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He moved on and saw the black silhouette of a cross against the sky. It perched incongruously on the roof of a house. A mission, then. He walked up to the gate in the faded white picket fence. A hand-lettered sign read The Blood of the Lamb Mission. Shadows near the bottom of the gate’s upright caught his attention. He bent, flicked on his lighter, and froze. The old man in St. Louis had been right. The symbol he’d been following across the depression-wracked country was carved deep into the wood. The drawing had been disturbing; the original was terrifying.
Now he regretted that he had been flippant in Conoscenza’s Harlem office. The big man had skated the drawing across the polished surface of the desk. Cross had studied the cross and the snake, met the dark gaze of the man who offered him a chance for oblivion, and asked, “I’m guessing this doesn’t mean there’s a doctor in the joint.”
Conoscenza stood, an impressive sight, because he was at least six foot six and three-hundred-plus pounds. He paced to the window and clasped his hands behind his back. The sunlight shone on his ebony skin. Cross joined him and they looked down on the throngs of humans bustling along the sidewalk. “It’s a bad time,” Conoscenza said. “Could be there’s enough desperation out there to finally allow them to tear open the membranes between the dimensions and return.”
The them referred to Cross’s kind, creatures that masqueraded as gods and preyed on the inhabitants of this world. Just as Cross now masqueraded as human, though he no longer fed on the hapless monkeys of Earth.
“We’ve seen worse,” was Cross’s laconic reply. “Economic depression and drought can’t really stack up against the Black Death, Genghis Khan, or the Albigensian Crusade. If this generation of humans is going to embrace the Old Ones over this, then they’re pussies.”
Now, confronted by the symbol, he was scared. Their opponents had found enough death, violence, and pain to shatter Cross. It was only because of hundreds of tiny acts of kindness that he had been able to paste himself back together. Despite being devastated by economic collapse, many people were actually worshiping the loving version of God embodied by the mythical Jesus. They were applying the principles that Conoscenza had grafted onto the previously murderous cult of a war god.
Some of this kindness was intrinsic to man—evolution tended to cultivate empathy—but some of it was due to Conoscenza’s meddling. The Old Ones might have afflicted humankind with religion, but Conoscenza had tried to guide it and shape it into something that could potentially do good. And Cross had joined him in this effort because, in the distant past, Eolas, as Conoscenza had then been called, had found Cross, created by human compassion and weakened by human cruelty, and Eolas/Conoscenza had offered Cross a bargain. Cross would help against the alien creatures, and, in exchange, Eolas/Conoscenza would help Cross die. They just never seemed to get around to the dying part. For an instant, existence lay on Cross’s shoulders like a crushing weight.
He lifted his head and faced the building. There was a flutter in his gut that had nothing to do with hunger. If this was a point of contact between the Old Ones and this world, Cross would have to handle the situation, and he was weak, so weak. Once again, he wished that they had a paladin, a human who could use the ancient weapon and kill an Old One. Instead, he had to match his strength against his own kind. He sucked in a steadying breath and pushed through the gate. Dead grass, blasted by years of drought, crackled beneath his feet. He walked up the stairs onto the wide, screened porch, complete with a swing, and knocked on the front door. He hoped the obligatory service would be over, and that no one currently in residence was actually religious. When people started praying and testifying and calling on Jesus, it made it damn hard for him to keep his hair short and his face beardless. His physical form tended to reflect the vision of the believers.
A woman answered. Thirties, pretty, brown hair piled on her head, and built like a brick shithouse. She wore a skirt and white blouse and a pair of perky open-toed red shoes. She stared at Cross for a long moment, and then a smile clicked on. He allowed a sliver of his power to flick out and touch her. Magic flared around her, and there was something very wrong with the large amber ring on her right hand. He studied the band formed of braided hair, and the undulating black shadows that flowed into it. Something was trapped and he feared it might be her.
“Evening, ma’am,” Cross said. “Am I right in thinking this is a mission?”
“Yes . . . yes, it is. Welcome, do come in. I’m Sister Sharon.” She stepped back and Cross stepped across the threshold. The oily taint of his kind permeated the walls and hung in the curtains. Cross’s muscles tensed in preparation for an assault, but then he realized that it was faint and muted; the Old One was clearly no longer present.
“You’re our only guest tonight. Most people seem to be riding on through.” She had a good voice, clear and vibrant. She took his bindle and set it by the door. “If you’re hungry, there’s stew on the stove and I baked bread this morning.”
“Yes, ma’am, I could eat.”
She led him into the living room, which had been transformed into a mess hall with trestle tables and benches. Cross settled onto a bench; she disappeared through a door. Cross jumped up and hurried back to the entryway. He had the power to see magic, and the tear between the dimensions should be like a flare. He swung his head from side to side, trying to locate it, but the ring was a constant buzz, interfering with his ability. He moved toward a set of double doors and had his hand on the knob when he was startled by a sharp voice.
“Here, now, what are you doing snoopin’ around?”
Cross turned and met the irate gaze of a short, rotund man. Standing behind the bristling fat man was a heavyset youth in his twenties. The flat facial features betrayed his mongolism. He smiled at Cross and bobbed his head happily.
“Sorry, just getting my bearings,” Cross said.
“Looking to rob us, no doubt,” the man huffed. He reached up and grabbed Cross by the ear, and tugged. “We’ll see what Sister Sharon has to say.” Now the idiot was looking concerned, catching the anger in the fat man’s words.
“If you don’t let go, you’re going to lose that hand,” Cross said in a conversational tone. The man met his gaze and yanked his hand back. Cross walked into the mess hall. Sharon was just emerging from another door with a bowl of stew in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.
“Sister, I found him slinkin’ around.” The words were infused with the kind of self-importance only heard in palace eunuchs or majordomos. The mongoloid hung back at the door, shifted nervously from foot to foot, and cast glances at Sharon.
“I’m sure he meant no harm,” Sharon said soothingly.
Cross sat down on a bench, and Sharon deposited the food in front of him. He gave the stew an experimental stir. It was thick with chunks of meat, and even held a few green beans among the carrots a
nd potatoes. This was far better fare than was found at most missions. Sharon sat across from him. The little man stood behind her and glared.
“My husband, Marshall, and stepson are on a crusade,” Sharon said. “They do the preaching, so I haven’t been encouraging folks to come since there aren’t services right now.”
“You’re just as fine a preacher as Brother Hanlin,” the man said. “The spirit fills you, Sister Sharon.” She smiled up at him, and he puffed out his chest. Cross stared at the darkness circling the ring and wondered what else might fill her.
“You’re too kind, Stanley.”
“The lack of a parson is probably an attraction for most people,” Cross said as he slurped up a spoonful of stew.
“I take it you’re not a godly man, Mr. . . .”
The irony nearly made him choke. He gave a short laugh. “Cross,” he said, supplying the name. “And I’m more godly than you can imagine. I just know it’s all snake oil and wishful thinking.”
“You don’t think people need the comfort? Especially in hard times?” Sharon asked.
