Knight of Novus

by Alydia Rackham

  "Where have you been?"

  "Nowhere."

  "Yes you have. I know that, even though you're a very good liar," Thomas retorted, his hands on his hips as he stared up and down the shelves in the large market storage room.

  John descended the couple stairs, swept past Thomas and turned left, heading down to the section where the books were housed.

  "I tried to get you on the communicator earlier, but you didn't have it with you," Thomas told him. "Then I asked your kids, and they said you'd gone out, but they didn't know where you went." Thomas held up a paper in his left hand and scanned it. "Aaaand...we're missing another snow globe."

  "I bought it," John told him, running his finger along the bottoms of the spines of books.

  "For Lily?"

  "No."

  Thomas stared at down the row at him.

  "You know, I hate to say it, but it's really hard to have a conversation with you."

  John gave a half smile and pulled a thin blue book out: Shakespeare's Sonnets.

  "Why did you need to contact me?" John questioned.

  "Scarlet Weston wants to talk with us as soon as possible," Thomas answered, inspecting a napkin shelf right in front of him. "She thinks she has some leads on the location of His Majesty’s Men's base on this continent. She says it's not very far from here—about a hundred miles or so, but the roads are tricky. She's also got some intel about part of a Regulator plant that may have been restarted and could be supplying them with their chip and the transmission. She may want to get a team together soon to go check it out."

  "Good," John nodded, turning a page of his book, reading it in a thoughtful whisper.

  "Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove;

  O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

  that looks on tempests and is never shaken. "

  Thomas approached him and stood by his side, his eyebrow raised.

  "Did you even hear me?"

  John glanced up and nodded.

  "Mhum." He looked back at the book. Thomas folded his arms.

  "Listen, not that it's a bad thing or anything...but why are you all of a sudden smiling, and collecting pretty stuff that's not for your daughter and—" he pointed severely to the book. "And reading poetry?"

  John looked up, and for the first time, gave Thomas a genuine, unadulterated smile.

  "It's Miriam," he told him—an odd, agonizing, breathless pleasure surging through his lungs. "She's alive."

  John spent all the next day with his children, playing in the park near their apartment complex. Much of the time, he just watched them from a bench, but Lily finally coaxed him into playing a game of catch with the two of them. That drew quite a few stares: a Knight playing catch with a bright red ball. But whenever he caught someone looking at him strangely, John just grinned at him, and the kids laughed out loud when the person nearly fell over himself as a result.

  But as the sun began to set, John hefted Lily up onto his shoulders and they trooped home. Once he deposited them in the apartment, he deliberately kissed them both, gave them last minute instructions about not opening the door for anyone but himself or Thomas, and about the supper they were to heat up, then picked up the book of Shakespeare's Sonnets and left.

  The drive seemed to take no time at all. It felt like just a matter of moments and he stood in front of the facility again. Gena let him in, came out of her office, and said in that same hopeful tone:

  "Weapons check?"

  And he favored her with a grin.

  "Yes, Gena. I don't mind if I do." And he took off all of his guns and knives, and left them on the table. Gena patted his shoulder and smiled knowingly.

  "You know where she is."

  And he started down the hall to the staircase, his heart hammering.

  Her door stood open. He could glimpse that from his vantage point, though he could not see inside. His footsteps slowed and his stomach tightened. He stopped just to the side of the entrance, and for a full minute just stood there, listening.

  He could hear her breathing. Deeply and evenly, which told him she was sleeping again. An odd sensation crossed his breastbone, and he stepped across the threshold—

  Into a room much changed.

  A handmade rug lay on the tile floor; pictures of dancers and green meadows adorned the walls; a small writing desk and chair sat in the corner; a lace doilie covered the top of the dresser, as did three glass ladies with flowing dresses, a lamp, a music box, and the snow globe of Florence. The bed looked the same, but next to it stood a little nightstand, with another lit lamp.

  And Miriam lay on the bed on her back, her head tilted toward him, her bandaged arms draped across her chest, her hand loosely resting on a little book that said The Tale of Mill Rabbit.

  The light of the lamp softened her features even more, and for a long while, John was held motionless where he stood. He knew he could not bring himself to wake her. But neither could he leave.

  Finally, he stepped over to the writing chair, picked it up carefully, set it down at her bedside and eased down onto it, setting the book on her bed and leaning his elbows on his knees.

  He studied her face. It didn’t change how beautiful she was, but she looked tired. He could just tell. His gaze slowly drifted over her bandaged arms. Peripherally, he caught sight of a glass of water on her nightstand, along with a bottle of painkiller. A knot lodged in his throat as he returned to considering her arms.

  What would that have been like? White-hot flames slicing into bare skin…?

  John's shoulders tightened as his eyes returned to her face. His brows jerked together as a sudden pain jolted up through his stomach and stuck somewhere behind his heart. He hung his head.

  "I'm so sorry," he whispered, barely audible.

  "Hello."

  He stood up so fast he nearly knocked the chair over. As it was, the backs of his legs banged it and scooted it noisily backward.

  He retreated, his eyes wide, almost as far as the writing desk.

  She was looking at him.

  Her sapphire eyes burned through the space between them. She took a breath, and adjusted her russet head on the pillow so that her upper body inclined slightly. She smiled a little.

  "I never thought I would see you again."

  He could not reply. His jaw clenched, and heart pounded.

  "Forgive me for not sitting up more," she gingerly set her book off to her side, wincing. "But I am still a little out of sorts from my surgery."

  John's head lowered. She glanced around the room, then addressed him again.

  "So...are you the one who has been bringing me all these things?"

  Briefly, he nodded, then studied the rug.

  "Why?" she asked.

  He raised his head, and his eyes stung. His breathing unsteadily. She softly gazed at him.

  "If it's because you feel guilty, Sir John, it's wasted." She paused. "I'm the one who should be grateful to you."

  He blinked rapidly, to clear his vision, then furrowed his brow.

  "What?" he asked roughly.

  She chuckled, but very quietly, and a smile flickered across her lips.

  "Ever since I opened my eyes, and realized that I was still alive," she told him, her voice strong but gentle. "All I've wanted was to thank you—the Knight who chased after me." She tilted her head slightly. "The Knight who stood there and made me look at him through the bars, telling me not to be afraid. Letting me know that he would have rather been in my place."

  She gradually lifted her hand, palm up, in invitation.

  John stared at it, shattered.

  Very slowly, achingly, he stepped toward her and offered his right hand.

  She took hold of the fingers of his glove, and with the assistance of her other hand, which trembled because of her injury, she tugged the glove off and set it down. The air of t
he room felt cold against his skin.

  She raised her hand, palm up again, and touched her fingertips to his. Then, she slid her hand up and enfolded his in a warm grip. Her left hand wandered over to join, her thumb meandering over the tops of his fingers and the back of his hand. John's eyes stung again, and tears nearly came. Her hands stilled, enveloping his, and she glanced up.

  "What is your name?"

  "John Cannon," he breathed. She smiled.

  "I'm Miriam Lynd," she answered, her thumb stroking his knuckles. "Nice to meet you."

  Chapter Six

  "John, where are you?"

  John knew the instant he picked up the comm off the passenger seat that something was wrong.

  "What is it, Thomas?" he demanded.

  "Where have you been?" Thomas' voice crackled with static.

  "I saw Miriam," John answered. "But I'm coming home now-they were turning the lights off in her wing and I—"

  "We've been attacked."

  John slammed on the breaks and stopped in the middle of the road. His heart lurched. When Thomas spoke, he could hear random shouts and crashes in the background.

  "What?" His hold tightened on the comm.

  "It was His Majesty’s Men."

  "How do you know?"

  "I don't have time to explain right now—we've kind of got a situation here. Just get here as fast as you can. Squire out."

  The signal buzzed and cut. John threw the comm down on the seat beside him, stomped his foot down on the gas and took off in the direction of the city.

  At first, the towering apartment building looked the same in the darkness as it always did. But then, as he pulled up to park, John noticed wisps of black smoke oozing out of the second story south windows, lit hauntingly by a street lamp.

  Swearing, his pulse thundering in his ears, he leaped out of the car and took the white stairs two at a time. He flung the door open and raced down the marble hallway, his coat billowing behind him.

  He flew up the stairs and pelted down another hallway—

  Only to slow at the sight in front of him.

  Fifty people filled the wide corridor, their clothes and faces soiled with cinders and ash. Some of them were wet up to their knees, others blotched with fire extinguisher foam. They sat on the blackened floor, or stood, staring at nothing. The air reeked of H-13. John began to walk again, a poison filling his blood.

  Black dust clouded around his feet as he made his way toward the charred entryway of the Remnants storage room. He stopped in the doorway and stood, his bare right hand closing into a fist.

  It had all burned.

  Everything that they had recovered and had not yet sold or circulated sat in ruined, smoldering, unrecognizable heaps on the floor. The charred shelves hung crookedly off the walls, their fragile contents smashed between them.

  John descended the two steps and entered. He sank up to his ankles in murky water—water that had come from the overhead sprinkler system. But he knew too well how potent H-13 was. It couldn’t be quenched with water. It would burn until everything that had absorbed it was reduced to cinders. The grim room hung dark, and stank.

  John glanced over to see both Thomas and Scarlet Weston treading through the wreckage, the hem of the Scarlet's coat soaking up the grime. Thomas' hand was bandaged, and soot covered them.

  "What happened?" John pressed, sloshing over to them. They lifted their heads wearily.

  "Like I said. His Majesty’s Men," Thomas sighed, running his good hand through his hair. John cast a helpless glance around at all the ruin.

  "Thomas, I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been here. I should have—"

  Thomas shook his head.

  "No—it was better that you weren't."

  "What do you mean?"

  April and Thomas made eye contact, and then the Scarlet handed John a piece of paper. It had been printed from a computer, and read:

  You have clearly rejected our suggestion. We have no choice but to punish you as a Traitor, and destroy the Remnants you are holding illegally.

  -Edward Herald, and the Officers and Knights of The King's Novus Majesty Men

  "How did they get in?" John asked, his eyes fixed on the paper.

  "The pass code used to open one of the service doors is traceable back to a Knight named Levi Marland: Edward Herald's Socius," the Scarlet said faintly, looking suddenly pale.

  John stared at her, going stiff.

  "They had access to this entire building?"

  They both nodded.

  "For how long?" he pressed.

  Thomas shrugged.

  "We don't know yet. Since the security alarms didn't go off until after the fire was started, they could have been in here for several minutes."

  John let go of the paper.

  He spun, splashed to the door, then skidded out into the hall and ran as hard as he could back the way he had come, his wet coat slapping his legs. Bypassing the elevator, he leaped up the stairs several at a time, hit the carpet of his own floor and took advantage of the traction to force his legs to top speed.

  He saw it long before he got there-his shattered apartment door and the scorched carpet before it.

  "Lily!" The agonized call tore from his throat even as he sprinted. "Benson!" He swung around his doorframe and leaped inside.

  His apartment had been ransacked. The cushions of his couches had been ripped open, his plates and glasses smashed on the floor, the tables upturned, and the few pictures that had hung on the walls had been thrown down, their frames crushed. The curtains hung jagged and torn.

  "Lily!" he cried again. "Benson! Jack!" He kicked through the debris toward the children's bedrooms.

  The door of Lily's room stood shattered.

  John went cold.

  "Lily!" his voice broke and he shoved his way inside.

  Her room had been destroyed. Most of her toys were gone, her mattress ripped open, her drawers flung out. John's eyes fixed on a pile of shattered ceramic on her floor: the little black horse.

  He lunged through the hall to Benson's room and found things in a similar state of disaster.

  But his children were not there.

  He left Benson's room and began screaming their names, throwing aside a table that had been tossed into the hall. His own bedroom had been equally traumatized—all the books in his bookshelf had been shredded, his nightstand tipped, and his sheets—

  He heard a noise; just a small shuffling sound, coming from the other room. He stormed back into Benson's room, his coat fluttering.

  "John?" Thomas jumped through the front door.

  "Cannon, where are you?" the Scarlet spoke this time.

  Thomas and April hurried through the sitting room, down the hall and into Benson's room—

  To find John kneeling in the far corner, suddenly and abnormally still. His broad back was to them, his head bowed. The others slowly approached him, and saw him protectively caressing the dark, furry head of his dog. The prone animal had been shot in the shoulder and blood soaked the carpet. The dog whined, and looked up at John pleadingly.

  "John?" Thomas asked again.

  "They took them." John said shortly. His head tilted minutely. "What were you doing, Thomas, that you couldn't send someone up here?"

  "I...I was helping put out the fire—" Thomas stammered.

  "Books and lamps and tablecloths," John's deadly voice sliced. "What do you think those are worth compared to my children?"

  Thomas stood still.

  "Sir John," the Scarlet said evenly, stepping toward him. "His Majesty’s Men came here first. They didn't burn this place, because it would have tripped the fire alarms. They came here, took the children, went down and burned the storage room and left." She lowered her head at him. "There was no way Thomas would have known."

  Thomas looked the other way. John's face went blank. He gently slid his arms under his dog, cradling him. Stalwartly, he rose to his feet and headed for the door.

  "Where are you going?" th
e Scarlet demanded.

  "Taking care of my dog."

  Thomas kicked the front door open and stormed outside, hurrying down several steps before uttering a strangled curse and raking both hands through his hair. He sat down heavily, letting out a rushed breath, then rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head.

  The door clicked open behind him, and quiet footsteps sounded against the steps. The night breeze wandered by, and rustled the hem of the newcomer's coat. A hint of a shadow fell over him, since the only illumination was a street lamp near the sidewalk below, and Scarlet Weston sat down on the same stair he did, some distance away.

  He shot her a glance.

  Her elegant form settled into the same position as his, her elbows on her knees, but she kept her head up, as if studying a horizon he couldn’t see. He glanced back down at his bandaged hand and adjusted the wrapping. The burn hurt.

  "He doesn't truly blame you, you know." The Scarlet said quietly. His stomach churned.

  "He doesn't?" He suddenly barked out a laugh. "I've known John for a while now—if he says anything at all, he says what he means. At least to me."

  Weston turned to him, just watching him for a moment.

  "He blames himself."

  Thomas furrowed his brow at her. She nodded, her green eyes glinting as she watched a car drive by that only had one headlight.

  "Of course. After all, he was away while his enemies came and attacked, and his children were taken for choices he has made."

  "You've deduced this very quickly," Thomas stated flatly.

  Weston snorted.

  "It isn't difficult. Especially when I've lived a life so similar to his." She shifted slightly, her boot scuffing the stone. "Still, John Cannon is utterly unique. Even with an advanced chip of The Regulator working in his system, he felt more deeply than you and I do even now." April took a breath. "I cannot imagine what this must be like for him."

  "Listen, that just makes it worse," Thomas snapped. "John is my friend. He trusted me—and I..." Thomas' brow tightened, and he gripped his hands together.