Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗

Bethany shook her head. “I can’t, not here.”

She pulled the smock from his hand and held it up. Mario stuck his good arm through the sleeve and let Bethany wrap and tie the smock shut around his bound arm. She looked over at Miranda, then back again.

“You two had a fight?”

“What makes you think that?” Mario asked, utterly bewildered at the abrupt change of topic.

“Besides the spectacular bruises on your face and her banged-up hand? She sat on the cot next to yours last night after you went to sleep. She had the same look on her face that you did earlier.”

Mario looked over at Miranda, still asleep, her head sunk deep in a pillow. She had watched him last night while he slept? After the way she had flipped out on him yesterday—who was he kidding, after the way he had flipped out on her—he found that hard to believe.

“You could say that.”

“So you and she—”

The door to the infirmary opened. Bethany turned toward the new arrival. A pale man, about six feet tall with a wiry build and wearing a white long-sleeved tunic, entered the infirmary. His garments were made of a finely woven linen-type fabric, not the homespun everyone else seemed to wear. Mario could tell he was accustomed to getting his way. When he smiled, Mario’s skin began to crawl. He had the same golden eyes, tawny hair, and sharp cheekbones and nose as Finn—they had to be related. But unlike Finn, this man’s smile had no warmth.

“Prophet,” Bethany said, bobbing down in a half-curtsey. She looked down at the floor.

“Healer, leave us.”

“As the Prophet commands,” Bethany replied. She walked straight to the door and left, never once raising her eyes.

“You must be Mario,” the man said, extending his hand. “We are Jeremiah Butler, the Prophet and leader of New Jerusalem. You are welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Mario said. He slid down from the exam table and shook Jeremiah’s hand. “We’re thankful to be here.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said with a self-assured nod, “a sentiment your companions also expressed. We have met the others already but left you and the woman here to rest. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“The healer tells Us that you were quite banged up…broken ribs, fever, and a wound on your arm. But not a bite, she assures Us. Your path here has been a difficult one.”

“Yes.”

Jeremiah waited for Mario to elaborate. Mario stayed silent. He did not want to give more information than absolutely necessary, but Jeremiah stayed silent too. Mario didn’t want to risk being rude. They were guests, after all, and it was not smart to alienate your host. Especially when the host in question had saved you.

“Finn mentioned something about you seeing that we would come.”

“Indeed.” Jeremiah nodded his head, his expression grave. He spoke with an intensity that demanded attention. Mario could see how he had ended up in charge.

“But We only saw five,” he continued. “The red-haired woman was not part of what the Heavenly Father showed Us, but We have learned patience when interpreting His will. Sometimes not all is revealed. We must accede to His wisdom, trust that His Revelation will reveal itself in His time. God is perfect, after all, and We, just a man.”

“It must be difficult,” Mario said neutrally. Talking to Jeremiah felt exactly the same as navigating the treacherous currents of the City Council.

The prophet’s eyes narrowed. “Is it true that she is your leader’s second?”

“Yes,” Mario answered. Judging from Jeremiah’s tone, Mario didn’t like where this might be going.

“Does it not bother you to have a woman outrank you?”

“It’s not my call.”

A small sound, part yawn, part sigh, came from the cots. Jeremiah turned to look as Miranda blinked her eyes and began to stir. She yawned, stretching her arms overhead before wincing and stopping mid-motion. She moved her left shoulder gingerly as she sat up.

“What time is it?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Such blue eyes.”

An icy shiver raced down Mario’s spine. The predatory tone of the Prophet’s voice was unmistakable. Mario forced himself to smile and started over to Miranda, his heart thumping in his chest. “It’s around noon.”

“Really?”

Mario sat on the side of Miranda’s cot, taking her hand in his. The clean bandages around her hands were soft.

“You look so much better today,” he said, meaning it. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

Miranda pulled back in surprise. She looked at him like he had lost his mind.

“What are—”

“I’m sorry, love, I should have introduced you first,” Mario said through a static grin.

His eyes bored into hers, trying to make Miranda understand, but she didn’t seem to be getting the message. She tried to pull her hand away, but Mario held fast. Miranda grimaced as he tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her burned and bandaged palms, but he didn’t dare let go as he stood up.

“This is Jeremiah Butler, Miranda, the prophet. He came to see how we’re doing.”

An agonizing moment passed as Jeremiah came toward them. Mario would have recognized Jeremiah’s rapacious expression at a hundred yards, but he could not be sure the same was true of Miranda. Despite how smart she was, she sometimes missed what he found obvious. He had often teased her about it when they had been together. And she still had a concussion, so who knew what she might or might not be able to figure out quickly.

“Oh,” Miranda said, and Mario relaxed a fraction. He loosened his grip on her hand, which she left nestled inside his own. “I’m honored to meet you, Prophet.”

“The honor is mine,” Jeremiah replied, his golden eyes alight. He shifted his attention to Mario. “This woman belongs to you.”

Mario winced. Jeremiah could not have come up with a poorer choice of words if he’d tried.

“I don’t,” Miranda began. “Ow!”

“Yes,” Mario said, cutting her off with a sharp pinch between her thumb and forefinger. “Miranda belongs to me.”

And she’s going to murder me.

Jeremiah studied them for a long moment, speculation plain on his face. “And yet you agree to let her outrank you among your companions. Curious.”

“Like I said before, it’s not my call.”

“We will give you private quarters,” Jeremiah said, seemingly willing to let the matter of rank drop, “as befits a man and his consort.”

“Wife,” Mario corrected. Consort felt too flimsy, a bond too easily dissolved. “We’re grateful for whatever accommodations you can spare, but we’re fine here.”

“We will leave you to rest, then,” said Jeremiah, his gaze lingering on Miranda. “If the healer agrees you are up to it, you will be guests at Our table soon.”

Mario shot Miranda a warning glare when she started to open her mouth again. “I am honored, thank you.”

Jeremiah nodded and left. As soon as the door shut behind him, Miranda snatched her hand away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her face flushing with anger.

“Keep your voice down,” Mario said, tipping his head toward the girl two cots away.

Miranda looked at the sleeping girl, then back at Mario. “I can take care of myself, honey.”

Mario sat on the next bunk, facing her. “There are lots of predators in the wilderness. You never know when you’ll catch one’s eye.”

“The predators out here can’t be worse than the ones in San Jose,” she said, her voice just shy of caustic. “I might have been able to turn that to my advantage.”

She hadn’t missed the Prophet’s interest after all. I should have more faith in her, Mario thought, but the idea of Miranda dangling herself in front of that man like a juicy steak for a hungry dog made him feel ill.

Miranda looked at him for a moment, then across the room toward the wood-burning stove, her frustration and annoyance tangible. It seemed to Mario that the gears of her mind were spinning at a million miles per hour. She did not say anything for a few minutes.

“I guess we’ll just have to play this out.” She cocked her head to one side. “Is that a kettle on the stove over there?”

Mario sighed, relieved. Miranda was nothing if not pragmatic, and while she was not happy about what he had done, she was apparently not going to waste time being angry about it.

“I doubt it’s real tea.”

Only black and caffeinated counted as tea as far as Miranda was concerned. Mario retrieved the now hot kettle, using the end of his sleeve as a potholder, and filled the cups that Bethany had prepared. He handed one to Miranda and glanced at the girl in the other cot. Still sleeping.

“Mint,” Miranda pronounced after a few sniffs and a careful sip. “Could be worse. Where’s the healer lady?”

“Bethany left when the prophet arrived,” Mario murmured as he sat down. “He commanded her.”

Miranda took another sip of her tea. “Bethany, right. Commanded?”

Mario nodded. “She’s a real doctor, a pediatrician.”

“Sounds like you two had a nice little gab.”

“I think she might be,” Mario stopped, trying to find a neutral word, “obliging.”

“What did she say about my leg?”