Paradise - Act 1
Cholula, Empire of the Mexica - October 1519
The Temple of Tlucoatlac was burning. The Spaniards and their guns and their fire and their lust for the yellow metal had come and begun to burn the city down. The nobles had not been seen since their meeting with Cortes an hour ago. Now the city was in flames.
The priest ran down the dark, narrow hall of the temple, the smoke stinging his eyes and lungs. Then the air cleared as he entered the central chamber. His red, swollen eyes widened. The three other priests lay cut open and dead on the floor. The Spaniard stood with his sword still out, the blade shining in the torchlight. He held something. The priest opened his mouth but couldn’t cry out because of the smoke.
Instead, he charged forward and ploughed into the soldier from behind, feeling the pain of the man’s metal shirt. The soldier stumbled forward and dropped both his sword and the sacred object. The priest snatched it up and held the flat, curved blade gently, touching only its knob of a handle, careful to aim the broad, sharp edge away from himself.
“¡Hey! ¡Coloque el cuchillo en el piso!” the solider shouted, reaching for his sword which had clattered several feet away.
The priest frowned. Why was this soldier so worried? This blade was not for him. He was not royalty. The shot and the sharp smell of the fire-powder flooded the priest’s senses. He felt the bullet enter his back and exit his chest and knock him forward onto his knees. The blade he kept cradled in both hands, the arc of the blade aimed away from himself. Even if he was to die, he was not royalty. He could not die from this.
As he knelt in shock on the stone floor, the Spaniard from behind him walked around him, examining his kill. The priest clutched the knife tighter, trying to hide the precious thing from the conquistadors. But they were piqued by his interest. First the one, then the other laid hands on it, trying to wrest it away from his dying hands. Finally, the one gave him a shove that sent him onto his back, the blade not moving from his hands. The Spaniard raised his sword with the sound of tearing air and brought it down.
The priest’s hands, sweaty with the heat and fear, betrayed him. The handle slid from his right palm and the corner of the blade jabbed into his wrist, drawing blood. He let out a terrible cry of pain as the sword cleaved his chest in two, striking stone beneath.
Later, as the soldiers stripped the body of the gold ornaments in which it was adorned, they were puzzled by the vague smile on the lips of the nameless dead priest.
Logan closed the door. The sound was quiet. Sort of guilty. How a door could close with a sense of guilt, only Rachel knew because she picked up on it and glared at him. Again.
“You were out all night,” she said simply, setting the coffee mugs into the sink with deliberate motions. “All night. You didn’t even bother to wander in a three in the morning and pretend to snuggle.” She jerked the tap off, not looking at him anymore, just burning through the breakfast dishes with her fire-filled eyes. “Where were you?”
“Out,” Logan answered. All motion in the kitchen stopped. Logan drew in a breath for the upcoming battle. More terrifying than a pack of vampires. More terrifying than a Slayer in heat. The woman he didn’t love anymore. The only reason he came home at all had just kissed him goodbye for school outside. And she would never know.
Rachel slowly turned from the sink. “Fine.” Without even drying her hands, she walked from the kitchen for the stairs, moving up them with deliberate steps. Logan identified them as dangerous steps. Logan left for work in the deepest part of the silence.
“I’m just saying I don’t think it’s a good idea,” the Slayer shrugged. She was happy he was at least talking to her. What he had to say, however...
“I just want something useful to contribute,” he argued, exasperation overwhelming him.
“So dark magic is your answer?” Niki frowned. “How is that logical?”
Logan threw up his hands. “Why is everyone against me!? All I want to do is help! We’ve established that I can’t fight worth shit, you and I are obviously not what I thought we were–” He immediately saw the hurt in Niki’s eyes. He inwardly groaned. He often forgot how young she was. On top of his marriage, his conscience also dealt with the fact that she was a decade younger than he: A decade more emotionally vulnerable, Slayer strength notwithstanding. He was really her first real relationship. And what a son of a bitch she had chosen. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He felt a flash of amazement. After all that had happened — here he was comforting her. “I just want to help,” he said tenderly.
“Pearce is organizing some martial arts sessions for me,” she replied, resenting more than a little his tender hand. “Why don’t you come?”
“That’s fine for someone with preternatural strength,” he acknowledged, “but for us mere humans, judo chop just won’t cut it against a vampire.”
She shook her head, knowing nothing would dissuade him from the magic. It wasn’t the desire to help, she knew. It was a focus — something he could escape to when either of his lives turned against him. She knew what that kind of release was. He had been hers. Had been.
Logan pulled into the driveway before the sun had even set. When he entered the house, he smelled the unfamiliar smell of hot, home cooked food. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat down to a meal with his wife and daughter. There was the clinking of cutlery and the scrape of porcelain plates. The rare laugh of Rachel answering the precious laugh of Hanna.
“I’m home,” Logan called hopefully, but there was no happy answers from the kitchen. He hung up his blazer and started down the front hall to the kitchen when footsteps intercepted him. Rachel took his arm before he could say a word and led him to the stairs. At the bottom step was a duffle bag. Logan recognized it. It was his.
Without a word, Rachel picked it up and shoved it into his hands, then spun him around and shoved him out the door, closing it with no sense of guilt. None whatsoever.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded from the other side of the door, banging on it. The indignity of being removed from his own house hit him like a ton of bricks. “What is this?”
Rachel opened the door again and handed him a plate with some leftovers covered in plastic wrap. “Until you get your act together,” she said simply, “you can go wherever it is you go – and stay there.” The door slammed shut.
Logan stood agape on his front porch with every piece of clothing he owned in his duffle bag and a plate of lasagna in his hand. The sun was setting.
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