Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

at attention, facing forward.

Like nothing had happened at all.

King folded the switchblade in and palmed it before anyone could see.

He faced forward too.

His heartbeat throbbed in his neck, every sense heightened, his brain transported back to the fight-or-flight mentality of hunter-gatherers on the ancient plains.

Grayson blinked sweat out of his eyes and ignored King.

Like it would all go away if he pretended it hadn’t happened.

King couldn’t stab him without making an enemy of two hundred rabid cult members.

He felt sweat welling on his forehead and under his arms at the exertion of fighting for his life, and the sheer strangeness of what had just happened.

There were ten people behind him, ten in front, and seven to the left, and all of them were transfixed on Maeve, unaware of what had unfolded nearby.

King stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his would-be assassin and waited for the service to come to an end.

He was alone.

61

Maeve spoke for close to two hours.

King barely heard a word.

The chants of ‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’ had subsided after increasing sequentially in volume for what felt like forever, and then the frenzy of emotion had given way to stillness and the disciples had taken their seats in the pews.

King sat down beside Grayson and muttered, ‘What was that for?’

Grayson stared forward. Didn’t blink, didn’t respond, didn’t so much as recognise that King had spoken. He was riding a wave of Bodhi unlike anything he’d experienced, and the failed assassination attempt had left him mentally depleted. Now all he could do was surrender to it and pretend that reality didn’t exist.

Pretend that the man he should have murdered didn’t have his knife, wasn’t sitting beside him, entirely unharmed.

King muttered, ‘Don’t go anywhere after this is over.’

He could see Grayson contemplating what he should do. Run, fight with his bare hands, alert the Riordans. None of them seemed like the right call in the middle of a sermon.

So he sat there and surrendered to the Bodhi.

Sweat ran from all his pores, despite the afternoon chill. The pain of his broken wrist and fingers must have been hitting him.

Maeve ranted about the philosophy and teachings of Mother Libertas. She spoke of the mind-body connection, the ability to choose a new reality in each moment in time, the connection to Gaia, how the maternal love the earth spewed could be harnessed, shaped, mastered, channelled into a new life and a new existence and a new universe.

It was powerful stuff if you were vulnerable.

King, on the other hand, didn’t pay attention at all.

All his critical thinking was focused on planning what would happen after the service concluded.

Grayson shifted and cracked his neck, rolling through the pulsating waves of the Bodhi experience, trying in vain to sit still. A couple of people noticed, and a woman in her mid-thirties sitting behind them put a hand on Grayson’s shoulder and whispered for him to relax.

He nearly jumped out of his skin.

But Maeve’s words drowned out the tension. She was an incredible orator. King could admit that much. Even though he wasn’t listening to the words, the way they floated through the church was something to behold. Her rhetoric captured the attention of every disciple.

When it was finally over, everyone recited the creed for a second time.

They all stood up to shout the final commands.

Grayson was on the comedown, his skin clammy instead of flushed. Going through the mother of all hangovers.

King said in his ear, ‘Don’t you move a muscle.’

As the final bellowing chant of ‘MOTHER, AWAKEN!’ rippled through the ranks, concluding the service, Grayson powered past the man beside him and stepped out into the aisle prematurely.

If he’d timed it a little worse, everyone would have stared at him for moving too soon.

Instead, a handful of disciples on the aisles followed suit, and suddenly everyone was streaming for the doors.

‘Fuck,’ King muttered.

He shoved past the guy on his aisle, who still hadn’t moved.

‘Hey,’ the guy started. ‘What the—?’

King was already gone, out in the aisle, shouldering past the disciples who were in his way.

Grayson made it to the exit. The back of his shirt sported an enormous sweat patch, a dark oval that encompassed most of the material. He stepped out into the late afternoon light and strode fast for one of the outbuildings, hoping to lose King in the maze.

King made it past the first few disciples closest to the exit doors and broke into a light jog, like he had somewhere to be but wasn’t in a huge hurry to get there. It was a calculated risk, but Grayson hadn’t been willing to go there. He didn’t want to run at risk of arousing suspicion, so by the time he made it to one of the bunkhouses on the perimeter King was on his tail.

Grayson ducked into the shadows.

Behind the building, the sun melted into the prairie.

The commune glowed orange.

King ducked into the building after the young man who’d tried to kill him.

62

Slater found Alexis and Violetta out the front of the church, amidst the few dozen disciples still milling around in the shadow of the building.

Aware of keen ears all around them, Alexis made it seem nonchalant when she asked, ‘Where’s your friend?’

Slater scanned the commune, looking for any sign of King.

He came up empty-handed.

He tried not to sound overly concerned. ‘I don’t know.’

Violetta said, ‘What’s his name again?’

It meant nothing, but it added to the believability that they’d only met once in a bar.

Slater turned to her. ‘Jason.’

He masked the worry in his throat.

63

Damp with stale sweat, Grayson shouldered a door open and hurried through into one of the rooms, guaranteed to be empty.

Its occupants would still be milling outside the church, and there was no reason for them to return to their quarters before finalising their daily tasks.

King saw the man go in and took a deep breath.

Subdue, he told himself. Don’t overreact.

He ran down the hallway.

Subdue.

The door had swung back closed, so he pushed it open again, refusing to allow Grayson a moment to compose himself.

Subdue.

Grayson had another knife.