”

He scowls and turns to Clay. “What about you?”

“Tell yer man to get his pig-gutter out of my goddamn face before I use it on 'im.” The veins in Clay's neck throb. “Now.”

Andrew steps forward. His sneer is back. He'd love to gut us. “Listen, dust—”

The Messiah puts a hand to Andrew's chest. The prophet's hope has flown and now a sadness has crept into his features. “I don't understand,” he mutters, turning to looking at the books strewn on his desk. “One of you has the Sight. It was foretold to me.”