Sweet pipe smoke reached Cole’s senses now. "Yes. He’s gone.”
Jes turned away, exposing his back to Cole. The form of a tree began at Jes’ waist. Its branches wisped upwards, like a jagged blue-green flame covering the length of his spine, licking at the base of his skull.
A type of Juniper tree? Rich, glistening, cerulean berry clusters dotted the upswept evergreen branches.
"Where’d you get that tattoo on your back?” Cole asked, awe tinting his voice. "I’ve never seen one so vivid and detailed.”
Jes huffed. "I don’t know, okay? You people need to give it a rest.” He disappeared around the corner.
Now, for this microphone. If Cole removed it, they would know. However, whatever they’d heard, they’d heard. It wouldn’t be worth it to make them aware that he’d found it. He’d have to be careful in the house Alan gave them, though.
He lowered the stylus to the record and turned a knob on the front. Much to his surprise, it worked. The player delivered a smooth voice from the past in its beautiful, grainy way. The Conquest had destroyed much of the nation’s history, replacing it with the Kyrios’ version of it, but they missed just enough to keep fascination and hope alive.
Cole sat back and closed his eyes, listening to the record scratch out the delightful sound of rebellion with the dulcet tone of brass.
Thirty-Four | Post-Conquest: 232
Jes craved a safe place to rest for a week, not harassment from religious fanatics. Especially about something so crazy. The story about this Ansel guy came out in a casual conversation with Al, but Al used it to turn Jes into a god or something.
Why’d you go rambling about yourself, moron?
He always left people when things got bad, but maybe that wasn’t his luxury to enjoy anymore. Too many LEWs were on his tail for him to use homeless shelters or sex to get a place to stay. And a bed felt pretty good after sleeping in alleys and abandoned buildings for months.
A rough scrub and fresh clothes would help him think. He pulled off his glove and began a hunt for razors in the cupboard near Al’s bathroom sink.
After shaving, Jes set the razor down and inspected himself in the mirror. He looked so old next to other guys his age. Scars on his cheeks, a scar over an eyebrow, a scar on his chin. The rest of him was pretty much the same. Really, those were the least of the scars life had given him.
Why me? He laughed. Stupid question. Why not you?
The whole tattoo thing made his life worse than just that of an orphaned kid on the streets, and it was an inescapable part of his crap-existence. The one on his back almost always stunned his lovers, though. One semi-long-term lover affectionately dubbed it "the tree of life” and kissed the berry clusters every time Jes took his shirt off around him. Jes smiled. It had brought him some pleasure, at least.
His life had been spared fifteen years ago, but sometimes he wondered if his mom was just a selfish broad who couldn’t stand to watch him die. From what he knew of good women, he got that it’d be hard to stomach watching a kid get murdered. But was she stupid enough to think that if he survived, he would have a good life? Didn’t she think of what it would be like for a little kid when he found everybody dead? Did she think a dad who ditched them would actually try to find him? Did she think at all?
She was just an innocent girl who wanted to save a life—did the best she could—wasn’t that enough to write someone down as a hero? What if the hero saved someone who became a monster?
"What are you?” he said. "Not a monster. Am I?”
His arm tingled. He’d learned to control himself, at least, so there weren’t any violent, uncontrollable episodes like in his teenage years. Sometimes nothing happened when he was angry, either. The tattoo thing had a mind of its own. When the fire did come, he had no choice but to find something to write with and to write on, or it wouldn’t stop.
He left the mirror and bolted for his room where he found that Brock guy digging through his folder. Jes’ face sizzled as hot as his arm. "I’ll deal with you in a minute!” Jes grabbed his backpack in search of a piece of paper and a pen. Empty. That son of a . . .
Brock had it in his hands. Jes threw the backpack across the room with a bear-like roar and ripped the notebook away from Brock.
"Quit staring, and give me that pen,” Jes yelled.
Doubled over, Brock gave him the pen and stared stupidly at Jes’ glowing tattoo.
Jes finished the drawing and tossed it aside. Fingers wrapped around Brock’s throat, Jes lifted his body off the floor and looked him in the eyes. "You mess with my stuff and I. Will. Kill. You.”
Brock would kick his butt under normal circumstances. He usually stood straight up and eyed him the way a LEW would, which meant he’d trained in some kind of fighting or another.
Jes tightened his grip.
Hesper’s memory, a scent on the breeze, passed through his mind. He liked the Gentle who’d stitched him up, so he chased the scent. Her voice had been cool water, dousing out his mad feelings. She looked something like his dark-haired girl. Wouldn’t killing her man do the same thing to her as it had done to him when he lost that girl—he didn’t even know her name—and Jones? Those killings weren’t just, and this wouldn’t be either.
He set Brock on his feet and let the death grip go.
"You’re not Alan’s kinda people. You get that chest burn stuff, but you’re a LEW. I can tell. You stand like one.”
"Not a warden,” Brock gasped and adjusted his clothing. "I’m on a personal quest.” Back to the wall, he tried to catch his breath.
"Personal quest. Right.” Jes snorted. "For what?”
"For . . . For peace of mind and a way back to God.”
Jes raised his eyebrows. "How’d you plan to find that in my backpack?”
"I don’t know,” Brock admitted. "I wanted to see your folder.”
"You were at the house last night.”
"Yes, yes I was. You saw me somehow.”
"Sure did. I felt you behind the door. New experience for me, but there it is.” Jes grabbed the notebook and threw it at him. "Here’s what I just drew. Enjoy.”
Brock caught the notebook and opened it. Each paper before this had been torn out and placed in a folder, leaving the soft-cornered notebook mostly empty with remnants of the papers’ edges bunched up in the spiral.
A simple picture, the latest featured several hands, palms out toward a jagged ball of light, as if holding it in place without touching it. Maybe reaching? Maybe both.
Brock looked up at Jes and closed the notebook. "Thank you.”
"Yeah, whatever. I left the water runnin’.”
* * *
Hesper could not find the thrill when Cole came home raving about all the things he had seen since the night before. However, she could not ignore the burn on his neck. A slightly raised, pink bear paw print.
"Did he grab you by the neck?”
"What? Why?” He left her to look in the bathroom mirror. "That’s the shape of the tattoo on his hand. Wow.”
Hesper half-entered the room to see him, fingering the mark, fascinated. The danger did not bother him? Well, it bothered her.
"Why did you omit the part about your neck?”
He shrugged, still studying his burn in the mirror. "Who wants to admit to being picked up by their neck?”
"But he stopped? He did not hurt you?” she asked.
"He stopped before doing any damage. It won’t happen again.”
"May I see these things you told me about?” She grabbed the tip of her braid and wrapped it around her finger. He’d never agree to this. "Jesurun’s hand and drawings, I mean.”
"I'd rather keep the two of you apart.”
She scrunched her nose. "Why?”
"Safety. He’s—” He licked his lips and huffed uncomfortably. "Well, he’s. . . he’s a low-life and emotionally—perhaps mentally—unstable. You can’t trust him.”
"I cannot trust him?”
"I don’t—” In his sile
nce, her words reverberated like a drum. "That’s completely different, Hesper.”
"I thought you were a traitor until I saw the proof,” she said. "Some would argue that you are, even with the evidence I saw. Does he not deserve—?”
"No, absolutely not.” Cole swept her logic away with a sharp brush of his hand.
"Okay.” She bit her tongue. "I do not agree, but there is no sense in arguing with someone who controls my life. You might put me on the block if I give you too much trouble.” She walked away to cool her temper alone.
* * *
Cole stepped onto the terrace for a breath of positive air in which to think. Perhaps he should forget he found Jes, ask no more questions, and request assignment to teach in a university or something. Far enough away from the Kyrios to have peace, but near enough for comfort.
Forget? He couldn’t forget. How does one forget this?
They don’t.
They can’t.
Cole glanced back through the glass door. Hesper sat in the living room sewing some little whatever, but she looked up and smiled at him. The embroidered silver leaves at the neckline of her plum cotton dress caught the lively sparkle in her gray eyes.
His Hesper.
Courageous enough to marry him and live outside of the world she knew, she took what came and handled it. Ever a realist, ever an innocent, ever the little girl who changed his mind about the value of life. If he left her, she would be lost in a world she trusted him to guide her through.
When it came to people, he was never easy to please. He appreciated quality, and there wasn’t a lot of that in the world. But she was nonpareil. Not a single thing about her displeased him. Besides her personality and heart, he loved her bolt of black satin hair, shapely strong shoulders, and form and figure to be rivaled by none. No, she wasn’t still the little girl, she was a woman who made a choice to walk beside a man.
Me.
He wasn’t as handsome as David, he wasn’t as good with people, he wasn’t as romantically skilled, and he cut her heart with deceit. Every Unified person with any sense or desire for true unity craved peace and safety, and his temper and passions kept her from that.
She didn’t need him, she wanted him and chose him, not to control her, but to walk with her. She brought him light, while he had brought her only darkness.
If he died, she’d survive, but she wouldn’t have the right to choose who took her after him. In his absence, one person would take her, no matter who else wanted her—out of spite. He would treat her as a female and toss her aside. That was worse than the thought of her living alone.
For that reason, he had to live at the expense of justice.
No more rocking the boat. There are too many innocents at stake.
Thirty-Five | Post-Conquest: 232
Hesper awoke with a gasp. A pleasant breeze agitated the curtain, revealing the darkness outside. Her dream of Joram was cut off this time, but not for any obvious reasons. Half-asleep, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and trod softly down the stairs to the living room.
At the sliding glass door, she stopped, more alert. Why was she standing here? She could and should go back to sleep. Instead, she opened the door and went outside. Past the terrace, her bare feet sank into the soft lawn and she crossed it to the small grove.
Under a mandarin tree, she breathed in the fragrant citrus air. At one time, it would have inspired her, but she was not inspired now. Her mind was too heavy.
An unprovoked adrenaline zap gave her a start, and as she jumped up to run back to the house, the leaves of a tree rustled and something—or someone—landed on the ground with a dull thud. She swiveled around to look, and a figure, darker than the night, rushed her. Snagging a foot in her nightgown, she fell but quickly clambered to her feet.
This was a bit too familiar.
A scream tore through her lips just as her pursuer grabbed her and covered her mouth with a strong, gloved hand, flooding her nostrils with the scent of leather.
"Shhh!”
She stopped struggling and stiffly submitted to his arms.
Jesurun.
Cole was right? He was a low-life?
* * *
Hesper’s assailant released her when Cole flew through the doorway with a flashlight in hand, shouting her name. He approached on silent, swift feet and aimed his gun at the trespasser.
"You touch my stuff and I. Will. Kill. You,” Cole growled.
Jes held up his hands. "Listen, I . . . I just had to stop her when I saw her. I . . .” He wiped his wet face and glanced behind him as if he expected someone. The words shot out of his mouth, hard and fast. "It was pure luck she came out while I hid here. I swear. I wasn’t gonna hurt her. My arm lit up and I drew trees. It looked like these, so I came here. You’re not safe.”
Cole pointed the gun to the ground. "Come inside.”
Choking on sobs, Jes whispered, "No, no, you don’t get it. It’s Alan and his group. I let him kill them.” He swatted at Cole, eyeing the darkness around them. "Turn out that light, they’ll see us.”
Cole turned out the light. "Who?”
"One of their people. He had a medallion.” Jes swiped his nose and eyes with his sleeve. "He was a spy or somethin’. He’ll kill me and anybody here who’s met me. I know it. Come with me.”
"Hold on. What are you talking about?”
Annoyed, Jes repeated, "I could’ve stopped it, but I didn’t. Someone killed them all.”
"The killer has a medallion?”
"Yeah. I don’t think that—”
"We will be fine,” Cole said.
Jes scoffed. "Do you wanna take a chance?”
"I’m not taking a chance, Jes. I’m with the Kyrios.”
Jes took several steps back as if he’d been shot with an automatic rifle, prepped to make a run for it.
"I’m not one of them,” Cole explained, "but my sister is. I’ve been sent here with a medallion of justice.”
Jes’ eyes flew open and narrowed to slits in an instant. "Did you . . .?”
"No, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
Jes took in a sharp breath. "He’s pulling in over at Alan’s. I gotta go.”
The tiger-eye headlights shone through the darkness. Despite the claim that he needed to go, he didn’t. Postured like a frightened animal, he stared at the vehicle.
If the killer showed up at their house, it would look worse if they had fled. They’d be hunted down and executed for justifiable suspicion of treachery.
No more rocking the boat, huh, Cole?
This was not rocking. This was plugging up holes in the boat, nothing more.
Jes needed help. The guy might run, but where could he go if twenty of the thirty sections were looking for him? What part did Jes have to play in this ridiculous situation? Who really knew? But God was with him. Jes was clearly uninterested in spiritual matters, but God seemed to be interested in Jesurun’s matters just the same. What more did Cole need to know to at least stand with him?
"We’ll hide you. Come in but be quiet. They’ve got microphones in Alan’s house. They might have them here, too.”
As they made for the house, the headlights in Alan’s driveway lit up.
"Hesper, to bed,” Cole ordered, then pointed Jes toward the basement door.
Cole waited in the kitchen for the traitor. In two or three minutes, someone rattled the door with firm, rapid knocks. Cole waited for a few more before he shuffled over to the door and mumbled in what he hoped was a sleepy way, "Who is it?”
"A messenger of the Kyrios. May I speak with you, sir?”
"Of all the . . .” Cole opened the door.
"Successor Chandler.” The hiss of a stiff military uniform came with the salute. The man wore his medallion and the insignia of an officer beside his embroidered name. Clapton. He smelled of wintergreen. A popular scent these days.
Cole saluted. “Successor? Are you sure you have the right Chandler, Officer Clapton?”
“
Yes, sir. I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings. Her Reverence, your sister, passed away.”
Trinity died? That wasn’t unexpected, but the timing was suspicious.
"Is that why you’re here?”
"No, sir. The Glorious Ones wanted me to report to you. I’ve been with Mr. Bandello’s group for several years. The mission is nearly accomplished, and I’m tying up loose ends in the next few days. I understand Bandello employed you, so you ought to know that, since he’s no longer necessary for my mission, he has been duly executed.” He glanced at Cole’s hands. "Anything peculiar going on, sir? All’s well?”
Alan really was dead. That stung more than it should.
"All’s well. Nothing peculiar except for your visit. Are you certain you’re supposed to report to me?” Cole leaned on the doorjamb.
He eyed Cole’s neck. "Yes, sir, I’m to report to you.”
“Anything I can do to help you tie up your loose ends?”
He shook his head. “Just need to locate and execute a couple of Mr. Bandello’s associates. If any show up, please, contact me. But if all’s well, the Kyrios send this.” He presented a long cream-colored envelope, which Cole took from him. "You’ll need to pack and prepare for a flight later this morning. Are your hands well, sir?”
My hands? What the . . . "My hands are fine. Why wouldn’t they be?”
Officer Clapton’s eyes narrowed too deeply for Cole to trust. "Are you familiar with the criminal Mr. Bandello’s been harboring?” A quick zip of the eye peeked over Cole’s shoulder.
"No, I don’t know any criminals. Sorry to disappoint you.” Cole scratched at his jaw, regarding the suspicious officer’s demeanor with distaste. "You look at me in ways that officers normally wouldn’t look at successors, Officer Clapton. You ought to rethink your direct manner.”
"My apologies, sir. I meant no offense.” Clapton saluted once more and returned to his vehicle. The engine came to life with a purr, quiet as a kitten, and he drove down the road.
Tree of Life Page 30
