Healer's Choice (15 page)

Engines roared to life. The gates of the estate swung open and as they passed through them, a small, internal voice whispered to Rebekka, telling her this could be part of her everyday world if she accepted The Iberá’s offer.

She gave in to the fantasy. Instead of thinking about going to the Fellowship in order to find out whether or not her father was a demon, she imagined a life where she was making rounds, visiting clients.

It was sweet temptation, a balm of comfort. But it couldn’t stand against reality when a short time later they encountered a blockade manned by guardsmen.

The three vehicles slowed to a stop. Rebekka’s heart pounded and her palms grew damp. In her mind’s eye she saw herself ordered from the sedan and taken into custody, then turned over to the man bearing the birthmark on his face.

With the guard in turmoil, there had to be factions supported by the vice lords, just as there were other factions being supported by the Church. She couldn’t be sure whether or not the vice lords who’d profited from the maze were hunting her. She wasn’t prepared to believe the threat the Church presented was over, regardless of Father Ursu’s claim to Enzo. The priest had been willing to go to great lengths to capture Tir, and not just in order to see the Iberá patriarch healed.

One of the guardsmen positioned at the blockade approached the sedan. Rebekka fought the urge to bolt from the vehicle and run for her life.

Next to her the driver rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he asked when the guardsman reached them.

“A pocket of plague was discovered by a patrol.”

Dread filled Rebekka in a cold wave of horror. She couldn’t suppress a small cry as her hand went to the amulet.

The guardsman glanced at her and offered a reassuring smile. “No need to be alarmed, ma’am. We come across these from time to time. There are men in the guard trained to handle it. The threat has already been isolated and contained.”

He turned his attention back to the driver. “It’s safe enough if you stay on this road and don’t turn into the affected area. I’d recommend you detour though. What’s up ahead isn’t a sight for a civilian. The men are in the cleanup stage.”

More than anything Rebekka wanted to take the detour. The descriptions from the healer’s journal had already lent themselves to nightmares containing vivid images of plague.

She wanted to believe what lay ahead had nothing to do with her. To pretend it would
never
have anything to do with her.

She couldn’t.

She needed to see for herself. She needed to know. “Was the plague carried by rats?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. But like I said, there’s no reason for you to be alarmed. It’s been taken care of.”

“We’ll go straight through then,” Rebekka said, half hoping the driver wouldn’t have to do as she directed.

The guardsman looked to the driver for confirmation. The driver nodded.

“All right,” the guardsman said, stepping back and indicating with a wave to the other men stationed at the barricade that the Iberá vehicles could pass through.

The lead jeep moved forward. The sedan followed, and, in its wake, the second jeep.

The ruins of several skyscrapers blocked their view until they reached the end of them. Then Rebekka saw smoke billowing upward and another blockade, this one at the mouth of a street to the left.

A guardsman motioned them to keep moving, though he didn’t protest when the jeep slowed to a crawl to allow the militiamen to see what was going on. The sedan followed suit.

Rebekka’s hand pressed hard to the hidden amulet as they reached the barricade. She looked, her eyes going immediately to the pallets where corpses burned.

There might be five bodies, or seven. There was no way to count them or to know if they’d been dead when they were discovered, or killed by the guard to prevent the spread of disease.

Smoke escaped through the windows and cracks of a partially collapsed building near the pallets. A man stepped from it.

He was covered from head to foot in an enclosed hazard suit and carrying something Rebekka thought of as a modified flamethrower. Backing out behind him was another man, this one sweeping fire back and forth, burning every square inch.

Other men were visible doing the same. While still others stood with rifles at the ready, prepared to shoot anything trying to escape.

Rebekka’s fingers curled around the amulet. Her chest tightened as she remembered the rat in the alleyway between the brothels.

If she took the witches’ protection off, would she know the plague here had truly been eradicated? Or would animals carrying disease begin coming to her and be slaughtered by the guardsmen?

The sedan sped up as they reached another cluster of buildings, cutting off the view. Her relief at knowing the amulet protected her was equaled by the lingering fear of plague, and her guilt at not being able to use her gift to alleviate and prevent further suffering.

We couldn’t stop
, she told herself, though a part of her, a small part, whispered she was a coward, said even if they could have stopped, she wouldn’t have ordered the driver to do so for fear of being killed when it became obvious the diseased were being drawn to her.

“Coward,” she called herself again as she stood in front of the door to her mother’s house, looking around, delaying the moment of truth.

The settlement was laid out like a spoked wheel, with the community building at its hub and long, enclosed passageways extending from it and leading to individual log houses, so even during the night, the members of the Fellowship could gather. Off some of the houses were additional passageways, linking freshly built cabins to those of the original community and ensuring no member was isolated.

Drifting through open windows came the smell of wood fires, roasted pork, and baked bread. It was accompanied by the sound of hymns sung in praise of God as women and children applied themselves to their chores.

Rebekka wanted to deny the matriarch’s claim and Abijah’s words. She hated to bring the past here, to this place of peace that was her mother’s refuge. And yet she had no true choice. Her mother was the only one she trusted to answer her questions.

Growing up it had always been Chloe. Never Mom or Mother, the way it could be now, because what man who visited a prostitute wanted to be reminded of the consequences of sex or worry that a bastard child who looked just like him would one day arrive at his doorstep for his wife and his legitimate children to see?

Mouth dry, hand trembling slightly, she finally knocked. A man’s voice bid her to enter. She did so and heard her mother’s soft gasp before three small girls threw themselves at her with a squealed “Bekka!”

Immediately her heart lodged in her throat. She hadn’t thought her mother’s adopted children would remember her.

Rebekka knelt, hugging the girls to her. They were dressed in long skirts, the material soft from repeated washings.

Fierce longing swept through her. She wanted this, a home, a family.

“Have you come to join the Fellowship?” her mother’s husband asked.

Boden was older than Chloe. Bearded and wiry. Devout in the faith that had redeemed him from drug use and a thief’s life.

His welcome was contingent on her answer. Grim tolerance of a sinner in his home if she said no. Joyous celebration if she’d found God and was ready to embrace the Fellowship as he had.

“I can’t,” Rebekka said, looking at her mother over the heads of the girls. “I came here to ask Chloe something.”

“I’ll take the girls to work in the gardens,” Boden said, ushering them ahead of him despite their protests.

A toddler remained, a sturdy boy who’d been hiding behind Chloe and was revealed when Rebekka crossed to her mother. He peeked up at her, one hand clinging to her mother’s skirt, the other a spit-wet fist as he gummed his knuckles.

“This is little Boden,” Chloe said, brushing her fingers across wisps of soft, white-blond hair. “He just came to us.”

Rebekka knelt once again but the boy retreated, wrapping the material of the skirt around him and turning it into a concealing blanket. “From the Mission?”

The Fellowship took in orphaned children as often as their resources allowed it. And like many prostitutes, years of being used had left Chloe scarred inside, no longer able to conceive.

“Yes,” Chloe said, brushing her fingers across Rebekka’s hair in the same way as she’d done to the boy.

Rebekka rose from her crouch. Face-to-face, she and her mother were the same height.

Chloe caressed Rebekka’s cheek with her fingertips, her eyes meeting Rebekka’s, searching for something. “You’ve gotten more beautiful since the last time I saw you.”

“I look like you.”

Her mother’s smile held more sadness than happiness. They were so close in appearance it was obvious they were mother and daughter. Not sisters, but only because Chloe’s early life had aged her.

“I saw the expression on your face when you greeted the girls,” Chloe said, her voice soft. “You could have the same thing I’ve found here. There are single men in the Fellowship who would make good husbands, good fathers. You could live with us until you settled on one of them and married. Your house could be attached to ours. The girls would love having a big sister. I would love having my oldest daughter here, where her soul would no longer be in peril.”

Rebekka took her mother’s hands in hers. She rubbed her thumb against the crosses branded into her mother’s skin—self-inflicted in the ecstasy of worship. Her gaze flickered over the deep wooden boxes running along one wall, their tops covered in mesh to prevent the rattlesnakes they contained from escaping and curious children from getting bitten.

The Fellowship took the teachings of Mark 16, starting with the fifteenth verse, literally. For them, signs followed those who believed and were saved, confirming the
Word
. They could speak in tongues, cast out devils, and lay hands upon the sick. They could drink deadly things and take up the handling of serpents and no harm would come to them.

“I can’t,” Rebekka said. It wasn’t just a matter of not accepting her mother’s faith, but of not being willing to turn her back on the Weres.

The Fellowship would limit the use of her gift to the healing of their livestock and pets. Should she be in Oakland, fulfilling the mission to go out and preach, her talent might be bartered for things the community needed—but it would be used only on animals, not on Weres.

She touched the plain gold circle of her mother’s wedding band. The pressure to remain faithful and uphold God’s laws, along with the long days of working together in groups often segregated by gender, made infidelity rare in the Fellowship. But while women and children weren’t a man’s property, they still came under his authority.

Rebekka looked up from her study of her mother’s hands. There was no gentle way to ask the questions she’d come here to ask. “Tell me how I came to be born.”

Her mother pulled away, flinching from memories of the past. She picked up the toddler, hugging him to her chest as if he were a shield against the pain.

“I knew this day would come. He said it would, when you were an adult. He told me I was to answer your question then,
only
then, or I would be sorry for breaking our agreement.” Her arms tightened, making the toddler squirm and try to get out of them.

“I’ve dreaded it. Feared it. I’ve prayed it would never happen because if it did, it could only mean he intends to use you for some purpose.”

“
He
, meaning my father?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

Chloe gave a harsh laugh. “John. They were all named John.”

She set the toddler down among wooden blocks, then crossed to a worktable where handmade patterns were pinned to pieces of dark material. She took up a pair of scissors and began cutting.

Rebekka followed, remaining quiet as the stiffness slowly left her mother’s posture. The scissors were laid down, though Chloe continued to stare at the fabric.

In a quiet voice Chloe said, “I grew up in a poor settlement near Sacramento. There were five children in the family. Two boys and three girls. The land my parents worked would support the boys when they took wives and started families, but not the girls. I was the second girl, not favored as my older sister was. My parents contracted me to a brothel owner in exchange for enough money to provide a dowry for my sister so she could marry well.”

Chloe picked up the scissors. Put them down again.

“The settlement I grew up in was on a caravan route. Four times a year the traveling brothel stopped there. The year you were born, my father came to where we were camped. He didn’t acknowledge me as his daughter. Instead he acted as though I was something dirty, beneath contempt, as if I’d chosen to become a prostitute.”

There was pain in Chloe’s voice, angry bitterness. “He came to offer my younger sister to the brothel master so he could buy livestock as a christening gift for my brother’s first son. We didn’t have room for another prostitute. But another caravan would come. And another, and eventually my sister would be made a whore. She was only two years younger than me, my closest friend when we were growing up. The one person in my family who loved me back.”

Chloe turned then, facing Rebekka. “A man approached me the day after my father came to the campsite. He wanted me to become pregnant with his child. Abortions were mandatory for the prostitutes in the caravan. But he’d made arrangements with the brothel master—the older brother of the one you might remember—so I’d carry to term and be allowed to keep the baby. He offered enough money so my younger sister would be able to pick her own husband and never have to fear for her future.

“I accepted his offer, though he was in no hurry to consummate the deal. He delivered the payment to my sister, even waited until her engagement was announced before leading me away from the caravan.