The Silver Scar Page 14

  Reine cursed inwardly but steeled herself to keep calm. “You sure?”

  “It ain’t Greek, Queen,” Cur said around a bite of stew. “Fuckin were pretty crystal on it.”

  Javelot’s eyes narrowed, but Reine waved off the impertinence.

  “One more thing. Fresh word on Trinidad. Rumor says he lost it for good now, out for blood, I guess.” Cur spat out a bite of gristle. “Shoulda killed him when we had the chance.”

  “That meal is from his bounty stores,” Reine said coldly.

  Cur shrugged, kept tucking in.

  Reine turned her back on them and climbed the steps to her house but left the door open. After a low exchange outside, she heard boots on the steps behind her. She choked down a gulp from her jug and turned to offer it to Javelot.

  Javelot swallowed without expression. “It’s time for the Israel job, Reine.”

  Reine frowned. “We don’t even know if it will work.”

  “When’d you ever know Papa Roi to fail?”

  “Sure. The chemwipe’ll work. Can’t undo that. But we have to get to him, right? And the explosives could be dead, wet, found. Movin around inparish is a bitch at the best of times.” It was a dangerous, desperate trick, blowing up buildings inparish.

  Javelot punched her fist into her palm. “I knew it. You’re goin soft.”

  Reine tightened a noose around her anger, her fingers instinctively finding the knife at her belt and slipping it far enough out of the sheath to press an already open cut on her fingertip to the sharp blade. “No. I’m thinkin things through. You pull that trigger, you can’t get the bullet back.”

  Javelot shook her head. “You sound like Papa Roi.”

  Reine blinked slowly at her sister. “I’m runnin the tribe, like he did. Fuckin stands to reason I sound like him.”

  “You’re never cutthroat enough. Not like Papa Roi. After Papa died, you said we’d go after Trinidad. Said he was mine. And then you sold him to Cave Coven—”

  “You fuckin want us to starve to death over a grudge? Maybe Papa Roi would starve the tribe. Maybe you would, too. But it ain’t your choice, is it? Or his.”

  “Because Trinidad killed him!”

  “Trinidad won this round, Jav. Let it go. We have to look at the whole war.”

  “You said the crusaders would go around us. You said the Bishop told you—”

  “I don’t trust her. Not anymore.”

  Javelot lifted her chin. “Fuckin about time.”

  I’m doin the best I know. Can’t you see that? Reine scowled, not hiding her anger this time. Javelot ducked her head. But she muttered, “We’re goin to war. We need weapons. And Israel is the best we got.”

  Their father-king had planned years for this moment, strained his skills at chemwiping and explosives, even brought Reine in as a back-up trigger. But now that the time had arrived, it felt wrong. Like a trap. Like she’d missed a piece of a puzzle.

  “You don’t have to go alone,” Javelot added. “I’ll come, too.”

  Reine yanked her knife from its sheath and openly sliced it across another sensitive fingertip, letting the sting take over. Javelot shifted from foot to foot and frowned while the blood welled up but said nothing.

  The sting pinpointed Reine’s focus. They were out of options. She didn’t like it, but Javelot was right. It was time.

  “All right. Israel.” She pointed her bloody knife at Javelot. “But I go alone.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Malachi and Seth kept some distance between them while preparing to take the cross. Marius found that vaguely odd. Maybe it was the formality of the ritual. But they were compliant and obedient as they knelt and presented their swords to her and God.

  Seth shifted on his knees as she laid the crusader’s cloak over his back and kept his gaze cast down. Malachi raised up slightly, shoulders stiff, to receive his cloak. The crimson crosses glared against the shadow of black wool enfolding them.

  The congregation had fallen still and silent, staring at the two kneeling archwardens bedecked with the raiment of their new rank. Some stood with hands spread, pale, rapt faces tilted to the darkness of the arched ceilings overhead. Several had knelt already, indicating their wish to take the cross. Her archwardens ghosted among them, laying red woolen crosses on their shoulders. At a distance, they looked like fresh wounds.

  Marius lowered her head, considered a smile, and settled for solemn instead. She raised her voice to let it carry to the back of the sanctuary. It rang off the old polished paneling and stone pillars.

  “Do you take this vow freely, in exchange for grace in life and the glory of Heaven in death?”

  “I do.” Seth spoke softly. But the crowd more than made up for it. Several dropped to their knees and spread their hands, seeking grace in crusade.

  “Indeed, I do, Your Grace,” Malachi said. More congregants took a knee.

  “Will you freely and joyfully lay down your lives for Christ?” A renewal of their archwarden vow.

  “I will.” Louder, that.

  She laid a hand on each of their heads. Their cropped hair was soft beneath her fingers. “None can overcome those who bear the mark of Christ. You wade in protected waters, you stride fields of grace, your swords shall not falter. As Jesus said: If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.” She lifted her hand and signed the cross over them. “Rise, reborn, Christ’s warriors.”

  The crowd clapped and a low, swelling cheer rose up, a few already wielding weapons, even more kneeling as passion for the crusade moved them.

  Bishop Marius sank down on a chair in Father Troy’s office. Books, guttered candles, scattered papers, and dust surrounded her. How could anyone live like this?

  Seth stood at ease before her, hands clasped behind his back under his newly adorned cloak. Malachi kept to one side and back a little. She hadn’t noticed his bruised cheek before, in the dim candlelight of the sanctuary.

  “It becomes you, the cloak,” she said.

  Seth dipped his chin. Malachi didn’t move.

  She sighed. To business then. “You eliminated Hawk?”

  Seth grunted. “We couldn’t get him to tell us where the coven is, Your Grace.”

  “Then we must find another way.”

  The cross tattooed on his forehead distorted briefly as his brow furrowed. “Castile must tell us the location, lest his soldiers surprise us when we least expect it.”

  She sniffed. Scarcely an hour before hundreds of people had taken the cross. She itched to join her soldiers and launch the fight. “How many can they be?”

  Seth shrugged. “Twenty? Forty? A hundred? But they could join with other covens. We just don’t know and Castile has proved resistant to … persuasion.”

  “Trinidad grew up in the coven. He might have a sense of their numbers and the location of the cave.”

  Malachi’s nostrils flared and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “We spoke this morning at the church. He agreed then to take the cross.”

  Indeed. “Then why wasn’t he at the ceremony?”

  Seth’s gaze skittered and landed back on her face. “He is taking Father Troy’s loss very hard. But he’s always been devout, dedicated to the Church. Given some time—”

  “We don’t have time.” She smoothed her hands over her robes. “It was a powerful thing you did, taking the cross. But think what it would have meant if Trinidad had knelt with you. A Wiccan convert swearing to wipe out God’s enemies, some of whom are his former friends, perhaps even his family.”

  “Trinidad came inparish when he was quite young, likely before he ever really embraced witchcraft. He never speaks of the coven, he severed all ties—”

  “And yet he turns up with Castile, a known terrorist, a man from his coven. Pay attention, archwarden. They are conspiring to stop the crusade, to spare unbelievers even at the expense of the faithful. They wouldn�
�t attempt it unless the coven had a significant fighting force.” She paused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Trinidad was a spy all along.”

  Malachi lowered his eyes, his lips in a hard line.

  Seth shook his head. “I can’t believe that of him. I’ve known Trinidad for years, Your Grace. And what his parents did—”

  “Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think. After all, Trinidad can—” She stopped, blinking at her near slip. Seth and Malachi knew nothing of the Barren, nothing of roving. “You have something to say, Malachi?”

  Malachi glanced at Seth and drew in a breath. “It is my feeling Trinidad is unduly influenced by witchcraft. Maybe even worse. Maybe even demons or Satan have their claws in him.”

  She raised her brows. “Indeed. And what makes you think this?”

  “Seth is right. He’s usually loyal, steadfast. Suddenly he isn’t.”

  Well. It was one theory. She left it to examine later. “Where is he now?”

  Seth hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  She let her gaze flick to Malachi. “You let him get away?”

  Malachi glanced at Seth.

  “We were not under orders to hold him, Your Grace,” Seth said.

  She should have locked Trinidad up in the cell next to the Wiccan, let him listen to the screams and confession. “I understand Trinidad is your friend. But surely you know God requires sacrifice.”

  Seth blinked at her. “Father Troy taught us faith is not only based in action, Your Grace. It is based in belief. In a true heart.”

  “God wills us to have faith in Him, but not in each other. Only by action can we know what a man believes. Trinidad let harm come to his priest, he broke his vows, he gave aid and comfort to our enemy. Do these seem the actions of a faithful man?” This she directed to Malachi.

  Malachi cleared his throat. “No, Your Grace.”

  “I’ll ask Wolf his opinion,” Seth said. “He’s closest to Trinidad—”

  “Don’t bother. He’s too loyal to Trinidad, likely at the expense of his devotion to the Church.” Wolf was a problem for another day. “You must know Trinidad’s haunts. Find him. Bring him to heel. Make him understand he must take the cross publicly to prove his loyalty.”

  “Or?” Malachi asked.

  She raised her brows. “Or he may join his Wiccan friend in jail to await trial for treason. Those are his choices. See he makes the right one.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Roman opened the door to his apartment and scowled at Trinidad before pulling him through the door by the scruff of his neck and yanking him close for a hug. The quick motion made Trinidad’s head throb, and the sudden weight on his banged knee made him bite back a moan.

  “Come in and tell me what you did to the other guy.” Roman turned and led the way down a narrow hall lined with boxes—mostly old weapons and books, Trinidad knew—into the galley kitchen.

  The apartment had been decent a half-century before. Now the walls were as battle-scarred as their owner. Boards covered all the windows but the small one at the end of the galley kitchen. Roman opened the window and pulled a bottle from a box bolted to the wall outside. After pouring, he turned to Trinidad with a chipped glass in his hand.

  “Milk?” Trinidad took it. “Where’d you get milk?”

  Roman shrugged, a motion made tight by an old bullet wound in his shoulder. “I know a girl with a goat.”

  Trinidad raised his brows. “Wiccan?”

  “What do I care who the goat prays to. Hungry?”

  Trinidad thought of Hawk’s brutalized body and swallowed hard. “Starved,” he lied.

  Roman waved him out of the way with a spatula. Trinidad retreated to a hard metal stool in the corner while his armsmaster yanked items from a cabinet.

  “You have enough food to feed the school for a week,” Trinidad said. “You think we’re in Revelations already?”

  Roman threw him a red-eyed glare and bared his teeth. “Don’t taunt me with that Bible bullshit. You know better, boy. Talk.”

  Before Trinidad could even wonder where to start, words spilled from his mouth. “Daniel is dead. Indigos. They captured me and sold my bounty to a Wiccan coven in the mountains. Except, when I got there, Father Troy …”

  Roman didn’t pause in his cooking as Trinidad told the whole story, even when he slipped up and told about the Barren and killing Paul, even when he told of the harrowing ride back to town. Roman didn’t flinch when he heard Father Troy was dead; he just put out plates and filled them. He shoveled food into his mouth as Trinidad talked between bites, describing Wolf’s grief, the Bishop’s ire, archwardens torturing Castile, roving and dreamscapes and the Barren, and Seth and Malachi, who had caught him off guard.

  “Why didn’t they kill me?” he asked by way of conclusion. “Or take me back?”

  “Maybe you still have some friends inparish,” Roman said. “Seth has always been solid.”

  Trinidad pushed his plate back and stretched, wincing at his various bruises. He contemplated lying down on the floor, just for a minute. Soldiers never sleep in war, Roman liked to say. The ones who want to live, anyway. At this point, Trinidad thought a nap might be worth a trade on his life.

  Roman stuck out his hand. Pale scars crisscrossed the skin on his forearm—cuts from years of practice and battle. “Sword.”

  Trinidad reached back for it, wincing at a bolt of pain in his shoulder, and handed it over. “Never got a chance to really clean it,” he said in half-hearted apology.

  Roman tsked as he ran his finger down the cross etched into the blade, scraping away dried blood—Paul’s blood—with his fingernail. “Father Troy is not dead.”

  Trinidad had to battle the food in his stomach from coming back up. He met Roman’s eyes and half-rose from his chair, ready to challenge the lie.

  Battle wounds, cancer scars, and wrinkles marred Roman’s face. His hair was shorn close to his head, a cap of graying fuzz. But hard muscles still bulged under his shirt. Roman could take him. Especially in this condition. Trinidad broke their stare first.

  “Marius is a lying bitch,” Roman said. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that the cross doesn’t protect anybody from what really they are?” Even you. He’d said it enough in the past that Trinidad filled in the words even though Roman didn’t add them this time.

  “But …” He paused, unaccustomed to questioning Roman. It was a hard habit to break. “How do you know?”

  “Saw the old man this morning, didn’t I? Contacts at the hospital told me he was there. Even so, it was a circus trick getting past security. All that hassle, and he just caws at me about keeping you out of trouble—too damned late for that—and that you’d be along, yapping about some Wiccy nonsense. About another world. I figured it was the drugs talking but turns out maybe I was wrong.”

  Trinidad shook his head. “You actually believe me?”

  “The bishop has that weird scar.” Roman drained the rest of the dark liquor in his glass. “And if your condition is any indication, some brand of serious shit is going down.”

  Trinidad leaned back, an arm across his middle as if to ward against another blow. His head ached and now that his belly was full, he felt tired and blurry. Between his sore body and the dim apartment, it felt like evening rather than midmorning. “Why would the bishop lie to me about Father Troy? She had to have known I’d find out.”

  “Obviously, she wanted you to keep away from Troy, even if it meant selling her soul to do it.” Roman’s lips twisted at his own joke. But his tongue flicked across his chipped tooth. His tell. The bishop’s lie disturbed him more deeply than he was letting on.

  Trinidad failed to see the humor. “I did kill Paul.”

  “So you said.” Roman said. “But he came after you first, right? Nothing you could do about it. Marius can’t prove anything. You weren’t even in the church at the time.”

  “That’s what Castile said.” Trinidad shook his head and rubbed his face.

>   “He’s one to avoid, the ecoterr.”

  “I can’t, not now. I have to get him out somehow.”

  “The man is an ecoterr. It’s like you want to be tried for treason.”

  “Castile is changed. He knew what would happen if he came back inparish. He seemed scared at first. Then he acted almost like he deliberately got caught so he could find out what the bishop knows.”

  “Torture in the screamwing is a hell of a price to pay for a little intel,” Roman admitted. “Got to respect a man who’ll put himself through that.”

  Trinidad flexed both hands and wished the meal had made his stomach feel better. He couldn’t make himself tell Roman the worst of the price Castile was paying. But Roman was also wise to their ways.

  “Can I have a whiskey?” he asked instead.

  Roman picked up his plate and headed for the kitchen, returned with two bottles: whiskey and antiseptic. “Look, I don’t get what all this is about or why you can’t just take the cross like a good little archwarden, but they’ll come after you again. You better be ready for it.”

  Trinidad nodded absently, his mind racing around what the bishop might do next. Castile seemed so certain she’d come after Trinidad, take him captive. Even Roman seemed worried. They were probably right. If Trinidad kept low, maybe the Bishop would just get on with her war. He swallowed the whiskey down but the burn didn’t wash away his distaste at the crusade. A Church-funded army would crush every Indigo and witch in its path.

  He’d never liked the idea of crusade. It held no romance for him, only the sickening scent of blood. He would have followed his order and fought, though, convinced that in the end, the Christians were in the right.

  But now … after Castile … he had no idea who was right. The Indigos who carved the pentacle in his chest? Castile, who had been an ecoterr? Or his own order, who had tortured Castile and murdered Hawk? He had no idea where to turn next. He needed help. Advice.

  He needed Father Troy.

  Roman pressed a cloth to Trinidad’s forehead and the sting of the antiseptic brought him back. “Ow.”

  “Hold the fuck still.” Roman grabbed the back of Trinidad’s head and rubbed sealant glue into the cuts over his eye and on his cheekbone. “Now. Show me your knee. Don’t give me that look, you’re favoring it.”