When she said nothing else, Eggert strode out of the room. The Priestess slid off Paul’s finger and sunk her hand into his shirt, clawing it open, sending black buttons ringing on the tile. Her hands ran down his abdomen and she cooed in approval. Next she took down his slacks and boxer shorts, peeled off his loafers.
“I don’t have any condoms,” said Paul, but it sounded like a joke.
With rabid passion, the Priestess climbed onto him, but Paul caught her by the neck and twisted her body around so she was on her back. She laughed and grabbed greedily between his legs. Paul pulled away, teasing. The Priestess brought up a hand and struck him across the face. His head cracked sideways and lower lip numbed suddenly. Something wet slid from his left nostril. Dazed, he glanced down and found daggers looking up. “You’re a breath from leaving this room, Paul Quintana.”
Before he could say a word, she thrust him down inside her. They rocked back and forth like a diabolical machine. Just then Paul cried out for help. This wouldn’t last long and he pulled out—she leaned into his chest with a shoulder, knocking him back. He extended one leg, but the other remained folded. She climbed onto him and took him inside again. Paul was closer now than before. “No!” he cried.
Her weight trapped him. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh my,” she sang, going back and forth. “So deep. I’ve missed this. How I’ve missed this feeling. Like the orgies in the Wexxan glades, night after night.”
She went faster and Paul panicked. “Not so, quick, goddamn you.”
Her penduluming lessened as she heeded his warning, but a wry smile twisted her lips. She grabbed his hand and rubbed circles into his wrist. “I’m putting you in my sight,” she told him. Her eyes were startling to Paul, but he couldn’t speak. “I will have a single mate just like the other women in this realm. You’ll never lay with anyone else, unless I tell you to.”
“To hell with that,” Paul said, but whimpered. Her insides clenched around him fiercely and he mumbled softly. “Fuck, I love you.”
“Of course you do.” She got off him. He thought he might start bawling then at the loss. Something severe settled in Priestess’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed in the fray, but Eggert had reentered the room with a tray containing two bottles of champagne on ice. The Priestess rushed over, rainy moonlight painting her body. She pulled the champagne bottles from each bucket and let them drop to the carpet. Something awful, like a hiss followed by cackling, came from her throat. Eggert stared at her, obviously comprehending some communication from the sounds, and he didn’t seem to like what he heard.
The big man placed the tray down on the coffee table and then headed swiftly for Paul. Paul staggered to his feet, knees watery and weak, and tripped over his loafers. Eggert caught him with two powerful hands and shoved him face first into the sofa. Paul pushed forward to the Old Domain—Eggert yelped and drew his hand away. “Shit, stupid,” he self admonished.
A savage hiss escaped the Priestess again.
Paul felt something soft press into his back. Eggert put a hip into it and held Paul there, buffered by the couch cushion. Paul mentally pushed at the cushion, attempting to send it over so he could reach Eggert. But he couldn’t concentrate anymore. He pushed with all his mind had, but he could hardly breathe—then he felt the Priestess’s soft hands spread his ass open. Paul bucked, but Eggert’s weight and his delirium proved too much.
The Priestess spoke from somewhere nearby. “There is no true sacrifice in lust. We must first calm your loins with frost before we set them to flame. This is the way.”
The ice cube mostly melted as it was pressed into him, but a sharp frozen peg lodged inside and Paul howled. Adrenaline shot through him and Eggert really had to hold on now. “Hush hush,” the Priestess told him and inserted another. The ice cube’s sides melted only a little and shot freezing cold all the way into Paul’s abdomen. He couldn’t help it—she’d won, damn her anyway—he trembled and began silently crying.
An immense pressure left his shoulders. Eggert had released him.
“Get out of here!” the Priestess commanded, as though her servant had never been invited in the first place.
She took Paul’s hair in a fist and yanked his head up. “I want you on top of me! Hurry!”
He twisted around and icy pain shot through his bowels. The raindrops outside struck the massive window like little bullets from a dark heaven. Her eyes hardened to stone. “Why did you do that?” he demanded.
“No questions, earthborn!” she roared. “On me, do it now!”
Without thinking he struck her with an open palm. It wasn’t full force but a tart redness sent up into her cheek.
“Is that all?” she shouted, tears in her eyes.
With a fist he came twice across her face, understanding this might well be her thing, but it served two purposes simultaneously. His next strike sent the Priestess reeling for a minute, drunk on sadism. A thin stripe of blood slid from nose. Her mouth opened in awe of him, so relieved he was everything she’d hoped him to be, and she embraced him.
Tremors went through his body as icy water drained out of him and down his leg. “Why?” he asked her again.
She stroked his hair, as though to say poor baby. More stroking, more poor babying. “I will restore your warmth. Go inside me.”
Paul did.
“This is the way!” she cried. He started pumping and she slammed his head into her breast. “Bleed it! Bleed it my lord!”
He bit her nipple until liquid iron tickled his tongue. She viciously came, grabbing hold of a table lamp and ripping it from its power cord. When she hurled it into a wall and the light bulb exploded, Paul felt her power overtake his emotions once more. This woman was a divine creature, a challenge he hadn’t been ready for. She orgasmed two more times, each outdoing the last.
“Plant your seeds in my mouth,” she chanted.
Paul withdrew and inserted himself. She sucked everything out of him until he yelped from the sensitivity. She then shoved him away, her demeanor made cruel from satiation.
After coming down, Paul lay wasted on the divan, chest heaving. The shutter to the Old Domain cracked open for a moment and he threw it closed. No way in fuck I’m dealing with that right now.
When he finally got his breath, he lifted his head. His skull felt encased in lead. The Priestess sat on the other side of the divan, knees up to her breasts and not looking affected, one way or another, not anymore.
He wanted to put a warm cloth to his raw rectum, but he lay there, doped up on joy. “You were amazing,” he breathed.
She nodded. “I’m done for now. Leave me.”
“What?”
“I have meditating to do. I need to stay up tonight—try to find the rats that slipped out of my cage.”
Paul’s entire soul ached as he sounded so pitiful and small. “What about me?”
“Oh yes,” she said and tapped her pouty lips. “You.”
“Your nose is bleeding.”
“Yours is too,” she added.
Neither made a move to wipe it away.
“Go out on the balcony,” she said softly. “Bishop Quintana.”
He sat up. “What for?”
Her face became concrete, her eyes shadowed with impatience. “Get out there.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her butterscotch fingernail pointed to the balcony. “I want you to go out there. Beg the Messenger’s clouds to leave. Pray for his rain to stop so that I might find the Nomads again. Ask this of the Eternal Harvest.”
“Are you serious? That’s crazy.”
“Get out there or I’ll never speak to you again.”
He could tell from her look that she meant every word. Paul couldn’t lose her, not after all he’d been through—but he would find the upper hand again. She’d not have him following her every whim forever. He could pull strings of his own. Sometimes though, you had to make an investment.
He picked up his clothes and the Priestess whistl
ed. “Let’s not bother with those. Just go out.”
A shiver went through him and his teeth chattered at the thought. “It’s raining!”
The Priestess stood and coldly faced him. At the moment, she reminded Paul of his mother, and all he wanted to do was hit her again, maybe give her another pounding as well. “You don’t like me right now. Do you Paul? Will you disobey?” She charged up to him, breasts bouncing. Paul flew into the wall just to escape. “Will you disobey, you fool—?”
“You fuckin’ whore!” His fist smashed her face down and his knuckles rang. The marrow blossoms in his chest took up charges in their petals. Paul was so frightened he forgot to breathe. Never had he been this out of control. What if he had dislocated the Priestess’s jaw? He hadn’t wanted to hurt her.
The woman from another world held her chin thoughtfully and ran her tongue over reddened teeth. “You are a rare beauty, Paul. I knew I was right to choose you. But this must pass now. Go, go outside, my lover. Do as I say, before this goes too far. I have to see them again. I have to find them. Move the clouds for me, Paul. For me.”
He stood there, out of sorts, naked, drunk, on the verge of losing his wits, and there on the ground was his prize. Their coupling had been something brilliant. At that point there was nothing left to do.
Except to go outside and stand on the dark balcony, cold to the core, and plead his case to the clouds. The night would be nasty and long. The rain already stung Paul’s flesh.
And the clouds would decidedly ignore him.
October 28th
TWENTY-FOUR
I had but little time to write the second letter. My Nomads were not behaving predictably. That interference from the Priestess of Morning was only part of the cause. After all, Teresa herself decided to detour them to her mother—I had to spend precious time trying to locate them again. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to happen.
Traipsing between two worlds, following the movements of both the Church of Midnight and Church of Morning, I was forced to hasten preparations with the Heart bearer. The cloud cover would hold out as long as I did. Unfortunately, all of my power waned the closer October 31st approached. My strength lessened; Chaplain Cloth’s grew. With luck the clouds would continue to blind the Priestess to the Nomads’ whereabouts.
On top of a dumpster lid, just around the block from the Happy Moon Travel Lodge, my pen had flown across the parchment:
Martin & Teresa,
Go under the cover of rain to the city’s north side. Find a neighborhood adjoining an industrial park. Your meeting place is 108 Wenlock Way. Pick a mushroom from the lawn. The Heart of the Harvest has grown within these four: Jesse Jordon, Nancy Jordon, Steven Jordon, & Rebecca Jordon. Make your visit with the Bearer brief and follow his instructions to the word. It is vital you do so.
—Messenger
I delivered the letter then to the hotel manager and as I left, prayed silently for my two champions. If they didn’t protect the Hearts, that gateway would be compromised. The Old Domain would flow into this world like a poisonous ocean and chaos would return. They were faced with this every year, yes, but never had it been this certain.
~ * ~
Out of everything in the letter, Martin kept concentrating on the mushroom. Why the shroom? he thought again, shaking his head. Teresa was taking a shower, trying to hurry while the rain still came down in buckets. Getting her up had been a chore to beat all others. Coughing throughout the night, she’d probably not gotten a wink of sleep, and the same went for him.
Her pack of cloves sat on the nightstand by his piece. Nothing ever got through to Teresa, not even saying he’d likely kill himself if he lost her. Sure—you’d probably just go out and find some redhead with big titties, she always joked. It wasn’t funny to Martin. Because he knew who she really spoke of, even if it didn’t register with Teresa—that waitress she’d caught him with had red hair.
Back then, young and dumb, Martin didn’t know if he’d live from one October to the next. Back then, he never thought Teresa was for real. She was so strong, independent, unbreakable in so many ways. In a sense, the screwing around had been a test, just to see if Teresa could be hurt. Martin had much success and in his moment of shame her psychological walls fell in. Since then he hoped he’d picked most of those walls back up. Bizarre, but Teresa Celeste was all he’d ever wanted anyway. He’d told her as much. A decade later, she probably still didn’t believe him about that.
He slid over the cloves and took out one of the slender black sticks. He considered lighting it up, so when she came out she’d see him smoking and then... what would she say? Would she get pissed? He should do it. His stomach revolved at the wild smell though. Carefully he plugged it back inside the pack. Even if they did successfully protect these four Hearts this year, he had to wonder if he’d be sitting in the van one day real soon, playing the game: What did the Messenger take from you? Replying, “Teresa, my partner, my friend, my life.”
Martin scanned the parking lot. The green swimming pool dappled with raindrops glistened like an enchanted lake. It seemed out-of-place with the beat down Chevy pickup and oil stains outside its gate.
He knocked and moseyed into the stuffy pea soup bathroom. Teresa was blow drying. She clicked off the blowdryer and her eyes widened. “Did it stop?”
“Still going like a hundred year flood. I’m going to take a shower too.”
“I thought you were going to wait until we got back.”
“Nah.”
He stripped off his boxers. As he went past she grabbed his penis and squeezed.
“You’re a tease.”
She smiled and released. “Never gets old.”
The hot water felt great and the complementary Happy Moon shampoo, though smelling like lice therapy, left his scalp tingling. He scrubbed his flesh with his bath brush in meaningful circles, slowly transforming himself into a soap-suds creature.
Teresa came back through the steam with her hair in a ponytail. It had only been dried enough as to keep from leaving her shirt wet—this was sensible Teresa at her best, for it was raining outside, after all. She stopped at the threshold and entered a brutal, but swift, coughing fit. Martin counted them. Six, and then a final seventh one that made her gag and reddened her eyes. She cupped some water to her mouth from the sink and dabbed her face with a piece of toilet paper. The soap on Martin’s body lost its invigorating quality and began to feel sticky, unnecessary. He started washing off.
“How’s Colton water taste?”
“Rusty.” She blinked to refocus. “I’m going to run up to that burger place. What do you want?”
“I doubt they have organic meat. I’ll have a garden salad, extra croutons. Hold the pesticides.”
“A salad! Oh you’re going to grow yourself an inner tube, fatso!”
He rinsed the rest of the soap away from his neck. It was just nice that she was hungry for a change. “Get me double whatever meatwich you’re getting, and make sure the animal suffered a while before they hacked off its head.”
Teresa’s smile was lackluster. “I was joking. I’ll get you what you want.”
He became aware of how loud the water from the showerhead was. “Better be quick while we have the rain. Messenger’s orders.”
Teresa barked another short cough into her fist and closed the bathroom door.
“Be careful,” he added.
~ * ~
After breakfast, the Nomads set out into the city of Colton to meet the Hearts of the Harvest. Martin had been to cities in unsalvageable disrepair but Colton wore a miserable charm around its neck. The city had the smell of time perking from its splintering foundations. Flyer-covered thrift stores, dislocated railroad tracks, blackened radiator shops, intersections that came together in weird arachnidan angles, one bedroom shanties that crowded flaking white Victorians. Everything was clutched in a dearth of American concern, which was a complicated, less honest scarcity than other places in the world. As they drove past a qua
int little Catholic Church, Martin saw the grinning masks of the congregating people. They used the masks to hide their irrelevance. Destitution had helped forge a droopy-eyed apathy for anything beyond the liquor stores and strip clubs. Maybe it was Martin’s own jaded view projected on them. He could accept that.
But if it wasn’t just him, then what a shame for Colton, and other cities like it. This great railroad hub had meant something to someone once. It no longer counted now, but one couldn’t deny a notable energy had once run through Colton’s veins. No wonder the Hearts had ended up here.
Teresa was taking a catnap. It wasn’t a long drive to the Bearer, and Martin had told her as much, but she snapped at him to quit his grousing. The morning had been somewhat peaceful and he didn’t want the bickering to evolve. Teresa had been eerily pleasant, even purchased him a silly toy from the burger restaurant.
“You said you always wanted an aquarium, remember?”
It was actually a little fish bowl with a fake cartoon goldfish staring back with bright white eyes. It looked frozen in the plastic sphere; dormant, benign, safe from the outside world.
“Thanks.” He kissed her then.
His mind returned to the moment and he enjoyed slowly gliding through the rain in their fortress on wheels. A new vehicle awaited them at the Bearer’s. Every October. There always was. Seeing this Quadravan go would be bittersweet. It wasn’t the most expensive, the most fuel efficient (not close), and it was not the newest vehicle the Messenger had ever pushed on them. But it felt reliable and felt comfortable.
Bye-bye, beautiful, he thought as he caressed the dashboard. You’ve done your job. Time to rest.
~ * ~
“Tony!”
Something exploded in her ear. Teresa threw her hands over her head and ducked. The passenger door rocketed across the street on a sled of sparks and hit the curb with a clang that made her teeth set together.
Martin twisted her face to his and pressed his fingers into her skull to focus her. “You’re safe. You’re safe.” When Teresa nodded, he gently let his hands fall away and added, “Don’t build anything else, quick-draw. You might have sent the mantle my way.”
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