by J M Fraser
“You won’t have her,” she hissed. Orelea cut an inch-long gash along the side of Maynya’s neck, painting the tip of her blade red.
Maynya stared into Quintus’s soul with no hint of pain or fear, only adoration intense enough to buckle his knees. The love she radiated seemed to crackle the air. “Brewster!”
Why did she address him so? This woman had baffled him from the beginning, capturing his heart when he first saw her portrait, later rejecting his offer of water on the hill, and now speaking another’s name even as he tried to save her life. He drew a deep breath, perhaps one of his last. His love for Maynya was so overpowering he was ready to die for her.
“Bring on the rats!” Phineas shouted. “We’re a hundred strong to fend them off.”
Good God! Quintus had been a fool to think he could trust this snake. He again shot his gaze around the tent, but his only allies were a huddled group of defenseless brides.
Phineas stalked toward him, waving his arms like a wild man. “You all saw! He tried to stab Albus. That witch has him under her spell!”
Quintus crouched, tightening his grip on his knife. Fool or not, he had every intention of going down with a fight.
A merchant shook an angry fist. “Conspirator!”
Two soldiers elbowed the man aside and came forward with blades in hand.
“Conjurer!” A third advanced toward Maynya with unsheathed sword.
Someone grabbed Quintus from behind. He spun around.
At that moment, Orelea’s piercing scream nearly startled him into dropping his knife.
As the hand on his shoulder fell away, a collective gasp rang in his ears. He glanced at his sister in time to see her blade curving away from Maynya’s neck. It slithered like a snake, then stretched to the length of a sword before plunging into Orelea’s shoulder. She collapsed.
Bzzzzz. What was that roar, ten million insects? Or did he simply over-amplify the rush of adrenaline in his ears?
No, this had to be real. Others shifted their hands to their ears.
Maynya began twitching. Her eyes rolled. Her head tilted back.
A black cloud of insects tore into the tent—thick-bodied, ugly locusts. They poured through the torn flaps above, across the entranceway, ripping new holes in the flimsy lining.
Everyone yelled, swatted, ran, fell. Orelea twitched on the ground. Phineas covered his face with his cape.
Only the brides held steady. The swarm stayed clear of them.
Maynya staggered backwards. Quintus wrapped his arms around her to arrest her fall.
“Don’t worry about me, Brewster,” she rasped. “Free the other brides caged in the compound…beside the palace!”
Brewster? That odd salutation tickled his memory but failed to awaken it. Perhaps in her excitement, Maynya had spoken a lover’s name. The notion she had someone else in her life turned his stomach to the point he almost retched.
Quintus rebuked himself for letting his selfish needs slow him in the heat of battle. He took Maynya’s hand and headed for the opening of the tent, pausing just a moment to glance back at the few brides inside. “Follow me!” He had to shout above the insects to be heard.
The locusts parted to let them pass.
Outside the tent, pandemonium reigned. Swarming locusts blotted out the sun. People ran in circles, waving their arms in self-defense. Women screamed. Horse-drawn carts overturned.
A bright flash of lightning set a secondary tent ablaze. Thunder shook the ground.
Quintus tightened his grip on Maynya’s hand and turned to the forest.
“Not that way,” she said. Whatever magic she’d created left her pale and unsteady. She faltered against him, trembling.
The brides poured out of the tent and gathered around them.
Maynya rallied, straightening and pointing toward the trees in the distance. “Chrysanta, Jillian, Johanna…all of you others, run to Sanctimonia! We’ll free your sisters and send them on your heels.”
Each of the women hurried up to hug her. A moment later, these dozen prospective brides in their flashy makeup and colorful dresses with hair fixed just right in the hopes of finding kind husbands who wouldn’t beat them…these rescued maidens kicked off their shoes and scampered away in bare feet, like a group of traditional Mystic women chasing down a turkey to make a feast for their men.
Quintus stared after the women until they’d put a good distance between themselves and anyone who might have followed had the locusts not proven to be the greater distraction. Then he directed his gaze to the empty marching field he’d tramped across seemingly a hundred years earlier for a meeting with a tyrant of a brother now turned to salt. The thick cloud of buzzing insects obscured the palace from view.
Sadness for the lost soul of his brother thickened his tongue. They’d been friends once, in their early youth, before corruption began eating at Albus like a cancer. But he couldn’t slow himself with these thoughts. “How long will this last?”
Maynya must have sensed his grief. She gave him a moment before answering. “God willing, this will last until every slave is freed, my love.”
The endearment warmed his heart.
They walked into the chaos together, hand in hand. The locusts spilled apart like the red sea for the legendary Moses.
Maynya stroked Quintus’s hand with a thumb. She had love in her eyes.
Her obvious fondness lightened his step. Still he needed to raise a question that would otherwise gnaw away at him like a different form of cancer. “Whose name did you speak earlier?”
She stopped, stepped in front of him, settled gentle hands on his face. Her eyes welled. “You don’t know him, do you?”
“I’m not sure.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek. “A man died for me in another world. I want to thank him with all my heart.”
“Any good man would die for you in this one.”
Maynya’s face seemed to blur ever so slightly, fading the shadows of a hard life from beneath her eyes. The same woman, and yet different somehow, softer, more forward, kissed his cheek. “Quintus, darling, if you ever even think about dying for me again, I’ll kill you.”
For the briefest moment, the thick swarms of locusts transformed into windswept snow—something he’d rarely seen in Virtus. He knew this woman by another name. What name? His foggy brain could only summon his own.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’ve gone pale.”
He closed his eyes and reopened them…to locusts…and Maynya. The moment had passed. His fellow soldiers had a saying for trauma-induced hallucinations. “The angels lost their grip on my soul.”
“Cast your lot with me, then.” Maynya grabbed his hand and led him toward the lusterless wooden palace of a dead ruler who’d lost his soul to demons. A barred-window building just to the east held brides in need of a champion.
CHAPTER 36
Within a federal correctional facility several months later
Heather strutted into a visitor area beyond the partition of bulletproof glass. She settled into a chair across from Brewster and grabbed the phone.
If not for his head-over-heels love for Carla, his former office manager’s new look would have gotten a rise out of him. She’d dyed her hair from brunette to auburn and gone with a shorter cut, one leaving the black-and-yellow butterfly in proud display on the side of her neck. On top of all that, her short skirt and tight blouse had him averting his eyes to stay out of trouble. He groped for some small talk like a lifeline. “How are things at Crestview?”
“Tesfaye’s behind in his payments already.”
“No surprise there.”
“Makes me miss the old debtor’s prison days.” She fished a cigarette out of her purse. “Mind if I smoke?”
“The guards might.”
She lit up anyway.
Brewster had already deduced a simple formula—butterfly tattoo equals Asura minion. But he still couldn’t get used to the concept that the heavens had a soft spot for chain-
smoking office managers. “This sisterhood of yours? You aren’t anything like Abelia.”
“She’s just a kid.” Heather took a slow drag, exhaled, and glanced around at the other convicts lined up across the glass from their moms, wives, girlfriends, molls. “How are your buddies treating you?”
“Knock on wood, they’ve been steering clear of me in the showers.”
“I’m seeing to that.”
Whew. He could have floated off his bench from that morsel of good news. Here he’d been worrying about his luck running out sooner or later. “So, what’s the story? You’ve been my guardian angel in this gig all along?”
“I’m just another slave working for the Asian bitch.”
The slur took his breath away. “You’re not talking about—”
“Asura. She wants me to leave Crestview now that you moved on.”
“Do you have a choice?”
Heather watched a smoke ring drift to the ceiling. Judging by her reddening face, her signature version of counting to ten wasn’t working. “I told her to stuff it.”
“You said that, huh?”
“Bet your ass! This idea we can be moved around like chess pieces with no voice in the matter is so Dark Ages. I’m spreading grace at work. Employees rely on me for their livelihoods!”
He’d agitated her. Good. Prison time tended to be short on entertainment. He folded his arms, leaned back, let her vent.
“So Asura says, ‘Fine, keep financing losers who can’t afford their trucks.’ Those were her exact words, Brewster.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Okay, so I’m paraphrasing.” Heather glanced around, leaned forward. “She isn’t necessarily on the A team, just so you know.”
He caught his breath again.
“Never mind. I’m just venting. Call me a problem employee. Anyway, Asura wants me to edit your journals when I’m not too busy with my day job.”
Perfect. That meant a never-ending stream of visits. Prison time could get a little lonely.
Not that he was complaining. He’d never been more content. In fact, he regarded himself as downright blissful. He’d traded a stressful career in an unforgiving world for the simple life of an inspirational writer. Thoreau would have been envious.
Besides, he had Carla/Maynya in his pocket, always just an eye-blink away, as Asura had promised—part of his days spent with the woman he loved and part working on a masterpiece. Better yet, he spent far more time in that reality than this dream, as far as he could tell. Or were they both realities? His head still spun when he tried to sort it all out.
Heather snuffed her cigarette and leaned forward again, all business now. “Let’s title your series The Gospel According to Quintus.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
She waved him off. “We’ll go small press with this. The best religions start with a whisper. At least Asura and I are on the same page about that.”
“Wait. I thought the idea was that the world needed a new Gospel. Christianity stays in place, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Hold on, Heather. I’m not writing a damned word if you’re planning to change—”
Heather held up a hand. “Fine. We’ll follow Asura’s wishes. Again.” She glanced over her shoulder at a door in the back. “Anyway, I brought a visitor.”
If only. He let out a sigh. “You know the rules. I’m allowed just one per day.”
“I make the rules here, dear boy.”
The lights flickered, and the low buzz of conversation up and down the partition ended. Prisoners, visitors, and guards froze mid-sentence with mouths open and body language locked in place. Liquid spilling from a visitor’s tipped glass hung toward the floor like a crystal waterfall. The wall clock stopped.
He’d seen some weird stuff since his meeting with Asura, but Heather had been relatively low-key until recently, no doubt trying to ease him into the shock she was somewhat more than a working stiff. “Um—”
“Wait here.” She left her chair and slipped out of the room.
The dark-haired woman entering a minute later seemed thirty something at first, but when she came closer, he realized a shaggy haircut, halter top, short skirt, and great diet had chased quite a few years away. Then she got close enough for him to see the family resemblance. He swallowed.
Carla’s mother stepped around immobilized visitors like they didn’t exist. She grabbed the chair, lifted the phone, and grinned, motioning toward the frozen convict in the next slot. “Hocus pocus.”
He grinned. “Heather’s a card, isn’t she?”
They stared at each other, and an awkward silence stripped the veneer of humor away. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I am so sorry,” he said.
She mustered a smile. “Your friend over there did a weird little mind meld on me. I know everything that happened now. Carla died before you ever met her.”
“Yeah, but maybe I could have—”
“You tried to rescue her. That’s what matters.”
That he did. Still, he couldn’t prevent the lump in his throat over the fact this woman might still have a daughter in real time if he’d caught sight of Gabriella before the little witch had a chance to push them.
Her expression turned dreamy. “I’ve started getting glimpses of Carla’s other half when I sleep. More Heather?”
“This sisterhood thing is pretty cool.”
“Yet here you are languishing in prison. She can freeze everyone in this room, but she can’t get you out?”
He glanced around at surroundings grown no less drab by their familiarity. Dirty, barred windows high up near the ceiling grudgingly allowed some sunlight but not enough to bring life to the olive-green walls, the worn tile flooring, or a row of prisoners who’d lost the luster from their eyes. “The party line is I can do my best writing here, since I won’t have many distractions.”
“And your line?”
“Judging by what Heather told me a few minutes ago, maybe I could have stood up for myself and cut a better deal.”
“Is it too late to try?”
“Six-and-a-half years is the deal.” The frozen wall clock showed no inkling of spinning backward, and he was fine keeping it that way. A gospel needed to be written. A religion reignited. Crafting such a powerful tome could be no rush project.
“You’re two heroes, Brewster.”
“Uh-uh. The only star in my story lives across the portal with Maynya.”
And he shared that man’s happy life whenever he closed his eyes.
* * *
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Quintus squinted up at the overly sunny afternoon. Maynya had knelt beside him.
She smiled. “I’ve married a lazy man.”
He rose from grass as soft as a hammock and looked past her at the tent city of followers, perhaps a thousand pilgrims strong, maybe more. The town of Portus lay five miles distant across the sun-baked prairie. They’d carried their message to its inhabitants these past few days, swelling their ranks with new believers.
Success should have energized him, but he’d grown weary after so many days wandering, so many days scavenging for food, so many days gathering new followers from the scattered settlements stretching the long distance across Virtus’s frontier. He’d stolen a nap.
“I remembered something as I awoke,” he said.
Maynya’s eyes lit up. “A vision from the other dimension?”
“Maybe, but I wasn’t in prison. I think this happened earlier.”
“Tell me.”
“I found you dancing on a road, in a snowstorm. You beamed like a child on her name day, and you called me a beautiful man.”
Her smile spread wide as the sky. “Who was this beautiful man?”
“Booster?”
She ruffled his hair. “Sometimes I think you pretend to remember less than you do, just to get a charge out of me.”
Sometimes he did.
She stood, reached down, and
tugged his hand until he came up beside her. “I have a surprise for you, Booster.”
Maynya led him to a ragged, makeshift tent pitched among the many others. Had he seen this one somewhere before? The recollection stirred his emotions as much as the dream he’d just had. He struggled to quell a leaping heart. His terrible act of negligence during his journey to the capital couldn’t possibly have gone undone.
Yet a woman reached her arm from within the tent to pull the flap open, and she did have a butterfly tattoo on her wrist, just like—
Adala stepped out of the tent.
“Look who wandered into our camp,” Maynya said.
Quintus gaped at the golden-haired, water-to-wine magician turned…ghost? He couldn’t find any words.
Adala brushed the back of his cheek with a warm, soft hand no wraith could ever possess. “Did you really think a simple highwayman could smite me down?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Adala winked. “If men would leave the thinking to our gender, we’d all be better off, eh, Maynya?”
Quintus motioned to the half-filled wicker basket visible through the open flap of her tent. “We think better with full stomachs. I see they’ve already recruited you to help with the scavenging.”
“Yes, but I’ve only managed to scrounge five loaves of bread and two fish,” Adala said, “hardly enough to feed so many. I’m sure you can come up with something, though, Maynya, can’t you?”
Maynya motioned toward one of the tents. “We have a store of food in there. Let’s not forget who is God and who isn’t.”
* * *
When the late-afternoon shadows grew long, and a thousand bellies swelled from a bountiful feast of fish and loaves, Maynya climbed a low hill to behold her following, a rabble of villagers, deserting soldiers, escaped brides, and some monks who’d seen the light. A pair of doves cut across the sky—a favorable sign. Then a swarm of monarch butterflies darted out of the shrubbery alongside the stream—even better.
She raised her arms until the horde of pilgrims grew silent.
“I want to share with you a sermon once preached by the Son of God.”
She motioned to the women her locusts had rescued, a small group of unwed brides who’d chosen to make new lives for themselves in the wilds of the prairie instead of scampering after their sisters to the forests of Sanctimonia. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.”
