As the Moon Climbs

“Good morning, Mr. Poole.” Nola Shields stood in the living room of her employer’s downtown penthouse, her black suit neatly pressed, her shoes shined.

“Good morning, Ms. Shields.” Roy Poole examined the clothes she had laid out for him. “Red tie today? Government work?”

“Yes, sir. You have an appointment with the senator for brunch, after a meeting with the board.”

Poole dressed while Ms. Shields apprised him of his schedule for the day, then briefed him on pertinent news and financial indicators. By the time she finished knotting his tie, he was ready to work.

“How are your ribs feeling, by the way?” he asked. “And your eye? I don’t see a bruise.”

“Makeup, Mr. Poole. I’m a little sore but the painkillers manage that.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her muscles stiffen. “You sure you’re in fighting form? If more of Delgado’s thugs come after me—”

“I’ll kill them, too,” she replied coolly. “Sir.”

With a laugh, Poole patted her arm. “You’re a hard woman, Ms. Shields. Keep it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

I watched the Berlin wall dissolve
in stilted slow motion, pebble by rock,
from five thousand miles away.
Propped up on the kitchen counter
at my grandparents’ house with feet
dangling, I asked my mother
why no one stopped them.
I thought it was vandalism.
She tried to explain how sometimes
people put up walls to keep things
separate, and after enough time
other people come to pull the walls down
and put everyone back together.
I didn’t understand. My room had walls,
the house, the backyard, my school,
the playground where I ran around
pretending to be a super hero.
They kept me safe, I thought.

My grandmother watched, too,
stirring a pot of black beans,
waiting for oil in the big frying pan
to heat up enough for breaded steaks.
Her tears salted the food because
she knew something that I didn’t,
that no one had wanted to believe
as they climbed portable stairs
into a small plane and watched the ground
fall away beneath them–sometimes,
you can’t put people back together,
you never see the other side again,
you leave graffiti when you can but
it’s only lines drawn in the sand.
Some walls are ninety miles wide
and made of water.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last confession.”

“Only four days, my child?”

“Yes, father.”

“Well, confess your sins to the Lord.”

“I have… lusted, father.”

“That is a cardinal sin, but in the Lord you will find forgiveness.”

“But father, I lusted after a young boy. In this Church.”

“You have not acted on this feeling?”

“I… I have, father. Can I be forgiven?”

“T-tell me what happened.”

“He’s one of the altar boys. He arrived early for mass one day and I cornered him in the dressing room while he was putting on his robes. I made him… do things. I told him if he told anyone, God would punish him.”

“Y-you… who are you? How did you—”

“I’m sorry, father, did that story sound familiar? Perhaps you’re the one who should be confessing.”

“Get out of here before I—”

“Before you what? Call for help? We’re alone. How far do you think you can get before I strike you down where you stand?”

“But I… you…”

“I am the Lord’s messenger, and his message is death.”

Submitted to:

Calliope Cervantes: The Art of War begins here, or you can see the full list of Calliope Cervantes stories.

* * * * *

Calliope Cervantes watched the rain fall in long, rope-like strands outside the brightly lit diner and was glad her flight suit was waterproof. Once she got the information from Diego on where to find her quarry, she’d have to move quickly, and showing up to apprehend someone in a skycab was as tacky as doing it while dripping wet. Despite what most citizens thought, the IRS did have some standards.

She tapped the menu screen on the table and ordered another cup of coffee, which appeared in the dispenser unit a minute later. Automated places like this diner weren’t exactly inviting; the outside was slag and recycled glass, the inside was putty-colored composite walls and slag floors, but they were cheap and mostly full of robots who kept to themselves. And paid their taxes, of course, so she didn’t bother them and they didn’t bother her.

The door slid open and a tall man entered, removing his brown fedora and gently shaking the water off. His suit was tailored and his eyes were black as pits, sunshaded and already fading to hazel. Calliope sipped her hot drink while casually sliding her hand down to her tasegun. He spotted her and reached the table in a few long strides.

“Miss Cervantes?” His voice was deep, with a slight western Eurasian accent. “I’m–”

“Titus Lynch,” she interrupted. “I know who you are. You can call me Agent C1058.”

“As you like it. May I sit?”

She shook her head. “Private party. No skivers allowed.”

He smiled, his teeth white as science could make them. “How droll. Did you know that ‘to skive’ has a lesser known meaning: to cut into thin layers?”

“Fascinating.”

“I’m afraid I’ve done that very thing to your associate Diego, so he will find it something of a challenge to keep your appointment.”

Calliope hid her dismay behind a smile of her own. “That’s a shame. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have ordered a fresh cup of coffee.”

“Let me be brief, Agent,” Titus said. “Leave my men alone or I’ll have you eviscerated.”

“I bet you say that to all the ladies.”

“Only the ones who… misbehave.”

She toyed with the hilt of her tasegun. “And what’s to stop me from arresting you right now for threatening a federal agent?”

“Your word against mine, darling.” Titus slowly placed his hat back on his head. “You know robot testimony is inadmissible as evidence. And I know what happened the last time you staked a case on your word.”

Son of a bitch. “Why even bother coming here, then? You could have just as easily sent one of your goons. Or killed me and been done with it.”

Again, a lazy grin. “My father always taught me to keep my enemies close, to know the face of my enemy. And it is a lovely face. Good day, Miss Cervantes.”

With that, he ambled back out into the rain and was picked up by a black limousine. She saw his lips move as if he was talking through a com unit. Calliope stared at the cup of coffee that was rapidly cooling in her clenched hand.

“That was some crock of shit,” she said, diving under the table just as the sniper’s bullet crashed through the window.

* * * * *

Next: Laying Plans

The beginning of the serial Broommates. Click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * *

“$500 HISTORICAL RESIDENCE. THREE SUITES AVAILABLE – (NORTHSIDE)”

Miranda sternly told herself to think affirmative thoughts, then clicked the link to see the full posting.

“Three charming and spacious rooms available at the Boyne House in Northside,” it read. She imagined that “charming and spacious” was realtor code for “drafty and small,” then mentally kicked herself because that was not a positive thought in the least. The ad continued, “Each tenant would be responsible for a proportionate share of the utilities expense, as well as any general repairs and maintenance work that might arise.” Miranda suspected that such needs would certainly arise, or they wouldn’t have been mentioned. “Please contact Anthony Singleton for further details.”

“Sorry, Tony,” murmured Miranda. “Not today.”

She looked at the pictures posted at the bottom of the page. The house seemed large enough, but reminded her of something out of a bad horror film. It was dingy and covered in overgrown ivy, and the garden in front could hardly be called cultivated the way it was exploding helter skelter in all directions. Equally untended trees shaded the sides of the house and littered the ground with their leaves. Some small part of her mind whispered, Bay and rosemary for protection. Lavender and lemon balm for healing. Willow and holly for protection. Apple and hazel for healing.

Out of curiosity, she clicked on the Google Maps link. She raised an eyebrow. She zoomed out to get a better look. She blinked a few times, just to be sure she was seeing what was there and not what she wanted to see.

“Beatrice!” she shouted. “Kitty! I found the perfect place!”

* * * *

They clustered around the computer, regarding the email silently. Finally, one of them spoke.

“I’ll bet there’s a porn somewhere that started like this–”

“Jesus, Parker,” said a second.

“What? It’s probably true.”

“This is the first response we’ve had,” the third muttered. “If we don’t get someone in here soon, little landlord Fauntleroy is going to kick us out.”

“Or you could get a better paying job.” Parker smirked.

“Says the Amazing Faustini.”

Parker’s smirk vanished. “It’s better than Anthony Singleton, fundie and volunteer firefighter.”

“Guys, I know this is a crummy situation, but maybe we should focus on–”

“Relax, Booker,” Anthony interjected. “We’re focused. Okay, so do we write these ladies back or not?”

Parker crossed his arms over his chest. “Sure, why not. What’s the worst that could happen?”

* * * *

“One of them could try to rape us.”

Miranda rolled her eyes at Beatrice. “And then you would beat him until his bruises had bruises. What’s your point?”

Beatrice shrugged, running a hand through her close-cropped blond hair. “That’s me. What if it was you or Kitty?”

“I can take care of myself,” Miranda snapped. They both looked at Kitty, sweet, doe-eyed, curly-haired Kitty, who was staring vacantly into space.

“I don’t see why not,” said Kitty.

“Why don’t we go take a look at the place?” Miranda asked.

“No, I’m sure these will be perfectly nice,” said Kitty.

“It’s not like all men are evil, right?” Beatrice said.

They stopped talking. Miranda tapped Kitty on the side of the head.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” said Kitty.

“Kitty, you’ve left your precog on,” Miranda said.

Beatrice paced while Kitty got a hold of herself. “We just have to be careful not to let on that we’re witches or they’ll be having visions of cauldrons and frog’s legs and turn us down on the spot.”

“Or they’ll have visions of naked dancing under the moonlight and get… other ideas.” Miranda shrugged. “Either way, that place is at the nexus of enough ley lines to give me hives.”

“The trees really do look lovely,” Kitty said.

Beatrice stopped pacing. “You don’t suppose they’re practitioners themselves?”

“Oh, please,” Miranda scoffed. “What are the odds?”

* * * *

The three men stood in front of the house as the three women pulled up in Miranda’s old but clean Corolla.

“I’ll take the brunette, mraow,” Parker said as the women stepped out of the car.

“Keep your pants on and your mouth shut,” Anthony said. Fry nodded in mute agreement.

Miranda walked over with the others trailing behind her. “Good morning, I’m Miranda Sullivan. These are my friends Katherine Owens and Beatrice Hardy.”

“I’m Anthony Singleton, and this is James Parker and Booker Fry.”

“Charmed,” Miranda said brusquely. “Shall we look at the house, then?” She glanced back at Beatrice and Kitty to see the one frowning and the other doing her best imitation of a wide-mouthed bass. “Come on,” she called, and they seemed to snap back to reality from wherever their minds had wandered.

Truth be told, she was having trouble containing her own excitement. The place practically sang with magical energy. They’d be insane not to take it.

Unfortunately, the more they saw of the house, the more insanity seemed the preferable route. They were regaled with instructions like, “Watch that board, it’s rotting,” and, “Don’t lean on the banister or you’ll be back downstairs in a jiffy,” and even “Don’t mind the smell, that’s Houdini leaving us presents.”

“Houdini?” Miranda asked.

“Parker’s cat,” Anthony said.

They eventually made their way back downstairs to the foyer, and Miranda offered her hand to Anthony, who shook it stiffly. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Singleton. We’ll be in touch.”

“When can we move in?” Kitty asked. Every eye turned to regard her incredulously.

Anthony coughed. “If you were interested, we could have the rooms ready for you by…” He looked at his roommates, who shrugged. “…the end of the week?”

“Thank you again,” Miranda said as Beatrice grabbed Kitty’s arm and tugged her toward the car.

“They’re never coming back,” Parker remarked as the women piled into the car.

“Look,” Booker said.

The women were clearly having a heated argument that was only audible as noise from this distance. After a couple of minutes, Miranda and Beatrice stepped back out of the car and Miranda approached the men.

“Yes, fine, we’ll take it,” she said crossly. “To whom should I make out the check?”

* * * *

Part 2: In Which Someone Smells a Rat