“The line doesn’t seem to be moving very fast,” Ash said in Spanish.
“I hope it speeds up,” the man replied. “This is the first day that the viewing has been open to the public. We’re leaving in the morning—we must get a chance to see it before we have to leave.”
“See…what?”
“The robe,” the woman answered, looking up at Ash from her wheelchair. “The holy robe covered in the saint’s blood.” She made the sign of the cross, then continued working her rosary beads.
The man leaned closer and lowered his voice. “My wife is not well. She has the cancer now. We need this visitation very much.”
Ash nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. What a scary time for you both. I do hope you get in. And I hope it gives you the relief you’re looking for.”
The line was growing faster than it was diminishing. People waited patiently for their moment with the saint’s relic. Several were in wheelchairs or leaned on crutches. Their expressions ran the gamut of human emotions, from hope to desperation, joy to frustration. They came from all over the world and represented believers from many religions, curious non-believers, and straight-up atheists.
After a few hours, an announcement was made that the display would be closing and no visitors after Ash’s place in line could come in.
The woman behind her began to weep. Ash felt awful for them. She thought about giving up her place, but something within her fought against that inclination.
When she’d gotten in line, it was more out of curiosity than desire to see the robe again. She was more interested in what had been done to showcase the robe. Was it still in its little storeroom at the back of the church?
Her compulsion to see the robe again was strong, but not stronger than her desire to help the older couple behind her. Giving up her place in line was a simple thing to do.
Ash set her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t cry. You two can take my place. I can see it another day.”
She stepped out of line, waving to them as she left. Once again, she moved to a vantage point that let her look over the crowd from the high platform of the church steps. The people there at that moment were experiencing the same energy she had.
Except it wasn’t exactly the same, was it? She wondered if any of these people were having visitations from Merc. Had he slipped into their dreams—and into their bodies?
Merc’s voice, irritated and growly, came into her mind. No. I did not.
She shook her head. It wasn’t enough that she’d thrown herself at him the first time they’d actually met in real life—
You didn’t throw yourself at me.
Right. She was still having full-on conversations with her imaginary version of Merc.
She was pathetic.
I’m not imaginary.
Why couldn’t she get him out of her head?
It’s complicated.
That comment brought her up short. This was not a conversation she was instigating, a pretend chat that she generated the content for like someone playing both sides of a chessboard. No, it existed on its own, saying things she didn’t think.
Whatever. It was in her head, so it was within her own purview to manage. She crossed her arms and decided then and there to purge any more thoughts of Merc.
And yet…Merc was all around her here. His blood was in the church where hundreds had just been queued up to see it. His influence was painted all over the new murals that now covered the gang art that once had been a threatening reminder of who owned this rough little village. Merc’s essence held the place of honor—or horror—in the gruesome human remains filling the chairs facing the new murals, sites that were now collecting piles of mementos placed by desperate worshipers hungry for a little peace of mind.
I did not mean for any of this to happen.
And yet here we are, she responded before she could stop herself. Dammit. This wasn’t real. She was conversing with her own madness.
19
Skin-walking was a laborious endeavor. Merc thought back to his days in the training camps, learning to astral-travel. He had to first overcome his doubts about it being a real thing, then he had to tackle his fear about the altered reality it brought. Was he still himself outside the shell of his body? Once he’d made the leap, he realized reality was a misnomer. There was only truth in the moment, and even that was defined in the eyes of the observer.
Maybe that was when he began to hate himself.
He felt the same uncanny feeling now, trying to consciously possess a worker from the mine. He was attempting to take over a regular—a being he was sworn to protect. And though he had only the intention to ride the man into the protected zone to see what was happening there, Merc knew possession violated the Legion’s principles. It wasn’t something taught in the training camps; he had no idea where Flynn had learned to do it. The art of possession, once mastered, made a mutant far more powerful than a regular. And as with every other superior skill a mutant had, it was something that could be used without oversight, without checks and balances, and, worst of all—without guilt.
Merc centered himself again. The morals of what he was doing would have to be sorted later. Getting into that mine was all that mattered. He’d spent the days since his return connecting with several of the mine workers. They worked three days on, off one. Not one man enjoyed his work. Most spent their off time drinking and fucking. None spoke of what went on during his shifts, not with each other, not with their families.
Merc’s astral self jumped to the modified ATV that was transporting the incoming crew. The men aboard were silent. Merc couldn’t tell if that was due to a compulsion or personal choice. He suspected the latter.
The trip to the mine on the transport took about an hour. Merc had one hour to get inside one of them—not an easy feat, given how strong the protection on them was. He realized he couldn’t force his way in; he had to be invited.
Merc faced the man riding alone in the back row. Juan was his name. Merc didn’t use words to seduce the man’s psyche. Instead, he used the skill Guerre had taught the team of communicating in knowings. That skill had had a steep learning curve, until they’d all understood that a concept was known before the idea of it was articulated. When you saw a door open, you didn’t have to say to yourself that the door opened—you already knew it without the words describing it. And just as emotion was often lost in a text, the nuance of a meaning could be lost in a verbalization, but it was never lost in a knowing.
You are afraid, Merc sent the acknowledgement into the man’s mind. It was the truth, and was so pure a knowing that it bypassed the protection on his mind.
The man jumped and looked around.
I can help.
The man hit the shoulders of the two in the seat in front of him, asking them what they were talking about.
They looked confused. “We are not talking. Nor should you be.”
Thoughts were energy, and knowings were the purest form of it because they simply existed. They had no resistance, no emotion, no beginning, and no end. They just were.
And in that stream of energy that Merc had opened, the man responded in kind: You can’t help me.
You can’t do it yourself. Let me in.
And just like that, Merc stepped into the man’s skin. He felt Juan’s body absorb his. He became older, shorter, weaker. He smelled like him and saw from eyes that were far less capable than his.