FALLEN WORLD

 An Untold story from my latest SAME AS IT NEVER WAS:

 

FALLEN WORLD

“I have lived all my life among shadows and broken images.”

– Helen Mayfair

 I looked at a slightly amused Sister Ameal studying me. Let her.

If she could decipher the enigma of my blank past, I would welcome it … assuming she would share.

But assuming with that one was dangerous.

She long since has taught me to ask questions and not to make assumptions.

Sister Ameal was an austere whipcord of a human.

 Supposedly one of the Daughters of Charity, her white cornette flared out so that the children round about called her “the butterfly nun.”

“Miss Mayfair,” she murmured, “what led you to become a librarian and one in that accursed orphanage, St. Marok’s?”

“Libraries are the source of answers, to which I am drawn. And on that orphanage’s steps was where I was found as an infant.”

She had her answer; now I wanted one of my own.

 “You call this structure your rectory, but a rectory is reserved for a priest. Why then, do you live here and alone at that?”

Her lips curled in a fashion that Mona Lisa would have envied. “I blackmailed the cardinal. I find the direct approach with the Church to be best.”

“Sister!”

She shrugged. “Why so surprised? You know that before the Convent, I was the highest paid assassin in all of Portugal.”

Sister Ameal raised her right hand suddenly. “Bide. The Mistress of all America’s revenants is lurking in the foyer yonder.”

“But she will burn in my Presence!”

“Calm yourself, fledgling Seraph. Not in my rectory she will not.”

“Why?”

“You must have me confused with the Oracle of Delphi. I owe you no answer but one that amuses me to give.”

I heard an intake of breath that a revenant would not need to fill collapsed lungs. Then, it was needed to brace unsettled nerves.

Abigail Adams, smelling slightly of decaying flesh, walked with a studied grace around the corner.

I saw both relief and disappointment in her azure eyes.

New Orleans. 

Here, despair plays the populace like an instrument -- blows through the trees of our minds like flutes. But trees will not grow in cement. 

And as heartbeats bring percussion, fallen hopes bring repercussions. This city plays upon our souls like broken drums.

I sighed.

Adams had both wanted to live and to die at the same time. Not unlike most of the inhabitants of this city … except for that artful dodger, Richard Blaine.

He took delight in dodging death in all manner of forms. There was no telling what manner of mischief he was up to at this moment.

All that was certain was that he was laughing.

Abigail Adams, widow of the second President of the United States, looked troubled. She usually looked angry.

 Perhaps she had traveled with her anger long enough to learn its true name.

Grief.

I felt a strange sort of compassion for this undead woman who had none for anyone.

Love without power remained impotent, and power without love was bankrupt.

Sister Ameal said, “I see you dress in the fashion of this century for a change.”

“What I do, and why I do it is none of your concern.”

“You came to me.”

Adams shook her carefully coiffured hair and pointed to me with a stabbing forefinger.

“No, I came to see this one.”

Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Is it true that you are a Seraph?”

“So, the strange being, Darael, tells me.”

“That one! He is a Seraph Provocateur. Trust nothing that one says.”

“I trust no word from anyone human.”

Adams smiled knowingly. “What of Blaine?”

Sister Ameal murmured, “What made you think he was human?”

Adams went paler than I thought possible. “H-He is something Other?”

“As is everyone else in this room, and I will tell you nothing further.”

Though I was burning to ask the sister, I would not in front of this undead empress. Instead, I asked a question of my own.

“What would you have of me, Madame President?”

“A four-year-old girl precious to me has gone missing.”

Sister Ameal shook her brilliantly white cornette. “Rather an abomination that appears to be a four-year-old girl you mean.”

I started to rise from my chair, but Sister Ameal placed a light hand upon my arm. 

“Hold, Fledgling, Adams did not turn her, but merely wished to turn her to her advantage.”

I frowned, “How?”

“It has been thought impossible before now to turn such a young human into a revenant. 

If only Adams could control an army of such undead urchins that could pass unnoticed down the halls of Power … what increased power might be hers?”

I wheeled on her. “You are an abomination!”

Adams was unmoved. “Now, another unknown entity has her. We must both rescue the child ….”

Sister Ameal spat, “Child!”

Adams continued as if not interrupted, “Before untold chaos is released upon the streets of New Orleans.”

She turned a smug defiance glare at me. 

“Or are you going to sit impotently upon your outraged naivety and let Hell claim these streets?”

 

TO BE CONTINUED IN

FALLEN WORLD, BROKEN SOULS