Healer's Choice g-3

by Jory Strong

  Iyar en Batrael, the most powerful of the Raven House, had gone to the fiery birthplace of the Djinn and called Sajia’s name. After thousands of years she was reborn. And though she would hold no memories of their life together, soon she would be returned to him. His to love and possess.

  “It is good to have you back among us, brother,” Addai said, clasping Tir to him before letting go of his corporeal form, along with the past.

  Closure

  OAKLAND. There’d been nothing to explain the sense of anticipation, the exhilaration and hope that filled him when he first heard mention of this city.

  Shackled, sold like an animal, he couldn’t have predicted he would find freedom here—love—and with it redemption, a purpose other than vengeance and retribution.

  Araña. Her name was a joyous shout in his soul, her body sweet pleasure and carnal torment.

  Thinking about her made him harden. Being away from her was a scraping of sharp edges against his skin, a piercing of his heart, though with the binding of their spirits and the sharing of breath, Tir knew she lived and was safe.

  He stood in front of the church. It was a huge, elaborate affair, a testament to wealth and power as much as to faith.

  With his memory restored he could remember the very beginnings of it, all the iterations and deviations it had taken. The different directions it had gone off in. Splitting and splitting again in seemingly endless repetitions.

  There’d never been only one belief, one interpretation of the creator’s words and signs. The being they called God was unknowable to the creatures he’d fashioned from mud and breathed his spirit into. Just as he was often unknowable to his first sons and daughters, angels created from light and divine essence.

  Tir climbed the steps. He passed through an arched doorway carved with images of his kind and entered the sanctuary. Even the Fallen could get this far, though their pleas for forgiveness weren’t answered.

  Inside, the air was cool and scented by candles. A handful of old men and women knelt on velvet-lined benches, heads bowed in prayer.

  He walked by them, closing his mind to their entreaties and emotions though he felt the sudden race of their hearts as, deep within, they recognized him despite the human appearance he wore.

  At the doorway leading into the private part of the church there were wards in place. Ancient protections against demons. Against Satan—The Usurper—the tester of human souls. And though the humans no longer remembered what the sigils meant, there were symbols carved there to protect against the wrath of the Djinn. Tir passed through the doorway without resistance or fear, moving farther into the church.

  A young priest emerged from an office. He startled at the sight of Tir, started to frown but paled instead with the realization that the strap across Tir’s bare chest held a sheath with a machete in it.

  The papers in the priest’s hand shook but he found his courage. “You can’t be in this part of the church unaccompanied. I’ll show you to the main office unless you’d prefer to return to the chapel.”

  Tir let a portion of his humanity fall away, used the voice that had once commanded legions and caused men to prostrate themselves before him. “I am here to see Father Ursu. You will take me to him.”

  The priest complied, his heartbeat thunder in Tir’s mind. He turned and led the way, escorting Tir first through the areas set aside for the everyday work of the church and then into the domain of those who ruled it.

  Utilitarian furniture gave way to antiques. Pastoral art gave way to glorious paintings done by masters dead long before The Last War.

  “This is his office,” the young priest said, stopping before a closed door, licking his lips and nervously backing away.

  Tir read the priest’s intention to call the guards. It mattered little. By the time they arrived the business with Ursu would be done.

  In the interest of creating as little a ripple as possible for any of his kind to discover and question, Tir spoke in soothing tones, stripping away the priest’s worry by saying, “Father Ursu will come to no harm at my hands this day. Leave in peace.”

  Calmness settled over the young priest. He turned from Tir, his attention going to the papers in his hands as he retraced his steps.

  Tir waited only a moment before entering the suite Ursu commanded. Two men turned, one with a port-wine stain marking his face, the other wearing black robes woven of the finest material.

  Ursu stopped in midsentence, his gaze going immediately to Tir’s bared arms, searching for and not finding the tattoos that had once covered them. “If you could excuse me for a moment, Graham,” he said, dismissing his companion.

  “I’ll wait out in the hallway.”

  The man slipped from the room, seemingly unbothered by the sight of Tir and the machete he carried.

  Fear poured off the priest, measuring both his devotion and the heavy weight of the deeds he carried on his soul in serving his faith. His spirit trembled like a living thing trying to escape the presence of one who could see and judge it unworthy.

  Tir had thought the priest would cower, praying for mercy and pleading his case. Instead Ursu remained standing, waiting, stirring memories to life of the thousands of years Tir had spent in the hands of men like this one.

  The desire for vengeance rose inside him, a dark, cold temptation that had Tir lifting his hand to call his sword.

  Don’t, Araña said, a part of her with him always. Finish the task Addai set before you and come back to me.

  Images accompanied her command, a carnal tangle of male and female, of wings and flesh, that came on a hot desert wind of desire and burned away thoughts of the past.

  Tir met the priest’s eyes. “My hand is stayed from striking you down. But see that I am now beyond your reach. Know that if you continue to search for the healer Rebekka or cause any harm to befall her, nothing will save you from my wrath, and it will not be a paradise your soul is delivered to.”

  Nine

  REBEKKA entered The Iberá’s study and saw the book she’d stolen the pages from pushed to the corner of his desk. Guilt threatened to seep in with the sight of it.

  She suppressed it. Just as she resisted the urge to touch the amulet she’d received in payment for them. The last time she was in this room she was a prisoner soon to be turned over to the Church.

  The Iberá looked up from his work. “You’ve had a chance to rest and consider my offer. Is your answer the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. As promised, I have arranged for a driver and escort to take you across the Barrens. Should I have them wait and bring you back before sunset?”

  A shiver passed through her with memories of the urchin and the rat. Until she was sure the amulet would protect her, she couldn’t go back to the brothel.

  Once there she wouldn’t dare leave again. Twice now there’d been an attempt to capture her.

  “No, they can return as soon as they leave me at the trailhead. I’m not sure how long I’ll remain at my mother’s house. As part of their religious duties, the men and women of the Fellowship come to Oakland. I can accompany them across the Barrens.”

  “Very well.” His gaze shifted to her right as Enzo entered the room with another man, both of them wearing the uniform of a guardsman.

  The Iberá said, “Captain Orst, this is Rebekka. She’s a gifted healer. Should you ever be in a position to offer aid to her, I hope you will do so.”

  “Consider it done.”

  The guard captain studied Rebekka as if committing her features to memory. She did the same to him.

  “Is transportation still required?” Enzo asked the patriarch.

  “Yes. Please see Rebekka off. Captain Orst and I will wait until you return before discussing anything of importance.”

  Enzo gestured for Rebekka to precede him through the door. She went.

  They left the main house and entered the section of the estate reserved for the private militia. One sedan and two jeeps stood ready.
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br />   Flags with the Iberá crest fluttered on the antennas. Drivers and armed men waited next to the vehicles. They straightened, standing at attention with Enzo’s approach.

  Rebekka opened the front passenger door before she could be placed in the back, and got into the car. After a brief word from Enzo, the driver slid in as the other men took their positions on the jeeps, machine guns gripped in their hands.

  Engines roared to life. The gates of the estate swung open and as they passed through them, a small, internal voice whispered to Rebekka, telling her this could be part of her everyday world if she accepted The Iberá’s offer.

  She gave in to the fantasy. Instead of thinking about going to the Fellowship in order to find out whether or not her father was a demon, she imagined a life where she was making rounds, visiting clients.

  It was sweet temptation, a balm of comfort. But it couldn’t stand against reality when a short time later they encountered a blockade manned by guardsmen.

  The three vehicles slowed to a stop. Rebekka’s heart pounded and her palms grew damp. In her mind’s eye she saw herself ordered from the sedan and taken into custody, then turned over to the man bearing the birthmark on his face.

  With the guard in turmoil, there had to be factions supported by the vice lords, just as there were other factions being supported by the Church. She couldn’t be sure whether or not the vice lords who’d profited from the maze were hunting her. She wasn’t prepared to believe the threat the Church presented was over, regardless of Father Ursu’s claim to Enzo. The priest had been willing to go to great lengths to capture Tir, and not just in order to see the Iberá patriarch healed.

  One of the guardsmen positioned at the blockade approached the sedan. Rebekka fought the urge to bolt from the vehicle and run for her life.

  Next to her the driver rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he asked when the guardsman reached them.

  “A pocket of plague was discovered by a patrol.”

  Dread filled Rebekka in a cold wave of horror. She couldn’t suppress a small cry as her hand went to the amulet.

  The guardsman glanced at her and offered a reassuring smile. “No need to be alarmed, ma’am. We come across these from time to time. There are men in the guard trained to handle it. The threat has already been isolated and contained.”

  He turned his attention back to the driver. “It’s safe enough if you stay on this road and don’t turn into the affected area. I’d recommend you detour though. What’s up ahead isn’t a sight for a civilian. The men are in the cleanup stage.”

  More than anything Rebekka wanted to take the detour. The descriptions from the healer’s journal had already lent themselves to nightmares containing vivid images of plague.

  She wanted to believe what lay ahead had nothing to do with her. To pretend it would never have anything to do with her.

  She couldn’t.

  She needed to see for herself. She needed to know. “Was the plague carried by rats?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. But like I said, there’s no reason for you to be alarmed. It’s been taken care of.”

  “We’ll go straight through then,” Rebekka said, half hoping the driver wouldn’t have to do as she directed.

  The guardsman looked to the driver for confirmation. The driver nodded.

  “All right,” the guardsman said, stepping back and indicating with a wave to the other men stationed at the barricade that the Iberá vehicles could pass through.

  The lead jeep moved forward. The sedan followed, and, in its wake, the second jeep.

  The ruins of several skyscrapers blocked their view until they reached the end of them. Then Rebekka saw smoke billowing upward and another blockade, this one at the mouth of a street to the left.

  A guardsman motioned them to keep moving, though he didn’t protest when the jeep slowed to a crawl to allow the militiamen to see what was going on. The sedan followed suit.

  Rebekka’s hand pressed hard to the hidden amulet as they reached the barricade. She looked, her eyes going immediately to the pallets where corpses burned.

  There might be five bodies, or seven. There was no way to count them or to know if they’d been dead when they were discovered, or killed by the guard to prevent the spread of disease.

  Smoke escaped through the windows and cracks of a partially collapsed building near the pallets. A man stepped from it.

  He was covered from head to foot in an enclosed hazard suit and carrying something Rebekka thought of as a modified flamethrower. Backing out behind him was another man, this one sweeping fire back and forth, burning every square inch.

  Other men were visible doing the same. While still others stood with rifles at the ready, prepared to shoot anything trying to escape.

  Rebekka’s fingers curled around the amulet. Her chest tightened as she remembered the rat in the alleyway between the brothels.

  If she took the witches’ protection off, would she know the plague here had truly been eradicated? Or would animals carrying disease begin coming to her and be slaughtered by the guardsmen?

  The sedan sped up as they reached another cluster of buildings, cutting off the view. Her relief at knowing the amulet protected her was equaled by the lingering fear of plague, and her guilt at not being able to use her gift to alleviate and prevent further suffering.

  We couldn’t stop, she told herself, though a part of her, a small part, whispered she was a coward, said even if they could have stopped, she wouldn’t have ordered the driver to do so for fear of being killed when it became obvious the diseased were being drawn to her.

  “Coward,” she called herself again as she stood in front of the door to her mother’s house, looking around, delaying the moment of truth.

  The settlement was laid out like a spoked wheel, with the community building at its hub and long, enclosed passageways extending from it and leading to individual log houses, so even during the night, the members of the Fellowship could gather. Off some of the houses were additional passageways, linking freshly built cabins to those of the original community and ensuring no member was isolated.

  Drifting through open windows came the smell of wood fires, roasted pork, and baked bread. It was accompanied by the sound of hymns sung in praise of God as women and children applied themselves to their chores.

  Rebekka wanted to deny the matriarch’s claim and Abijah’s words. She hated to bring the past here, to this place of peace that was her mother’s refuge. And yet she had no true choice. Her mother was the only one she trusted to answer her questions.

  Growing up it had always been Chloe. Never Mom or Mother, the way it could be now, because what man who visited a prostitute wanted to be reminded of the consequences of sex or worry that a bastard child who looked just like him would one day arrive at his doorstep for his wife and his legitimate children to see?

  Mouth dry, hand trembling slightly, she finally knocked. A man’s voice bid her to enter. She did so and heard her mother’s soft gasp before three small girls threw themselves at her with a squealed “Bekka!”

  Immediately her heart lodged in her throat. She hadn’t thought her mother’s adopted children would remember her.

  Rebekka knelt, hugging the girls to her. They were dressed in long skirts, the material soft from repeated washings.

  Fierce longing swept through her. She wanted this, a home, a family.

  “Have you come to join the Fellowship?” her mother’s husband asked.

  Boden was older than Chloe. Bearded and wiry. Devout in the faith that had redeemed him from drug use and a thief’s life.

  His welcome was contingent on her answer. Grim tolerance of a sinner in his home if she said no. Joyous celebration if she’d found God and was ready to embrace the Fellowship as he had.

  “I can’t,” Rebekka said, looking at her mother over the heads of the girls. “I came here to ask Chloe something.”

  “I’ll take the girls to work in the gardens,” Boden said, ushering them ahea
d of him despite their protests.

  A toddler remained, a sturdy boy who’d been hiding behind Chloe and was revealed when Rebekka crossed to her mother. He peeked up at her, one hand clinging to her mother’s skirt, the other a spit-wet fist as he gummed his knuckles.

  “This is little Boden,” Chloe said, brushing her fingers across wisps of soft, white-blond hair. “He just came to us.”

  Rebekka knelt once again but the boy retreated, wrapping the material of the skirt around him and turning it into a concealing blanket. “From the Mission?”

  The Fellowship took in orphaned children as often as their resources allowed it. And like many prostitutes, years of being used had left Chloe scarred inside, no longer able to conceive.

  “Yes,” Chloe said, brushing her fingers across Rebekka’s hair in the same way as she’d done to the boy.

  Rebekka rose from her crouch. Face-to-face, she and her mother were the same height.

  Chloe caressed Rebekka’s cheek with her fingertips, her eyes meeting Rebekka’s, searching for something. “You’ve gotten more beautiful since the last time I saw you.”

  “I look like you.”

  Her mother’s smile held more sadness than happiness. They were so close in appearance it was obvious they were mother and daughter. Not sisters, but only because Chloe’s early life had aged her.

  “I saw the expression on your face when you greeted the girls,” Chloe said, her voice soft. “You could have the same thing I’ve found here. There are single men in the Fellowship who would make good husbands, good fathers. You could live with us until you settled on one of them and married. Your house could be attached to ours. The girls would love having a big sister. I would love having my oldest daughter here, where her soul would no longer be in peril.”

  Rebekka took her mother’s hands in hers. She rubbed her thumb against the crosses branded into her mother’s skin—self-inflicted in the ecstasy of worship. Her gaze flickered over the deep wooden boxes running along one wall, their tops covered in mesh to prevent the rattlesnakes they contained from escaping and curious children from getting bitten.