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and fan out. The shared thought of the Church members pronounced this as good. They would be thankful for the offer and pay tribute. They would bring temple butchers to make gifts for the Archbishop: bone necklaces and pendants, leather bracers, baskets woven from hair and sinew, water bladders, and there would be a new display of unprecedented fecal runes on temple walls, lacquered over for new generations to praise and draw power from.
    The Church of Morning estimated the great channel had opened ten spans since the Day of Closing thousands of autumns ago but the potential foreseen this autumn could widen the channel twenty spans more. That was enough space to set the pillars in place and lock the channel open. Bloodthanks would be carried out in both worlds, the two Churches would unite again, and new, glorious Tomes would be scribed.
    Chaplain Cloth would bring them victory again.
    The Heart of the Harvest, the blessed fruit, comes into the world every autumn for a single day. This year it has come again, with a potency that rivals even those early sacrifices at the circle of stones. Something was special about this year’s Heart , thought the Church of Morning with great study, something intrinsically powerful that the Interloper wouldn’t allow them to see .
    They would find out. The plan had been set and the worlds would move under their clawing fingers.
    The blood pooled at the temple’s base and a collective sigh hollowed the air as they rocked back and forth on the temple steps, hands clasped together with smiles alike, minds locked as one, giving thanks.
    It was enough to make me turn my eyes back to the other world.

SEVEN
     
    Paul had been to some chapels that were absolute dives. Lingering drug addicts thumped their veins in spider-webbed halls, hookers petted your arm as you walked past—inner city gangs frequently had a presence over those small time operations and it often felt like it.
    Walking the halls of the Mojave Chapel, however, Paul prayed he’d never visit one of those sorry places again. Here, the expansive halls and richly furnished chambers were built through dedication and focus, and the layout contained a sense of history that some museums even failed to possess. Two decades and millions of laundered dollars had transformed a dead silver mine into an underground palace. The glazed orange-brown walls secured every boulder in its place with mortar and chicken wire, and load-bearing beams and support struts weren’t composed of rotting timber but gold-flaked black marble. There were even air conditioning ducts in the ceiling.
    Paul noticed none of the scenery impressed Ray Traven. Tongue firmly caught in his teeth, possibly to concentrate through his over-boozed mind, Ray swiped at the freight elevator’s leather strap to pull it down. The elevator’s door horizontally opened and shuddered nosily above and below. Ray went to about-face but instead staggered inside the elevator and struck the opposing wall. The impact looked to be momentarily sobering.
    A knot of Inner Circle church members en route for the refectory stopped at the sharp clang. Paul didn’t recognize them and waved them on. Judging from their fresh new suits and blouses, he suspected they’d flown down for this year’s Harvest from some overseas chapel. “He’s fine. Keep moving brothers and sisters,” he said. They might not have understood English that well but his tone garnered a few sour looks.
    While his drunken tour guide handled the descent, Paul digested the situation. What was he going to say to Archbishop Pager? This was bound to work with Cole’s backing anyway, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still blow things. Paul knew his weaknesses and strengths, and thinking on his toes wasn’t a strength. It was just bizarre that things had gone this way. How easy would it have been for him to be out in the desert, rotting beside Justin’s body? Probably shot with his own gun too.
    Paul didn’t want to think