The Raising (The Torch Keeper Book 3)

by Steven dos Santos

  “Lucian?” she mutters.

  “Hang tight!” I shout, as she wraps her arms around my waist.

  Just below, Delvecchio glances up at me with a look of pure amazement.

  “Spark,” he hisses.

  One of the anchorites flanking him raises a weapon to fire just as I point mine at Delvecchio. But another fleeing member of the tribunal blocks my shot, his body toppling onto Delvecchio, shielding him.

  “Damn you,” I mutter, barely avoiding the anchorite’s blast.

  There’s no time for another shot. The Thorn agents patrolling the courtyard have gotten over their initial shock and are regrouping, firing at us from all sides. To make matters worse, a squad of anchorite sentries is zooming toward us on more hover discs.

  Digory’s blasts take out at least a dozen, but there are too many.

  I turn to him. “Sermon’s over. Let’s move before they administer Final Rites.”

  We swerve through the sky in tandem, agents and anchorites hot on our tails, dodging energy blasts, one of which singes my shoulder.

  I lead the way back through the sanctuary.

  “Where are you going?” Digory follows my lead.

  “Maybe this will slow them down,” I call back.

  As I whiz by a candelabra, I grab it and hurl it at the large tapestries adorning one of the walls. In seconds, it’s engulfed in flames and the fire starts spreading throughout the rest of the Priory. Soon, it’s a scene reminiscent of Delvecchio’s Underworld and damnation rantings. Our pursuers are dodging falling rafters and black smoke.

  The problem is, so are we.

  Below, the agents are already setting up barriers to block the exits. If the flames don’t get us, they will.

  With the enemy closing in, there’s only one way left to go.

  “Brace yourselves,” I shout to Tristin and Digory.

  We crash through the huge, stained glass window of the Deity in a burst of jagged shards, out into the bright day.

  The Deity’s light shall free us, indeed.

  NINE

  During all the chaos engulfing the Priory and surrounding areas, we manage to lose our pursuers in the maze of shadows and alleyways dissecting the Parish. But I can already hear the sirens wailing in the distance. We’re fugitives now. At least Tristin and I are. Delvecchio saw my face, and, if he survived, I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t already an All Points Bulletin being blasted on every jumbotron in the city, along with a towering close-up of my face.

  Digory swerves over in my direction until we’re gliding side by side. “We need to lay low for a while before proceeding to your brother.”

  My fingers dig into my pocket, hovering over the control to his shock collar. “That wasn’t the deal.”

  Despite my threat, and with everything that’s happened, he’s still eerily calm, eyes cold, expressionless.

  Then again, I’ve become so numb to torture and death myself, who am I to really judge?

  “They will be searching for us now,” he continues. “It is too dangerous. Especially with her and the condition she is in.”

  “Lucian…” Tristin’s body slumps against mine, and I know she can’t deal with much more of this turbulence. There’s only one place I can think of where we might find cover, if only for a short while.

  “This way.” I pull away from Digory and surf toward an area of the Parish that is little more than a burnt out husk of its former self.

  My old neighborhood.

  The hover discs’ power is already starting to fade. These gizmos were never designed for prolonged high speed chases. Hovering close to the surface, we double-check that the coast is clear, and slip through the alleys where I used to scavenge for food. Now they’re nothing more than paths of rubble, marked by torn chunks of cobblestone and toppled buildings, protruding from rivers of sludge and sewage. Looks like the Thorn Republic never bothered to rebuild after the raid on the rebel forces during the coup Cassius staged last year.

  I grab onto Tristin and hop off my hover disc as it putters and dies.

  Digory springs off his, landing soundlessly beside us. “Where to?”

  Slinging Tristin into my arms, I stare at her unconscious face and touch her forehead. She’s way too cold. If I could only risk getting her to a medcen. But the only one I know of is in the Citadel, which would be suicide. I turn to Digory. “Not much further. Keep your eyes peeled in case we have a tail on us.”

  “As you wish.” Before I can protest, Digory scoops Tristin from me. I don’t have the strength to argue. We both know he’s better equipped to handle the added weight through this crumbling maze.

  Leading the way over broken posts that once flickered with gas light, we reach the intersection of Liberty Boulevard.

  The only thing remaining is a statue—at least part of one—that sends winter’s finger scraping up my spine. It’s the effigy of Queran Embers, still standing sentinel over what’s left of the society he created.

  The society I created.

  Half the face is gone, leaving nothing but crumbling, marble tissue.

  I freeze. It’s like glimpsing into the future at my own tombstone, a monument to a corrupt life. Irredeemable. Wasted.

  “We have to find cover,” Digory says.

  But I kneel and force myself to touch the statue, freezing cold yet burning hot at the same time. My finger traces the base until I find the tiny chiseled letters hidden there.

  C + L trapped in the outline of a heart.

  My fingers recoil. Did Cassius know my true origins even back then when we were still kids?

  Sirens blare a few streets away. The enemy’s close.

  “Let’s go.” I lead the way, trudging through a few more blocks, and there it is.

  My old tenement, now no more than a scorched shell, but miraculously still standing. The last place Cole and I shared a shred of happiness. Hopefully, the last place they’d look for me.

  We carefully skirt the debris and enter. I do everything I can to avoid looking through the threshold of Mrs. Bledsoe’s apartment, gaping like an open wound. Slinking through the dust and cobwebs, we finally reach the remnants of my old home. I take a deep breath. Digory sets Tristin down gently in the splintered hallway. Together we push open the door, which is wedged in the canting floor, and then we’re inside.

  Despite what Digory’s become, I can’t help but notice how careful he is when he carries Tristin inside and sets her slowly on the floor. It’s something the old Digory—my Digory—would do, like when he carried his rescued victims to safety during the Trials. I guess some instincts can’t be eradicated, even by programming.

  Like Queran Embers and the part of him that lives inside me? I suppress a shudder.

  Hunching, I touch Tristin’s icy skin again. “Tristin. It’s Lucian. Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes flutter open. “Lucian….where….?” Her face contorts.

  “It’s okay. We’re gonna get you all patched up. You’ll be back with Cage and your dad in no time.”

  Digory kneels beside us and offers the medical kit from his satchel. “Unless we can get her to a proper medical facility—”

  Grabbing the case, I rummage through it. Bandages. Anti-bacterial ointments. All useless. I grab the only thing of any value. A vial of pain killers.

  “Do you have any water left?” I ask Digory.

  He hands me his canteen and helps me prop Tristin’s head up.

  “It’s so cold,” she mutters.

  I press two of the pills against her lips. “Here. Take this. You’ll feel much better.”

  It’s an effort, but she opens her mouth and takes in the pills, barely able to gulp them down.

  She manages a smile. “Thank you.”

  Digory eyes her in that curious, clinical manner that feels so alien. “In all probability those pills will not do much good. We were too late. No doubt, the microwaves have already caused significant internal organ damage. Her vitals are failing.”

  “Shut
up!” I shove him, and he barely flinches. “We’ll sneak her into the Citadel somehow and—”

  “Moving her in her present condition will just hasten the inevitable.”

  I meet his iceberg gaze. “Then I’ll just kidnap a med team and drag them over here if I have to.”

  He pulls himself up to his full height. “Be logical. There is no time for that.”

  I whip out the remote for his collar, my trembling finger hovering over the activation button. “I think I’ve had just about enough of you.”

  “He’s…right…Lucian.”

  Tristin’s trying to sit up, even as I do my best to steady her. “Take it easy, Tristin. You need to conserve all your energy.”

  She sighs. “Too late, I think.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t talk like that. We’re going to get you help.”

  Even as I say the words, I can tell we both know the truth. I’ve been around death so long I can sniff its stench like another sense.

  Her fingers graze my face. “You’re sweet. But it’s okay. I’m ready now.”

  My hand tightens around hers. “I should have gotten to you sooner. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  I shake my head. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

  She struggles to swallow, then smiles. “That you and the others are stuck to deal with this terrible mess while I get to go home.” She caresses my moist cheek, wiping away my grief. “Don’t you see? I’m the fortunate one.”

  “Tristin, I—”

  “I know you don’t believe, Lucian,” she whispers. “I’ll believe for both of us.”

  And in that moment, she appears more peaceful than I’ve ever seen anyone look. No fear. No pain. Pure bliss. She looks beyond me, past my shoulder, up through the crack in the roof, at something I can’t see, and smiles. “It’s so bright…”

  The light in her eyes flickers like a candle burning through the last of its wick, and she slumps in my arms.

  I pull her close, burying my face in her hair. Then I just sit there, rocking her slowly. My emotions cycle. Sadness. Anger. Bitterness. Until they peter out to numbness.

  An hour goes by, maybe two. I can’t be sure. I finally set her down.

  When I look up, Digory’s staring at me. He hasn’t said a word this entire time. Maybe in his new incarnation the death of a friend is just another oddity, information to be stored and studied. Frankly, I can’t seem to give a damn what he thinks right now.

  His eyes flick to Tristin’s body, then back to me. “Do you think she got there?”

  Out of all the things he could have asked, his question throws me for a loop. “What are you talking about? Got where?”

  “Home.”

  At first I think he’s pulling my leg, playing on my emotions. A cruel joke at my expense. I’m about to unleash my pent-up anger on him in a string of colorful profanities, but the curiosity on his face stops me cold with its childlike genuineness.

  “She’s dead, Digory. Gone. She didn’t go anywhere. She just doesn’t exist anymore.” Still, the innocence of his question nags at me and I soften my tone. “As much as we might want the opposite of that to be true.”

  He nods. “So you do not embrace the concept of an after-life or a supreme being that sees and controls all?”

  “No. I mean—take a long look at the world around us. Suffering. Torture. Starvation. Death.” I glance at Tristin’s prone form and close my eyes for a moment. “If there is some kind of cosmic entity overseeing this whole mess, he or she definitely has a sick sense of humor.”

  He pauses and cocks his head. “Yet Tristin, and many other people like her, still choose to believe. Fascinating. She seemed to see something at the end there. A bright light.”

  I sigh and shake my head. “Yeah, that. I did a lot of reading when I apprenticed at the library. It’s just a physiological response. Basically, when the body dies, the neurons in the brain fire off a surge of gamma waves, which create a kind of hyper-conscious state. It’s sensory awareness overload, a hyper-realness. That bright, white light is nothing more than a combo of the dying brain’s gamma waves and alpha waves, which heighten visual awareness, as well as internal visualization, also known as the imagination. None of it’s real, Digory. It’s the brain’s final fireworks display before it’s lights out forever.”

  Digory nods. “Prior Delvecchio would probably not agree.”

  My anger returns in a rush. “And that’s another reason why I don’t believe. What kind of Deity would invoke the likes of such evil and hypocritical people, like our Prior, as its voice to the people?”

  He turns to gaze at Tristin’s lifeless form. “The message can sometimes get garbled along the way. Tristin seemed to be able to separate the messenger from the message. She chose to believe, while others do not. We guess it will not truly be known who is right until we ourselves cease to function, and then it will not really make much difference.”

  “I’d love to philosophize with you longer, but we’re running out of time. Those sirens are getting closer. We need to move.” I stare at Tristin again. “I just can’t leave her here.” It’s not because of any mystical being or afterlife. The idea of leaving Tristin to rot, or dumping her body in some lonely, unmarked grave sickens me. She and her family deserve so much more.

  “Understood,” Digory says. “There is a place not too far from here we can take her. And it is on the way to your brother. But we will have to wait until nightfall.”

  We pass the rest of the day in silence, Digory going into his regenerative, hibernation mode, sitting cross-legged in the corner, while I grieve for Tristin, wondering how I’m going to face Cage and Jeptha with the news of her death.

  As soon as the sun sets, we wrap Tristin’s body in several tattered sheets tucked away in an old trunk stashed under one of the splintering floorboards. Digory manages to find a wobbly cart in the wreckage, and we place her inside it. I take once last look at what used to be my home, and then we set off.

  More than a few times we have to hide from passing patrols, in the shadows, or under rubble, but between Digory’s improved reflexes and my Imp training we’re able to avoid detection.

  Digory leads the way through the ruins of my neighborhood until we reach the banks of Fortune’s River. A short time later, we arrive at a wrought iron fence and follow its perimeter. Digory finally stops and tests a few of the rusting bars, which easily give. “We are here.” He rips the bars free and helps me wheel Tristin through.

  “Serenity Hill,” I whisper. The cemetery where my mother begged Delvecchio to bury my father when he passed. Instead, he was dumped in a mass grave and burned. Only the wealthier among the Parish are buried here. Dignity and Eternal Peace are auctioned to the highest bidder.

  Instead of stopping at an untouched plot of earth, Digory leads us to a square, marble crypt.

  As we step over the mounds of dying autumn leaves churned by the mourning winds, they crunch like brittle bones. I crane my head up to decipher the inscription etched above the mausoleum’s entrance. One word.

  Tycho.

  I’m more than a bit surprised. I always assumed Digory grew up like I did—parents who spent most of their days slaving away at some back-breaking job. Scrounging the alleys for scraps of clothing and food. Adopting the rats that infested his home like pets. It never even crossed my mind that he could have had it easier than most.

  Though when I look at his solemn face now, the unnatural eyes, mutated, pale body, I realize the absurdity of this last thought. It just points out how little about him I really know. Or ever will.

  “Just how much of your previous life do you remember, Digory?”

  “There are gaps. But far too much.”

  “Your family was prominent. They would have had to be part of the Establishment’s elite to be allowed burial in this place.”

  He gazes blankly at the inscription. “The Tychos worked for the government. As such, they were entitled to certain privileges.�
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  “I guess this place belongs to you now.”

  He touches one of the two marble pillars flanking the entrance. “The Hive has no use for places such as these. Let us get inside.”

  I pry open the heavy, iron gate. The creaking grates on me like a worn razor. Digory carries Tristin inside and I wedge the gate closed behind us.

  The interior of the crypt’s cold and dank. Embedded in the walls before us are six plaques, four of which have writing on them, while the last two remain blank. I approach them to get a better look in the gloom. My fingers graze the cold stone as I brush away the dust on the first two.

  Byron Tycho. Aurora Tycho. Based on the ages, these must belong to Digory’s parents.

  My index finger presses a button underneath their names. There’s a flash of light and a holo appears of the couple. Both appear to be early thirties, the father tall and broad shouldered like his son. The two even share the same, infectious smile. But Digory definitely got his mother’s golden hair and piercing blue eyes.

  There’s an audio feature, but I choose not to activate it, already regretting that I may have stirred up painful memories in Digory, however unlikely that might be in his present condition.

  He’s studying the images with that same distant expression, as if they were strangers instead of his blood. After a few minutes, he moves to the other plaques.

  These are smaller and bear the names Oliver and Olivia. Twins, judging from their identical birth dates.

  This time it’s Digory that activates the holo of their images. Two giggling children appear, their eyes twinkling in the murk.

  Digory’s younger brother and sister. They were only five years old. And the dates of their death and those of his parents’—

  It hits me all at once and I tug at my collar, finding it a little difficult to breathe.

  Digory stares at the images for a long while, his face unreadable the entire time. Finally, he presses the buttons and the projections fade to black.