Night Shadows (Children of Nostradamus Book 2)

by Jeremy Flagg

  “You can’t,” he said. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’m not staying with a human lightning bolt and a woman who could eat me alive.”

  She yelped as he thrust his hip into her. Her voice ceased as the blackness of a portal swallowed her. He took a step to the side and fell after her. The cold caused the hair on his arm to stand on end. His body violently shook in an attempt to push away the chill.

  “What the fuck?”

  He held a finger up to his lips. She stood up and shoved him. “I am not going to be quiet. What the hell did you do? Are we in hell? Why is it so cold? How did you do that?”

  He grabbed her. Spinning her around, he placed a hand on her mouth. He ducked behind a half crumbled stone wall and leaned in close to her ear. “You wanted to see my world.”

  “Illegal trespassing.”

  The mechanical voice had become common to him. He didn’t have the police scanners Dav5d built to locate damsels in distress. He teleported to the one place he knew would still be crawling with synthetics. The church looked even more eerie without parishioners lining the walls. Despite the clouds, the moon cast a faint light through the windows. He wasn’t certain if there was a God, but if there had been, he had turned his back on this place years ago. Now, its charm came from its determination to survive without its savior. He found the archaic building to be empowering.

  “Stay quiet.”

  “What about—”

  “I said quiet,” he snapped.

  The sound of metal tapping on tile filled the chamber. He found it difficult to believe that after all the machines they destroyed, it wasn’t even a small fraction of what littered the streets on patrol. The tapping grew louder as it reached the doors leading into the main room of the church.

  “Trespassing is punishable by death.”

  Just hours ago he had opened the most portals he ever had in such a short time. He knew he only had so much juice for the fight, but there was aggression he needed to take out on the enemy.

  The red dot flared. The light filled the end of the weapon and was ready to punch through the center of his skull. With a flick of Conthan’s wrist, a portal opened and the laser redirected itself, punching through the head of the synthetic. Its body hit the floor, clattering like bones against the tile.

  “What the hell—”

  “Shhh,” he hissed.

  Another synthetic appeared, this one standing almost perfectly in the way of the rose window, the light casting an eerie shadow. He had suspected there would be plenty of machines watching the church. He imagined they waited for people to come back so they could exterminate the cults worshipping superpowered gods.

  He waited for the machine to move. If it jumped, he’d send it into the bay. If it fired, he’d redirect the shot again into its head. He wished he had the ability to fight fist to fist with them like Jasmine. He could only imagine how many innocent people had been killed by the tin bucket. Or tortured. If they weren’t killing the cults, they were forcing them to confess about their gods.

  The heat in the pit of his stomach washed over his body. He was mad. It wasn’t about survival anymore, it was about revenge. Just as he decided to open a portal in the machine’s torso, metal shots clanged against the robot. Bright lights appeared as guns fired, the ammo ricocheting off the synthetic’s hide

  The synthetic turned to and fro, looking for the people firing. Before it could move to stop the attackers, a hiss filled the room and a small explosion tore the machine into pieces. The grandeur of the rose window came crashing down as the machine was hurled backward by the explosion. Glass fell to the floor in a wave, covering the far end of the room.

  A minute passed while he froze in place. The crunch of glass on the floor made him turn to Gretchen. He expected to see her running, but she remained huddled in the corner where he had left her. He held his breath for a moment and was certain he heard at least two sets of feet moving.

  “Shit,” he said.

  The room lit up as a man rapidly pulled a trigger. Conthan dove across the floor, sliding behind another column. He had been prepared to destroy machines. He wanted nothing more than to take the fight to the president herself, and stop her marshal law. He hadn’t been expecting humans.

  His back pressed against the column. He turned to yell for Gretchen but she had vanished. He wasn’t sure if she was standing right there or if she had run for cover. Another bullet fired, chipping away at the cement near his head, causing him to scoot further out of the line of sight.

  “Who are you?” he shouted.

  “We’re the ones with guns.”

  He could teleport out of there and be gone without much more than a thought, but not without Gretchen. He wasn’t sure if she was safe or even capable of surviving on her own. He had a suspicion the girl learned to keep herself alive, but he refused to leave another friend.

  The image of Dav5d being pinned down by falling rock as Vanessa stole his body came to mind. He couldn’t save the man. They relied on him, and in the most dire situation he let them down. He didn’t like that Vanessa raped his mind, but he understood why. The feeling of grief raced along his spine, so overwhelming he thought his heart would explode. He’d have done the same thing.

  “Vagrant or Child?”

  “Your mom.”

  “Dead either way,” said another voice.

  Conthan laughed. They were only alive because he was holding back. He understood it now. He understood why Dwayne did what he did. Somebody had to be willing to cross the line.

  The fire in his stomach sent waves of warmth through his body.

  “What’s so funny, boy?”

  He let the anger touch his skin, all his hair standing on end. He closed his eyes and let the sensation at the base of his brain wash through him. When he opened them again, the world seemed almost monotone, as if the color had been sapped away. This was his reality now.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he shouted. “You’re dead either way.”

  ***

  All three stared at the hole in the wall. In a fit of anger, maddened by the events unfolding around her, Jasmine slammed her fist into the surface, dislodging several bricks. As she pulled her bruised knuckles back, bricks fell to the right of Conthan’s drawings, leaving a gaping hole in the structure. Jasmine continued to huff and puff, but none of them spoke up as another brick clacked down onto the floor.

  She shook her fist, willing the pain to fade away. Being a Child of Nostradamus awarded her more strength than the average human, but her knuckles would hurt for days. She turned to Alyssa and raised an eyebrow. The young girl shrugged her shoulders in response to her quizzical look.

  “What are the chances this is random?”

  Jasmine hated the idea. Whenever something unusual happened, it always pointed back to one person. She wondered if this was the same. Was the hole a freak coincidence, or did a tampered fate strike again?

  “You know we’re going in,” Skits said.

  She did.

  She pulled at the bricks, tearing away at the drywall as she went along. Alyssa started peeling back the plaster and Skits kicked at the failing brick wall. Once the hole was big enough Jasmine stepped through, the fine powder of plaster coating her uniform. The faint light from the gallery gave away the hallway leading to a much larger room.

  “The air is stale. Nobody has been in here in decades.”

  Skits crawled through after her. The teen held up her hand and a wave of blue light appeared. Jasmine ran her hand along the tiled walls. The dank hall continued until it opened into a much larger room. Every step echoed about the space, bouncing off the ceramic.

  Jasmine discovered a light switch. With a flip, the overhead fluorescent lights surged to life. Several of the bulbs refused to ignite and another buzzed loudly. She let out her breath, feeling the reveal was anticlimactic.

  “A locker room?” asked Skits.

  In the middle of the room, a bank of two dozen lockers stretched from fl
oor to ceiling. Surrounding them on all sides were benches anchored into the floor. Toilets with no stall doors lined one wall while the other housed a communal shower.

  “Not what I was expecting,” Alyssa confessed.

  “So the art gallery has a locker room? Maybe the owner just covered it up and ignored it instead of converting it to another room?”

  Jasmine shook her head. “The gallery is where Conthan found out he was a Child. The same gallery where you first saw him. The same gallery where he discovered his first letter. I’m not buying it.”

  “Conspiracy much?”

  Jasmine ignored Skits. If it had been a year ago, she would have agreed. But now, she didn’t believe in coincidences. There was something about this place tugging at the pit of her stomach. It didn’t have the same aggressive sensation of her former boss, but Jasmine felt as if she was being pushed in a direction against her will.

  Several lights shorted, plunging them into darkness. Their surroundings vanished into shadowy depths. She couldn’t imagine what the place had been at one time. Maybe it was a dorm or perhaps a gym. She had no idea how old it might be; the tile along the floor and walls reminded her of something out of a movie from the last century.

  “Subhanallah.”

  Jasmine followed Alyssa’s line of sight. The lone flickering light illuminated the group of lockers. The tape stuck at eye height had all but fallen off, clinging to the closest locker within an inch of its life. Scribbled along the tape, a single name.

  “Eleanor,” Jasmine whispered.

  “That woman is everywhere,” Skits said.

  Jasmine pointed to the lock. Skits grabbed it in the palm of her hand and metal melted away until it hardened again on the ground. Jasmine admitted the girl’s abilities were impressive.

  “What are the chances?”

  Jasmine looked over her shoulder to Alyssa. The woman’s eyes were still wide in disbelief while she muttered a prayer to herself.

  “With Eleanor? One hundred percent.”

  Jasmine pulled the door open. On the inside several pictures were tucked into the metal lip. One showed a young woman with a man in a firefighter uniform. Another black and white photo showed two young kids, a girl and a brother. She imagined the woman had looked like a spinster since the day she was born. What she saw in a half dozen photos was a young woman full of life.

  “She’s beautiful,” Skits said.

  Alyssa pushed between them to see the photos. Jasmine rummaged through the articles of clothing hanging from hooks. She tossed the shirts and pants to the floor. She reached down for the last shirt and found underneath it was a thick book.

  “Holy shit.”

  Jasmine agreed with Skits. In just a handful of letters, Eleanor had manipulated the world. She altered the future to such a degree it was difficult to think what she could do if the woman wasn’t dead. Now, in a book at the bottom of a locker in the middle of an art gallery, it was almost as if she was alive.

  “What do we do?”

  Alyssa grabbed the book and tucked it against her chest. “Allah save us, but we’re taking it.”

  “We can read it while we find the others.” Jasmine started to follow Skits and Alyssa out of the locker room. She paused and snatched the photograph of Eleanor and the fireman. She tucked it away in her breast pocket as they left.

  “Where do you think they are?” asked Alyssa.

  “If he sent us to some place familiar, maybe he did the same for the others?” Jasmine replied.

  “His house?”

  Skits shook her head. “He’d go to the other artists. There’s a warehouse near the bay.”

  Jasmine wondered what brought Eleanor to this place. The oldest image of her was in her early twenties, and at that time the gym would be a place where you’d never find a woman. Was the man her father? As with every encounter with the Eleanor, she was left with more questions than answers. Somehow, locked away in this room, she had a feeling this had been the start of something for the young woman. Did she work out here? Or was she just there as a byproduct of her father being in the gym?

  The questions running through her mind calmed the need for revenge. She wondered if the woman knew what would happen. If she couldn’t predict their future beyond the letters she sent, did she even know they would find the book?

  Jasmine froze at the thought. Are we on our own now?

  Chapter 19

  1993

  Mark’s opponent jabbed and went wide with his right glove. Mark ducked down and took several hits to the man’s exposed torso. The other fighter took a step back out of reach and held his hands up in a defensive position.

  For the last three months a couple of the security guards had invited him to work out in the gym. Two of them had been knocked to the ground during the first encounter with Arturo, their resident pyro. The third guard, the one currently putting him through the motions, had received the worst of the attack that day; part of his neck and the side of his face were covered in burned scar tissue. Even with all their technology, it was the most they could do for him. Other than Goddard, Mark’s sparring partner received the worst of it.

  A jab to the face brought him back to reality. He continued dodging and punching, taking safe punches where he could. As he huffed and puffed, his endurance finally started to wear out on him. He took a step back and waved the man off. “You’re going to kill me, Sanchez.”

  “Somebody has to keep you in shape.”

  Mark bent over, gloves resting on his knees. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying not to sound as out of shape as he felt. For three months he built his endurance, toned his muscles, and even gave himself a reasonable physique he was proud to show off, but he wasn’t nearly as in shape as the guards. They trained to keep their jobs; he did it so he wouldn’t have a heart attack by the time he was thirty.

  There was a clanking sound from behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Goddard clapping. Mark fought down the bile in his throat. The man had become even more insufferable since he had his hands removed and replaced with electronic prosthetics. Instead of having them coated in a skin-like material, he preferred to show off his cyborg body parts.

  “The Tinman decided to come play with the rest of us,” Mark said.

  None of the security staff would speak out against him, but Mark was well aware they thought their boss was a monstrosity. Many of the guards were even coming to understand Mark’s need to work with the mentalist, but for every step they took forward, Goddard was determined to push them back. A single man made progress nearly impossible. Ivan demanded Goddard have his security clearance to the mentalists revoked, and under duress of his quitting the project, the president reluctantly agreed.

  “Someday, we’ll have to see how well you fare against somebody a bit closer to your weight class.”

  Mark smiled at the offer. He faced the man. “Are you making an idle threat or asking to get in the ring?”

  Sanchez stepped out next to his coworkers. They watched, unsure of what was about to happen. Mark studied Goddard’s face; by his expression, the guard was taken aback by the brazen offer. Mark had discovered the bully backed down before his enhancements. Now that he was part robot, he felt the need to prove his manhood more often than not.

  “Let me get some gloves,” Goddard said with a sneer.

  “Not necessary,” Mark said. The warmth in the pit of his stomach would turn to anger at any moment. He started working out to control the anger more than improve his body. Something about the dark side of his personality frightened him. It got to a point where he wondered if the empath projected her feelings beyond her medically induced coma.

  Goddard fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. While the limbs were highly advanced cybernetics, their fine motor control left something to be desired. He ultimately ripped off the button down shirt, leaving him in his off-duty pants and a wife beater. When they first met, Mark had been terrified of the man, but now, there was something satisfying ab
out standing up to the bully.

  Mark stepped into the center of the ring and held out his gloves to bump with his opponent. Goddard tapped them and held up his fists. Mark started, a jab, a jab, a hook, a jab to the man’s gut. Each punch was blocked by the superior fighter as Goddard returned the gesture, punching the gloves defending Mark’s face. The impact caused his own gloves to hit him in the face. Mark was surprised with how strong the guard was.

  A moment of distraction prevented the Mark from seeing the steely fist coming in low, jabbing him hard in the gut. He doubled over, the wind knocked from his lungs. Mark stepped backward to gain his composure. Goddard looked ready to celebrate his victory. Mark pushed forward, a jab, a jab, and a left hook connecting hard enough it knocked the spit out of the guard’s mouth.

  Mark jumped back and smiled. “You’re nothing more than an annoyance, Goddard. Don’t think you matter to me any more than dealing with a crying child.”

  Goddard didn’t wait for him to finish. He punched Mark in the gut twice and with his metal forearm, slammed him on the shoulder, sending him to the ground. “Work out a few times a week and think you’re something I should be worried about?”

  Mark looked across the gym equipment to see Ivan watching the fight unfold. Since the incident in the lobby, Ivan had become Mark’s biggest supporter. They agreed their intentions weren’t in aligned, but they both had goals requiring cooperation. After a night of furious vodka shots, they made a truce. Now, standing behind the free weights, Ivan gave a slight nod. He was the only man who hated Goddard more than Mark.

  Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he became aware of his vision narrowing, almost to the point where he thought he might pass out. He turned and focused on Goddard, who started to hop back and forth in the ring, acting like a champ.

  “Try me,” Mark whispered.

  The man’s fist thrust forward. Mark ducked underneath the chunk of metal and jabbed him hard in the ribcage. Before Goddard could defend himself, Mark jumped backward, dodging a fist to the face.