He hadn’t told Longman, but he sensed that the little man knew more than he let on. He sensed, in actuality, that Longman was more than he let on. As with the sisters, and Cy, and a few of the others, he had come to believe that they joined his troupe for some greater purpose he had no part in. The notion set a shiver running through his soul. They followed him. They took his orders, and they worked his revivals, but they weren’t like the others.
Most of his flock had come to him for healing. Most of them had given to him – or to the talisman – at times there was little difference between the two of them – some part of themselves. They were bound to him and served out of warped and broken gratitude. Within the circle, another circle had grown steadily. They had their own ways and their own ripples of influence. The children gathered at Longman’s wagon to watch him paint. Everyone in the camp went to the sisters and sat rapt at their fire, watching the falling bones and listening to their cryptic foretellings.
There were others. Cy had a knack for dropping scripture into any situation that actually changed things. He saw more with a single eye than most saw with two, and yet he was slow to speak and slower to act. His time was not the time of the world, it was somehow distant and removed.
They gathered, and The Deacon observed. They did nothing to impede his efforts, and more often than not, they served just as the others did. The talisman drew them. The signs compelled them. Soon, he would know why. Soon they would know that he was more than a pawn in their game – that, or finally, he would find out that he was a fool after all.
He returned to the book and continued to read as his lantern burned long into the night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Creed and Brady kept watch on the streets through the night. Both felt the same prickling unease but there was no sign of the dark strangers. The sky was empty of fluttering wings and no strange cries rang through the shadows. People stayed later than usual in the saloon, drinking. The talk veered between two extremes, the fear of the gunfight upstairs and the excitement of the coming revival.
By the time the place had emptied, and Brady had stepped out onto the porch for the final time, dawn was tickling the rooftops with the promise of the new day.
Creed leaned on the corner of the bar with his hands wrapped around a warm mug of strong, bitter coffee. Every now and then he glanced out at the street, but he was pretty sure the threat had ended, for the moment at least. Still, his gnawing unease refused to fully quiet.
The door closed. Silas slammed the bolts into place, locking the place up for the precious little of the night that remained.
"You'd better get some rest," Silas said, coming over to the bar. "You look like hell."
Creed glanced up, and then grinned at the bartender.
"I feel like hell," he agreed. "I guess you're right though. This all night vigil ain't doing either of us any favors. I don't reckon we'll see any more of those three ‘til sundown. Just a gut feelin' but they don't seem the type to come for high tea. Tonight's a different story; darkness has a whole different feel about it. So I'm thinking we want to sleep, rest up and expect the worst come sundown."
Silas, who was polishing the last of the night's stains off his bar, nodded. "Ain't you a cheerful soul? The bitch of the matter is I don't think you're wrong."
Creed stood up and stretched. Every bone in his back cracked. Before he could turn, Silas leaned in closer.
"How'd they do that, Creed?" he asked. "How in hell does a guy get shot to shit, throw himself out of a second story window, and God damned disappear? It doesn't make a lick of sense. Where'd the bastards go?"
"I wish I knew the answer to that, Silas," Creed said.
He felt the feathers in his pocket scratching at him through the denim. The locket rested cool and smooth against his chest.
"Well, it gives me the fuckin' creeps, and I don't mind telling you," Silas grunted, scowling at the sun as it caught in the window. "Think I'll bed down for a couple hours, catch some shuteye myself. It's going to be busy with everyone getting ready for that damned revival. Between you and me, I'll be glad when it's over and that Deacon fella moves on. Things haven't been quite right here since he arrived, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Still smarting over Colleen, eh?" Creed tried for a grin, but it fell short of humor.
"It's not just that," Silas said. "There's other whores, and sooner or later one will wander through town. Look around you, man. Everyone's all fired up, and I don't see it goin' anywhere good."
"It'll be over soon," Creed said. "They'll roll out there tonight, sing a few hallelujahs, and be done with it for another ten years, until the next guy comes through. Can't blame them for being excited. Next to dust blowin' down the road and stray tumbleweeds, this is the only thing that's happened here in a long time."
"I'd think you'd be about tired of things happening," Silas grunted.
Creed laughed. "When a man gets tired of things happening, he's tired of life, my friend. I ain't that far down the road just yet."
He mounted the stairs and climbed slowly up to his room. He stopped outside his door, listening before he opened it. A part of him didn't trust those peculiar strangers to stay gone. Everything was as he'd left it. He checked out the floor where the tall one had stalked him. There was some sort of greenish gray substance on the stained wood, and more on the wall behind. What there wasn't, and what there really ought to have been plenty of, was blood.
He pulled the feathers from his pocket and laid them on the table. Then he gathered up the scattered remnants of the pack and its contents. Nothing of importance was missing, as far as he could tell. The three had obviously been after something, but he was fairly certain they hadn't gotten it.
He wondered if it was the journal. There was a lot of it he hadn't read, but he had the impression that only the last bits mattered. He thought about the Deacon, and what he'd witnessed a few nights back. He wondered if the man knew about his three visitors, or if they'd be paying the healer a visit next.
Creed went across to the window and made sure it was shut, the latch twisted into place. He could feel a draft where the wood didn't quite mate - but for all their weirdness his visitors hadn't been smoke ghosts, they couldn't simply drift in through the cracks in the walls. He pulled the curtain and then lay back on his bed.
He kept the pack tucked up under one arm where it couldn't be moved without disturbing him. He unholstered his six-guns, tucked one down along his leg with his hand resting on the butt and left the other one half-under his pillow. If they came back, they'd find him ready, for all the good the guns had done him earlier.
He thought about the revival. Everyone in the town would attend. He knew them well enough to know they couldn't allow a thing like this to pass and only learn of it from others. They'd all go, and they'd watch, and they'd sing hymns, and then they'd talk about the damned thing for the next two years, batting about every word that was said and every song that was sung as if it was the most interesting story in the world. It'd become a part of the not-so rich tapestry of life that was Rookwood. No one would want to be the one missing from all the stories.
No one except Creed.
He had no intention of going to the revival.
On the other hand, with the three strangers lurking somewhere and Brady being out of town, he sure as hell wasn't going to stay around here by himself either. He didn't want them adding to their story by telling how they came back to find that no-account cowboy Creed dead in his bed, covered in black feathers. No, he planned to clear out as soon as the last wagon-wheel hit the trail.
The problem of where he'd go was one he hadn't tackled. Before he could give it much thought, the night's excitement - and drink - caught up with him. As the town of Rookwood came to life and began to bustle as it hadn't done in years, Provender Creed tipped his hat down over his eyes to block the glare of the sun and dropped off into the deep, dreamless sleep of the damned.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Three whisk
ey bottles sat on a flat rock about twenty yards away. Mariah stared at them, waiting. Somewhere, she knew he was watching. She felt his eyes on her. She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the moment. She'd practiced this until her mind blurred with fatigue. Her feet were sore from standing too long on the hot sand. Her throat was parched.
Where was he?
A slight breeze brushed a stray hair across her cheek. She ignored it. Something else moved. She didn't hear it, exactly, rather, felt it and reacted.
Moving so quickly her hand blurred she gripped the hilt of one of the three knives on her belt with her left hand, drew it and flipped it so she caught the blade between thumb and forefinger. Whatever she had sensed was moving. She snapped back her wrist, and sent the blade slashing through the air. At the same moment she dropped her right hand to the butt of the revolver, flipped it up, and, working the hammer with her now empty left, fired three quick shots.
The bottles shattered one after the other in a spray of glittering glass.
She turned, gun still drawn, and dropped into a crouch.
Balthazar stood, smiling at her. He held the blade of her knife like it was some poisonous viper. He flipped it back at her and without thought she caught it, just before it would have struck her face. She spun it and slid it back into its sheath.
Only when she released the hilt did she start to shake. The pistol felt suddenly heavy in her grip, as though it had taken on the weight of all the lives it had and would one day claim, and she flipped it back into the holster. She turned away from Balthazar then, and stared at the shattered pile of glass that had been the whiskey bottles.
"That is it," Balthazar said, walking over to stand beside her. "That is what I have been trying to bring you to. It felt good, didn't it? Admit it girl, to yourself at least."
"It didn't feel good, or bad." She said. "I didn't feel anything at all. I just...reacted."
"That is the truth of battle. There is very little time for thinking, it comes from here," Balthazar said, touching his gut, "and from here," he cupped his balls. Tapping his temple he went on, "This up here only gets in the way. It rushes to think ahead, act, react and counteract. In the battles facing you, that delay will get you killed. It is as simple as that. The most dangerous of nature's predators kill instinctually, not methodically. If you linger, take even a second to examine your target, you will die another death, one that I cannot rouse you from."
She glanced at him and frowned.
"I didn't die," she said.
"Well, my dear, you'll never really know the truth of that, will you?" Balthazar asked. His voice held that faintly mocking tone she'd come to expect whenever she showed the slightest hesitancy or resistance to him. "The fact is, you are alive now, and in the moment you fired that gun you were more alive than you've been at any other point in your life. Deny it all you will, it is the truth. Do you have any idea how fast you were, girl?"
"No," she said. She met his gaze levelly. "I don't care. I don't want to be fast, or to shoot...none of it. I just want my baby."
"All things in their own time," Balthazar said.
He turned then and started off across the sand. Mariah had to hurry to catch up with him. They were only a short walk from camp, but it was blisteringly hot. A heat haze shimmered on the horizon. They'd been standing out there for hours, the sweat puddling at the base of her spine. She tried to remember how many attempts she'd made. She couldn't. A dozen? A hundred?
Each time, he'd come up behind her. Once he yanked her hair so violently she went down backwards and landed on her ass, hard. Other times he'd slapped the side of her head and left her ears ringing, or simply stolen the knife from her grasp. Each time she failed he shook his head, frowned, and walked away. Each time he'd tell her to focus, to cut the world from her mind and step sideways into another place where she existed alone with her target. She'd tried and failed. Tried and failed. So many times she wanted to scream at him that it was impossible, that he was asking too much of her and that she wasn't what he thought she was, or who he thought she was.
When she’d complained of hunger and thirst, he'd ignored her. Her throat was parched, and she felt weak. Despite this, it was hard to deny the sense of accomplishment she felt. As they approached the wagon, he moved ahead of her without seeming to hurry his stride. She tried to keep up, but somehow, no matter how quickly she moved, the wagon, and Balthazar, grew more distant.
She slowed her steps, and then stopped. She grew very, very still. The desert around her stretched out endlessly, as it had always done, but somehow it was different. She listened carefully, then, not hearing anything beneath the low murmur of the breeze, she closed her eyes. In that instant, she sensed it, and she moved. It was all instinct, no thought. She dropped to one knee, drew the pistol, and spun to her left. The hammer was already thumbed back but before she could pull the trigger, something slammed into her and knocked her sprawling.
She rolled with the motion, drew one of the knives, and threw.
The air was split by a shrill scream. It sliced into her temples like a driven ax and slammed her backward. Somehow she kept her grip on the pistol. Instinct again - she raised her hand and fired. A second, weaker scream rose from her unseen foe. She rolled to her feet.
A man - no not a man - the vague form of a man, writhed in the sand. Its skin was dark gray, and black fluid leaked from the hole in its temple where her knife was buried to the hilt. She took no satisfaction from its pain. She walked towards it. She leaned down, gripped the hilt of the knife and drew it free with a soft grunt.
The thing lifted its head from the sand and glared at her. One claw-like hand dug into the desert as it tried to draw itself forward. Mariah took another step closer, and this time she did think as she aimed the gun between its eyes. She watched it staring malevolently back at her, watched it crawl inch by wretched inch until it was no more than ten feet away her, and fired. The thing shuddered, its head hit the sand, and then it was still.
Mariah stared at it, about to ask Balthazar just what the hell it was, and then the ground around it erupted. She scrambled back, all thoughts and questions gone as the survival instinct kicked in. Talons and tentacles slashed through the earth, sending rock, sand, and grit flying in all directions as it whipped up a swirling dust devil from the elements. Mariah watched in sudden horror as the thing she'd shot was yanked downward, swallowed. It shredded and bled and fell to pieces under the onslaught of whatever gripped it. The earth opened, just for a second, and then it was gone.
Mariah looked up to find herself standing beside the wagon. A few feet away, Balthazar stood watching her carefully.
"And once and for all you know it's a part of you, girl," he said. "No more denying what you are. You did very well, though he nearly got you."
"He?" Mariah said. "What...was that?"
"His name isn't important, trust me," Balthazar replied. "We had an arrangement that ran its course...unfortunately. I am a man of second chances when the luxury allows. I gave him an opportunity here. It appears that he has failed a second time, though his loss is very much your gain, if you follow."
"He..."
Balthazar raised a hand to silence her.
"Do not be dense, my dear, it doesn't suit you. It was a test. A challenge. A mark of your character. I had no doubt you would pass it, but if I'd told you to expect it, you would have doubted yourself. Doubt leads to thought, thought leads to failure. Now you know. It's a part of you - the focus, the speed. When you need it, it will be there."
"But he..."
"Is not your concern," Balthazar said, his words ringing with absolute finality. "He left his life behind long ago - yours stretches out before you. Come. You will be hungry, and I have one more gift."
Balthazar rounded the end of the wagon, and with little other choice, Mariah followed. When she reached the far side, she found the campfire, just as she'd found it so many times before. There was no comfort in it this time. She looked at the chairs lined up just outside
the stone circle. She inhaled the rich aromas of the coffee steaming in its pot on the hot stone and a pan of meat and vegetables simmering over coals. It was all so familiar and yet all so wrong. She felt the weight of the gun on her hip. Was that it? Was that what had changed? Or was it more, something deeper? Was it her? Everything else looked the same, after all.
No, there was something else - a rod protruded from the low flames, but she couldn't make out what it was.
"Sit," Balthazar said, gesturing as though she were a mutt to be commanded.
She did as he told her, suddenly starved, parched, and bone weary. The stiff chair was more comfortable than any bed she'd ever known at that moment. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She only intended to rest for a moment, but almost immediately her thoughts drifted.
"You have almost everything you need," Balthazar said. His voice was soft, but his words filled her mind. She didn't open her eyes. She listened to him and to the soft crackling of the fire beneath his words.
"There is one thing left that I'd like you to have - a gift. I can't always be there to look over your shoulder in case something goes wrong, as I was in the desert. You will need to know when your enemies are near, and you'll need to know how to find me if things get out of control."
Mariah opened her eyes slightly. Balthazar stood by the fire. He was poking at it with a long branch. She was so tired she felt as though she might fall asleep and stay that way for days, but at the same time she was afraid she'd miss something vital - that she might already be missing it by her inattention.
Balthazar stepped away from the fire and moved toward her. He done it countless times, leaving the fire with the pot steaming with coffee in his hand. But he wasn't about to pour coffee this time. She started to rise, but grew disoriented as he leaned in closer. She felt him slip long, slender flingers under her forearm. She started to ask a question, but it never reached her lips.
Balthazar gripped her arm so tightly it sent a shock of pain through her body. Her eyes flashed open - too late. He pressed something into her flesh. It seared. She gasped, writhing in the seat as she tried to arch up and away, but he held her both tightly and easily. The hot metal bit into her flesh, and the gasp became a full-blooded scream.
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