************
The Cleric lives on the eighteenth floor of a Librian high-rise whose very understatement reeks of privilege. At least as much privilege as anybody is legally entitled to in this society, Mary thinks scornfully.
They make the trip to his unit in silence.
She absorbs every detail with an eye toward potential escape. Not that getting away now would do her a damn bit of good. They are all fugitives to one degree or another. All prisoners. Even the pride of an Underground that merely frees itself as much as the Ministry will tolerate.
Still, old habits die hard. Apparently, so does she.
The Cleric removes the cuffs and ushers her through his door stiffly. Her stomach turns at the bleakness of the place. Straight lines and sharp edges -- all of it grayscale -- etched in perfect relief. Even the sterile air suffocates.
A light blanket of dust over everything is the only evidence of imperfection.
Once more, Mary finds herself confused. The air of neglect seems to support the theory that they detained him against his will. But if so, why have they let him go? And why her as well?
They burn every other fucking thing. She cannot imagine them making an exception for a fallen Cleric, let alone a lowly sense offender like herself.
He is moving from room to room now, turning on the occasional light as he goes. She takes a few moments to simply observe him.
The Cleric moves with the poise and skill of a born predator. She has watched enough wild animals in the Nether to know. There is beauty in that, she thinks. A kind of pure, natural perfection.
Her pulse quickens with the pleasure of it.
Fascination, she thinks. The spark. It has always been her greatest weakness. Color and texture, sound and movement, motivation and discovery. A desire to stand toe to toe with that which challenges her most. With the Order. First Partridge and now him.
Her brother Jurgen used to say it would be the death of her.
If he only knew...
Mary closes her eyes.
Everything about this particular Cleric screams that they've put him back into balance, but a part of her needs to be sure.
"Please, have a seat."
His voice explodes inside her head. She flinches, in spite of herself. Her eyes snap open and she sees him standing a few feet away, regarding her closely.
"Mary?"
"Yes," she responds, focusing on the point between his eyes.
"I said, have a seat. I need to make arrangements for my children."
He turns away and slides a communicator from his pocket, dialing the citycode with the same swift economy as he does everything else.
Children, she thinks, suppressing a shudder. In a saner, more rational time, it would be criminal to raise children in an environment like this.
Still, she should not be surprised. She knows a little bit about Cleric Preston. Probably more than he realizes. Partridge worked with him for nearly six years. And near the end, as Partridge unraveled, his name would come up from time to time.
He has two children, she recalls. A boy and a girl. His son is already a student of the Monastery. His daughter is a walkway inquisitor.
The Cleric himself is intuitive, perceptive; preternaturally so. At one time, he was ideologically pure. Uncompromising beyond fault. Several of the Order actually feared him, Partridge told her. All of them admired him.
And for people who have spent the whole of their lives not feeling much of anything, that fear and admiration is telling. He connected with them somehow. Unintended, perhaps...but the potential was there.
Jurgen, an Underground leader, figured him for a regular Guy Montag at one point. Partridge's personal evaluation certainly seemed to indicate the possibility.
In fact, Partridge was working on that when the Cleric retired him, she reminds herself, feeling sick.
For Mary knows that he also stood by and let them burn his wife four years ago for Sense Offense.
He is speaking to somebody in another room on his communicator. His bedroom, she guesses. She slinks toward the sound and eavesdrops without a second thought.
The Cleric is demanding to know the whereabouts of his son and daughter. He wants them returned to his custody immediately. Mary's fingers clench at the way his voice rings with authority without changing volume or even inflection.
That in itself may tell her all she needs to know.
He threatens the person on the other end with some type of Ministry Newspeak, which seems to work. But he must settle for them coming back no earlier than first thing in the morning.
Well now, she thinks scathingly. They are giving him his life back. Things will go back to normal for him.
So why is she here?
He ends the call and looks right at her. Mary suddenly realizes that she is standing in the doorway. More than that, she is standing there incensed.
Her eyes narrow. The black and white precision of their surroundings comes into sharper focus -- pissing her off even more.
This man took her life away before she was ready to give it up. Now, he has forced it back on her when she no longer has any use for it.
Only a Cleric, she thinks, could be that damnably exact.
Acceptance has never been her forte. By the pen of Atwood, she would not have made a good Handmaid. And drugged or not, nobody said she had to make this easy for him.
"Well, Cleric," she says to him through her teeth. "You seem to have things well in hand."
"You think?" he asks, watching her. He does not move a muscle.
"I think I'd like to know just what the fuck it is I'm doing here with you, instead of being in a cell where I belong."
He takes a step towards her. "They set you free because I asked them to."
Mary laughs, mirthlessly. A lie, but what's the point of arguing? She is in fact very far from freedom. The only thing that really matters is what to do next.
"Why am I here, Cleric?"
He halts a few feet away.
"Where else would you go?" His voice softens just a fraction. "They swept your quarters shortly after the arrest. There's nothing left for you to go back to."
"I have other resources," she snaps.
Something changes, but she cannot say what it is. The Cleric closes in on her. Before she can stop him, he grips her by the elbow and drags her into the room.
"The Underground?" He lets go of her and shakes his head. "And lead the Ministry directly to them? Or maybe even me?"
His voice drops an octave, becoming smoother. Seductive almost. He says, "You aren't stupid, Mary. And you can't fool me into thinking you are."
Mary crosses her arms. She will not be intimidated. "Cleric..."
He cuts her off, pressing a cool finger to her lips.
"Preston," he says, so faintly she must strain to hear him. "My name is John Preston. You know that already."
"Cleric Preston," she begins again--
With one swift move, he grabs her by the shoulders, propelling her backwards, until she is pinned between his body and the wall.
Her breath leaves her in a sharp gasp. Her heart races against his chest. She grips his forearms. The black silk of his shirt slides over flesh and bone as unyielding as forged steel.
He tilts his head and moves in close to her ear. "Why don't you ask me what you really want to know?"
His lips just barely graze her cheek as he whispers:
"Am I back on my interval? Do I feel?"
The last word is punctuated by the thrust of his hips against her lower body. Mary bites her lip as she feels the hard length of his cock pressing into her belly.
Good lord.
"I can feel you, Mary."
His fingers trace the curve of her neck, stroking over the frantic beat of her pulse.
Just like that, her world is on fire, all senses awake to what she knows this time is real.
Mary meets his gaze. He blinks, and the veil falls away. Suddenly, she can see everything. Fear, doubt, pain...even exhaustion. From what she isn't sure.
But Preston's dark eyes are incredibly expressive when he lets them be. Overlapping the other emotions is a shadow of desire so intense she can barely control her own response to it.
Mary swallows convulsively.
Her body relaxes, softening against his. She drags a desperate breath and turns her face until their lips inadvertently brush. His head snaps up and he backs away.
They stare at each other warily for a few moments.
Then, Preston reaches into his pocket, startling her.
She sees the red velvet ribbon in his hand -- a bright flash of color in this drab and lonely place.
It is one of hers. He has been carrying it all this time. What does that mean?
She scrambles mentally, trying to fit all these pieces into some semblance of order.
Reflexively, Mary slides her hand over his hip, into the small of his back, drawing him close. Somehow, that makes her feel more secure. When she can feel him.
Tension vibrates in his limbs. She senses his fear.
Of her? Or of himself?
Reaching up, he ties the ribbon around her neck. She sighs when his fingers slip beneath it, tightening against her throat.
"You know," he whispers. "You know who I am."
Perhaps.
For now, he is just a Cleric without an interval. A Cleric testing the boundaries of his new experience. Which is still pretty limited, she decides. Even so, for one completely unschooled in the art of sexual awareness, he has learned remarkably fast.
Preston turns away without another word, leaving her alone.
Mary rakes a hand through her hair, letting the rush subside. Her limbs feel weighty in the aftermath. There is still so much she doesn't know. She takes a moment to collect herself before following him into the living room.
He has already collapsed on the couch, but his eyes automatically track her approach.
"I'm sorry." He looks up at her, rubbing at his temple. "I've been awake for over seventy-two hours. I think the best thing would be for me to get some rest. You understand?"
She nods.
Seventy-two hours, she thinks. Over three days without sleep. His control astounds her -- that even in a state of extreme fatigue, he could hide himself for so long. And without the Prozium.
Extraordinary.
Yet she saw what was in his eyes; felt the strength of his need pressed intimately to her flesh. He would have liked to do more, she thinks. If only he knew how.
Mary wonders just how far Preston is willing to go. How far would she?
She jumps again as his hand suddenly darts out. He grips her wrist. "You can't even think about leaving here, Mary. Your life would be forfeit the second you walked out that door."
His warning gives her pause. She rocks back on her heels -- dizzy with the realization that all thought of escape or even the direness of her situation has vanished until now.
Mary blinks, shrugs; trying to reorient herself. Of course she cannot leave. She will take his word for it. But there needs to be more. Surely even he can see that.
"Preston," she says. Her skin tingles in his grasp. "What are we doing here? How is this possible?"
He blows out a long breath and closes his eyes. She can see him trying to work out exactly how much to reveal.
"The truth." Her voice firms. "Please."
Preston blinks before staring up at the ceiling. His reluctance is palpable. Then:
"Father is dead," he tells her bluntly.
She gapes at him, speechless.
He is looking straight at her now.
"Father is dead," he says it again, more slowly. "And I made a deal with the Council."
Goose-flesh prickles along her skin. She curses silently. Her gut tells her that he isn't lying. Not about this.
Hell, it actually makes a terrible kind of sense. Mary is no fool. She is well-versed with the Underground's extensive media files -- cultural and historical. In the past, men in power have always hidden behind a singular vision of the ideal to shape the masses.
A perfectly logical set-up. And the Council has always been about logic.
It's no longer enough to simply contain the resistance, she guesses. DuPont has been doing that with his THX drones in the Order for years. They must have decided to use the lure of a fallen Cleric to bait a trap that might crush the opposition for good.
Mary clutches her arms tightly around herself.
And what about Preston? What must it have been like? Discovering your whole life has been in service to a lie?
She measures him with a glance.
What have they promised him? she wonders. And what will he do about it?
Because Mary can tell from the expression on his face that Preston isn't going to give them what they want. Certainly not on their terms. He seems to be ready to assure her of that, but she forestalls him with a raised hand.
"Forget it," she says, into the silence. "You don't owe me any other explanations."
Preston's lips firm as he turns away. Her heart twists. He looks so very tired.
Mary remembers that moment in the car when she got a brief sense of what happened to him after his arrest. They didn't kill him. Yet the most brutal forms of attrition would almost certainly be assured.
And so he made this deal and they let him go. Probably because DuPont knows he is the only man who can possibly get the job done.
If he wants to.
So Preston is now in a unique position to put a great deal of pressure on them.
And they on him, Mary reflects.
It's a dangerous game. Taking on the Order? She cannot conceive of why he would try.
What would be the point? Getting the truth to the resistance?
Maybe.
'Soylent Green is people,' Mary thinks wryly. Another one of Jurgen's weird cultural references.
Will he tell Jurgen?
He may damn well try.
Mary shivers. Because the Council could be waiting for him to do just that.
And yet she wonders if DuPont and the others even remotely understand what it is they're dealing with in Cleric John Preston.
She is only now beginning to herself.
But their time here is limited. Which explains why he doesn't want her to leave. He can't protect her if she does.
That he wants to means more to her than she would have guessed.
"Go on, Preston," she murmurs, meeting his eyes one last time. "I'll be here when you wake up."
He is asleep before she can finish the sentence, and Mary is no longer surprised to find that for now, she actually means it.
(cont'd...)
