by Amber Morgan
The man’s gaze roamed over them both. He seemed unfazed by Turiel’s nudity, but there was a light in his eyes that rattled Thea. She wrapped the blanket tightly around herself.
Turiel rested his hand on her shoulder. Silence filled the space between them and the man in white, and it brimmed with tension.
“Good evening, miss, sir,” he said eventually. “Forgive my intrusion. I’m Brother Hiram. May I ask your names?”
Brother Hiram of the Healing Hands, Thea thought. She didn’t answer. Nor did Turiel. Hiram smiled, polite and false, and waited. His henchmen stood still as statues and Thea thought of the shotgun locked away in the kitchen. She hadn't used it in years, although her father had made sure she could if she needed to. And she'd never pointed it at another human being. Not that it would help now. Surely these men would do their damage long before she was able to get to the gun.
"That's how it is then, is it?" Hiram said when she and Turiel stayed silent. "Well, that doesn't matter anyhow. I know what you are. I don't need to know who you are."
This he directed to Turiel and it chilled Thea's blood. She rose, but Turiel pushed her back down with a gentle flex of his hand. "Do not," he said.
She wondered if he didn't see the threat here. Maybe there was no violence in Heaven. "We should go inside," she said.
Hiram chuckled, a rich sound that invited a person to laugh with him. He couldn't hide the ice in his eyes though. "I assure you, miss, it would do you no good. But I'm not here to harm anyone. If your friend will simply come with me, we'll be on our way peacefully."
"No," Turiel said.
Hiram's laugh was a lot less inviting this time. "Oh dear," he said, raising his hand and snapping his fingers. "You really leave me no choice then, sir."
The three henchmen moved in perfect unison, chilling Thea. It was like watching a pack of wild dogs advance. She stood now, knowing she had no defense if any of them decided to hurt her, but unable to sit by passively while they came for Turiel.
Turiel slid in front of her, giving her a close-up view of his scarred back. I know what you are, Hiram had said. But how? Thea could easily believe Geoff had spread the news of her naked house-guest through Milton so fast. Gossip ran quick as a cat with its tail on fire around here. But for that gossip to reach this stranger? She could scarcely believe that.
The first man reached Turiel and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him hard away from Thea. She cried out and clutched Turiel's free hand. The second man grabbed her around the waist, lifting her like she was light as a corn dolly, and swung her away from Turiel. She screamed, kicked, and fought to be free, but he held her in a crushing bear-hug, turning her to face the house. She couldn't see Turiel anymore, but she could hear him. She heard him yell her name with raw fury. She heard the sickening crunch of fist meeting flesh, and she heard the hard thud of a body hitting the floor.
She screamed until it felt like her throat must be bleeding. Her captor turned her back around in time to see Turiel's limp body disappearing into the car. Hiram tipped his hat to her, his smile as pleasant and false as any snake-oil salesman.
"Don't take it too hard, miss," he called to her, climbing into the front seat. "The blood of angels will make many a miracle."
When he slammed his door shut, her captor dropped her carelessly. She hit the porch hard, jarring her back and knees, but she was too breathless to cry out. She made a feeble swipe at him as he walked away, one he didn't even acknowledge. By the time she'd dragged herself to her feet, her attacker was back in the car. By the time she'd staggered down the porch steps, the car was gone, leaving nothing but dust behind.
Chapter Five
Thea always considered herself self-sufficient, if she thought about it. Sure, she didn't take care of the garden, but that was only from a lack of interest, not ability. The rest of the Old Clayton House she kept ticking over pretty damn well, she'd always thought. Not to mention herself. Her lifestyle might be eccentric, but she hadn't starved to death or fallen down the cellar stairs and broken her neck, both of which were fates the people of Milton had predicted for her. She'd never needed anyone after her parents died. She'd made sure she didn't.
So it didn't occur to her to go looking for help. Her story was too wild and she was too odd to be credible. Nor did it occur to her to do nothing. It did occur to her, as she fetched her father's shotgun and checked it was loaded, that she might get herself killed. In the grand scheme of things, she guessed it was better to die young trying to rescue an angel, than die old having done nothing.
She dressed, throwing a long coat over her light dress to hide the gun. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her spine as the night's heat crawled over her, but she didn't dare leave the gun unconcealed. She didn't allow herself to think about success or failure once the gun was in place. It's weight against her body was disturbingly comforting, and she focused on that, just that, as she headed for her car.
Five minutes later, she was on her way into Milton.
****
People were swarming around Brother Hiram's tent. Bright spotlights outside the entrance pushed back the night and shone off the faces of the crowd, rendering them anonymous blobs. So many people, she thought nervously, parking at the edge of the field. It looked like the whole population of Milton, doubled. Tripled, even. People must have flocked from all over the county. What did Hiram offer that was so attractive?
The blood of an angel. A shudder passed through her. What could the blood of an angel do? And how was she going to find Turiel amid this mass of eager worshipers?
She hugged herself as she pushed her way through the throng, both to keep the gun pressed close and to minimize any contact with the heaving crowd. Sticky heat poured over her, a rancid combination of too many bodies, the summer humidity, and her own nerves. By the time she reached the tent entrance, she was shaking under her coat, adrenaline making her skin tingle.
Soaring organ music blasted out of the tent. She stood on tiptoe to peer over the crowd and see inside. The tent was filled with long benches, and the benches were filled with people, jostling for space. Voices clashed together, creating a cacophony that almost drowned out the music. At the back of the tent, a woman in a white dress stood at a microphone, making grand gestures. People in the first few rows threw their hands up in time with her, and part of Thea was fascinated by the apparent hypnosis underway. But there was no sign of Hiram or Turiel, and so she moved on.
Around the back of the main tent, she found a cluster of smaller tents and trailers. People, clearly not worshipers, milled around idly. Some smoked, some drank, all looked bored and paid little attention to Thea as she wandered from trailer to trailer, anxiety clawing at her.
"You lost, darlin'?" a woman called to her.
Thea glanced over to see the woman smiling at her, shark-like, from under the shadow of the great tent. She raised a cigarette to her lips and blew a plume of smoke Thea's way. Thea coughed as the acrid smoke hit her, but forced herself to brush it off. Dare she just ask? Surely plenty of people came here looking for the healing hands of Brother Hiram.
"I'm here for Hiram," she said.
"Ah." The woman's smile turned dark and knowing. She looked Thea up and down, and whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her somehow. "The big red trailer over there," she said, pointing the way with her cigarette. "You here to warm him up, honey?"
Thea didn't miss the innuendo. She let it wash over her. "I guess I am," she said. She waved in thanks and headed for the trailer. Now she just prayed she didn't run into any of the henchmen who'd taken Turiel. She didn't think she'd get past them so easily.
The big red trailer was set apart from the others. The spotlights at the front of the tent cast no light back here, and Thea thought of gothic novels as she approached. Of ancient castles and the monstrous men who always owned them. Her palms were slick with sweat by the time she reached the trailer, and she doubted she'd be able to hold the shotgun, much less fire it if she had to. The heroine
s in gothic novels tended to faint a lot, didn't they? She recalled lots of swooning and too-tight corsets. At least she didn't have that to deal with.
There was a window in the trailer and a gap in the curtains, dim light spilling through. She had to stand on tiptoe again to peer through. The gap was just a finger's width apart, but that was all she needed.
She saw Turiel's back, his scars torn open and bleeding. Rivulets of dark blood trickled down his back. His head was bowed. That was all she could see. There was no glimpse to be had of Hiram or his henchmen, but she didn't need to see them. The horror was plain.
She hurried to the trailer door, one hand on the shotgun. The door was unlocked and she eased it open, her heart slamming wildly against her ribs. Thea crept in, holding her breath, expecting the worst. But there was nobody in here except Turiel.
The inside of the trailer was spacious and plushly decorated, the scent of frankincense and rosewood heavy in the air. Rosaries and crucifixes adorned the walls, creating a sense of piety that was at odds with the angel chained to the walls. An instinctive dread filled her as she stared at those chains, thick and shining, with heavy cuffs that clamped around his wrists and pulled his arms taut. Somehow, somehow, the chains were worse than the blood dripping down his back, or the saturated bandages at his arms. She thought of malnourished tigers in tiny cages, eagles with their wings clipped, and she knew with a bone-deep certainty that Turiel could endure anything except imprisonment.
She hurried forward. He lifted his head and spoke in a weary, hoarse whisper. “You will bleed me dry. What kind of miracle does that leave you with?”
“Turiel, it’s me. It’s Thea.” She knelt beside him, gently cupping his face in her hands. His black hair hid his eyes until she smoothed it away, and then she saw a pained acceptance that broke her heart. But hope flared there when he saw her and it kindled a little more courage in her.
“Thea,” he said. And that was all. Just her name, breathed like a prayer.
“I’ll get you out,” she said, setting the gun down on the faux-wood floor. She cast around for something to unlock the cuffs with. “I will get you out,” she said again, trying to suppress a note of despair. Of course Hiram wouldn’t simply leave the keys laying around. You wouldn’t leave a miracle untended, unguarded.
But the door to the trailer had been unlocked, so he couldn’t have gone far or expected to be long. Urgency gripped her, and she stared at the shotgun. She knew how to fire it, but she’d never had reason to aim at anything smaller than a coyote. The idea of taking aim at those shackles unnerved her. In a space this small, with Turiel’s body so vulnerable…
Turiel shifted with a grimace, following her gaze. “If that is what must be done, Thea…”
“Oh no, miss,” Brother Hiram said from behind her, voice dripping with false civility. “That is not to be done at all.”
Thea turned to see him stepping into the trailer. He was wiping his hands off on a snowy-white handkerchief, stained dark with Turiel’s blood. Anger flared in her. “How can you—”
“Oh, don’t be righteous, girl,” he said, waving the handkerchief dismissively at her. “I know it seems brutal, but creatures like this are a gift! A blessing from on high, one we must value and use wisely. Those people out there have come from miles around out of hope and devotion. His blood will cure those failed by conventional medicine …well, some of them.” Now he shrugged, casually cruel.
Some of them, surely. Enough to keep the rest hoping, enough to keep the donations flowing and the believers faithful. Bile rose in Thea’s throat, disgust robbing her of her voice.
“You have done this before,” Turiel said with weary anger.
Hiram shrugged again. “You don’t think you’re the first to fall, do you?”
Thea’s rage was like a lightning strike, hot and quick, galvanizing her to move without any conscious thought. She grabbed the shotgun and swung it at Hiram. She had a second to see the smug assurance on his face, his certainty that she wouldn’t shoot him.
And then she did shoot him.
The recoil staggered her. The blast deafened her. She stumbled back and hit the floor in synchrony with Hiram. She knocked her head on the wall and her vision swam. When the world fell back into place, she saw Hiram writhing on the floor, clutching his leg as blood bloomed against the pristine white of his trousers. Pain rendered him voiceless; he simply spat and hissed.
She took no satisfaction in his pain. All she could think as she pushed herself to her feet was that there probably wasn’t much time before he did start screaming for help.
She hurried over to him, shotgun in hand. Hiram glared up at her, skin chalky and slick with sweat. “You bitch,” he wheezed. “I’ll bleed out! I’ll die!”
Whether or not that would truly be a loss, Thea decided, was not for her to say. “I’ll send help, if you give me the keys for Turiel’s cuffs.”
He spat at her. “Someone will come looking for me any minute.”
Thea didn’t think herself capable of cruelty. So when she pressed the barrel of the shotgun to his crotch, she told herself it was pragmatism that moved her. “A lot can happen in a minute, Brother Hiram.”
If it was possible for him to grow paler, he did, until she swore she could see the veins turning blue under his skin. “Right pocket,” he said, tapping his jacket. “And for the love of God, call me an ambulance.”
She fished the keys out. She had no cell phone of her own, and of course she wouldn’t have thought to bring it with her anyway, so she didn’t answer him. Once Turiel was unchained, then she’d think about compassion for his captor.
Turiel tumbled into her arms when she unlocked him, but quickly stood without aide, wincing as he stretched out his legs and shook the life back into his arms. He said nothing, but he kissed her forehead and his eyes spoke for him, blazing with a gratitude and trust that left Thea rocked.
“We must leave,” Turiel said, taking her hand.
“Yes, but wait a second,” she said, digging her heels in when he tried to tug her toward the door. He gave her a puzzled, frustrated look.
She quickly shrugged out of her coat. It was too small for him. He’d rip the seams, his strong arms and broad shoulders too much for mere mortal fabric. But he couldn’t walk out there naked. She was sure stranger things had been seen at Brother Hiram’s revivals, but she’d risked enough tonight already. She wouldn’t risk losing him as soon as they stepped out of the trailer.
He struggled into the coat, grimacing as the soft wool brushed his ruined back. All the while, Hiram watched them with hate-filled eyes, clutching his bleeding leg. The blood flow seemed to have slowed, Thea thought. She’d probably just clipped him, and she took a moment to be cruel and think that was a shame.
“He isn’t human,” Hiram told her through gritted teeth. “Don’t let him fool you.”
“I know what he is,” Thea said. “And I consider myself a fine judge of character, thank you.”
She took Turiel’s hand again and daintily stepped over Hiram. She was prepared for him to do something—grab her ankle or the hem of the coat, something feeble but villainous. But he did nothing except clutch his leg and curse her, curse Turiel, curse them with doom and hellfire and torment, and he reminded her so much of her granddaddy in that moment. Unnerved, she hurried out into the pulsing-hot night, Turiel moving stiffly at her side.
Only once he’d slammed the trailer door shut, did he allow himself a gasp of agony. “A mortal life is not dull, is it?”
She considered her own life, a dusty stretch of static melancholy before he crashed through her roof. “I guess it depends who you spend it with,” she said dryly. She gave his hand a tug, desperate to be away, far away, before Hiram recovered enough to summon his minions.
The crowd seemed thicker, buzzing with impatience, and she wondered if they were waiting for Hiram, waiting for his healing hands, his stolen miracles. She clung so tightly to Turiel she must surely be hurting him, but he simply squeezed
her hand back, letting her guide him through the masses and back to the woman with the cigarette. Here, briefly, Thea stopped.
“Brother Hiram asked for you,” she said. “He said it’s pretty urgent.”
The woman stomped out her cigarette and took off immediately. There. She’d kept her word. It was more than he deserved, but she was sure Hiram would tell her it wasn’t her place to judge. A higher power would take that responsibility. She could only hope that was true, and that they’d judge harshly.
****
She never thought she’d be glad to see the Old Clayton House, but as she parked out front, she felt a thrill of relief to be home. It’s dark, familiar bulk was an anchor in a sea of surreal happenings. Next to her, Turiel was pale and shaking, and she had to help him out of the car.
“How much blood did he take?” she asked, easing him into the swing seat. The iced tea was still there, moonlight sparkling off the glass, and she poured him a drink, unsure what else to do.
“Enough to give him many miracles,” Turiel said, slumping down in the seat. His eyes fell closed, exhaustion sweeping over his face.
“Will your blood really cure people? Cure disease, heal wounds?” She curled up against him, pressing her head to his chest. His heart beat steady and strong, a comforting rhythm.
He was silent for a moment. Then he let loose an almost startled laugh, stroking her hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know at all.”
She toyed with the fraying edges of the bandages on his arms. They were matted with blood. She'd have to clean him up and fetch her lavender salve. “He said there’d been others.”
It was a dreadful thought. If angels were immortal, where were Hiram's past angels? Escaped? Still imprisoned? Or bled dry and discarded?
