The Cathedral of Cliffdale

by Melissa Delport

  “Twelve Guardians await!” Rowena snapped. “What else is there to know? That is not going to change so I don’t understand why we are procrastinating.”

  “That is not true,” Balthazar pointed out. “We have seen that the Guardians come and go. I want to track their movements – it may so happen that we can enter when there are only very few remaining.” Seeing her dark scowl, he continued more gently. “Rowena, we have waited a lifetime for this opportunity. What’s a few more weeks? Surely we should take the time to gather more information before we rush blindly in?”

  “Fine,” she sighed, “but you better start thinking of something to tell the others before they simply move on without us.”

  They sat in silence. Balthazar loathed the distance growing between them and he placed a hand on Rowena’s thigh. Dutifully she spread her legs, lifting her heavy skirt, but Balthazar pulled away in disgust. He hated it when she treated him like the others. Their relationship meant more to him than that.

  By the time they returned to the camp, Balthazar’s mood had darkened considerably. Rowena and the other women had a local fair to attend, and, as he watched her truck lumber out of the clearing, laden with herbs and gypsy potions that would be sold to unsuspecting humans, he spat at the ground near his feet.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Melchior observed drily, watching Balthazar as he stared after the departing truck.

  “That woman will be the death of me," Balthazar replied.

  “Perhaps I could teach her some manners for you,” Melchior grinned lasciviously. “You have spoilt her, brother. She should be reminded of her place.” It was not uncommon for the gypsy men to share their single women, but the thought of Melchior’s meaty hands on Rowena’s soft, pliant body filled Balthazar with rage.

  “You will not lay a finger on her, Melchior,” he warned menacingly.

  “She refuses to marry you,” Melchior reminded arrogantly, “you have no claim on her.”

  “Well, unless she seeks out your services, I suggest you leave her be,” Balthazar spat back.

  He cursed Rowena’s fiery nature. This, coupled with her refusal to marry him and thus place herself out of bounds for the other men in camp, only fuelled the other gypsies’ lust. Balthazar longed for her hand in marriage, not only so that she would belong to him completely, but also to protect her from the primal ways of their people. The gypsies lived harsh lives and they were a physical community. Drink also added fire to the flames, and, on more than one occasion, women had been hurt after a particularly festive bonfire.

  The women themselves were wild and often asked for trouble – stripping down to their bare flesh and dancing suggestively. The competition for male attention was fierce, and some of the women had been known to physically attack the others, when vying for a particular male’s affections. Rowena had always steered clear of this custom – she was dedicated to Balthazar and Jonas and behaved accordingly, but she spoke out against the viciousness of the men when things got out of hand, and there was certainly more than one man in camp who longed to give her a good lashing.

  Knowing the sun would not set for a few more hours; Balthazar followed the path the truck had taken only a few moments before. He had never been to a fair – it was the women’s job – but he wanted to see Rowena. Arriving at the fairground, he watched, unnoticed, as the gypsy women set up their wares, along with a small tent at the far back, which had a red sash tied to a post beside it, which he assumed was where the card-reading took place.

  The gypsies’ apportioned plot was at the very edge of the fairground, a short distance away from everything else, to ensure that no young children visited their stall unattended. They made the most of their money at these fairs and they only wanted customers with long purse strings. He marvelled at how organised the women were – how they worked in unison, setting up tables and positioning everything on display. His heart leapt as he spotted Rowena, moving gracefully between the others, checking everything and offering words of encouragement. Her long black skirt swished around her ankles as she moved, her bare feet leaving indentations in the soft grass. He noticed that she had slipped a flower behind her ear and her lips were painted red. He had never seen her with make-up on – she always washed it off before she returned. Balthazar didn’t like the black, heavy charcoal surrounding her dark eyes. She looked incredibly beautiful, but he preferred her the way she looked first thing in the morning – before the sun had even risen – her hair a dark, tousled mess and her eyes still heavy with sleep.

  Seeing Rowena calmed him more than anything, and, feeling better, he strolled around the market place, his curiosity piqued. The fairground was alive with colour, sound and scent. Balloons for the children, flea-bitten ponies that swished their tails lethargically as they waited for their next rider, and every conceivable art and craft lined the trestle tables. The smell of popcorn was heavy in the air and made Balthazar’s stomach rumble. He had not eaten anything since breakfast. Passing the vendor he bought two large boxes of popcorn and headed back towards the gypsies' allocated plot.

  Mindful of the customers queuing before the tables, he moved around to the far end of the plot, approaching the tent. He could not see Rowena anywhere. The other women were preoccupied with the loud, demanding customers and Balthazar frowned as he glanced around. He checked the back of the truck but she was not there either. As he emerged, one of Rowena’s friends spotted him and gave a gasp of fright, dropping the small bottle she was holding. Her reaction sent a flash of alarm through Balthazar and he followed her gaze to the tent, only a few yards away. As he ran towards it, he prayed that Rowena was performing a card-reading, but the terror-stricken look on the young girl’s face made him doubt it.

  As he got nearer, he heard the unmistakeable grunting that could only be male, and his chest constricted so badly he stumbled. Jerking back the tent flap his worst fears were confirmed. Rowena lay on her back, fully clothed save for her black skirt, which was lying in a crumpled heap at the tent entrance, staring up at the canvas ceiling. She looked almost bored, but her legs were wrapped tightly around the waist of a portly, balding man and she was bucking her hips erotically up against him, whispering dirty, suggestive words that Balthazar had never heard her utter before.

  As her dark eyes swept towards his, Balthazar thought he might black out. Oblivious to the unexpected witness, the man on top of her gave an enormous groan of satisfaction into her neck and collapsed on top of her, groping for her breasts in the process. The glint of gold around his ring finger was too much for Balthazar, who finally regained control of his senses. Rowena was already trying to scramble out from underneath the now-limp man, but Balthazar was too quick for her. Grabbing him around the neck, Balthazar yanked him to his feet, the revolting squelching sound making him sick to the stomach.

  “Balthazar, no!” Rowena yelled, over the man’s startled gasp of shock. Balthazar did not pay heed – drawing back his fist he let it fly, slamming into the man’s face with as much force as he could muster. Rowena cried again, reaching for him, but Balthazar pushed her away in revulsion, so hard that she hit her head on a small wooden chair that sat in the corner of the tent. Smashing his fist again and again into the man’s face, Balthazar could see nothing but an ugly red haze.

  “Balthazar! That’s enough!” Rowena finally managed to get a good grip on his arm and despite feeling dizzy from hitting her head, she pulled him off the bloodied, beaten man. He was whimpering desolately, his pants still around his knees and Rowena averted her eyes as two of the other gypsy women entered the tent and helped him dress. Balthazar stood as still as a statue, staring at her as if she was a complete stranger, his entire body shaking. Only when the women had helped the stranger outside, did she speak again.

  “He’ll go to the police. We need to get out of here, now.”

  “He won’t go anywhere,” Balthazar barked, “He’s married, Rowena, or did you miss the ring on his finger while he was fucking you?” she flinched at the uncharacteristic v
ulgarity. “He’s hardly going to admit to his wife what he’s been up to,” Balthazar continued, his chest heaving.

  This much was true, Rowena thought thankfully. With any luck the man would simply claim he had been robbed and beaten by an unidentifiable assailant. She opened her mouth to speak but Balthazar beat her to it.

  “How could you?” he asked desolately, his eyes wild with desperation. “How could you do this?”

  “Balthazar, I...”

  “You’re a whore,” he spat, not giving her a chance to explain. “A vile, filthy whore.”

  “Where do you think the money comes from?” she retorted furiously, guilt making her even more acerbic, when all she wanted to do was grab hold of him and never let go. “In all your pig-headed ignorance, did you never stop to wonder how much this search has cost? Selling a few potions and doing a couple of card-readings was never, ever going to cover it!”

  “So you resorted to this?” he roared. “My God, did you think I would ever agree to this?”

  “No! Of course I didn’t! And that’s exactly why you never knew. Because if I didn’t do this your search would have ended long ago and you wouldn’t have been able to deal with that. I did what I had to do.”

  “We would have found another way.”

  “No, we wouldn’t have. And you would have been miserable and without purpose,” she sneered. “You live to find the City. I do what I do to ensure that we all live.” Balthazar was still shaking, incandescent with rage and Rowena’s cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes stormy.

  “We’re done,” he snarled, snatching up her skirt and hurling it at her. “Don’t come near me, don’t even look at me.” Rowena glared at him defiantly, covering herself with the crumpled skirt. “From this moment on, you are dead to me,” he finished hatefully.

  Only once she was certain he was gone did she collapse to the ground, her body wracked with sobs.

  Chapter 41

  “That’s bullshit, Isaiah, and you know it!” Quinn was fast losing her fragile grip on her temper. She couldn’t believe that Isaiah would allow Rafe back into the City when he so clearly had a death sentence over his head.

  “Quinn!” Piper attempted once more to diffuse the escalating conflict.

  “We made a mistake,” Isaiah repeated. “Rafe should never have been taken out. I am to blame for that and it is a decision I regret deeply. All I can do now is to try to repair the damage that I have done.”

  “You tried to save him and you did! Rafe deserves our protection. He’s ten times the wolf Caleb could ever be.”

  Rafe had won his pack's allegiance through physical prowess as well as social efforts and building alliances throughout the pack. He had been a popular and capable leader. Caleb struck Quinn as nothing but cruel and vicious – a power-hungry wolf who would rule through fear and intimidation.

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Isaiah consented, “but we are protectors, not Gods. We don’t get to decide.”

  “We could,” Quinn countered, the thought occurring to her. “We could exile Caleb – send him back to man’s realm. We brought him here; surely we are responsible for his actions? Why can’t we just send him back where he came from? We could reinstate Rafe and... ”

  “We cannot send Caleb back,” Isaiah intoned. “Caleb is everything you say he is, but he is our responsibility, not just within the walls of the Ark, but for every action he commits outside of it, too.” That brought Quinn up short as she realised what he was implying.

  “Goddammit!” she cursed, a feeling of helplessness washing over her.

  “If Caleb is capable of such intolerable cruelty within the City’s boundaries, just imagine the bloodshed if we return him – angry and humiliated – back to man’s world. Any lives that he may take outside of Summerfeld will be on our hands.”

  Quinn shook her head angrily.

  “Then we kill him,” she announced suddenly. Piper gave a gasp of shocked disbelief, but Isaiah simply smiled in understanding.

  “We cannot take the life of a ward, Quinn. No matter how deserving that ward may be,” he added sympathetically. Of course he was right. The very second the thought had occurred to her, Quinn had dismissed it. No Guardian could bring themselves to kill a ward. Their very blood refused it. “Unless of course you know of someone who might do it for us?” Isaiah jested. The very thought was ludicrous given that the Guardians were the only ones who knew of the City’s existence. Except of course, the vampires - any one of whom would be more than willing to murder a ward of Summerfeld but no Guardian would ever be on speaking terms with a vampire. No Guardian but Quinn.

  The thought of Drake disappeared as quickly as it had come. Isaiah was right – this was Guardian business. And, as much as she despised him, Caleb was a werewolf, and werewolves belonged in the Lunar Grove.

  “He has to be punished, at least,” Quinn persevered. “Surely he has to be taught that his actions are not without consequences. If not, what will stop him from slaughtering half the pack every time he doesn’t get his way?”

  “Daniel will be back tomorrow and we will make a decision... together.” The mention of Daniel’s name reminded Quinn of why she was here in the first place.

  “Isaiah, Avery’s crystal... ”

  “I know,” he smiled. “You’ve figured out its location – Daniel sent word.”

  “I have. Well, I think I have. And I want to negotiate... ” Isaiah silenced her with a wave of his hand.

  “Let’s wait for the others, Quinn. We will discuss everything tomorrow at a full meeting of the council.” It was no less than she expected – Isaiah would not be able to accede to anything without the others anyway.

  “Well, in that case, I’m going in,” Quinn fetched her trusty duffel from where she had dropped it near the far wall. “Will Rafe be okay?”

  “For now. He’ll stay here with Channon until she’s fully recovered. But he will have to return to the City before the next full moon. They both will.” Quinn sighed. “You know Rafe is going to challenge him?”

  “Yes,” Isaiah nodded sagely. “And I also know that he has no hope of winning.”

  “So we’re just going to let him die.”

  “We’re going to do what we should have done from the beginning. We’re going to let the wolves resolve this their own way.” Quinn bit down hard on her tongue to keep from passing a sarcastic, hateful comment.

  “You coming, Piper?” she called, and, grateful for the inclusion, Piper got to her feet.

  “One more thing,” Quinn turned back to Isaiah, “is Tristan...?” She let the question hang between them.

  “Tristan is in Summerfeld,” Isaiah replied knowingly, a small smile playing about his lips. Inhaling deeply, Quinn met Piper’s gaze over the altar and, in unison, they closed their eyes and moved through the Gateway to enter the City.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” Piper said, when they were finally alone; the fountain gurgling and splashing beside them. “You are back, aren’t you?” she added when Quinn didn’t respond.

  “I think so. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. And I’m glad to be back too. I missed you. Really.”

  “You had to do what you had to do,” Piper replied magnanimously.

  They walked together through the small village, parting only when Quinn took a left turn towards her old quarters. Every Guardian had their own place in the town, interspersed amongst the Fae and Werewolf homes. It was, after all, the place they spent most of their time as Guardians, except for the Hunters, who were travelling more often than they were home.

  Quinn made her way to Rourke’s old house – a house that would now belong to his successor – Tristan’s niece, Monique. Rapping on the door she heard a young voice call, “I’ll get it!” It was such an ordinary, human response that Quinn was still smiling when Monique yanked open the door.

  “Quinn!” she cried excitedly, “you’re back!”

  “I’m back,” Quinn grinned, “can I come in?”

  “Sure,” Monique tur
ned back into the house, her long red braid falling almost to her waist. “Mom!” she yelled unnecessarily, given that the entire house consisted of only four rooms – kitchen, living-room, bed and bath. Every Guardian had their own place and the small homes were intended for only one person. Monique and Camille must be sharing the tiny bedroom.

  Camille emerged from the bathroom, drying her hands on a small cream towel that she must have brought with her – it looked far too synthetic to have been made in Summerfeld.

  “Hello Quinn,” she spoke in a soft, shy voice that was in complete contrast to her daughter’s. “It’s good to see you again.” Quinn wondered if that was entirely true. The last time she had seen Camille, she had not been coping well with Monique’s induction into the Guardianship. Quinn was fairly certain that had it not been for her fear of the unknown, and the inexplicable white tattoo that had appeared on Monique’s wrist, Camille would have whisked Monique away the first opportunity she had.

  “I actually wanted to speak to you about something,” Quinn ventured. “It has to do with Tristan. And my sister, Avery.”

  “Oh,” Camille did not look at all surprised. “You’re here about the children.”

  “You know?”

  “Tristan told me,” she admitted. “And he asked me if I would care for them. He said that they would be sent away otherwise?” Camille was seeking confirmation and Quinn nodded quickly.

  “Yes. There is no one else to care for them here. If you cannot take them they will have to stay outside, in man’s realm.”

  “Man’s realm?” Camille frowned.

  “The real world,” Monique explained, rolling her eyes at her mother’s ignorance.

  “Oh, right. Yes, he mentioned that. Well, these are my brother’s children we are talking about, so I can’t very well say no.”

  “But?” Quinn sensed it coming.

  “Well, I have a few concerns. First, Monique is going through a lot right now,” understatement of the century, Quinn thought wryly, “and she needs me,” Camille continued. “Secondly, I fear that we may not be here for too much longer. I would hate to give the children a home only to have it wrested from them again.” This did not concern Quinn in the least. Monique would never leave Summerfeld so Camille would never leave either, but Quinn did not want to make light of her discomfort so she nodded sympathetically.