The Fulcrum

By Tanya Meeson

The history of humanity is a dance between life and death, creation and destruction. When the scales seem set towards annihilation, a balancer is born, bringing equilibrium and correcting the course.

In Chicago, part-time bookkeeper and burlesque dancer Camille discovers she's pregnant with a child she doesn't want. In Baltimore, brilliant virologist Jacob is being courted by a rich, and deeply sinister, patron. And in Verona, grumpy Father Antonio is beginning a great, secret journey. Again.

 

The history of humanity is a dance between life and death, creation and destruction. When the scales seem set towards annihilation, a balancer is born, bringing equilibrium and correcting the course. The balancer is not born alone in the world. Since the beginning of humanity, each has been shepherded into the world by The Fulcrum. And now this ancient team – part human, part immortal – must look to the newest balancer: Camille's unborn baby.

 

But this time, all is not as it seems. As the harsh Chicago winter sets in, the players in this aeons-old game will be forced to make choices and fulfil destinies they never imagined possible...

 

***
The Fulcrum is for readers who like some magic with their real life, some supernatural with their Sci-Fi, some retelling with some myth mixing. It's for readers who like character-driven, plot-based urban fantasy and magic realism where genres are bent and blended, and protagonists are caught in a story not of their choosing.
***

 

Reader reviews:
"Written with intelligence, humour, originality and imagination"
"Sweeping … genuinely original"
"Hugely satisfying and entertaining"
"Cinematic"
"An incredible and well-written adventure"
"What an extraordinary tale"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tanya Meeson
• Release date: Jan 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215089095

Tanya Meeson

Tanya Meeson is an author, columnist and journalist. Her monthly column, One More Thing, appears in Woman&Home magazine, and previous books include The Dot Spot and Character Insights for a Regenerative Future with Paul Steenkamp. The Fulcrum is her first novel.

Book preview

THE

FULCRUM

A black and white logo Description automatically generated with low confidence

TANYA MEESON

Contents

PART ONE

revelations

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

PART TWO

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

PART THREE

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

genesis

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

One more thing before you go ...

The Fulcrum

Published by AION

Copyright © 2022 Tanya Meeson

Tanya Meeson asserts the moral right to be

identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

First published in South Africa in 2022 by AION.

ISBN: 978-0-620-99864-2 (SA paperback)

www.tanyameeson.com

For Tom, without whom this book would not be.

They gathered with John, who would be the second disciple, to hear the news that their sister brought. The woman stood before them and said, "I found them that were two as one. Mary the Mother became as a sacred vessel of light and put Her lips to Jesus’ lips, Her right hand beneath his neck, and Her left on his lower abdomen, so that his eyes were opened, and fire came from Her mouth to his heart.

Then He came, full of Godliness, and said, ‘I have seen so that you may see. Whosoever has ears to hear should hear. Whosoever has eyes to see should see. Then the first Mary left the room darkened and returned reborn as the second Mary saying, ‘The first will be last and the last will be first.’ This I have seen.

John rose and said, Truly, this is the mystery made flesh.

But the men and women went away and did not see because they were blinded by the miracles.

––––––––

– Missing fragment from The Gospel of Mary

PART ONE

revelations

The last of the tourists had just made their way out when Father Antonio Benedetti noticed the smudge on the chapel’s roof. The sooty mark was wide and long, like the black brushmark on the Japanese vase he’d recently received as a gift. His face flushed at the memory. Surely it wasn’t right or helpful to deny offerings of penitence to the Church? Especially when they came from the Don. He had acted in service only. His conscience was clear. Yes. That was settled at least.

The priest crossed himself and squinted up at the roof. Dusk was falling and the church light was too poor to make out the details of the smudge. Oh well. Probably best to leave it for the daytime anyway. No use fussing over something that couldn’t be helped. But a dark memory quietly nagged him. This wasn’t something to be left until morning.

Father Antonio shuffled off to find a torch.

The modest Veronese church had been built in the 15th century, at a time when maintenance wasn’t the duty of the priests who called her theirs in the name of the good Lord. Now those in the 21st century had to suffer the curse of inconvenience. It was all too much to be expected from an old man. He exaggerated a sigh, loud enough, hopefully, for the angels to hear his suffering, and squeezed himself into the makeshift utilities room that had been fashioned out of hardboard and drapes.

The dim light barely reached here, and he could just make out the heap of broken chairs and moth-eaten tapestries that waited under a layer of dust for their promised redemption. He stifled a sneeze. The box of sundries Pietro had put together was mercifully in reach and he found the torch easily, knocking it against his palm to excite some illumination from it. A weak beam popped on.

Bravo.

Back in the chapel, the light had dipped even more, and the evening’s chill had crept in. A shiver ran up his spine. Had Pietro left the front door open again on his way out? Typical. Good altar servers really were getting harder to find these days. He lifted the torch up to the plastered roof and studied the mark. Strange. It appeared to be bigger. He followed its line down the long arch with the beam and held his fingers up to it, measuring it between his thumb and forefinger. Was it damp? Could smoke from the candles and incense have amassed here? They had tried cutting costs and the cheaper candles left a terrible paraffin residue. Such an embarrassment. And yet, a strange thing! The longer he observed the smudge, the more it seemed to grow.

The priest looked around to see if anyone was watching and hoisted himself with some difficulty onto a pew to get closer. He rubbed his knees and pointed the torchlight back at the smudge. His breath caught in his throat. The mark was dislodging itself from the high arch! He watched in horror as it slowly transformed into thick smoke and wound its way down to him like a snake.

Madonna! His voice echoed in the empty chamber, unheard and alone. It isn’t possible. Not possible at all...

Was this a demon? Was he not protected from these things? Had he not the blessing?

As the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and the wailing of a million damned souls began roaring in his ears, the serpentine shape twirled and twisted down towards his face and then stopped just above him, looming over him like a small thunder cloud that began collecting itself into the shape of a human head.

Father Antonio squeezed his eyes shut and held his shaking hands over his ears to block out the infernal noise that stormed around him. He had to think. Think. Yes! Of course! An exorcism was what he needed! If only he could speak the words, force them past his chattering teeth. Maybe the amulet? He felt for it beneath his cassock and clutched at it for strength. None came. Was he to be left alone, unprotected? After all his sacrifice? After everything he had done for them!

He was just about to despair when a great gust of wind rushed at him and snuffed out the cacophony, leaving only the sound of his whimpering and his heart thudding in his ears.

The priest opened his eyes slowly, fearing the worst.

But instead of a demon, he was greeted by something that felt unpleasantly familiar.

What in Heaven’s name? He frowned as dark wisps from the head pulled a smug Cheshire-cat grin across the still-forming face.

"Well, hello, Father."

You! Relief washed over the priest, followed too closely by the abject reality of what this meant for his comfortable life. Again? Surely it’s not time yet! It can’t be!

He’d been so close. He was almost done with it all!

The smoky grin pulled wider across the gruesome head as it dropped low enough to look him in the eye.

"It’s good to see you too, priessst. Although, I must say– four eyeballs wormed their way rudely out of the skull and down to his paunch –you really rather have let yourself go."

CHAPTER 1

––––––––

Camille pushed against the yellow metal door on Chopper Street and pulled a face as a warm wave of dog smell and boiled cabbage greeted her.

Jesus, Edie. We need to oil this.

Her aunt was hunched at her desk with a blanket over her knees and Wags at her feet. Although the last traces of summer were still visible in the afternoons, autumn was creeping in, and the mornings were getting cold.

Good morning to you too, kiddo. Sleep well? Edie popped her head out from the side of Emmet, her ancient PC. Ah. No, I see. Late night?

Always late nights Edie, you know that. Camille untangled herself from her backpack and parka and gave her aunt a quick peck on the cheek. I was hoping I’d be late again, so you’d have a reason to fire me.

And what would I do with my books if I did?

Get a proper bookkeeper? Finally retire? Go live one of those exotic old-age movie lives in Florida?

Hush you. There’s a pile waiting over there. Edie shooed her away and went back to squinting at the computer.

Emmet was mostly for show. Ever since Edie’s bout of cancer, her aunt’s capacity for work had slowly dribbled away along with her weight. Over the course of Edie’s treatments, she’d picked up what her aunt couldn’t manage. It had made sense at the time. She was doing a bookkeeping course at community college and needed the cash. And the distraction had helped. But that was years ago now and what Edie couldn’t do was just about everything. If TJ was right, her aunt had been taking on new clients purely for her benefit. Which was just as well. It paid the bills and covered the costumes.

Camille’s phone buzzed and she pulled off her gloves to swipe for the message.

– Flying in on the 3 pm. Dinner and room booked at the usual. Like Kool and his gang, we gonna celebrate good times. But in a totally appropriate way. So proud of you. Kiss kiss. TJ. –

Her stomach twisted. Tonight was the big night. Thirty-eight years old and this was the fine mess she found herself in. She balled her fists to stop herself from biting her nails again.

You okay?

Yup. Just TJ.

She missed having him to herself, especially at the club. Her costumes hadn’t been the same since he’d left, and she could never get her makeup to pop quite the way he did. And if burlesque needed anything it was a lot of pop.

Did they like the new Betty Boop dance?

They did. I have a few steps to rethink, but they can’t get enough of Scar-Lit Heart.

They’re only human. Edie gave her a smile and her face crinkled under her turquoise headdress. It was cute. Hey, you know what day it is?

I do, although I applaud your attempt at subtlety.

Eight years today, kiddo. Almost a decade. I got you a little something to celebrate.

Edie brought out a thin, rectangular package covered in red foil that she’d hidden under the blanket on her knees and placed it on the table. Every year on this day, her aunt gave her a gift to celebrate getting sober. Last year it was Eric the cactus. This time she could guess what it was and hesitated.

Well? It’s not going to open itself, scaredy cat.

Camille peeled the foil aside carefully until younger versions of herself, Mom, and Edie smiled out at her from another world, a world before cancer and the accident. Before she woke up. Before she went to sleep for that matter.

My twelfth birthday party. The one at the carnival at Navy Pier. Thanks Edie.

Look how similar you looked even then. All that beautiful black, shiny hair. The big, bright brown eyes. She’d be proud of you, you know. Edie reached across the desk and squeezed her hand. Just a little reminder that there were also good times. One day you’ll be ready to say goodbye to the past and start living your life, kiddo. And then, what a life it will be.

She offered her aunt a weak smile and propped the picture against her computer. What kind of life could a self-hating ex-addict have exactly?

And there’s something else sweet, Edie nodded at a cake box."

Chocolate?

What else?

You’re the best.

I sure am. You got plans tonight?

I do. TJ’s coming into town, remember? That’s why I took the rest of the week off? Which means I get to stay in only the finest of luxury. Coffee with that cake?

Camille ducked under the stairwell into the space her aunt had turned into a tiny kitchen and started prepping the coffee maker.

You know in your grandmother’s day it wouldn’t have stood.

What?

You being friends with a black man.

Jesus, Edie.

She’d have had a fit.

What the hell made you think of that now?

Just nostalgia, I guess. Or the opposite of nostalgia in this case. Olden day stuff. For better or worse. Mostly worst.

That was a long time ago, old woman.

She’d need to do some shopping. Edie was running low on everything. Filters, water, milk, coffee.

Was it? Anyway. When’re you going to find someone to love?

You know the answer to that is when hell freezes over.

She didn’t mind her aunt’s prying into her love life because there wasn’t much to see. Since Max, there hadn’t been anything but work and a steady stream of easy pickings at the club.

Edie carried on talking to herself: It wasn’t so good those days, you know. All the rules. Who could be together. Who couldn’t...

Old age was such a trip.

Camille flipped the switch on the machine and waited for it to start percolating. Guys would fall in love with her Scar-Lit Heart persona, she’d take them home, they’d have sex, the end. They’d try hook up with her for a night or two after, but it was never worth seeing a guy for the second time. It was just easier to stay sane that way.

...black, white. Men. Women...

Sobriety anniversaries were like a wormhole to the past. All the whys and what ifs. The break-up with Max. The day she booked herself into a clinic. What a stupid attempt to prove to him that she had her shit together. The day he’d visited her at rehab for the first time he’d seen straight through the coy self-deprecation and subtle manipulations. God. What a child she’d been. So smug and self-assured that she’d assumed he would kiss her on the forehead like he usually did and say he’d wait for her. But he didn’t.

...but times change, I suppose. It’s how it is...

At least she’d grabbed him back as he turned to leave and he’d held her even though he’d been angry. She’d hugged his wide body to her, smelling in the scent of leather and Marlboro.

She should’ve held on tighter. Fuck it.

...We marched for this, you know, fought for it...

Two cups, milk, sugar.

The head-on collision on his way to a job on the East Coast later that night. A coupla wasted teens in a pickup on the R51 was all she remembered from the message informing her her life was over. No surprise that the kids had survived. What kind of justice was that? What had happened to his truck and the velveteen rabbit she’d won for him on their first date?

...so that the next generation could be happier than we were... but now, sometimes I don’t even know what it was for. Nobody seems any happier...

Camille warmed her hands around the carafe. Should she have gone to the funeral? What would it have mattered? There was no grave. No God to pray to. Instead, she’d imprisoned herself at the clinic for months. It was that or drink and drug herself to death.

...If we’d been able to do half the things you kids can, the world would look like a different place...

Milk. Stir.

What had sobriety been for? Enrolling at community college for morning classes, picking up odd jobs in the afternoon for Edie, burlesque in the evenings. No minute unguarded. For what?

...but I guess none of this would be possible without what had happened before. Not the best of this, not the worst...

During the day, she worked to remind herself of sobriety; at night in the club, with its booze and sex, she worked to remind herself how close she was to losing it. At least she’d stop imagining that Max was still out there on the road, biding his time to come back to her. Small wins.

...You might not even be here! Your mother and I ... well ... but maybe that’s insensitive...

She rested her head against the cupboard and let the steam from the cups catch her face. But now she’d fucked up again. Had she called his ghost back to life? She shook the thought from her head. One step at a time. That’s all she needed to focus on. One step at a time had gotten her through eight years. But for what? More of nothing? Hurrah. Great celebrations.

...Cammie? You ok, kiddo? You’re not saying anything. They’re just the ramblings of an old woman, you know?

Camille popped her head around the corner. Oh, I do know, old woman, that’s why I ignore them. She stuck her tongue out with a smile. You want a fork or spoon for cake? I can never remember.

––––––––

2

Make it a triple.

It’s 10 a.m., Joe. Come on.

I love that you still pretend time matters.

When in Rome, right?

Luckily, we’re in Chicago.

Joe tapped the rim of his glass and Em topped it up reluctantly. You should try a coffee in the morning, you know. Like normal people.

Normal people? Comedy this early in the morning?

Em grinned and pushed the bottle over to him. Knock yourself out, brother.

Joe watched her as she moved through Paradis. It was early, but already she was prepping the bar for the afternoon crowd, cleaning tables, opening the blinds to let in gray streaks of sunlight. She seemed unsettled, preoccupied. But she was right, obviously. Their purpose here, such as it was, did require more present-mindedness than he was worth lately.

He rubbed his face and yawned. How is it that these places always smell the same in the mornings? Like ashtray and piss.

Em shot him a wry smile. Still smells better than you do any time of the day or night.

Ha. True. He took a drag of his cigarette, enjoying the burn in his lungs.

You might want to do something about your look when you get home, She wiggled her fingers in the direction of his face and its offending areas.

What? This piece of art? He tugged at his beard. His eyes felt like sandpaper.

Go home, get a shower, shave, eat something. Try get some sun while it’s still around. You’re starting to look sick. Em slid onto the barstool next to him and poured herself a shot. She tapped his face gently with her palm and lit a cigarette. Besides. I have a feeling it’ll be here soon.

And there it was.

Joe groaned. I just knew you were going to say that.

I wanted to tell you yesterday; things are coming into focus. Em paused for effect, and he obliged with an eyebrow-raise of interest. I popped in at the clinic. I’m pretty sure it’s the one she’ll go to.

He watched the dust motes catch the light. So. It’s really time again, huh? He flipped the lighter this way and that. It’s not that he minded this bit. It was cool. It’s what he’d agreed to. Signed up for, so to speak. But he’d become a lazy fuck, couldn’t pretend otherwise, and had just gotten comfortable with his routine: Wake up, come to the bar, drink, go to the diner, hang out with Pinkie, walk, hand out sandwiches at a soup kitchen, play some poker and on and on. He never got tired of it.

Well. That was probably a lie these days.

Wouldn’t it be great if this time we hit it really big again? Em mused. Everything feels ripe for it.

What? Now suddenly you’re a big dreamer?

Learned from the best I guess. She ruffled his hair.

Ha. Sure. There’d been a feeling following him lately, like a stalker hiding behind everything he did, behind every shadow in every room he walked into. Every time he tried to look at that feeling, tried to grab hold of it, it would disappear behind a conversation or another drink. Guess I might finally be coming around to the fact that it’s not the greatest quality to have here. But now here it was, as if all it’d been waiting for was this next confirmation, this assurance, that this place really was as messed up as he’d been hoping it wasn’t. Besides, hitting it big never seems to deliver what we hope it will. Your predecessor and I found that out the hard way.

Disappointment. That was it. He shook his head. Maybe he had finally learned from the best.

Joe stubbed his cigarette out and downed another shot.

––––––––

3

Your 7 p.m. called to confirm dinner ... Dr Marquardt? Sir?

Jacob looked up from his phone to see his new PA’s stern competence glaring at him from the laptop screen.

Thanks Denise. Is there anything else?

I’ll update you throughout your day. Is the hotel all in order?

It is. That will be all.

He snapped his laptop closed. Denise was adequate, but she had a tendency to speak too much. He pushed his computer to the side and picked up a clipping Sarah had left on the table for him. The American Scientist’s CEO profile on him, a review of his tenure at BioCore, an independent leader in the manufacture and research of pathogens. How innocent it sounded.

He skimmed the text. Appointing hotshot virologist Dr Jacob Marquardt as the new front man was a market capitalization move for the company looking to regenerate itself... That was one way to look at it. More like backdoor government contract move. But that wasn’t the sort of thing these puff pieces covered. Pity. Since that’s where the prize-winning story was.

Jacob considered his profile shot. He looked good. Struck an imposing figure. Symmetry and clean lines. The journo had described him as crisp and well-manicured with a reputation for being an antisocial maverick with an ego matched only by his talent. He smiled at that. It was the kind of flattery that would’ve gotten them laid if his situation had been different.

He tossed the clipping down and swiveled his white leather Eames around to face window. The line of oaks circling the Pod were the only dash of green between the gray Baltimore sky and the black tarmac of the parking lot. The aesthetics of it all still pleased him.

He’d been impressed from the first moment he’d seen the Pod: a shiny cocoon of white cladding and glass, neatly containing fifteen floors above ground, neatly concealing the ten below. When they’d shown him his office at the dome’s apex, where he could step out and look all the way down onto the show-and-tell laboratory on the fourth floor, he’d been delighted and had immediately nicknamed the marketing bumph laboratory The Zoo. The Board had been dismayed by this.

Fortunately, their dismay was inconsequential.

Outside, three young researchers made their way towards the building, laughing. The zoo animals. One spilled coffee on herself. They disappeared out of sight, and he imagined them shuffling into their stalls, applying themselves as studiously as they could to the petty and mundane, while beneath them history was being made. Their ignorance of what was really going on never ceased to amuse him.

The only thing of importance in the Pod was what happened below ground. And what happened below ground was why today’s meetings, first with Chubb and then with Krieger, had an uncomfortable number of variables attached to their outcomes.

The meeting with Leslie Chubb was to be expected. Ever since he and the beleaguered director had parted ways, he’d expected the day to come when Chubb came crawling back to him. That Chubb needed an off-premises meeting could only mean that today was that day. Whether he’d throw the dog a bone or not depended on whether the deadbeat groveled enough.

As if summoned, Chubb’s car pulled into the lot. Jacob leaned forward to watch him, but there was no movement. Like the guy was waiting for better days or something.

What was this feeling he had for Leslie? Hate was too strong a word. Repulsion? The constant sniffing was unbearable. His low-expectation existence pathetic. All that tasteless obsequiousness. Especially at the beginning. The only decent response had been to cut Chubb off, show him that his place was not as peer, but as handmaid, ironing out the creases of bureaucracy so that he could do what he was really there to do. And he had to admit, Leslie Chubb was good at that.

When the Board questioned why, as a CEO, he’d required his own private lab at the Pod, Chubb had jumped in with dull but believable explanations in a monotone drone that sucked the life out of the room. It didn’t hurt to admit that Leslie had made a good partner on Project X. The guy was too dull to be dangerous. Even with as much as he knew. Or thought he knew.

Jacob tugged at his collar and tie. The temperature-controlled room bothered him suddenly for its lack of fresh air.

If there were any compromising thoughts rattling around in the mind of that unkempt collection of disappointment, he couldn’t do anything about it. Who would Chubb go to? Who would he tell? No one with any power would admit knowledge of it. They’d both been positioned to take the fall. They’d both willingly stepped into place for it. At least he’d had the foresight to secure a net for himself if that day ever came.

The thought released a yawn of contentment, and he stretched out to enjoy it. His private lab back home was being set up, even if he was still a few months away from its completion. Usually the delay would’ve bothered him, but his new situation had been worth it.

Jacob let himself ease into satisfying memories of sex, shimmering skin, and curves, but was abruptly interrupted by a rapid knock at the door. A sharp, pale face peeped in.

Dr Marquardt? The meeting’s in ten minutes.

Sarah. The intern’s awkward shyness was endearing and enough to dispel the flare of irritation. In an industry with far too many egos and agendas that challenged him, he felt surprisingly kindly towards the timid mouse.

She tiptoed in and placed the files she’d prepared for him neatly on the desk. When she didn’t leave, he looked up.

And?

I was wondering if you could perhaps look at something I’ve been working on in my spare time–

Spare time? I’ll talk to Chubb about remedying that.

Sir?

That was supposed to be a joke, Samantha.

Sarah. Yes. Of course.

She tried a laugh but coughed instead and muttered a goodbye. He waited until she almost at the door.

Bring me a file on whatever it is you’re working on. I’ll take a look at it when I have time.

She blushed. Thank you so much, Dr Marquardt. I think you’ll like what I have.

He watched her leave and then swiveled to face the window again. It felt good to help a timid mouse. After all, one never could tell what one might find in the most unlikely of places.

Outside, the clouds drifted apart, and a pale blue sky appeared in their wake. Chubb was still in his car.

––––––––

4

Father Antonio had dreaded this visit. In his fifty-odd years as a priest he’d been subjected to far too many. Ten by his last count. Or was it eleven? Either way, it was a lot by any era’s standards. He thumped his chest to ease the tightness that had set in. Why this unpleasant feeling? Was it related to the boy? Possibly. This was exactly why it was never any use getting attached to the Seconds. No use at all.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, but his hands continued to shake as he filled the kettle and poured ice water into his biggest crystal vase. How silly that this unsettled him even after all this time. It was no good letting what-ifs run away with him. It would work out as it always had. He’d been chosen because he was capable and had this all under control. Benedetti. By name blessed and sanctified. Appointed to the task. The boy would be fine.

He felt for the outline of the fine ivory amulet that rested against chest and traced its lines through the thick material of his cassock. Yes, it was nothing at all to worry about. He sniffed at the milk he’d bought that morning and the tart odor of curdle bit at his nose. Only to be expected. Nothing fresh really survived these visits. No matter. Neither of them would need it.

The priest selected his most sturdy gilded serving tray and carefully positioned the crockery and vase in the center.

It was also all too possible that he was suffering post-traumatic stress from the unnecessary trickery. It was outrageous how Sanctifiers were expected to accept the news these days. Surely the early priests and shamans never had to deal with the same level of buffoonery? In the olden days, the theatrics were far more impressive and respectful than the silly hide-and-go-seek smudges and rattles in the cupboard of today’s revelations. This was the problem with progress. No one took pride in their work anymore. Not even them. At least, in those days, God’s great messenger was still respectable. Besides, what did the creature mean that he’d let himself go? The outrage of it.

The priest regarded his paunch and smoothed the black material over it kindly. But before he could feel sorrier for himself, he was jolted back to his senses by the sound of metal scraping over gravel. The angel was attempting a polite cough.

Antonio, I am very thirsty. You know how these trips take it out of me.

Yes, yes! On my way!

He forced a cheerful laugh and wiped his brow. Was it too much of a laugh? He hated being such an open book with the angels. Especially this one. It was all too ugly to be comprehensible. As a child, he’d believed Gabriel to be holy and beautiful, as messenger angels should be in the good Catholic tradition. Definitely nothing so gross and pagan as this. Imp, they called it. Luckily, time had eased the horror of the truth for him and replaced it simply with mild irritation at the irksome reality of it. He scratched at his cheek where an alarming welt had appeared. Traitor hives.

Tick tock, priest. Places to go. People to upset.

Yes, yes coming, ha ha!

His chest under the heavy cassock felt like a furry oven, and another hive was sprouting under his right eye. Well. It was no use worrying about all of that now.

The priest strained to keep the tray steady as he made his way back to the small living room that had become his personal museum of treasures. His fancies and curiosities had been collected and gifted over many years and he was usually calmed by the modest opulence of it all. But as the Imp reclined in his favorite King Louis armchair, he suddenly wished that he lived instead in a Franciscan stone cell, leaving only the cold, hard floor for the creature to enjoy.

The Imp had shifted into something that resembled a man’s shape and spread itself over the chair as much as it could in a display of vulgar pleasure. Its head alternated between that of a gargoyle and Pietro’s countenance. Father Antonio tutted and seated himself in his cozy armchair opposite the Imp.

Why do you this? Can’t you just look like something pleasant? Like a proper angel?

Now where would the fun be in that? The Imp pointed at the vase of ice water on the tray. Is that it?

Just how you like it.

You do know how to treat me, Father.

It tried to smile, but the mouth pulled too high over the teeth, turning its expression into a tortured sneer. The ugliness felt like a physical pain in the priest’s chest.

Please don’t do that. I beg you.

Father Antonio pulled out a small silver flask from under his robe and topped up his black coffee with a touch of whiskey. He stirred in some sugar and took a long drink, rubbing at the welts on his face. The warm flush of liquor came over him quickly – a relief since the Imp had dissolved its form back into a long shadow. He watched in curious disgust as it gathered itself up into a wide ribbon before diving into the water.

A cloud of steam burst out from the vase and black smoke filled the crystal, twisting in coils like a demon eel. Then, as if someone was pulling it from one end, the ribbon lifted up and out of the vase and collected again on the King Louis, assembling itself into the shape of the elephant-headed Hindi god Ganesha.

It was unsettling how very beautiful it was and so the priest looked away – only to find himself staring at the foul water that remained in the vase, cloudy with black grit.

It’s just the dirt in the air you breathe, human. Keep your petty judgements to yourself. The Ganesha shook itself like a dog. I believe you would say that that ‘felt’ rather good. The gravel had given way to a slippery hiss as the Imp’s syllables slid over themselves. It’s the closest I come to feeling this physical world of yours. It really is quite enchanting.

The priest waved him on. Why are you here? We can’t seriously have another one?

The Imp played with the wispy fringes of its body, creating lotus lilies that blushed pink. We do, as a matter of fact.

But it’s been only a few years since the last one died? And the other nine I took care of should be coming along nicely now, surely? Ten in all! What more could they need? It was all very upsetting. He dispensed with the coffee and took a sip directly from his flask. "Weren’t they enough to settle things for a while?"

The beings ... these humans ... are... The Imp paused trying to find a word. Feisty.

Yes, the priest nodded agreeably. That is true. Very feisty.

The whiskey was calming him down and he was starting to feel quite good. And why not? He could distance himself from the usual rabble. He may be human, yes, but he was also blessed. No matter what he had to endure for the privilege. As if to emphasize this point, the Imp had stretched out into the shape of Pan and was crossing its shaggy legs and toying with its horns. Whatever was the creature’s real form? The Imp bleated at the priest and stuck out its wet goat tongue.

Father Antonio shook his head. Hideous. And went back to fussing with his coffee in a bid to ignore the beast’s languid, almost sensual, gaze. Hideous, he muttered again.

So, do you have it? it asked eventually.

What?

What do you mean, ‘What?’. The book.

Of course I have it. Father Antonio screwed up his eyes. Why? Do we need it?

Don’t we? You did say you were done with all of this.

I did? Out loud? The priest tried to scowl, but the whiskey was making him feel jovial towards all God’s creatures, even those of ill repute. Besides, he wasn’t going to be lured into one of the Imp’s silly games. Well, that’s a conversation for another time with the others. So where is it this time?

Chicago.

Again? Disappointing.

Indeed. But I have it on good authority that most of the repercussions of this will be felt elsewhere.

Global repercussions, the priest repeated slowly. Well can you imagine that?

The Imp flicked its goat beard with an ugly gnarled hoof. No, little human. We can’t ‘imagine’. That’s why we like playing with you lot so much. Gives us something to do. Now– it stamped on the ground for effect –let’s get the logistics out the way before you get too sauced. I have the others to razzle dazzle.

––––––––

5

The morning sun drove a sharp wedge into Joe’s brain as he trudged down the damp sidewalk to breakfast. The light rain had stopped just long enough for the clouds to part, reminding him that human bodies had their limitations. The dull ache of a hangover spread across the back of his head and his gut grumbled, a dual chorus of wretchedness that required sinful amounts of food to quieten. He needed Pinkie. Her and the plates of food she put in front of him. Barbara Pinkie Garcia Florez and her food. A winning combination.

People scurried along the sidewalk, unconsciously taking wide berths around him as they passed. A crone with a hump and a scarf pulled tightly around her head, unable to walk faster than her decrepit legs allowed, spat and hissed at him.

Right back at you, grandma.

The wind picked up and Joe pulled his coat close. The morning traffic had died down, but the smell of rain-wet tar and exhaust lingered. It reminded him of the day he’d met Pinkie. A flash downpour and he’d slipped into her diner to avoid it. What was it now? Five years that him and Em had been waiting here? He’d been back almost every day since.

Club Tropicana’s coconut-scented warmth and soft calypso tunes greeted him as he pushed open the door. He brushed a plastic fern leaf out of his face.

Another plant, Pinkie? How many of these things you gonna hang everywhere?

As many as it takes to makes my dreams come true. She blew him a kiss from over the counter.

Do they need to come true in a guy’s face?

We could arrange something, she winked.

Joe grinned and leaned over the counter to receive his hug. You’re a dirty, dirty girl, Pinkie.

Just the way you like it then.

She had to step on a foot bench to get her arms around his neck. Wisps of her thick black hair tickled his nose and her skin felt soft. She gave him a peck on the cheek as she pulled away, and Joe eased himself into his usual seat at the end of the counter.

Pinkie poured him a coffee. The same?

You know it.

Never change huh?

Does anything ever?

No, but now that you mention it. She gave him a pointed look and raised her eyebrow.

Joe pretended to clutch his heart in pain. You don’t want a guy like me, Pinks.

And you couldn’t handle a gal like me, cheese puff. So... She patted her butt and ran her hands up and down her curves. Did you see the news last night?

I sure did.

Buy or sell?

Neither. Stuff your pennies under your mattress.

What about putting them on the table?

Gambling’s bad for your soul, Pinks.

Good for me then that I’m a law-abiding, God-fearing woman of integrity who would never.

God-fearing and law-abiding? That’s hilarious, Pinks. When did you start working on a comedy routine?

When I met the biggest joker in Chicago, you ratbag. She waved her spatula at him.

Joe blew her a kiss and went back to picking through a pile of newspapers between the fake orchids on the counter. He pretended to read, but his attention was all on her and the desire that pulsed off her like a beacon. He tried to shrug it off. Getting involved had never turned out to be a good idea, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay away from someone who wanted him, someone who made him feel almost human. It’d been a long time.

It helped that she couldn’t smell him.

He’d pretended to believe her story that she’d smashed the back of her head on the edge of a metro exit in her twenties, jostling the neural pathways that generated her vital animal sense. But he knew she’d had too many bad men in her life. He didn’t press her for the truth or go digging for it. That she couldn’t smell him worked in his favor and that was enough. He’d take what he could get. Not many could stand the stink of rotten potatoes and mulch that lifted out of him and eddied around his black coat like sludge. This was one problem with this city. It was too clean to blend.

Joe sipped his coffee slowly and leafed through the paper, one horror after the next.

It’d been a rough few years in America. There was something about this place that wanted to alienate, to separate like from like. It had been seething under the surface when they arrived, but now, with him back in the area, the violence had bloomed. Watching people here had felt like tracking an indicator species that had started eating its own. Probably why the time was drawing close for the Imp’s visit. If Em was right, there was a lot to start preparing for.

Relatively speaking, it was soon after the last one. They were coming so thick and fast now he’d started second-guessing if they were getting it right. This wasn’t an exact science; they were bound to get it wrong every so often. Had gotten it wrong every so often. There were a billion influences on the Field, and something always slipped through. Frankly, he’d started thinking no one back home had any clue how this all worked anyway.

Here you go. Pinkie put a plate of eggs and toast down next to him and refilled his coffee. What’s your horoscope telling you today?

That I’m going to get some trouble from a smart-mouthed bombshell.

You tease.

He tucked in as he watched her serving the small contingent of Club Tropicana breakfasters. The sounds of morning and the smell of breakfast was one of his favorite combinations. Everything felt imbued with purpose and potential. It wasn’t long before every seat in the tiny diner was taken, apart from the one next to him. He was just about to crack a joke to Pinkie about it when a Britney Spears lookalike pushed her way in and hopped onto the vacant stool next to him.

A high-pitched voice sing-songed out of her pink mouth, Hey there, mister.

She was too bright, her wide-set blue eyes not entirely believable. He turned his back on her and took a sip of his coffee. The kid stank of cheap perfume, probably some shit called Cherry Poison or Sweet Romance. He’d tried all the most pungent brews.

What you up to, mister? The girl slipped off the stool and pressed into him, rubbing her chest against his arm. He was just about to call Pinkie and ask her why she was also attracting so many freaks to Club Tropicana these days, when a fist of pale fingers clutched at his thigh. Hey, I said, what you up to?

Nothing that concerns you, kid. He pulled his leg away from the tiny hand.

I’m not a kid, big boy. She unzipped her jacket to reveal a Friends T-shirt pulling against small breasts and hard nipples. Joe shifted in his chair. Pinkie was busy with a customer and no one was near enough to notice if he pushed her away, but he hesitated. Something was way off.

What’ya eating? The girl leaned over to look at his plate. The shit I took this morning looked just like that.

A faint recognition moved in on him, but he brushed it off. He was just tired. He needed some sleep. Fucking teen dropouts.

What are you doing here, kid? Shouldn’t you be in school or something?

Last time I went to school the math teacher put his hand up my skirt and told me to blow him.

What the fuck?

Pinkie came over with a fresh pot of coffee. The girl saw her and slipped away. I’ll see you later, mister. Her lime-green bedazzled hoodie skipped past the customers. When she got to the door, she turned and gave him a wink.

What the hell was that?

I don’t know, but I have a feeling I might.

Kids like that creep me out. Just no manners. They’re all like that these days. There’s something wrong with this place, Joe. Did you hear about the shooting last night? Down at Paula’s? He nodded. He’d been that way earlier in the day. You know– Pinkie leaned forward, wriggling her shoulders and giving him glimpse of her cleavage –we should get out of here. He loved that view. This isn’t a good place to raise kids.

Joe smiled and shook his head. You’re a peach, Pinkie. He stood up, towering above her, and placed a kiss on her head. I’ll see you later. There’s something I gotta do.

It was even brighter when he stepped out of the diner and the streets had started drying up. He dug around in his jacket for his smokes and pulled one out. The kid was nowhere to be seen. Probably a false alarm. The L roared overhead, rattling into his bones and sending a deep rumble of energy through him. God, he loved these bodies sometimes. He stretched and burped, took a deep breath in, looked up and down the street. It was a good day to walk the city, to feel his senses move along the cement and steel, the length and breadth and height of it. Take in the buzz. Some days it felt good to be alive. Granted, those days were getting fewer, but he’d take them as they happened.

Hey mister.

The unwelcome voice squeaked up from behind him, and Joe turned slowly, hoping not to see the blonde manga cartoon. But there she was. The multicolored rhinestones on the hoodie glittered and made his brain hurt. He liked humans, he just didn’t like the teenage ones.

Fuck off.

He turned his back on her and picked up the pace. Maybe the train wasn’t bad idea after all. Always easy to lose people on that. But her hyper colorization bounced next to him, keeping pace.

I’ve been watching you.

Yeah? You and whole host of interested parties, kid. I’m not buying what you’re selling. Now, I said, fuck off.

I’m not selling anything mister. But I do have something very special for you.

The force of her hit him like a small steamroller, pinning him against a steel column of the overhead railway. It was no use making a scene. He’d only hurt her and although there weren’t many people around, he didn’t need do-gooders doing no good. But there was something very wrong with the kid. She moved like an old computer game character that was glitching out, as if her lines had started blurring slightly. Maybe it was just the hangover.

He was just about to push her away when her eyes and mouth disintegrated into gaping wounds of black flesh and blood.

What the hell?!

Indeed, Joe. Her voice broke from a squeak to a low rumble. What the hell.

"Oh fuck off."

Joe pushed the unnatural weight of the kaleidoscopic bloody mess away from him and watched as it shook off the remainder of the colors like a wet dog drying itself and then rearranged itself into Al Capone.

That took you long enough to figure out, buddy. The Imp pulled a sad face. You’re losing your edge. Do you like the scar? It dragged a finger down the side of its face.

You fucking freak.

Joe, you know I hate when you talk to me like this. It hurts my feelings.

Feelings? Everyone’s a comedian today.

The Imp backed away as Joe brushed his coat down, tugging at its jaw to arrange the shape. I’m just not getting smiles right lately. I don’t know what it is. Maybe there’s something in the air or something. What do you think?

You been to see Em yet?

Not yet. Thought I’d come to you and practice my bright moves before I headed out and gave her the whole show.

She hates that.

I know. That is why I do it, after all.

Ok, quit dicking around. We’re here. I take it Em was right?

Isn’t she always. The Imp grinned and produced a cigar, puffing it like a 1950s movie producer. Has she identified her new ... hit?

It was amused with itself. It discarded the cigar and shimmered into a new form: A figure trying to resemble Joe, mimicking his every move. He chose to ignore it, but a passing woman caught a glimpse of the shift and picked up her pace.

Em’s business isn’t mine to talk about, Imp. Speak to her. That part has nothing to do with me.

Oh, but the muscle maketh the magic Joe, don’t put yourself down. Every beauty needs her beast.

Joe scowled as his reflection’s face drooped into an attempt at sincerity. Another train rattled by overhead and the Imp’s form fuzzed at the edges. He was getting impatient.

Say what you gotta say, Imp. I have a crap brewing.

Okay, fine. Your message is this: As within so without, of this hold no doubt, Life’s next breath comes first from– The Imp stopped. Well, what kind of messenger would I be if I gave you the whole message?

You’re such a fucking ball-ache.

Riddle me this, Joe, riddle me that.

––––––––

6

The meeting with Leslie Chubb had been set for one in the park. Jacob watched him from the car for a few minutes. Mr Sad Sack was sitting on the bench they’d agree to meet at, smoking a cigarette, holding a Coke in both hands. It had a straw. Jesus.

According to Sarah, gossip had it that Chubb was in the throes of an ugly divorce. Two years ago, this news would’ve left him cold. But his new situation had changed something in him. Watching Chubb now, brown pants hanging off him, face blotched from the lukewarm sun, he felt a strange sensation of not-revulsion towards him. Something like pity. He’d have to keep that in check.

As an antidote, he pictured Chubb’s sweat-stained shirts, coated tongue, and bad breath. And the goddamn sniffing. Like there was always something stuck in his nose. When he was satisfied that he’d moved past caring, Jacob crossed the grass bank to where Chubb waited.

Jay. You’re here. The guy sounded tired. I wondered if you were even going to bother.

I almost didn’t.

Of course. The flight in okay?

Do you care?

Guess not. You sign off on the consignment this morning?

I did. Jacob toed the brown grass. He knew Chubb was waiting for him to say something. But as much as he enjoyed making the guy uncomfortable, he didn’t have all day. What am I here for, Leslie?

Chubb stared at the children on the monkey bars. My wife didn’t once come to work parties with me. She was always busy with the kids. Didn’t even know where I worked. Kept forgetting the name of the company. Barely knew what I did. Guess she was well-trained by my time at USAMRIID to not ask questions.

His sentences were punctuated by sniffs. It set Jacob’s teeth on edge.

Oh, she knew it was some kind of medical research, but we never really spoke about what went on here. What was there to say? Synthesize a virus. Sell a virus. Do the paperwork. Make up stories for the government. I’m not sure what I expected from her. But it was more than this.

Chubb paused as if his mind had drifted to a memory of something better. The guy’s ineptitude at life bored him.

Jacob took in the view, looking for a distraction. A mother strolled past with a baby slung against her chest, while a toddler weaved from her legs to the ducks and back again as the birds trailed them for snacks. It was an admirable scene. Cute even. Life and its clever tricks to keep reproducing itself. But then the toddler fell, and its face contorted as the wailing started. Jacob couldn’t help smiling to himself at that. That was why he would never play that game even if he could. That he was a genetic dead-end was a-okay by him.

Chubb coughed and lit another cigarette. When we got paired up and you came to BioCore, I thought we could be friends. Friends in a great adventure of changing the world together. You struck me as someone who expected a lot. And got a lot. God knows enough people thought the sun shone out your ass. Chubb paused and looked at him thoughtfully. But you didn’t need friends, did you? You didn’t even need the position or the money. It really was just the facility and access. For your own ends.

Is there a point to this?

My shitty wife left me and I’m leaving this shitty place in, let’s see, about– Chubb checked his digital watch –two months and twenty-four days. Let’s just say that I’m effectively retiring. And... He kept his eyes on the horizon, sniffed again, and cleared his throat. Project X is being shut down.

The words hit Jacob like an icy gust of air. He sat down on the bench to steady himself.

No one told me about this.

Chubb shook his head. I’m telling you. Some new dispensation from on top isn’t interested in sending money this way. And BioCore itself? Well, whether you’ve clocked it or not, the Board isn’t happy with your new working arrangement ... here, New York, here, New York. Jesus did you think that was going to fly? Chubb finished his Coke, a stupid childish slurping. They been trying to find reasons to give you the boot for months.

The mother was comforting the child now, pulling it together, preparing to leave.

Chubb seemed to be enjoying this now. Even your brilliance isn’t brilliant enough to eclipse the fact that you are an A-grade dick. And now you’re never here. As for Ackvers Dark? Well, you know we’ve always been on our own there. He chuckled, but it was cut short by some grim thought that passed over his face. He took a nervous drag on his cigarette. There’s a new woman, some consultant or something, coming in that’ll make a sweep of the lab. Quite literally. Chubb tried for disdain, but it still sounded like restrained panic. She’ll be here in two weeks. You’re going to have clear out all traces of Project X. Including your Little Bear.

Jacob felt a small bead of sweat slide down his face.

Chubb misread his expression. Oh, you thought I’d forgotten about what you were doing in your secret little party lair for one? Not much I don’t know about that crap-hole of a building. You can relax though. I don’t know how far you’ve taken this new shit. I imagine not far. It’s too tricky for one person. Even you. And I don’t have any solid evidence. I’m not even sure what you’re planning on doing with it. Pretty sure it’ll come to nothing good. None of this stuff ever does.

Ever the optimist.

Fuck you.

Jacob wiped his forehead. They wouldn’t trash this research. They’ve put too much money into it. They need it. It’s not finished. After everything they’ve risked–

"They’ve risked? Chubb spat out the words. What the hell have they risked? And trash what? Even if it’s not finished, they’ve still got all the results of your work so far, no matter what happens to you. BioCore has everything it needs from you. It doesn’t need you. You were just too busy looking down your nose to see what they were doing. Too greedy to know what you were saying yes to. And too much of a cock-sure egoist to imagine anyone could pull one over on you. Chubb sniffed again. The great Dr Jacob Marquardt. Asshole. Now there’s a new bunch of dicks in town and they don’t care much for people playing God."

He’d never punched a man in his life, had never felt the rush of the overwhelming anger he imagined one needed to be so base. But now he could almost see the blood and crushed teeth smeared across Chubb’s stupid face. Was that what she’d felt that day?

He couldn’t entertain the memory now, had to concentrate on keeping his shit together.

Jacob worked through all the probable consequences. They’d expect him to go quietly. If this got out, any of it, there’d be inquiries and investigations. Endless reports, interviews. Probable financial damage. Definite reputation blowback. And he’d lose all the work he’d done on Project X. On Little Bear. His work. Not BioCore’s. Not Ackvers’. Frankly, the world couldn’t risk him losing it and certainly not to them. He’d need all the time at his disposal to clean up.

Why are you telling me this?

No, Chubb’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, what you mean is, ‘why am I helping you?’

He didn’t respond.

Chubb sighed again. I ignored my wife, Jay. Even when she started telling me there were problems. But when it looked like she might really leave, I threatened her with lawyers and investigations. I even hit her. Jesus. He took a futile slurp at the empty can. She called my bluff. She’s fucking me now with it. I don’t need to go into it. Point is, I can’t alert anyone about what you’re doing without damaging what little I have left. Who the fuck do I tell anyway? They’ve wrapped this up tighter than my wife’s asshole. Besides, I think everyone here likes me less than they can tolerate you.

Chubb stood and ground the last of his cigarette into the cement with his worn loafer. He didn’t wait for Jacob to respond.

I’m pretty sure that what you’re doing is unstoppable. People like you have a path and you walk it until you reach the end of the line. And when you get there, wherever there is, I know I don’t want you to fuck me like she has. He opened his cigarette box for another smoke, but it was empty. You’ve got two weeks. He crunched up the box and stuffed it into his pocket. Just. Keep me in the loop or something.

Chubb looked so pathetic in that moment that Jacob felt his anger dissolve. The guy’s life was crashing down around him and he’d be left with nothing. Chubb was a drowning man lashing about for a life raft. That was all. But this was not his problem. Regardless of how his work survived, it would survive. That’s what his private lab was for. He was prepared, had always been one step ahead. He still walked the line of greatness. He could feel it.

Can you do that, Jay? Keep me in the loop?

History would smile on him when this was all done. Until then, all he needed was the space and time to move his work from the Pod to New York.

Sure, he said and watched as Chubb nodded and slumped away, empty can in hand.

––––––––

7

The Waterfront Hotel foyer welcomed Camille with the scent of wealth. No matter where she was, money always smelled like night jasmine. She flashed a smile at the doorman and strode to the concierge with the air of someone who belonged. It was like being on stage and TJ had once again seen to her costume. But now, instead of