The Silver Scar Page 15

  Trinidad rolled up the leg of his trousers. Roman undid the binding and shook his head at the swelling. “You never could wrap a joint worth a shit.”

  Trinidad grimaced as Roman probed his knee with his callused fingers. “You think Marius will tell anyone else the truth about all this? I mean, she already lied. She said an angel gave her the scar.”

  Roman considered as he positioned coldtape and buried it under a thin, neat wrap. He shook his head. “Mark my words, that woman wants something that has nothing to do with God.”

  “Melodrama aside,” Trinidad said, relaxing a little as the coldtape eased the ache in his knee. “The sand does heal.”

  “Don’t back sass me, boy,” Roman said as he finished abusing Trinidad’s wounds. “You’re the one gimping around like you went eight rounds with a sledgehammer. Where’s your sand now?”

  Stupid. He should have healed himself in the Barren. But he’d been too wrapped up in Castile.

  “I have go talk to Father Troy,” Trinidad answered, reaching for his jacket. “Make sure he’s all right. Maybe he has an idea on how to stop the bishop. Now that she knows what the sand does, she can use it in the crusade to heal her soldiers.”

  “You’re one of those soldiers, if you’ve forgotten. But you’d rather get yourself executed for treason.”

  “Marius is going to take us to war over a graveyard we can only reach through Wiccan magic. With an army that can be healed at will. Don’t you understand what that means?” It was on the tip of his tongue to say he himself could rove, that Marius wouldn’t kill him because she needed him.

  But Roman shook his head. “That you’re raving crazy, the whole lot of you, with your gods and angels and magical healing graveyard.”

  Trinidad considered, but didn’t yank up his shirt. The silver pentacle shamed him. Or maybe it was admitting again that he’d let Indigos kill Daniel and capture him, that he’d been tortured, that he’d aligned himself with a Wiccan ecoterr, of all people. But he settled for a shrug. “Sometimes I forget you don’t believe.”

  “Oh, I believe, boy, in what assholes people are to each other in the name of God. He’s plenty real as far as that goes.” The armsmaster peeled back his lips in a scowl and started digging in one of his boxes. He came up with a grappling hook and a line.

  “You work for the Church,” Trinidad said sullenly.

  “I’m in it for money, and they’re the only ones who got any.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Roman squinted at Bishop Marius. “What’s this about?”

  She stared at him, taken back by his lack of manners. He’d come to see her immediately when requested. But he didn’t take a knee or drop his chin or even address her properly as “Your Grace.” He just barked the question at her as if she worked for him.

  “We got the idea Trinidad might come see you today,” she said.

  “He already did.”

  Her brows lifted before she could stop the surprise from registering on her face. “Where is he now?”

  “He knows the priest is alive. He’s gone to see him.”

  She leaned back in her chair, trying not to wince. Her back ached. A storm must be building. “Why are you here? I thought you were fond of the boy.”

  “Boy? You’ve seen him fight.” Roman settled, feet spread like he was about to swing a sword. “Trinidad is a good man. Always has been. He’s got himself into some trouble, apparently, if there’s any truth to the tale he told me today. But it’s a rare thing for him.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “A lot of nonsense.” He glanced at her forehead.

  Damn. “Such as?”

  “Wiccy magic. Walking in dreams. Killing an archwarden.”

  Killing an archwarden? Oh, God. Paul…. Hurt flared deep inside her breast, her heart clenching in agony until she wondered if the silence meant it had stopped.

  Roman gave a sage nod. “Yeah. It’s enough to make me think maybe some of it is true. Trinidad is solid. But he has always been … emotional. The sooner you take him to heel, the better.”

  “He seems quiet,” she observed.

  “Until he picks up a weapon.”

  She rose and stretched out her hand. “Thank you.”

  He took it in his rough fingers and gave her businesslike shake. “No thanks necessary. Just my pay.”

  She studied him. “Done. And more than we agreed upon, if I’ve more use for you.”

  Roman left the priest’s office. Marius sat back down and crossed her arms. She could think of a half-dozen tasks for Roman that had nothing to do with Trinidad. Fortunately, he was motivated by something she had plenty of: money. She clapped her hands, a sharp crack in the still air.

  Seth filled the doorway. “Your Grace?”

  “Trinidad has gone to the hospital. It’s time for him to come home, where he belongs.”

  The shadow of a frown crossed Seth’s face. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Remember Trinidad is your brother. Also remember he has worked against me and is very dangerous.”

  Another nod and Seth disappeared.

  Bishop Marius fingered the gold cross hanging between her breasts. Seth didn’t much like collecting his errant brother-in-arms, she could see. But he seemed smart enough to go along with her orders. And maybe it wasn’t all coercion. After all, Seth bore the crimson cross. He was destined for crusade and that meant tearing down all barriers to Christ, including brothers-in-arms.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Early afternoon shadows were short, not giving Trinidad much cover. As he stood in the alley across the street from the hospital watching the carriageway leading to Emergency, he realized he was just assuming Father Troy was still there. But he had to be. Where else would they have taken him if they meant to keep him alive? He had been hurt, badly.

  The hospital was a heavily marshaled area because of the defenselessness of the sick, and it had been hit by homemade mortars often, back when things were really ugly with the ecoterrs. Things had quieted in the past couple of years but Trinidad expected more patrols with the parish on the brink of crusade.

  He circled the building, seeking the quieter service entrance. He’d come in that way once, after a dray had been blown to bits by a road bomb and the rest of the caravan’s goods had been jacked by Indigos. Two civilians and an archwarden had died that day. Trinidad had taken an arrow in his calf. The raid had been demoralizing to the Order and devastating to the town. He hadn’t wanted any parishioners to see him injured and bleeding. He figured he was in even worse shape tonight, as he limped along on his swollen knee, head still aching from getting knocked out, Roman’s cheap whiskey gnawing on his stomach lining. If Castile hadn’t so quickly distracted him, he’d have healed his sore knee in the Barren.

  Castile. His own hurts were nothing in comparison.

  He kept studying the hospital, but no one else clung to the shadows. He shuffled across the dark street, but as he reached the building, the door on the raised loading dock creaked.

  Trinidad crouched and pressed his back against the wall beneath the loading dock, gaining only four feet of cover. His instinct told him to thrust upward and take out whoever lingered above with a single blow. But, familiar with the feeling, he argued instinct with logic. Probably a nurse or doc having a break.

  The scent of cigarette smoke drifted down to him. How had a hospital worker gotten actual tobacco? Trade with the Midwest and South was infrequent at best, and it had been months since a caravan of luxury goods had even attempted Boulder. Businesses couldn’t afford mercenary dray fees and many regulars had given up their routes. Life and limb weren’t worth what the parishes paid to run trade. He frowned, considering. Only marshals were in a position to get such goods, taken as gate bribes. Or archwardens, who might trade for their silence.

  The smoker took idle steps in his direction. Trinidad’s hand crept toward the knife on his belt. If he had to go through a marshal to get to Father Troy, so be it.

  Then he heard t
he door creak again and a question in a sharp female voice: “All right out here, Collins?”

  The smoker coughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Keep a close watch until the patrol comes around again.” Sounds of footsteps carried her away.

  “Ma’am.” Collins muttered something under his breath.

  Trinidad released a slow breath. Keep a close watch.

  A cigarette fell over the edge of the platform, tumbling amid sparks, missing him by inches. Trinidad heard the rustle of paper as the marshal rolled another. He wasn’t going anywhere, not until the patrol showed.

  He chose his knife for silence, eased it from its sheath, and tipped his head up to listen for Collins pacing to fade back toward the building. As it did, he turned and hoisted himself up onto the chest-high platform, sizing up the broad-shouldered marshal clad in dark fatigues.

  Roman’s grappling hook scraped and jangled against the concrete. The marshal turned. Trinidad scrambled forward and tackled him at the knees. He threw himself on the man and stretched his knife up to press it to the marshal’s jugular. The marshal reached for his pistol; Trinidad beat him to it with his other hand, keeping the knife snug against the man’s throat.

  “Quiet now.” Trinidad was bigger, stronger. The man struggled again, and Trinidad wound his leg around the marshal’s and used his weight as leverage. “The patrol. How long?”

  “You’re him, the Wiccan arch—”

  Trinidad tightened the bite of the knife, strangling the words as his blade raised blood. “Focus. The patrol.”

  “A minute,” the marshal said, sounding choked. “Maybe less.”

  Trinidad shifted up on Collin’s body until their faces were very close. He angled his other forearm against the marshal’s jugular, using his weight and his legs to hold him down. The marshal bucked and fought beneath him, knowing what was coming. Trinidad rode the struggle in silence. The knife slipped and sliced Collin’s skin. Blood welled, slippery under Trinidad’s bracer. Seconds ticked off like hours as the marshal weakened and finally slumped beneath him. More seconds passed. Trinidad gritted his teeth, knowing he should kill him. And then he thought of Castile in that cell. He was going to die at the hands of archwardens. He had to move before the marshal came to.

  He quickly propped open the door to the storeroom. Let them think he went that way. He assembled his line and threw the hook upward. It fell back at him, clattering to the concrete. He had to jump aside to avoid getting knocked in the head. Two stories. That’s all. He let out more line and threw again. It caught and he forced his sore body into the climb.

  Old cigarette butts, trash, and broken cups scattered the ashy gravel on the flat rooftop. Filthy snow blanketed the corners where sun never hit. For a moment he just breathed.

  Below, the door scraped the platform as someone shoved it open. A shout. Boots thudded on the pavement. Trinidad snaked the line upward, wondering if they saw it. He had to assume they did. Keeping low, he ran toward the center of the roof. He stashed his rope and hook in a pile of trash trapped by the raised stairwell in case he needed to climb back down. Then he tried the door. Locked, of course, but with a bolt and pin. He felt in his pocket for his torsion wrench and pick, old tricks from Roman. Within seconds, the lock clicked open. He left the bolt out and let the door rest on it.

  He started down the silent stairwell, one hand wrapped around his gun, all the while wondering how he was supposed to find a man who wasn’t supposed to be here, who wasn’t even supposed to be alive. He had the room number where Roman had seen Father Troy, but what if they’d moved him?

  He cut off that line of thought. Roman always said fatalism got you nowhere.

  Trinidad stopped at a door leading from the stairwell and listened. When he heard nothing, he slipped out the door. The corridor, for the moment, was empty. Most of the doors were closed. He started down the hall and heard voices from around a corner. He turned and went the other direction. Two rooms back he found a custodian’s closet and slipped inside. He pressed his back against the door, hand firm on the lever in case anyone tried it.

  “All’s quiet so far, lieutenant,” a voice said, accompanying footsteps. “He might’ve given up and left.”

  “No,” replied a female voice. “We’ve received official word. He’s coming here. Carry on looking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Official word. Only Roman knew Trinidad would come here. He leaned his head back against the door, feeling sick. No, not Roman. He didn’t know if he could stand the thought of another friend tortured.

  Trinidad realized he was holding his breath and let the air ease from his chest. He felt around for a light switch and flipped it, hoping against hope they weren’t in a blackout. It obediently brightened the room with a dim flicker. Of course the generators were more reliable at the hospital.

  Shelves climbed to the ceiling, mostly empty. Mop buckets cluttered one corner. Someone had hung a small mirror between shelves. He peered at himself and grimaced. A bruise shadowed his cheekbone. Several cuts showed behind the clear glue Roman had applied and the edge of the cross peeked from between his drawn brows. He pulled down his hat and turned away to find something to wrap around his sword. A laundry bag made an odd-shaped bundle, and he buttoned his jacket over his armor.

  An alarm crackled through speakers as he stepped back into the hall. Trinidad went cold at the rusty wail. Two nurses barely glanced at him as they trotted down the hall pushing a cart, and they disappeared through a doorway into the room next to Father Troy’s. The door whooshed closed and latched, concealing them within, and Trinidad’s shoulders dropped slightly in relief.

  Trinidad tried Father Troy’s door. Locked. He got out his tools again and reached for the door, but the female nurse reappeared with a clanking of door latches. He stepped back, palming his torsion wrench and watched her take in the bruises on his face.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone brusque.

  “I’m just … no, thanks.”

  She gave him another look. “You all right? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

  “With a set of stairs,” Trinidad said, aiming for an embarrassed smile.

  She gave him a tentative smile back. “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

  Trinidad decided he had to take the risk. He could neutralize her if it came to it. “Well, actually. I guess I’m a little lost. I’m looking for my dad. He’s supposed to be next door and it won’t open.”

  “It happens.” She turned and peered at the scribbled chart next to the door. “The orders say no visitors.”

  “I just wanted to bring him his cane.” He hefted the laundry bag, keeping the tattoo on the back of his hand twisted away from her. “And you know. Check on him. I won’t stay long.”

  She looked him over again and sighed. “All right. If you wait here, I’ll just finish inside and get the key for the room.”

  “Thanks,” Trinidad said, but his heart thudded a vague alarm. Was she just buying time to call the marshals?

  She disappeared back in the room next to Father Troy’s, if he was still there. He looked up and down the empty hall and slapped his hands against his thighs. He pressed his ear against the door, but all the conversation inside seemed medical, ending with: “I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped back as the door opened.

  “Have we met? Around here, maybe?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She gave a little shrug and turned to the write-pad. “Too bad.”

  It occurred to him she must be flirting with him. He gripped his sword hilt through the bag. She’d remember him. A problem. But she was opening Father Troy’s door. “Is this your father?”

  Father Troy lay on his back, eyes closed. When the door opened, he turned his head. He opened his mouth to speak and reached out.

  “Dad, there you are.” Trinidad turned back to the nurse, his relief genuine. “Thank you.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  Tr
inidad didn’t move until the door had latched behind her. He quickly locked the door. Then he stepped forward, taking the priest’s outstretched hand. “Thank God you’re all right. They told me you were dead.”

  The priest’s breathless voice held the same dry wit as ever. “Not just yet.”

  Tubes snaked from under Father Troy’s blankets. His skin felt papery and cold, his fingers limp. Trinidad shifted his gaze to stare past the priest out the darkened windows. He caught a street comber’s light below, flashing yellow.

  Father Troy sighed and studied Trinidad’s bruised face with his watery eyes. “What happened to you?”

  Trinidad sank onto a stool, still holding Father Troy’s hand. “Bishop Marius had Lord Hawk murdered. I got caught off guard when I found his body.” He couldn’t tell him all of it, couldn’t tell him about Seth and Malachi. It would hurt the priest too badly. “I can’t stay long, Father. They’re looking for me.”

  “There’s more. I can see it in your face.”

  Trinidad made himself meet Father Troy’s eyes. “I killed Paul, Father. In the Barren. He attacked us and Castile wasn’t armed …”

  “Pray, my son. Christ will forgive you.”

  No. Not this time. He swallowed before forging ahead. “Marius has Castile. They tortured him.”

  Father Troy stirred, his hand squeezing Trinidad’s. “He’s stronger than he appears. Has he told you of prison?”

  “A little. I know it was rough. I mean, it had to be—”

  “Castile knew a man called Windigo there.”

  Trinidad felt cold. Something in the priest’s tone. “An ecoterr?”

  “No. A slaver.”

  Trinidad shook his head, but his stomach twisted. “I don’t understand.”

  “Son, yes, you do.” Father Troy shifted uncomfortably, a grimace parting his beard. “Windigo was powerful within the prison. He found Castile in his first few days. He kept Castile alive, and also kept him as a slave. Do you take my meaning?”