up and down her body as if he was checking that she
was unharmed. Then he looked at the food she hadn't touched and frowned like he disapproved.
«Didn't we just do this?» Red Sox murmured to the patient. « 'Cept I was the guy in the bed?
How about we call it even now and not pull this wounded shit anymore.»
Those icy bright eyes left her and shifted to his buddy. The frown didn't leave his face. «You
look like hell.»
«And you're Miss America.»
The patient brought his other arm out of the sheets like the thing weighed as much as a piano.
«Help me get my glove off-«
«Forget it. You're not ready.»
«You're getting worse.»
«Tomorrow-«
«Now. We do it now.» The patient's voice lowered to a whisper. «In another day you won't be
able to stand. You know what happens.»
Red Sox dropped his head until it hung like a bag of flour off his neck. Then he cursed softly and
reached for the patient's gloved hand.
Jane backed away until she hit the chair she'd been passed out in. That hand had put her nurse
flat on the floor with a seizure, and yet the two men were both going about their business like
contact with that thing was no big deal.
Red Sox gently worked the black leather free, revealing a hand covered with tattoos. Good God,
the skin seemed to glow.
«Come here,» the patient said, opening his arms wide to the other man. «Lay with me.»
Jane's breath stopped in her chest.
Cormia walked the halls of the adytum, her bare feet silent, her white robe making no sound, her
very breath passing in and out of her lungs with nary a sigh to note its travels. It was thus that
she ambulated as a Chosen should, casting no shadow to eye nor whisper to ear.
Except she had a personal purpose, and that was wrong. As a Chosen you were to serve the
Scribe Virgin at all times, your intentions always for Her.
Cormia's own need was such as to be undeniable, however.
The Temple of Books was at the end of a long colonnade and its double doors were always open.
Of all the sanctuary's buildings, even the one that contained the gems, this held the most prized
lot: Herein rested the Scribe Virgin's records of the race, a diary that was of incomprehensible
scope, spanning thousands of years. Dictated by Her Holiness to specially trained Chosen, the
labor of love was a testament of both history and faith.
Inside the ivory wall, in the glow of white candles Cormia padded over the marble floor, passing
countless stacks, walking faster and faster as she got more anxious. The diary's volumes were
arranged chronologically, and within each year by social class, but what she was after wouldn't
be in this general section.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she ducked down a corridor and
came up to a glossy red door. In the middle of the panels was a depiction of two black daggers
crossed at the blade, handles down. Around the hilts in gold leaf was a sacred motto in the Old
Language:
The Black Dagger Brotherhood
To Defend and Protect
Our Mother, Our race, Our Brothers
Her hand shook as she put it on the golden handle. This area was restricted, and if she was
caught she would be punished, but she cared naught. Even as she feared the quest she was on,
she could no longer bear her lack of knowledge.
The room was of stately size and proportion, its high ceiling gold leafed, its stacks not white but
shiny black. The books ringing the walls were bound in black leather, their spines marked in
gold that reflected the light from candles the color of shadows. The carpet on the floor was
bloodred and soft as a pelt.
The air had a smell here that was not usual, the scent recalling certain spices. She had a feeling it
was because the Brothers had actually come to this room on occasion and had lingered among
their history, taking books out, perhaps about themselves, perhaps about their forebears. She
tried to imagine them here and couldn't, as she'd never seen one of them. She had never seen a
male in person, actually.
Cormia worked fast to discover the order of the volumes. It appeared that they were arranged by
year-Oh, wait. There was a biography section, as well.
She knelt down. Each set of these volumes was marked with a number and the name of the
Brother, along with his paternal lineage. The first of them was an ancient tome bearing symbols
with an archaic variation she recalled from some of the oldest parts of the Scribe Virgin's diary.
This initial warrior had several books
| <<Previous page | |
Next page>> |