O-Men: Liege's Legion - Merc

by Elaine Levine

  She used her phone’s light to scan the excavated area. There were no snakes or huge centipedes or giant spiders—that she could see—which was a good thing, because given how many bodies had been so ruthlessly discarded there at some point in the past, a vision was quite likely. And if she had one here, it was going to be a doozy.

  She started down the steps while the others were preoccupied with their filming. The pit smelled of rich earth and decaying plant matter. Nothing scary there. She’d reached the middle of the pit before the others noticed her.

  “Ash. No! Get out of there,” May called out.

  “Leave her, May,” Larry said. “She took our challenge. Bean, you getting this too?”

  “I am. It’s fabulous. You’re so brave, Ash. Keep going.”

  Ash wasn’t doing this for them but for herself. The urge was too strong to ignore.

  The ground under her feet was muddy with old, pooled water. She walked slowly to the other end, feeling some emotion grow the closer she got to the far side. It filled her lungs, pumped through her veins, pounded in her head. Ash had never experienced a vision’s slow build like this, but she was helpless to stop or change it.

  Something life-shattering had happened here, but her mind couldn’t rationalize it. As with any vision, her thoughts weren’t her own now. Nor were her emotions. When she had them, she lived the energy of what was left behind.

  She spread her free hand out, just a step from the back wall, but something reached up from the ground, snagging her foot. A skeletal hand. She cried out and stumbled forward, slamming into the dirt.

  Her self-awareness completely dissolved. She was no longer Ashlyn but someone else—no one really, just air maybe, facing a man she’d never met, one suffering deeply. He was slumped against the same wall, crying, raging, full of explosive energy. He took something from his pants pocket. A knife. Opening it, he made a slice across his wrist. Blood poured out, fast at first, then slowing to a trickle, then not at all. He cut himself a few more times, then cursed and cut his other wrist. Same thing, fast then nothing. In a fury, he kept slashing at one, then the other wrist. Blood covered him, soaked the ground.

  Then something invisible made him spread his arms out from his sides. He dropped his knife as he fought against the invisible constraints. He managed to free one hand, which he used to claw at the wrist of his other hand.

  Ash felt a rush of air as someone hurried past her. A priest. He ripped off the white robe he was wearing. Bunching it up, he pressed it against the man’s wrists, one then the other, all while stringing prayers together in a litany he said again and again.

  And then, the weirdest thing happened. A golden light seemed to come from the suicidal man’s wrists, spreading until it engulfed him entirely.

  “Ash! Ash! Get out of there,” Celia and May shouted at her. “Something’s coming. Hurry.”

  Ash was too numb to move quickly. Maybe that was her own choice. She didn’t want to leave the desperate man. She picked up her phone. The muddied light showed that what she’d thought was a bony hand was just a cluster of roots. She was vaguely aware of the others screaming and running, but she was too drained to feel fear, or anything, really.

  She just knelt there, in the mud, in the death pit, crying for the man who’d wanted so desperately to die.

  I’m not worth your tears.

  She knew that voice. Whose was it? She tried to see the details of the man in the pit, his face, his age, his skin color. None of that came through. She only got the big stuff, like his emotion and intent and action.

  What happened to him? Had the priest saved him? Could someone lose so much blood and survive?

  Time to go. You can’t stay wallowing in this pit.

  Ash felt like a cooked noodle, but somehow she was able to push herself to her feet. That guy’s energy supported her, almost as if it were he who moved her along.

  She didn’t want to hurry—she wanted to just exist where he was, surrounded by the feel of him. She was barely conscious of moving, but she made it out. Topside, she realized her friends were long gone. Being abandoned in the jungle in the night should have frightened her, but she couldn’t feel anything beyond the energy cradling her. She put one foot in front of the other, moving as if guided down the narrow footpath.

  Empty. That was how she felt. And yet, she didn’t feel alone.

  The Escape was gone. Even that didn’t cut through her numb mind, nor did the reality that she had, in fact, become the group’s token sacrifice stir anything within her.

  It was a mile or so into town. She heard talking when she got there, a shrill commotion, voices she recognized. Her friends surrounded her. May took her arms, then swiped away some mud on her face. They were saying something, but Ash couldn’t seem to focus on it.

  “Let’s get her home.” Celia drew her toward their car. “She’s in shock.”

  “Wait. Look at her. She’s covered in mud,” Larry said. “She can’t get in like that. She’ll ruin our equipment. And it’s a rental.”

  “Don’t touch her.” A little boy came forward, the same kid who’d given them the tour. “She could be la Tunda now. Don’t go anywhere with her. She’s not who—or what—you think she is.”

  The four stepped back. Their eyes were wide with horror as they stared at her.

  Fuck the lot of them. You need better friends.

  The man-ghost she’d picked up in the pit wrapped an arm around her and drew her away from them, leading her toward their room. Ash didn’t resist. She didn’t seem to have any of her own steam anyway, so she just surrendered to his.

  The Escape drove alongside her all the way to their rented room. Ash felt a strange bubble around her, as if she were in some glass jar. People couldn’t come close to her. Their voices were muffled.

  Suited her just fine. She needed time alone to process what she’d experienced. Her dazed state seemed to freak out the guys, but Celia and May helped her to the bathroom.

  May set her shampoo out on the little sink with a towel, then left her backpack near the shower. “There. You’re all set. Take as long as you need. Rinse your clothes out and hang them to dry. We can talk after, if you want.”

  Ash closed herself off in the bathroom. Her bubble was still around her, giving her strength, helping her get through the mechanical steps of preparing for the shower.

  She reached into her pocket for her phone. If she didn’t text her friends that she was back from the woods, one of them would be on the next plane to Medellín.

  With her phone was a utility knife. It was his, the man in the pit. She knew it. It was the one he’d used to cut himself. She tossed it into the sink and stared in horror at it, rubbing her hands together as if to rid them of the energy it left on them.

  Odd that she hadn’t gotten an impression off it. Maybe her mind couldn’t take any more input of that sort. She turned the tap on and rinsed it off. Letters engraved on the side of the knife read MERC. Merc. Was that short for mercenary? Was it a group or club of some sort?

  Wait. That was the name the mysterious guy had used here. Saint Merc.

  She set the knife aside, then cleaned off her phone and texted her friends that all was well. Both were still awake—they texted her right back. She was too tired to answer their questions just then, so she stripped and got in the shower. She leaned against the side of the stall, feeling the cold water wash the night away. Brown water pooled around her feet. She thought of the guy in the pit, trying so hard to end his own life. Had he succeeded? Why had he done it? His energy was gorgeous, rich, full of depth and life.

  She poured a bit of shampoo into her palm and lathered up. There was hot water available, but not enough for a long, satisfying shower. And the night was still beastly hot, so the cold water felt good.

  It wasn’t until she rinsed off that she realized where she knew that voice in her head from—the vision she’d had at Summer’s fort with the man standing at the edge of the cliff. His energy had been all over Valle de Lágr
imas, too—by the dead guys still sitting in their chairs, by the pink and orange walls that seemed so random in the town.

  And now, by the death pits.

  Could ghosts spread their energy so fully? Or was it something the man had done prior to dying?

  Tomorrow she would go to the church to see if the priest she’d seen in her vision was there, the one who’d tried to help the dying man.

  If he had been, then that would mean what she’d seen was real.

  Was she prepared to accept that there was something to all the stories she told herself when she touched some things?

  9

  Ash wandered through the town the next day. Still in the thrall of what had happened last night, she’d ditched the others, who were doing their own video tour of the village. Larry and Bean were irritated with her. They’d wanted to interview her, but she wasn’t interested. What she’d experienced was for her alone, not to be monetized on their vlog.

  The residents were going about their normal business. She and her group were among the few tourists there, so the routine weekend bustle was for the township, not for visitors.

  She crossed the plaza, heading for the big church. It had not been painted in whitewash like the other buildings surrounding the plaza, so it naturally drew the eye. Its walls of huge beige stone blocks were built into the hill that rose behind it. The big building sat atop a stone platform with a dozen steps leading up to the arched front entrance. A tall bell tower stood next to it, rising a dozen feet above the church’s roof.

  Ash went up the steps and slipped in through the open front door. The only occupant was a priest kneeling in the second row from the front. His clasped hands were propped on the pew in front of him, and his head was bowed. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was cut in the old monkish bowl style. He wore a simple brown robe. It was cool inside the cavernous nave, but Ash wondered if the priest’s clothes weren’t a hot choice for the warm climate.

  Ash paused in the aisle next to him, waiting for him to finish his prayers. When he lifted his head and looked at her, she gasped. He was a young man, younger even than she was. Odd that he was so gray so early.

  “I am Father Eduardo. I knew you would come,” he said in Spanish.

  “How did you know that?” He didn’t answer, just kept looking at her as if waiting for her to speak. “You were the one who found him,” Ash said. She felt her heart pounding with anticipation, fearing either way he would answer.

  He nodded, both saddened and buoyed by the memory. Maybe he was acting a part in some elaborate hoax perpetrated by the town. She couldn’t blame the town—it was fighting for its very survival. Claiming a run-in with a saint was a big deal for believers in the region. Add in a few Tundas, and the town’s appeal to adventurous travelers would be huge.

  “Tell me the truth,” Ash said, feeling a little guilty for doubting a priest. “I promise to never tell anyone. Is it real? The miracles, the curses, everything?”

  He studied her. With his young face and old eyes, there was nothing but truth emanating from him. He clearly cared nothing at all for her feelings or beliefs. “It is the truth.”

  “Could you have mistaken what you saw?”

  “No.”

  “So you believe miracles are real?”

  “Of course. The ones here were real.”

  Ash went silent as she considered that.

  The priest rose. “Come with me.” He led the way to a side door. They went into a dark hallway. He unlocked a door that led into what looked like a storeroom. Chairs were stacked inside next to crates and trunks and other stuff. The room smelled musty. Its only light came from a narrow row of clerestory windows. Streams of dust motes sparkled in the sun rays, pointing down to a long glass case. The back of it was lined with faded red velvet. On top of that lay a dirty brown robe.

  Ash gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. It wasn’t a brown robe, but a white one covered with reddish-brown stains.

  “This was your robe,” she whispered. “You were there.”

  He nodded, as affected by the robe as she was.

  “Did you see the golden light?”

  He nodded. “He was a saint. And I aim to prove it. I’ve contacted the church and asked them to come investigate the miracles he made here.”

  Ash looked at the robe again. The sacred display wavered in front of her eyes. She blinked, realizing she craved a man who wasn’t a man but a miracle maker. A saint.

  “Did he die that night?” As soon as she asked, she realized it was a stupid question. Living people couldn’t be saints, could they?

  “The pit was filled with his blood. I soaked up what I could that night with my robe. No one could survive that.”

  “What happened to him—after what he did?”

  “Men in a helicopter came for him. I don’t know who they were. One was an angel. He glowed with a golden light as he touched our saint. They took him away. That’s all I know.” They stared at the robe for a long moment of silence before the priest said, “He blessed our village. There’ve been no murders or rapes or even fights since he was here. Everything’s changed.”

  “I hope you keep this safe.”

  He nodded. “I keep it locked up, but like you, others will come to see it.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I only know his name. Merc. Our saint of mercy. He’ll be that to us even if the Church never recognizes him.”

  When Ash left the church, she wandered over to a farm market that had been set up along one edge of the plaza. A stand tucked between two produce sellers offered handblown glass pendants made from multicolor glass flecks. She supposed the artist’s studio had to be someplace windy, for every one of the medallions was marred with brown bits of dirt that had gotten into the glass.

  A wizened little woman manned the table, standing behind it with great pride. Rows of little carved and painted figurines of a man dressed in a white robe, his head slightly bowed, his arms spread out from his sides with his palms open, all carved from wood, were also for sale. The funny thing was that the man the carvings depicted was variously painted as a brown, black, or white. Had there been more than one saintly visitor?

  The woman smiled and said, “Nuestro santo de la misericordia.” Our saint of mercy.

  “But he looks so different,” Ash said in Spanish, nodding to the figurines.

  The old woman shrugged. “Everyone saw him as they saw him.” After pointing to the necklaces, she continued, “This is our saint’s blood. It was taken from the site where it spilled from his body. Take one home to bless you and yours.”

  Ash picked one up, feeling the intense flash of a man in agony. She looked at the woman, stricken.

  “He’s in your heart, as he’s in ours. It is good.”

  A breeze blew into the village square, heading straight for Ash. How odd that she could hear it coming. It swirled around her, soft as a sigh. Ash gave herself over to it. She closed her eyes, feeling it stroke her cheek. In her mind’s eye, she conjured the presence of the tall blond stranger she’d seen standing at the ocean cliff. His fingers were the breeze. She lifted her chin, felt the tips of his fingers slip down her neck. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to; he—the breeze—owned her.

  The old woman, the market, the entire village slipped away, leaving her alone with the phantom man. Saints weren’t real, were they? She yearned to feel his lips on hers. Gooseflesh tingled at the base of her scalp, as if roused by phantom fingers. His breath warmed her lips. Her hand tightened on the glass medallion.

  The energy surrounding her pulled free from her body and seemed to focus on what she held. An electric shiver moved from the glass into her hand. She covered her hand with her other one, keeping a fierce hold on the little blob of glass. She jumped when something like a sonic boom made the ground beneath her feet rumble, yanking her from her vision back to reality.

  The old woman’s table was wrecked. All the necklaces and figurines were scattered over the ground. Villagers h
urried over to see what had happened.

  Ash glanced around her, stunned and confused. The woman was looking at her accusingly.

  “I’m sorry. I-I lost my balance.” Had she? Had she toppled the table? She handed the woman some money and rushed out of the area, escaping from the crowd.

  Looking up, she saw a tall man watching her from the far end of the square, in front of the village church. A reflection from the church’s stained-glass window made it seem he glowed a brilliant red-orange.

  She glanced around them, curious to see how others were reacting to him, but no one was. When she looked back, he was gone. She shook her head, hoping to clear it. There was no way that guy could have moved from where he was to somewhere out of sight in just the blink of an eye.

  It was good that she was leaving with the others that afternoon; if she stayed much longer, she’d lose what was left of her mind.

  Merc fought to keep his dream active, but it was already slipping away. All he could do was stay in place and watch it fall apart. No longer a smooth scene, now it was a collection of broken images patched together like mismatched shards of tile. Still he clung to it. She was in there, somewhere, a female he hadn’t met, but it felt as if he knew her so completely.

  Ashlyn. He’d touched her face in his dream and felt…desire. A hunger so extreme that he feared for the woman if he ever met her—something that could never happen, because she was Summer’s friend.

  He kept his eyes shut as he surfaced into his present reality. He was in the fort. He knew its sounds, its smells. He was in his room, on his bed. He sent his senses out in a widening ripple, checking for anyone in the room. There was only one person with him—Bastion.

  “I know you’re awake,” the Frenchman said.

  Merc kept his eyes shut. He wasn’t ready to leave her. His Ashlyn. He conjured her scent—green apple and sun, with a hint of roses—bright and joyful like the woman herself. And just as fragile.