Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy by Troy Stoops Read Free Book Online Page B

you kidding?”
    “No.”
    Grady wiped her eyes with the side of her hand. “Leave him to me, Mary.”
    “Leave what to you?”
    Grady let out a laugh. “You know, I grew up in a double wide in Asheville. I’ve always hated girls like you.”
    “Girls like me? You don’t know me.”
    “My daddy’s ticker quit while he was flipping burgers for six bucks an hour. What’s your dad do?”
    “Why don’t you give me a chance?”
    When Grady got up, Mary flinched, but Grady only sat beside her, threw her arm around her. Mary looked up and tried to smile. Then Grady drew her close, kissed her forehead. After kissing her again, she fell back onto her pillows.
    Sighing, Mary leaned against the wall. “He’s a banker,” she said.
    “Who?”
    “My daddy. He’s a banker.”
    “Oh,” said Grady, chuckling. She reached out. Mary took her hand, slid down, and Grady moved over to let Mary share her pillows. “Just leave it to me, sweetheart,” said Grady, her voice sounding distant now. “Leave everything to me.”
Mary’s eyes fluttered, and in minutes she was asleep.
    * * * * *
    Again, she dreams of the beach; again, the figure opposite waves. She steps forward. The figure’s hand lowers and she stops, gazes skyward. Spread over her like a burst-open gut, the inflamed sky circles. Clouds roll, colors merge and pass each other. The backlit sky hovers and somewhere inside it, a corrugated wing beats.

Chapter Six: The Innkeeper and the Preacher
    1
    The innkeeper, William Penneray, a man of ample backside and perpetually shaded feet, thought about Daniel. The strangers had said his name, as the preacher had foretold it years back.
    William walked out from behind the counter, into the hallway behind it. The kitchen was at the end of the hall. His wife, Gracie, a woman of mountainous cleavage whose body hadn’t agreed with a corset in more than twenty years, looked up from rolling dough on a long sawbuck table. “I’ve got to step out a moment,” said William.
    Gracie nodded. A glob of dough tumbled from her mouth.
    William’s stomach turned, then he smiled, told her he loved her, and left. Walking down Tempest’s streets, he evaded piles of manure, turning his face into the crisp night air. Again, he thought about Daniel. He also thought about the good things that happened to people who did as the preacher bid.
    William didn’t often have an excuse to visit Nathaniel Durham—Tempest’s architect, mayor, and preacher—but when he did his chest puffed out and his gait improved. Calmly, he strode down Main Street, watching the moon ride high above the gold-tinged roofs. When he reached Adams Street he veered north, passing a row of darkened houses. In only one window did he notice a candle; inside, a shadowed face looked up from what appeared to be a large Bible. The face watched him pass.
    The balloon-framed tenement dwarfed the houses beside it. It echoed with the sounds of the poor. Then the street opened on the world and Penneray turned left, lifted his eyes to the spot in the sky the steeple occupied. The massive oak doors were shut, but a light flickered just inside the window. When he pushed open the doors, he was greeted by the trembling light of candles. The pews rested on the puncheon floor, vacant, and charcoal sketches of the savior’s passion glittered beside pewter whale oil lamps. He stepped inside. Like splattered ink, his shadow splashed against the walls. “Reverend?” he whispered, then jumped when Reverend Durham stepped from the sacristy, his spectacles in hand. The preacher’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t speak. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
    “Then spit it out.”
    “A family checked in an hour ago,” began William, pausing, rolling what followed off his tongue slowly. “They asked for Daniel.”
    A kind of light played in Durham’s eyes. “Daniel,” he whispered, disappearing into his office, motioning for the innkeeper to follow.
    William glanced at the floor to hide