“There’s no other explanation for surviving an untreated bite,” Mario said.
“What if we had some of his blood and got it to a lab?” Doug asked. “The serum wouldn’t matter then.”
Mario shook his head.
“We can’t store blood properly, and the serum is ready to go. We won’t be able to synthesize more serum quickly if we’re starting from scratch with new antibodies. That could take months.”
“And we’ve been gone eight days,” Doug added, sounding deflated. “We don’t know what’s going on out there or how things have played out with the City.”
Mario had not come this far and given up so much to fail now. He could deal with zombies getting the better of them, but this madman? Through the infirmary’s front window, he saw the others hurrying their direction. As Miranda came into view, Mario caught a flash of cornflower blue. He had looked into her fearful eyes not thirty minutes ago, though it felt like a lifetime. The memory made his anger burn brighter.
I promised her we were getting out of here, he thought, though how they might do so he could not imagine. Not with the Prophet so many steps ahead of them, winning the game before they knew it had begun.
He watched Miranda as Connor opened the infirmary door. He could see what her future might be, even now. She would continue the work, partner with Connor, maybe even be happy. It was ridiculous, to think of such things at a time like this, with so much at stake, but he did. Whatever life might hold for her, he would never be part of it. As long as she got away from this place, Mario was okay with that.
The love he felt for her – fierce and powerful – welled up within him. Tears that he quickly blinked away blurred the corners of his eyes.
I have to find a way. If Miranda’s alive, she will never give up, never stop trying to finish this. I have to get her out of here.
46
.
The hour came and went, followed by another, but Finn did not return. Doug decided they would start searching themselves, but it would have to wait until morning. Village life wound down early so the hour, not to mention the collective mental state of New Jerusalem’s inhabitants since the Faith Walk, made searching now a non-starter.
Giving the others the slip took longer than Miranda had anticipated. She had not bothered to run her idea past Doug because she knew what his answer would be.
He should understand seeking forgiveness rather than asking permission… a very Jesuit way of getting things done.
The wood and rope bridge swayed as she made her way across it to the Prophet’s house. Swinging herself on the crutches as they, in turn, were rocked by the motion of the bridge made Miranda feel like she was perpetually stumbling and falling. She nearly had tripped a minute ago, practically jumping out of her skin when a horse whinnied, before she remembered Finn mentioning stables on the forest floor on the far side of the village. Luckily, the gate was just ahead. She reached out to knock, but it swung away from her.
A member of the Prophet’s Guard stood before her. He raised the lantern he held and squinted at her.
“What do you want so late this night?”
Miranda looked down at her feet. “I wish to speak with the Prophet.”
“Where is your husband?” The guard’s voice had a mocking sing-song lilt. “Why do you venture out in the dark without him?”
“Earlier, the Faith Walk,” Miranda began, then stopped.
“Go away.”
“But–”
“No one disturbs the prayer of the God All-Father on Earth after a Faith Walk, unless they are bidden.”
Miranda would have tried again, but the look on the guard’s face stopped her. He looked like he would enjoy teaching her a lesson if she pressed the issue.
“It is all right,” said a voice. In the dark beyond the guard’s lantern, it was hard to tell exactly where it came from, but there was no doubt the voice belonged to the Prophet. “Let her pass.”
The guard stepped back and held the gate wide. Beyond him, a shadowy figure stood in the doorway of the structure ahead of her. Miranda took a deep breath and crutched past the guard. She stopped well short of the Prophet and waited.
“What is it that brings you, Our Sister?” he asked. He made no move to come closer so that Miranda might see him better.
“I was hoping to talk to you about today,” she said, ignoring a flutter in her stomach. “The Faith Walk, it-” She stopped, groping for a word that he might find acceptable.
“It woke something in you?”
Miranda nodded.
“Come then.”
He turned and opened the door. Weak lantern light cut a watery rectangular shape into the darkness. Miranda passed him as he held the door, then waited in the spartan entry for him to take the lead. The Prophet passed Miranda and continued to another door a few feet away.
“Come.”
As she stepped through the door, Miranda was reminded of the double parlors common in Victorian houses. These rooms were smaller, about ten feet square, but the effect was the same. She stood in a living room, with two chairs arranged to face one another near a wood-burning stove. A desk and chair were against one of the walls, and on the other side of the room opposite the stove sat a long bench with a high back. Beyond the open thru-way to the next room was a four-poster bed.
His private quarters… yes!
The Prophet steered her to the closest chair, which put her back to the door. His rooms felt opulent. As she lowered herself into the chair and set her crutches on the floor, Miranda realized why. Like the others near the stove, the chair she sat in was upholstered in a dark gray velveteen. She gave the room a closer look. There were cushions on the long bench. The desk looked similar to the desk that had been in her father’s study. And the bed, she decided, had to have been scavenged. It was just too nice, too fancy, compared to everything else she had seen in New Jerusalem.
The outside world is wicked, but that doesn’t include its furniture.
When the Prophet smiled at her, Miranda suppressed a shiver. His narrow face, with its sharp cheekbones and nose, lent a predatory cast to his face. His golden eyes were so cold they seemed reptilian. And calculating, she could see that, too. She felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web when he looked at her so directly. She had not felt this way when she had seen him before, but she had not known what a Faith Walk was then.
“What is it you wish to know?”
Miranda drew a blank. She had not counted on being so unnerved once she and the Prophet were alone.
“I’m not really sure. I just needed to speak with you after-”
“Are you frightened?” he asked, a sly smile playing across his lips.
Maybe this was a bad idea, she thought, feeling the first inkling that perhaps she should have stayed put for the night.
Aloud, she said, “Yes.”
“And what are you frightened of?”
Miranda looked into the Prophet’s golden eyes. Such an unusual color, yet one that was not uncommon in New Jerusalem. So many of the children here were his, she realized. His gaze was magnetic, hypnotic, and so very cold. She wanted to look away but could not.
“I’m frightened of zombies. I’m frightened by the Faith Walk.” With an effort, she ripped her eyes away from his and looked down at her feet submissively. He went in for that sort of crap. “I’m frightened of you.”
“And yet you sought me out,” he answered. “Do you always confront your fears?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you fear most?” he asked.
“A life that lacks purpose,” she whispered. “And no one to share it with.”
“You have your husband to share your life with.”
Miranda sighed. “I love my husband, but things with him are… complicated.”
The complicated part was true enough.
She raised her head enough to glimpse his face. It had lighted, as if a star were shining from within. He looked Miranda up and down like she was a pros
titute at a brothel where he was getting a freebie. He had taken the bait.
“Do you not think it proper that we should fear God’s Judgment? That we should be afraid when we consider our failings in His eyes?”
“I never really thought of it that way,” Miranda said. “I was raised to believe in God’s love, as a Catholic.”
The Prophet hissed in his breath, eyes blazing. “Then you were raised in sin and depravity! Catholics are the worst blasphemers of all!”
Miranda shied away. She had dealt with mercurial people before, but the Prophet was by far the worst. He had pivoted from lust to fury in under a minute.
“Why are Catholics the worst?”
The Prophet seemed to settle somewhat. Maybe she had asked the right question.
“The Jesuits in the Valley have corrupted countless numbers of the Heavenly Father’s children,” he spat. “They fill their heads with lies of forgiveness and cures. A child can see that it is Heavenly Father’s Judgment that has been brought down upon His Children, and only His Judgment can save them.”
The Prophet abandoned his chair and closed the distance between them. He cupped Miranda’s chin to tip her face up to his. His countenance was saturated with a challenging desire that made her stomach lurch. But still, a thrill of triumph ran through her.
“Catholics have the hardest time accepting the Truth of the God All-Father on Earth, but those who do are among the most faithful of Our Children. You sought out the God All-Father on your own, which is a good sign.”
“But?”
“You are brave, anyone can see that, but it makes you willful when you should be compliant. You have a strong spirit. If you could learn humility and submission…”
His hand slid down along the side of her neck, leaving goose bumps rippling in its wake. It strayed lower, along her collar bone, then lower still, along the curve of her breast. He kept his hand there, cupping her breast as he stroked her nipple with his thumb. Miranda felt a flush creep up her neck and face as the nipple hardened against his fingers. A smile curled the corners of the Prophet’s mouth, but this time, the smile reached his eyes.
“You will require special instruction, Sister Miranda,” he said, the slow circling motion of his thumb on her breast becoming more insistent. “It would be quicker to break you, to punish the defects of character out of you, but We think that We would be squandering the gift that the Heavenly Father has given to Us. We think a more subtle approach might be best.”
Miranda’s face felt aflame. Her heart raced and her breath rasped in and out too fast. A delusional rapist was coming on to her, as she had hoped he would. She just hadn’t counted on it feeling so harrowing.
The Prophet slid his other hand along the side of her face and stroked her cheek.
“Are you in fidelity with your husband?”
“I, yes, of course I am!” Miranda stammered, seizing the opportunity to jerk away from him.
“Do you obey him?”
“In, in the Valley,” she faltered, feeling genuinely nonplussed. Get a grip, she told herself. “We don’t do things-”
“Do you long for more?”
Miranda nodded.
“It is not your fault, Sister Miranda,” he said, his face softening. “A man who does not impose obedience on his wife is a negligent husband. It is his job to guide and teach her, for few women are innately obedient. How can you learn if you have no guidance?”
She needed to put on the brakes. If the conversation kept on like this, he might throw Mario over the rail before the night was through.
She slumped and began to cry. “Prophet, can you teach us?” she whimpered, trying to sound as pitiful as possible. “Can you teach us how to be a better husband and wife to each other? I love him, and I want to be a good wife!”
The Prophet stepped back. Miranda looked up, wiping away tears. He looked slightly disappointed and definitely intrigued. She could see that he was willing to play a long game to work his transformation on her.
“Your dedication to your husband is admirable and is the first step on the road to obedience to him. It would please Us to help you, Sister Miranda. The first thing you must do is grow the beautiful hair that the Heavenly Father blessed you with.”
Miranda’s hand rubbed across her buzz cut as she nodded.
The Prophet’s lips twisted in distaste. “That… shorn style is displeasing. It runs counter to a woman’s true nature. Perhaps-”
A sharp rap on the door interrupted him. The Prophet looked up as the door cracked open. It was the guard from the gate.
“Please forgive me, Prophet, but there is something you should know. I did not think it could wait.”
A brief flash of annoyance crossed the Prophet’s face.
“I will just be a moment.”
“Thank you,” Miranda answered, relieved at the interruption. It would give her a chance to look around, and she could use the break in the conversation to get the hell out of here.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Miranda got to her feet, ignoring the pain that stabbed her knee. She rubbed her hands over her chest, as if she could wipe away the Prophet’s lingering touch, and hobbled to the door. She leaned close to see if they were on the other side but heard nothing.
Okay, she said to herself, if I were the Prophet, where would I hide something?
Miranda started for his bedroom, then stopped. She was not sure know how long he would be gone and did not want to get caught anywhere near his bed. If that happened, she would probably have to take one for the team. A super depressing thought occurred to her. Karen would probably find this asshole attractive.
Miranda limped over to the desk and began to check the drawers and nooks, ever mindful of noises from the hall. She felt all the cushions on the chairs and bench but didn’t find anything. Next she tried the chairs by the wood-burning stove. Nothing.
It must be in his bedroom. She stood in the thru-way, anxious about how much time she had. She took a step forward but put too much weight on her injured leg.
“Holy Mother!” she hissed through clenched teeth as she fell to the floor. She took a few breaths and put her hands on the floor to get up. The wood plank under her left hand rocked. If she had not been looking for a hiding place, she would never have noticed. Miranda tested it again to make sure she had not imagined the motion.
Still on hands and knees, she reached into her splint to retrieve the dagger she had hidden. When she stuck the dagger between the loose plank and the next, it popped loose.
Miranda stopped to listen again. Still nothing from the hallway. She peered down into the space below the floorboard but couldn’t see anything. She reached her arm in up to her elbow, wishing she had more room to lie down and extend her arm.
She reached a little more. Her fingers grazed something. It’s got to be the serum, she thought. She struggled to get a grasp on the container. After what seemed an eternity, she managed to hook her pinky finger over a depression in the lid and pulled whatever it was closer.
Just as she pulled an old metal box out from the floorboards, she heard the Prophet’s voice. Faint, but getting closer. She pulled at the lid, but it stuck.
“You were right to interrupt.” The Prophet’s voice, not loud, but getting closer.
The lid popped open. Miranda felt lightheaded. The serum was inside!
“We will finish up here, and then We will see to this.”
The Prophet was just outside the door. Miranda couldn’t grab a vial and hide it, put everything back into place, and get back to her chair in time. She shoved the lid back and pushed the box back under the floorboard.
The doorknob rattled.
Miranda grabbed the plank and set it back in place. She heard a click as the latch on the door disengaged. She shoved her dagger hilt first into her splint. As the door began to open, she pulled herself up and darted back to the chairs. She didn’t feel any pain, just euphoria.
As she threw herself into the chair, the door opened w
ide. She twisted around in her seat to look over to the Prophet.
“We are sorry, Sister Miranda,” he said, “but We are called to other tasks.”
Miranda nodded. Sweat cooled her face. She prayed he would not notice.
“Of course,” she said, sounding so calm she could have fooled herself. “I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”
Miranda reached down to get her crutches and almost passed out. A dark smear of dirt streaked up her forearm. She rubbed her arm against the wrappings of the splint while she grabbed the crutches with her other hand.
The Prophet reached to help her up, his hand cupping her elbow. It would have been a friendly gesture if it had been anyone else. His hand slithered up her arm to her shoulder, then down to the small of her back and over her ass. He was a goddamned octopus.
“We will counsel you again soon.”
“I would be most grateful, All-Father.”
His lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile. Miranda swung herself out the door. As she traversed the long bridge, one thought filled her mind. She knew where the serum was, at least for now.
47
.
Five pairs of anxious eyes turned toward her when Miranda opened the infirmary’s door. She barely had time to close it behind her before Connor and Doug were upon her.
“Where the hell have you been?” Doug demanded, his low, angry voice at odds with the relief on his face. He yanked away one of Miranda’s crutches and gripped her upper arm, propelling her toward the center of the room.
“We’ve been going crazy trying to find you,” Connor said.
Miranda felt abashed. She had known they would be concerned when they could not find her, but not to this degree.
Doug stopped abruptly and turned her round to face him. He motioned the others away, but they hovered close, wanting to hear what she might say. Doug’s blue eyes blazed. The scowl on his lips said whatever she had been doing, it better be good.
She took a deep breath.
“I went to see the Prophet.”
For a moment, silence and blank faces - no reaction at all - then one gasp of horror drowned out the next. Delilah wriggled between Miranda and Doug, whining at the acrimony.
Undead Age Series (Book 1): Love In An Undead Age Page 32
