A Latent Dark (17 page)

 “The chemical charge lasts about two hours, give or take,” the pilot replied while at once managing a cluster of levers, straps and knobs. “And this is a light load.”

“What’s a heavy load?” he asked. “We’ve only been up for—”

A red light labeled EMERGENCY BATTERY flickered overhead. A small buzzer called out in alarm. The pilot reached up above Lyle’s head and flipped a switch, extinguishing it. “You can see, we’re already into backup power. We’ll have to land soon.”

They were positioned over a manmade waterfall that dumped into a gorge below. A maintenance gate had been opened nearly a week ago, around the same time that Lyle was lecturing to young Charlie Wilcox about the dangers of witches and their pets.

“You can’t just extend the battery storage?” Lyle asked.

The pilot shook his head, enveloped in an elaborate helmet.
“No sir.
It would add another ton or two. At that point the ship would lose agility and lift.”

“But surely larger airships have been tried,” Lyle said.
What is this place living in, the stone ages?
“People use zeppelins to cross the oceans.”

The pilot cracked a grin, the only part of his face that was visible below the goggles, tubes and knobs. “Well sir, with all due respect, the oceans don’t fight back. We’ve lost fifteen of our fleet in there.”

“Fifteen? What happened to them?”

The pilot shrugged. “They just never return.”

There was an awkward silence, just the humming of engines. The pilot continued. “Aerolores are the best option for local patrols and that’s what we use them for. They’re light, maneuverable, and you can shield them somewhat underneath.”

“What with?”

The pilot pointed a gloved hand out the bulging window. “Down there, those slots are for basic small arms protection. We use a lightweight armor and attach it in slabs underneath. You’ve seen the armor we make?”

“Indeed I have.”

“Same material. It’s lighter than steel, but it reduces the range even further.”

Lyle Summers looked out across the landscape some of the residents called The Wilds and wondered what the hell people were so scared of; it was just forest and fog. A green carpet of trees rolled over hills, gradually breaking up into more jagged mountains just before the river and coast. Somewhere deep within was Lassimir.

“This ship, she was made in Bollingbrook?” he asked the pilot.

“Yes sir,” said the pilot proudly. “We manufactured almost seventy percent of the vehicles used in the last Crusades.”

“I bet the treaty really stung,” Lyle said.

“It did, sir. Put a lot of factory men out of work, but it looks like production is finally picking up,” he added. “I’m not sure what you’ve done exactly, Reverend, but a lot of my friends are glad to have work again.”

“Well, son,” the Reverend Summers said. “I’m just trying to make things right by the Lord. You boys do your job in the field, and I’ll make sure you have plenty of work to come home to.”

The airship rose above the copper wall, just in time to catch the sunset reflecting off the vast city walls, dividing it into neat slices. At the center, taller than any other building, the archdiocese cathedral stabbed defiantly at the sky, its golden crosses ablaze in the dying sunlight.

*

Father John Thomas sat in the waiting room, looking at the rich oak walls of the archbishop’s office. The finely detailed carvings stared down at him in silent judgment, biblical stories carved on their surface.

After a few moments the double doors opened, but not completely. A page slipped out from the crack and strode across the rich red carpet. The boy wore a red and cream smock and matching skullcap. He approached Father Thomas with his hands together, hidden in the flowing sleeves. His face bore a confused look.

“Father Thomas?” he said. “The archbishop told me to ask you if you ‘came to see the archbishop, or if you came to see Christ?’”

John laughed, only adding to the young man’s befuddlement. “Tell the archbishop that if I were here to see Christ,
he
wouldn’t be the archbishop,” John said.

The page turned perplexed and ducked back through the door. A moment later, he returned, opened the doors fully and invited John into the chamber, a miniature chapel with its arched ceiling and ornate candelabras. John walked down the aisle toward the balding figure at the desk. The face that looked up was older but still familiar. It cracked into a smile and John noted the laugh lines that had become more defined over the years.

“When he said ‘Father Thomas’ I almost forgot he was talking about you.” The archbishop rose from his chair and greeted John with a warm embrace and a slap on the shoulder. “I somehow thought you’d be laying low, letting Gladwell handle your sermons. Some of the parishioners still aren’t happy about that whole incident.”

“Well, the deacons can scream about it all they want,” said John. “So this Reverend Summers—” He had barely gotten the words out before Christopher raised a hand.

“I already know what you are going to say,” the archbishop said. “And I thought my letter made it clear. You are welcome to complain all you want between friends, but as far as anything else is concerned, it’s very much out of my hands.”

“He’s here on behalf of the Vatican?”

“He practically
is
the Vatican as far as we are concerned,” Boroughs said. “I’ve been contacted by so many cardinals over this, you’d think
I
was Pope.”

“He seems to be fairly obsessed with finding the girl,” John said. “I expect any day he’ll start interviewing my deacons… not that they would mind at all. I’m sure they’d be happy to share their side of things, skewed as it is.” John winced at the bitterness in his own voice.

Christopher waved a hand. “If you’re worried about your job—”

“I’m worried about the girl, actually.”

The archbishop blinked. “Why on earth for, John? Have you been paying attention at all?”

“Have you?” John sat more upright in his seat, eyes focused and livid. “A woman I served has been killed and her house burned down… by your Reverend
Inspector
.” The title was still hard to say without cringing. “The Church is hunting a
child
. I’d like to know why I
shouldn’t
be concerned.”

“The girl is hardly innocent,” the archbishop said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked.

“Well,” said Christopher leaning back into his chair. “She had more than once spoken of seeing demons—just like her mother, I might add—and has scared the living daylights out of her classmates. The Barkley girl was in tears after one incident. Her father would have lynched her himself had he known where to look.”

“The only way that Donatella Barkley could produce tears is if she tore a dress. And even then, I’d question the authenticity.”

“That may be,” Boroughs said. “But we have more than that account. There is also the issue of her friend, the Montegut girl.”

“Melissa?”

“Missing for over a week. Her father has been frantic. It’s bad enough that her mother is ill. There are a number of people who feel that the Skyla child might have had something to do with it. They were friends, you know.”

At that, John laughed. “You can’t be serious, Chris. She’s
eleven
.”

Christopher held his hands out submissively. “Look John, the citizens of this city are scared. They feel as though the Devil himself has been roosting under their noses for years. It’s very unsettling. I wouldn’t be surprised if Skyla turns up dead at their hands.”

“That would certainly make your job easier,” John said.

“It would, actually,” Christopher said. “Yours too. In fact, if you would try thinking about the big picture once in a while you might find yourself moving up for a change. I transferred you to this parish hoping you’d seize the opportunity.”

“I’m not in this job to be popular,” John said, irritable.

“Well, you aren’t going to grow your congregation by telling people what they don’t want to hear every day. I mean seriously, John. Forgiving
demons?
Blessing
witches?
You really think that those folks are going to try and forget about the poor
Elleby
woman? Her family has been writing my office daily demanding your resignation. They aren’t just going to let that go. You’ll be bleeding members for years.”

“Let them go then.” John hadn’t meant to shout but it had slipped out anyway. “Let them go to the other parishes. I’d rather have members who are willing to listen.”

“And I’d rather have members who aren’t sending me letters, demanding that you be hanged.”

John blinked. The archbishop reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers. He tapped the stack on the surface of the desk dramatically. Boroughs pulled a letter from the top of the stack and read it aloud.

“To the Archbishop Borrows—you know just once I wish they would learn to spell my name right.”

“Maybe they should just write ‘Dear Christ.’”

Christopher shot him a warning look. He continued reading.

“I am writing you to inform you that your new Reverend Jonathan Thomas today invoked a community prayer for the Lynn woman. He asked that we pray for her soul and that the witch will find the Light of Christ! I watched as several members walked out of the church at this and a number of others began praying their own prayers. Prayers of protection from that devil woman! The late Reverend Mitchell never would have allowed this! How many more congregations will be panicked when the witch child turns up again? Will Father Thomas be praying for
her
soul as well, when she summons demons into the house of God to torment his followers? If you ask me, Father Thomas should be hung by his tassels and fed his own sermons...”

“Well you get the idea,” the archbishop said, placing it at the bottom of the stack. “Should I go on?”

“If you had told me in advance that I had so much fan mail, I would have brought a pen to autograph some of them.”

Christopher produced a thick pen with a wood finish. It was the sort of pen that kings might use. He held it out to John, who let out a sardonic, “Ha.”

“Look, John,” the archbishop said. “I know it goes against your instincts, but just for once, could you please just tell the people what they want to hear for a change?”

John sulked. “I came in here ready to scold
you
. How did this conversation get turned around?”

“It’s why I get paid the archbishop salary,” Christopher said. There was a pause and then he added. “You could do pretty well for yourself too, John, if you’d just stop pissing off The Church at every turn.”

“You and I made our careers for very different reasons, Chris.”

“I suppose,” the archbishop said. “But it all serves God’s plan.”

“Somehow, I’m sure it does,” John said. “I’m still trying to figure out just exactly how.”

Christopher leaned forward. “John, you have to trust me on this. The Reverend Inspector is doing what he’s doing with the best interest of The Church in mind. It’s important.”

“You keep saying it’s important,” John said. “I can’t see it, Chris. Just give me one convincing reason why I should help persecute and capture an eleven year-old girl.”

Christopher looked at him with an intensity John hadn’t seen since they were boys. Chris had been an impassioned preacher when they were younger. John felt a pang of sadness, seeing his friend sitting in a bureaucrat’s chair. The archbishop shifted in his seat and thought for a painfully long moment.