Black and Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge Page A

scaly motherfucker away. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t able; he could hardly sit; his body urged to reconsider his position and just slide out of his chair onto the stone floor, perhaps into the stone floor, and there he could sleep amongst the stars.
    Archbishop Pager took out several thin stone discs from a battered blue suitcase. He reviewed the grooves of each disc with a painted fingernail. His eyes flitted over to Paul once. Those eyes—the wrongness in them—made Paul imagine Sandeus would laugh out in sadness or rip off his own skin from his nearly bald head, just to prove his love.
    The stone disc dropped with less weight than its appearance suggested. The needle came down on the perimeter and a hollow note struck from an unseen alto ghost. Pink foam frothed up in Ray’s ragged tracheotomy.
    “Quintana! Must I ask again?”
    Paul’s eyebrows jacked to the limit. He’d pissed Pager off somehow but hadn’t a clue how or why.
    “Hand over Alexander!”
    The snake? But hadn’t it been put back in the tank? Where the fuck—?
    Then a cold swamp smell filled his nose. He brought his head down, carefully. The weight of the moist, fat thing around his neck became heavier and he knew that four black fangs would latch into his jaw if he made a sudden movement. Paul raised a hand and the snake’s arrowhead shaped skull turned. Its pitchy eyes glittered. He dropped his hand. “Who put this on me?”
    Sandeus adjusted several switchboxes on the side of the phonograph. The process didn’t seem to be going as smoothly as he liked because he was scowling. “You put him there, Quintana.”
    “But I’m high as a kite—” The room faded to sky blue now and swabs of cottony clouds streaked past with a million lavender kites hanging in the horizon like purple paper spirits. Paul didn’t let this distract him; he hadn’t forgotten Alexander and when he looked down the hallucination sky disintegrated in moldy blue threads.
    Paul gasped as he felt the snake writhe around his neck. He couldn’t touch this damned thing. The thought of touching it again made his balls tighten to little fists. “What’s the point of terrifying the shit out of me?” he demanded.
    The Archbishop, solemn and sincere and overflowing with intolerance at the same time: “Do you actually think I enjoy watching you suffer?”
    “No, I guess not.”
    “Well you couldn’t be more wrong. In this case however, there happens to be a practical purpose also.”
    Paul tried at Alexander again and the black and orange head snapped and he drew his fingers away.
    “If you’re going to be seated as Bishop, there are things you cannot sidestep. The marrow seeds blossom with an individual’s own personal blossoming. We cannot afford flinching. We need strength. You have the talent for balance, but not the will yet.”
    “Yes but—”
    “You need to understand the challenge before us, Quintana. Their names are Martin and Teresa. The same two nomads have done the Interloper’s work for nearly twenty years—keeping alive that long is unheard of. Yes, the Church of Midnight has had its successes, harvested many Hearts, and weakened the gateway. But with handling the nomads, we’ve failed. I have failed. Therefore, you must be tested beyond a single snake if you’re to survive through the holiday. If you cannot, you will not be seated. And without my counseling or Bishop Szerszen’s , the marrow seeds will drive you mad.”
    Paul was not far from that now. But the Priestess was everything to him. She was worth this torment. Thoughts of her drove his mother’s lavender scent away—he slid his hand across his chest, carefully, toward the snake.
    Paul saw the Priestess of Morning last October at the celebration.
    He edged his fingers down and touched the snake’s back.
    Justin Margrave had said through sips of his blackberry wine, “She came through the gateway, my man. Belongs to the Church of Morning. The sacrifice opened the gateway wide enough