The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic by Peter Meredith Page B
Authors: Peter Meredith
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give her that devil-may-care look of his.
“But is there something you can do?” she asked again. “You know, to help him?”
“I was thinking of asking you the same question,” Timmons said. “You know him better than we do.”
She liked to think so, but she knew she was only fooling herself. He was a puzzle with a thousand pieces and no picture; he was a broken man; a warped man; he was ice in a fire pit; he was evil and deadly and an uncaring bastard, and he was good through and through and there wasn’t anyone she could trust more than him.
“We will pray for him,” Timmons said when she only shook her head. “I don’t know if we can do anything else. You should hold him and speak to him. He always listens to you, Cyn.”
For the next hour, she whispered into his ear: “Hey, Jack? Listen to me. Listen to my voice…” The words ran out of her with all the emptiness of air, but also with all the love of an angel. She spoke until her mouth went dry and, after guzzling a gallon of water, she went on.
The paramedics arrived and she waved them off; really, she hissed them away. What could they do? Her priests could take care of the holes in him better than any doctor. They had progressed from strictly spiritual healing to the physical side of things, though it usually took a lot out of them. Timmons and Jordan were both tired, and yet they drained themselves until they were both staggering with exhaustion. They prayed over him until his eyes closed and his heart ran steady and the blood stopped leaking.
She begged for more, but they had nothing else to give.
Eventually, Captain Metzger arrived with his FBI backup and then another priest arrived. He was old with large, knobby knuckles and blue veins showing through his flesh. He had heard of Jack by reputation and it was clear that it wasn’t a good reputation.
He didn’t know how much Jack sacrificed. It was the same with most of the priests; they only saw what appeared to be black magic and felt the aftermath when Jack was an ass and dead inside. They had to face the acid of his tongue, not realizing that this was his way of venting his anger. He had never asked for the position he was in, no more than Cyn asked for hers, and in a way her position was less enviable.
She appeared as little more than a strut or a girder, when in fact she was the keystone in the arch holding things together. She suffered in order for Jack to suffer. She felt every pain of his and hers as well. He could afford to be an ass, but she could not. She was the keystone, pressured from every side: the priest’s goodness, Jack’s mercurial nature, and then there was the government in the form of Metzger.
“We’re going to the Sudan just as soon as Jack snaps out of this,” he informed Cyn after a glance down at Jack’s blood and soot-covered body. Jack was breathing and like the firemen that was all that mattered to the government.
Going to the Sudan meant there would be more death and pain. These weren’t things Jack could hear just then and so she spoke of the geese and the soft earth of Wales, where the rain was sometimes as delicate as the sunlight.
The geese, a secret that only Jack knew about, and the ridiculous farm that she envisioned were her only way of venting, and like any normal person, she needed to vent; she needed a release. She wasn’t hopeless and doomed and her soul wasn’t torn apart upon on a weekly basis as Jack’s was, but that didn’t mean she had it easy.
She was twenty-three, and an orphan. Her future was demons and swords, guns and fire…and in all likelihood hell was her final destination. She could only put her soul on the line so many times before it was taken in this game of chance.
The geese were her way of dreaming of a real life, a normal human life; they were something that could connect her to the world. For the last year and a half, she had been the dutiful girlfriend, the frantic lover, the maid who cleaned up the blood and
“But is there something you can do?” she asked again. “You know, to help him?”
“I was thinking of asking you the same question,” Timmons said. “You know him better than we do.”
She liked to think so, but she knew she was only fooling herself. He was a puzzle with a thousand pieces and no picture; he was a broken man; a warped man; he was ice in a fire pit; he was evil and deadly and an uncaring bastard, and he was good through and through and there wasn’t anyone she could trust more than him.
“We will pray for him,” Timmons said when she only shook her head. “I don’t know if we can do anything else. You should hold him and speak to him. He always listens to you, Cyn.”
For the next hour, she whispered into his ear: “Hey, Jack? Listen to me. Listen to my voice…” The words ran out of her with all the emptiness of air, but also with all the love of an angel. She spoke until her mouth went dry and, after guzzling a gallon of water, she went on.
The paramedics arrived and she waved them off; really, she hissed them away. What could they do? Her priests could take care of the holes in him better than any doctor. They had progressed from strictly spiritual healing to the physical side of things, though it usually took a lot out of them. Timmons and Jordan were both tired, and yet they drained themselves until they were both staggering with exhaustion. They prayed over him until his eyes closed and his heart ran steady and the blood stopped leaking.
She begged for more, but they had nothing else to give.
Eventually, Captain Metzger arrived with his FBI backup and then another priest arrived. He was old with large, knobby knuckles and blue veins showing through his flesh. He had heard of Jack by reputation and it was clear that it wasn’t a good reputation.
He didn’t know how much Jack sacrificed. It was the same with most of the priests; they only saw what appeared to be black magic and felt the aftermath when Jack was an ass and dead inside. They had to face the acid of his tongue, not realizing that this was his way of venting his anger. He had never asked for the position he was in, no more than Cyn asked for hers, and in a way her position was less enviable.
She appeared as little more than a strut or a girder, when in fact she was the keystone in the arch holding things together. She suffered in order for Jack to suffer. She felt every pain of his and hers as well. He could afford to be an ass, but she could not. She was the keystone, pressured from every side: the priest’s goodness, Jack’s mercurial nature, and then there was the government in the form of Metzger.
“We’re going to the Sudan just as soon as Jack snaps out of this,” he informed Cyn after a glance down at Jack’s blood and soot-covered body. Jack was breathing and like the firemen that was all that mattered to the government.
Going to the Sudan meant there would be more death and pain. These weren’t things Jack could hear just then and so she spoke of the geese and the soft earth of Wales, where the rain was sometimes as delicate as the sunlight.
The geese, a secret that only Jack knew about, and the ridiculous farm that she envisioned were her only way of venting, and like any normal person, she needed to vent; she needed a release. She wasn’t hopeless and doomed and her soul wasn’t torn apart upon on a weekly basis as Jack’s was, but that didn’t mean she had it easy.
She was twenty-three, and an orphan. Her future was demons and swords, guns and fire…and in all likelihood hell was her final destination. She could only put her soul on the line so many times before it was taken in this game of chance.
The geese were her way of dreaming of a real life, a normal human life; they were something that could connect her to the world. For the last year and a half, she had been the dutiful girlfriend, the frantic lover, the maid who cleaned up the blood and
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