'Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means harm you.' He said.
Andy stood rooted to the spot and utterly terrified by what he saw.
Cy leaned and retrieved the first of the fallen snakes.
'So says the Gospel of Luke,' Longman muttered, the words only a momentary break in the chanting, rhythmic susurrus of the incantation that fell from his lips.
He returned to his work, and Cyrus, a snake in each hand, watched Andy intently. The small man backed slowly out the door, his eyes locked on Longman, and the snakes.
'I...'
He stumbled back, caught his heel on the jamb and the door swung shut behind him as he toppled into the darkness, leaving the wagon to its silence.
There were no further disturbances. Drop by drop Longman gathered the poison. Cy watched, waited, and when they were drained, carried the serpents to their crate.
On the stroke of midnight, the door opened, and Cy climbed down the steps silently. Andy stared up at his friend, a question on his lips. He bit it back.
'The Deacon said to report to him when you were done, I…'
'His will be done,' Cy intoned.
Andy turned away in silence, and walked back to their tent. In Longman's wagon, the lights burned flickered and danced.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Deacon sat at his desk reading. The light of his lantern flickered gently, and shadows played across the walls. Colleen sat on her bed, soothing the child. In another place and another time it might have been an idyllic slice of domesticity, but not here, not now. Certain things set it apart, little details. Anyone watching, though they might at first be taken in, would not be long in catching the chips and smears in the paint of normalcy.
The book was bound in leather with gold gilt print on the spine. From a distance it looked like a Bible. It was not. The Deacon ran his finger over the words, first along the lines as though reading them by touch and then down the length of the page, skimming. He was not sure what he was looking for, but it was there, hidden in the words, and he was obsessed with finding it. What he planned was unprecedented. That could mean he was a genius for conceiving such a bold plan, or, more worryingly, a fool for missing the reason why those others before him had decided against it. The Deacon did not believe he was anybody’s fool.
The book was hand-lettered. It had been pieced together from older scrolls and then translated from the original Greek by an alchemist named Bell more than a hundred years before. The language was archaic and all the more cryptic for it, but the text was also incredibly detailed. The Deacon had read the book from cover to cover more than once, and he’d learned a lot – both from Bell’s knowledge, and, tellingly, from his oversights.
This time he was reading in search of more obscure references. He was looking for any indication of a particular ritual, performed in a particular manner. He was looking for horrible failure, ultimate damnation – he’d been through every volume in his library in the span of two days. There was nothing. He thought of Longman’s Tarot cards. More precisely, he thought of 'The Fool,' stepping off a cliff into an unknown void with a mongrel dog snapping at his pants.
Every time Colleen rocked closer to him, the pouch strung around his neck twitched. It wasn’t regular enough to be rhythmic. It distracted him, and more than once he turned to snap at her, but each time he bit back the words.
He didn’t want the baby to wake. After a while he closed the book, sat, and stared. The child was resting quietly, nestled against Colleen’s breast. His form was nearly perfect. He – it -- had a symmetrical body, all the proper limbs and digits, a pleasant face. It was possible to make the mistake of believing one's eyes were honest. And for that moment the Deacon might have been looking at a young mother and her child.
But the Deacon didn’t believe the lies of sight. He didn’t balk at the creature’s gaze, he met it eye to eye, truth for truth, and whatever it might be, whatever it might become, he knew it was no innocent child Colleen cradled to her teat. It was hard to reconcile what he knew with any sort of child. He had looked deeper into the darkness of its eyes. He had drawn it forth from its mother.
The Deacon’s life, to that point, had been a series of events beyond his control bound by long periods of time where he was in absolute control. The talisman he wore was as much a curse as it was a gift. He had come to believe it had its own agenda. From the moment he’d come to this realization he’d been making his own plans. It was one thing to be trapped in a sequence of events beyond your control but it was an entirely different thing to surrender to that fate willingly. He had no idea if his labors would bear fruit, but he knew on a level bone-deep that the child – the creature – across the floor from him had its part to play.
His fingers strayed to the pouch as though seeking comfort from its contents. The Talisman had been trusted to him by a woman. It seemed that no matter what direction fate drove his life, women were doing the pushing. He’d been traveling alone when he came upon the camp of a traveling evangelist. The Deacon had seen the wagon from a distance, all lit up by the cheery fire that burned in front of it. He had walked through rain and shadows to warm himself on that blaze.
He tried to concentrate on the book in front of him, but his mind wandered back across the months to that long ago night.
‡‡‡
When The Deacon saw the fire through the trees, his first thought was to flee. His second was to barter. His need for food won out and he walked toward the light. Drawing nearer he saw that they were few in number, and his intentions shifted. He was armed, and they didn’t know he was there. It was as simple as that. He reckoned on taking the wagon, the food, water, and because it had been so long, any woman they had that was worth scratching that itch with. The other’s he’d either kill or leave stranded out here to let the heat do his dirty work. As so often happens when one has a plan, things changed.
That night, before he could step free of the shadows, a hand dropped onto his shoulder from behind. He’d heard no one approach, and he barely bit back a scream. Before he could draw another breath and cry out, a second hand covered his mouth. He smelled Jasmine. It was such a feminine scent he knew his attacker had to be a woman, but that didn’t make a damned bit of difference. He wriggled and twisted, kicked and threw his elbow back at her, but she held him. Grunting, he threw all of his weight into trying to break free, but her grip only tightened.
'Wait,' she whispered in his ear. She was so close her breath prickled his skin. 'I can help you. If you kill them, you will get the wagon, and a few days head start. But that is not where things will end. Look beyond tomorrow to next week, the week after. Someone will find out. They always do. Someone will stumble across the bones even if they’ve been picked clean by vultures. And then what? It might be a wild world out here, but that doesn’t mean they ignore murder.'
'Who are you?' he asked.
The grip on his shoulder released and he turned hesitantly, not sure what he expected. Standing very close behind him was the most strikingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her hair and eyes were black as obsidian. She was tall and slender, dressed in a long flowing gown that clung to her curves and should have looked odd and out of place, but looked, instead, as natural as the shadows – and darker.
'Who are you?' The Deacon repeated. The question was the same but the need to know driving it couldn’t have been more different.
'I am whoever you need me to be. I have had many names, and none of them are important. You do not need to know. Take this.'
She held out her hand. He had no idea why he took what she offered, why he hadn’t at least tried to pull his
