Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (12 page)

“Trespassing, altercations, Believer congregations. My, My, Mr. Elgar. You were a wayward youth. Trespassing in the Palace itself, no less.” Mainsteer chuckled to himself, his grin as wide as the open Ocean. This was the best present he'd received since his sixteenth birthday. “Then all of that stops when he moves to Lazzonir and takes an assignment at the Landing site in Southland. He cleaned up his ways. Quite a long list of prominent acquaintances. Very thorough, Daylin. Well done. You are collecting statements from primaries and secondaries?”

“Several are included, mostly service supervisors. His friends appear reluctant. Notably, he is a close friend of Councilor Sunsun,” Daylin offered. “They grew up together in the same village. I don't hold out any hope of a letter from her.”

“I wouldn't, either,” Morgan agreed. Close friends were often the worst targets for information in his game, wary of unusual inquiries outside of the Service or Registry Ministries. Councilors rarely offered up free information. It was in their nature to remain tight-lipped.

“So far, everyone boasts he is a model citizen, volunteers regularly for manual duties, and is working on the mystery of the Ancients,” Daylin summarized, her blue eyes tracing the words across the page.

Morgan popped his neck with a quick twist. “What a waste of time! What can we learn from a failed species?” Stretching his neck once more, Morgan leaned farther back in his chair.

“I don't know enough to speak to that, sir,” Daylin declined to be drawn into an age-old debate. She preferred to stay on neutral ground.

“It's a quest for fools,” he added the last word. “
Fools
. We need to look forward not backward. Let me see those letters when you have them drafted.”

+++

Holton Elgar understood his destiny at this moment. After more than a month imprisoned in this cavern with the other passengers, he understood why the Prophets had trapped them. More Stormflies arrived through the air, their bioluminescence illuminating the glossy water-carved walls. Additional captives arrived frequently, one or two at a time. When a new parasite arrived, another human captive was infested. There were only five humans remaining at the moment. Soon, his turn would come.

The hostages received food and water at irregular intervals, brought to them by sallow people in robes the color of sand. The afflicted humans seemed to forget that the human bodies required nutrition to remain alive. They appeared preoccupied with other activities, something Holton couldn't understand despite his desperate observations.

There were three free-floating Stormflies occupying this nook of the cave, hovering near the remaining uninfested humans. Holton expected them to attach more immediately, but the creatures appeared hesitant. One of the Prophets, a man appearing to be the leader, stood in the narrow opening, eyes faint sparks in the darkness, with the Stormflies floating near his face like gigantic fireflies. A silent conversation took place, something mystical and complex, more than any human could master even with the advanced mental prowess. At last the Prophet spoke. “These minds are not strong enough. Dispose of them.”

Muscles quivering as his adrenaline spiked, Holton brought his knees tightly to his chest, arms circling and holding tight. He tried to imagine what it was like to be attacked by one of those things. He'd heard the process consisted of excruciating pain and euphoric pleasure simultaneously—at least that's what the newssheets reported with supposed eyewitness accounts. The informational pamphlets described the symptoms and what to do. The newssheets informed the public that no one—save the Protectress herself—had survived.

Holton knew he was going to die.

Despite his expectations, these Stormflies disappeared. They zipped away intent upon some other destination. Holton waited for their return…and waited. Nothing happened.

For now, he remained as he was—a man, terrified and helpless. There was no escape. No one knew where they were. There might be a search party out there on the road, but this hideout was probably concealed in some manner, impossible to spot. Otherwise, the search party would have found them by now.

Holton wondered what happened to the baby from the bus. The mother was already infected, taken the first day just as Holton regained consciousness. He remembered her sorrowful wailing as one of the Prophets carried her to another part of the cave. He never heard the baby.

He did hear the moans of the others. They were sick, dying, lost to this world.

“I wish you would just end it,” he announced aloud to the Prophet in the doorway. “Put us out of our misery. Do what you're going to do and stop torturing us.”

The Prophet stared at him, but said nothing. Then he turned and walked away.

27 Duomont, 308 (Tinsday)

As the end of the break neared, Axandra's nerves loomed closer to shattering. She might have made it another day, if it weren't for the regional newssheet.

“Morgan Mainsteer is coming here!” She tossed the sheet on Quinn's lap as she stormed past the divan to the bedroom. The bathroom door slammed a moment later, reverberating through the residential suite.

Curiously, Quinn donned his reading glasses and perused the day's articles.
The Front Page
boasted a promising crop of bread beans this spring, though he wondered how that could be estimated when the crop hadn't even sprouted and two months' worth of weather was hardly forecastable. The second page offered several volunteer opportunities and incentives to change locations to meet demands for technical training. Mostly the offers were aimed at the young volunteers looking to fulfill their service cards, people without children, who were willing to adventure beyond their front doors. Then, on the third page, Quinn found a photo of Mr. Mainsteer as he spoke before a crowd.

Morgan Mainsteer, the organizer of the movement known to many as Citizens for Restructure (CiFR) announced today that he is expanding his campaign to the Capital City of Undun. On 15
^th
Trimont, Mr. Mainsteer will be holding a rally in Mill Street Park at 2:00 pm. Three hundred are expected to attend. Mainsteer will be endorsing a local candidate to serve in place of the retiring Foster Tremby.

“Oh my,” Quinn grumbled with dismay. “That's going to muck things up a bit. Who do I know…” He was still mulling his question when Axandra returned.

“I'm going to go to the rally,” she stated resolutely once she returned. She stood with her fists at her side and her chin pointing upward, jaw set.

Squinting in such a way that his nose and brow wrinkled, Quinn scowled. “Is that a good idea?”

“I don't know, but I think
not
doing anything is worse. I should be able to defend myself against his slander,” she contended.

“Well, I suppose,” Quinn followed her train of thought. Everyone had the right to face their accuser. “But making an appearance could also fuel the fire. Maybe you could arrange a private meeting with him when he comes to town, a friendly chat to talk about his concerns. Lunch perhaps?”

“That isn't a half-bad idea,” Axandra agreed, tapping at the corner of her lip with a manicured fingernail.

“Not
half
-bad?” Quinn chortled. “Only a quarter then?”

Axandra huffed and rolled her eyes. “Something. If they are expecting such a large crowd, people must be expecting something of interest. If he's supporting a particular candidate, he might be grooming that person to promote CiFR's agenda. I'll bet he's sending out flyers, or maybe he put a paragraph in the newssheets I missed. People are getting the word somehow.” Axandra sat down next to him and noticed a letter lying on the tea table as though absently tossed. “What's this?”

“A letter from my mother,” he described with disinterest, returning his eyes to the newssheet article.

Knowing Quinn's relationship with his mother was strained, Axandra legitimately questioned, “Did you read it?”

“No. I opened it and started the first line just to make sure no one was dead, and left it at that.” He spoke of his family in flat tones, implying a complete disinterest in their well-being or existence. In his own words, his family—a widowed mother and five siblings—treated him with antipathy, and so he refused any direct contact.

“Really? You must have some curiosity about what she wants,” Axandra pried intentionally. The letter piqued her curiosity about a woman she had yet to meet. She didn't even know what the woman looked like. Quinn didn't keep any photographs of his family among his personal affects.

He pinched his lips and shook his head. “Not at all. She's probably upset that I didn't tell her I was getting married.” A number of fidgets belied his discomfiture.

Eyes wide, Axandra exclaimed, “Rightfully so! You didn't tell her?”

“Didn't want to, didn't need to. The news graced the front page of every paper across the four regions,” he defended with a tone of indignation.

Pressing her lips shut, Axandra decided to keep further judgment to herself. His point was not untrue—the newssheets made tremendous fuss over the nuptials. There couldn't be person alive on Bona Dea that didn't know Quinn's face, name, and the date of their ceremony. He didn't need to tell anyone personally. It was the part about not wanting to tell his mother that caused the most dismay.

Since she ran away from her own parents as a child, she didn't have much room to accuse him of abandoning his mother due to their unresolved differences.

“May I read it?”

His blue eyes glanced at the letter, then at her, weighing the consequences in his mind of either refusing or allowing her request.

“If you want,” he replied with contrived aloofness, shrugging his shoulders.

He pretended to return his attention to the novel he'd been reading when she arrived. Silently, he peered out the corner of his eye as Axandra studied the hand-written note.

It began:

Matersday, 15
^th
Unimont

3 Farmstead Road

North Compass, NL

Quinn,

I am writing to you once again to express the embarrassment and dismay you have brought to the members of this family. Each of your brothers and sisters and myself are being questioned about your recent engagement to the Protectress, a woman who has proven herself shallow in character and weak in leadership. Your very affiliation with the woman causes me great pain.

And the fact that you failed to mention your intentions or ask for my blessing distresses me beyond measure. Whatever our differences, I am your mother, and certain traditions and protocols are expected to be followed.

I demand that you deliver yourself personally to my home to apologize and make amends. I would expect your new wife to accompany you.

Please respond immediately.

Sincerely,

Rosemary Elgar.

Completing the read-through, Axandra gently folded the letter along the existing creases. She counted in her head the number of days he had held onto the letter-over a month-too many for a complete slighting. It meant enough to him to keep around, though maybe as no more than a bookmark. She caught sight of Quinn peeking over the wire rims of his spectacles as she turned her head. “She's a demanding woman,” she commented coolly. “Shall I dispose of this for you?”

Once again, Quinn weighed the consequences of either choice for several seconds. “Yes.”

Honoring his wish, she dropped the paper into the nearest bin.

“I think it's a perfect time for lunch,” she suggested, swinging an arm toward the door. “We should go out. Do you know any good places to eat downtown? I want to get out of here.”

“Do I!” Quinn secreted his glasses into the breast pocket of his shirt and grabbed his tweed jacket. “Burle's. A thick bowl of mushroom gumbo sounds delicious.”

+++

27 Duomont, 308 (Tinsday)

Miri headed to the laundry room with the yet uncollected basket of clothing from the Protectress' suite clutched in her hands. Finding the basket overflowing in the corner of the bathroom, Miri fumed about the incompetence of the one and only Lynn Graves, the traitor giving a second chance by her loving leader. She was glad no one was around to hear the curses flying out of her mouth a few minutes ago. Publicly, Miri would never embarrass herself or her position by deriding anyone, no matter how much they might deserve it.

The daytime crew busily sorted, washed, dried, and pressed several dozen pieces every day from all over the Palace. At the moment, the three workers draped pieces on wooden hangers and sorted them for delivery upstairs.

“Has anyone seen Lynn?” Miri demanded while she stood ramrod straight in the doorway.

Dillon was the first to look up and respond. “No. She took sick time several days ago and no one has seen her since. We thought she was just staying out of the way.”

“Well, no one has picked up the Protectress' basket in several days,” Miri complained, slamming the wicker container on the counter. “I don't care who is in charge of it regularly, someone needs to double-check that it's picked up. This is disgraceful.”

“Sorry,” Dillon apologized dismissively. “We thought she'd gotten back to work. We can't keep track of everything. It's not like we care if we see her or not.”

Miri rarely used her position of power against her peers, but this moment offered itself up for the challenge. “It is not your place to lay judgment upon Lynn or anyone on staff in this building.” Her pronouncement brought stillness and silence to the three attendants. “Regardless of what she has done in the past, Lynn is a part of your team and you are responsible for her and her work. I suggest you find out where she is and deal with her absence. I also suggest that you assign someone else on the staff the responsibility of laundry for the Residence, someone capable of keeping the commitment. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Dillon responded through clenched teeth. His brows arched deeply over his glaring eyes. “Will there be anything else?”

“Yes. This basket needs to take priority. The Matriarch will want to wear the teal tomorrow. Make certain it's ready.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Dillon acknowledged.

Miri spun away in order to avoid any further backlash. The communication wasn't received as she'd hoped and she would need to review how to make the next such confrontation go differently. But first, she needed to inform Marta that Lynn had been shirking her duties. The offense was almost inexcusable.

+++

30 Duomont, 308 (Farensday)

Quinn gave the wrench another firm shove, ensuring that the brass pipefitting sealed on the compressor. Flicking on the switch, he waited for several minutes, checking for leaks and verifying that the cooled air released from the system exited through the vents. Toggling the switch off again, he set about replacing all of the covers.

“There you are, Mrs. Ellery. Ready for the hot months,” he announced jovially.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Saugray,” the young woman said gratefully. A six-month-old bounced on her knees.

“We wouldn't want this little guy to get too hot this summer. You're adorable, fella.”

“He is, isn't he,” the mother agreed proudly. Evident by the twinkle in her eye, she lived her current days for her son. She didn't even look tired.

“Is there anything else you need help with right now?”

“No. My husband keeps up with the repairs when he's not driving. Since he just does the local run, he's home every night,” the young woman replied pleasantly.

“Very good. Let Maintenance know of anything,” he advised.

Colleting his tools, Quinn exited the squat one-story occupied by the young family. They were assigned a perfect house near one of the schools, so as soon as the little guy turned one, he'd be out of the house for a few hours to learn songs and moves and get a real taste of music, opening the door to reading and counting.

Already through his list for the morning, Quinn headed back to the maintenance office for a break.

The dispatcher looked at the list in disbelief. “You got through all of these already? You are one efficient guy. I need to remember to double your workload next time,” Mitchell diligently marked through the completed appointments in his book. “Are you sure this isn't a better calling for you?”

“I'm glad to help out, but not all year long,” Quinn said with a smile and an arched brow. “This is my last day for this month. The council is coming back. I have other work to do while they're here.”

“Moral support?” Mitchell dared hint. “I imagine the Protectress' job is a real stressor these days.”

“That's part of it,” Quinn confirmed through thin lips. “But I also have three crates of statuary waiting for analysis. My colleagues are waiting on me.”

“Well, that's all I've got for you today,” Mr. Saugray. “All the other calls are claimed. I'll put those tools away for you.”

Quinn pulled back a second, “Are you sure? You're not just letting me off early, are you?”

“With your speed, no sir. If I had any more for today, I'd send you out there. Tell me when you will be available again, and I'll put you down.”

“Not until mid-Pentember. I'll let you know the exact date later. Have a good day, Mitchell.” Slapping the counter twice in a sort of traditional goodbye for the maintenance types, Quinn turned away toward the door on slow feet. Getting away early meant getting home early as well, not something he'd planned on today. Normally, he wouldn't balk, but his brooding wife had him wishing for a list of twenty more jobs.

“You, too.”

Leaving the office, Quinn looked up and down the street trying to decide what to do next. His normal fall back was to head home, find his wife and make love to her if she had the time. Meeting with the Head-of-Council occupied most of her time during the day, even though the Council was in recess. With their impending return, the two women leading the sessions were deep in preparation. She was trying to deal with multiple crises from different fronts, as well as attempting to make headway on her own progress initiatives. There were at least ten projects requiring her attention. On top of that, Mainsteer's impending visit stressed her almost beyond tolerance. He needed to stay out of the way for the afternoon.

Instead, Quinn wandered over to the textile block. He needed an area rug to cover the floor beneath his artifact tables, something with a good amount of cushion to prevent accidental breakage. Even the most experienced handler dropped a piece from time to time. The padding would also help alleviate the ache in his legs and feet from standing. He found several to choose from, including a shaggy, dark red rectangle that suited the purpose perfectly. The shopkeep promised to have it delivered prior to dinner.

Along the way, he passed a jeweler's place. Precious pieces lay displayed in the front window, fashioned from platinum, gold, silver, and gemstones. The designer crafted amazingly lifelike leaves and flower petals, each nature-inspired detail exquisitely precise.