Orange Blossom Special (The Covenant of the Rainbow Book 2)

by Elana Brooks

  Steve’s heart thundered in his ears. “I was not blocking you!” He forced his voice down from near-shouting. “Plenty of others have used that same accusation to excuse their own inadequacy. Don’t think I’m going to accept it as an explanation for your blatant fraud.”

  Mr. Simard nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what drew our attention, you know. One of my colleagues attended the conference in Frankfurt where you presented your preliminary findings. We keep an eye on research into the paranormal, because occasionally it leads us to people with psychic talents. People like you.”

  Steve dug in his pocket for his phone. “That’s enough. Leave now, or I’ll have the campus police escort you out.”

  His phone slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. “That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Simard said. “Sit down and listen to what I have to say.”

  His voice had an oddly compelling quality. Contrary to everything he’d intended an instant before, Steve sank back in his chair. He scowled fiercely at the old man to counter his obedience. “Fine. Tell me your lies. This should be entertaining.”

  Mr. Simard settled back in his seat. “My colleague was intrigued by your presentation. Particularly the high proportion of test subjects who failed to complete your protocol. You were quite circumspect in your report, but when we checked the records of your campus security, we found a number of incidents. They all followed the same pattern. An angry experimental subject creating a disturbance, insisting you were interfering with their ability to complete their task. Several of them had to be forcefully removed.”

  Steve clenched his fists. “Frauds don’t like it when they’re exposed.”

  “And genuinely talented people tend to become upset when their abilities unexpectedly fail them. Especially when their hopes have been raised that they’ve finally found someone who will believe and accept them.” Mr. Simard leaned forward. “My colleague notified the people in our organization who normally handle recruiting. One of our members signed up for your experiment and took your test last week. She reported that she encountered remarkably powerful blocking, too strong for her to overcome. So she notified the leadership of our organization, and they sent me. I’m the strongest telepath we have, but even for me your blocks were formidable. I was only able to break them because I’m trained in the use of my powers, and you’re not.”

  Steve’s stomach churned. His hands and feet were icy cold, his face burning hot. “This is ridiculous.”

  “You’re a very strong psychic, Dr. Miller. Untrained, you’re nearly a match for one of the Eight. The thought of what you might become with proper training both awes and frightens me. If we didn’t need you so badly, I’d be inclined to let you continue in your ignorance and denial. That would be safer than awakening a dragon who might turn against us.”

  Blinding rage consumed Steve. He struggled to rise. “Get out. Now. I won’t listen to any more of your—“

  An invisible force pinned him to his chair. Silent words cut through his bellows. No. I’m staying. And you will listen.

  Steve threw all the force of his mind against the invading thoughts, frantically trying to shut them out, but they continued inexorably. This is telepathy. The force holding you in your seat is telekinesis. I can demonstrate both as much as necessary to convince you that psychic powers are real.

  The papers Steve had knocked off his desk rose from the floor and hovered in mid-air. His dropped phone joined them. The drawer of his desk slid open and a flurry of pens, pencils, rubber bands, paper clips, and other assorted office supplies flew up to expand the display. Books and knickknacks spilled from his shelves and tumbled through space. All the objects whirled and spun in dizzying patterns.

  This must be some sort of hallucination. The old man had hypnotized or drugged him somehow. It couldn’t be real

  It is real. I’ve done nothing to your mind but speak to it. You can speak back to me if you want. Verbalize your thoughts and direct them at me.

  If that’s what he wanted, Steve would give it to him. He blasted the old man with loudest mental shout he could muster. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

  Mr. Simard flinched. Oof. His tone held mixed admiration and resolve. You’re even stronger than we hoped. I can’t leave you alone, Steve. Earth is in danger, and we need you to help us save it.

  Bullshit. Steve grabbed the biggest and heaviest of the books dancing over his desk and hurled it at the old man’s head.

  Mr. Simard ducked just in time. The book grazed his scalp and crashed against the far wall. He raised a hand and pressed it to the swath of scraped skin welling blood. His stare challenged Steve. Is that the best you can do?

  Fury overwhelmed Steve. He snatched objects at random and flung them against his tormenter. Papers pelted Mr. Simard, leaving thin bloody cuts on his face and hands. Pens and pencils jabbed at his eyes until he flung up an arm to defend himself. Books slammed into his body. When the floating arsenal was exhausted, Steve wrenched himself to his feet with a supreme effort of will, lifted his heavy leather and metal swivel chair, and hefted it threateningly over Mr. Simard’s head. Leave now or I drop it.

  The old man said nothing with either voice or mind. He lowered his arm from in front of his face, looked up at the chair hovering above his head, and turned a wry, knowing smile on Steve.

  Acute awareness of exactly what he was doing slammed Steve. He could feel the weight of the chair with his mind, feel the energy pouring from some unknown source to surround it and oppose the gravity seeking to draw it to the floor. He stared at the impossibility, flexing his empty hands, mind grappling to cope with the undeniable revelation.

  Mr. Simard put his hand out toward Steve. Lower it gently. Feel the way it responds to your guidance.

  It was as easy as lowering his own hand. The chair obeyed his nearly effortless thoughts, sinking a few inches closer to Mr. Simard’s head. Then, in response to his intention, soaring several feet toward the ceiling. He was moving it. He was using telekinesis to manipulate a physical object. For the first time he was consciously controlling the psychic powers he’d spent his whole life fighting.

  Everything Rosalia had told him was true.

  He hurled the chair with all his might against the far wall. It smashed a deep crater into the drywall and crashed to the ground. Steve crumpled, curling into a fetal ball and wrapping his arms around his head. “No,” he sobbed. “Please, no. Make it stop. It’s not real. It can’t be real.”

  A gentle hand smoothed his hair. “Why can’t it be real?” Mr. Simard asked softly. “Why are you so afraid?”

  Steve violently uncoiled, seizing the old man’s arm and staring into his eyes. “Because if this is real, so are the dragons.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Simard said, a soft, wondering exhale. “Show me the dragons.”

  Steve blasted the memory of his most recent nightmare into the old man’s brain. Just last night he’d woken up, drenched in cold sweat, sitting straight up in bed, the images vivid before his eyes.

  The huge black serpent flew through the bridge of the spaceship, six copper wings flexing and rippling. “Do we remain on course?” Its voice was a series of squeals, clicks, and whistles similar to a dolphin’s vocalizations, but as always, Steve understood his meaning perfectly.

  The other dragon, nearly as large, curved its sinuous purple neck deferentially. “Yes, Commander. Our latest readings confirm our position.” It flicked a silver wing at a glowing computer display. “We’ll arrive as scheduled in ten of our new planet’s years.”

  “Excellent,” the Commander hissed. He looked directly at Steve, just as he always did at the end of the dreams. “Closer and closer, humans. You can’t stop us. Your death approaches, and you are powerless.” The dragon lunged at Steve, mouth gaping to devour him, dagger teeth gleaming. As his jaws snapped shut, the vision ended.

  Mr. Simard stared back at Steve. Wondering joy poured from him, washing over Steve in a warm wave that calmed his racing heart and eased his frantic panting. “Thank G
od,” the old man whispered. “My son, you have no idea what an amazing stroke of good fortune this is.”

  Dumbfounded, all Steve could do was shake his head. “I don’t understand. Alien dragons are coming to destroy Earth, and you think it’s a good thing?”

  “We’ve known about the dragons for eight thousand years,” Mr. Simard said. “What we didn’t know was exactly when they would arrive. That’s what your vision tells us. Ten years.” He tilted his head and studied Steve. “Do you know when what you saw was taking place?”

  “Right now,” Steve answered with absolute certainty. “Or last night, I guess, when I had the dream. I always know it’s happening while I watch.”

  Mr. Simard’s lips twisted thoughtfully. “Accounting for lightspeed delay, somewhat longer ago than that, but still fairly current.” His brow wrinkled. “Odd. Usually precognitive visions show the future, not the present. I would have expected someone with a strong enough precognitive gift to penetrate the shielding to see the Seraphim arriving on Earth, with a sense of how far in the future it would happen.” He shook his head. “Maybe the unusual nature of your talent is why their shielding doesn’t block it the way it blocks the rest of us.”

  His words made very little sense to Steve. “Seraphim?”

  “It’s what we call the creatures you think of as dragons. They’re aliens, refugees from a distant planet that was destroyed when its sun went supernova. They seek to conquer Earth and make it their new home.”

  Only with great effort did Steve keep from curling into a ball again. He pressed his hands hard on either side of his head. “I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in all at once.”

  “It’s all right.” The old man patted Steve’s back and rose. He bustled about the office, picking up the detritus of Steve’s tantrum and returning each item to its proper place.

  Steve winced when he noticed the many bloody scratches on the old man’s face, arms, and hands. He winced harder when Mr. Simard uprighted the chair beneath the caved-in dent in the wall. “Look, Mr. Simard—“

  “Call me Mathieu,” the old man said, rolling the chair back to its spot behind Steve’s desk.

  “Mathieu.” Steve rubbed his face and climbed to his feet. “I apologize for all of this.” He waved his hand vaguely at the damaged wall, the cluttered floor, and the old man’s wounds. “I don’t know what came over me. Assaulting you was unforgivable, no matter how upset I was.”

  “Not unforgivable. I attacked the foundation of your understanding of reality. I expected you to fight back. Although perhaps not so physically.” He gingerly touched the scrape on his head.

  “I’ve got a first aid kit in here somewhere.” Steve went to his desk and dug through the drawers. Anything to distract him from thinking about the unthinkable revelations of the last hour. “Here.” He produced the plastic box. “Bandages, antibiotic ointment…”

  “Thank you.” Mathieu accepted the box. “I think I noticed a bathroom down the hall where I can clean up.”

  “Yes.” Steve walked over and stooped to pick up more of the junk he’d flung across the room. All along he’d been using telekinesis without realizing it. He clenched his fingers around the handful of paper clips and rubber bands. Now that he wasn’t actually doing it, it seemed impossible, despite the fact that he remembered it clearly.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Mathieu said. He paused in the doorway and regarded Steve. “Perhaps then we can sit down and have a less, ah, emotional conversation. I’ll explain anything you want to know.”

  “Please.” Steve desperately wanted to go back to the blissful state of denial he’d enjoyed a few hours ago. But even his most fervent efforts couldn’t wipe from his memory the sensation of holding the chair aloft with nothing but the force of his will.

  Mathieu closed the door behind him. Steve straightened, returned to his desk, and deposited the paper clips and rubber bands in his desk drawer. He stared at his chair for a long moment before sinking into it. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  He had a choice. He could retrieve his phone from the floor and call campus police to report a dangerous, mentally deranged intruder who’d vandalized his office and violently attacked him. They would come and haul Mathieu away. Anything the old man tried to say in his defense would only serve to confirm that he was nuts. Steve would discard Mathieu’s data set from his experiment, since it was clearly contaminated. He could put this whole incident behind him and continue with his life just as always.

  And just as always, he would wake from a sound sleep at unpredictably random intervals, paralyzed with the terror of his visions. No longer would he be able to dismiss them as meaningless with the fervent certainty required to hold the fear at bay.

  And ten years from now, he might watch with waking eyes as his nightmares took devastating shape in the real world. If that happened, he would know he could have helped prevent it, but out of cowardice had refused.

  Or…

  Steve took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and looked at the remainder of the debris scattered on the floor. He focused on the fanned-open packet of Mathieu’s sketches. Tentatively he reached out with his mind. The energy had come from here, and flowed like this…

  The stapled papers rose into the air. Steve drew them close. He played with them, flipping the sheets over one by one, turning the whole sheaf end over end, getting a feel for this bizarre new skill that felt disturbingly natural.

  Steve was so absorbed with his experimentation he didn’t notice Mathieu return. He flipped to the last sheet of the packet and stared curiously at the final drawing.

  The old man’s voice behind him made him jump and lose control of the papers. “That’s the emblem of my organization. The Covenant of the Rainbow.”

  Mathieu laid his hand on Steve’s shoulder. The downward fluttering papers reversed course and pressed into Steve’s hands. “I invite you to become a member as well. If you’re willing to consider it, I can begin the disclosure process right now. There are three Memories which contain our history and our purpose. After you’ve seen them all, you can decide whether or not you want to join us.”

  Going back was impossible. The only way left was forward. “I’d like to see them, please. They explain more about the dragons? The Seraphim?”

  “Everything we know.” Mathieu went to the far side of the desk and dragged one of the chairs around to face Steve’s. He seated himself in it so they were knee to knee. He started to reach for Steve’s hands, then pulled back. “One more thing, before we begin. I mentioned that I’m one of the eight leaders of the Covenant. Until recently I thought I had no need to find and train a successor, as is our custom, because the Seraphim would come in my lifetime.” He swallowed. “Then I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. Treatments have slowed it somewhat, but even psychic techniques can only do so much. My doctors tell me I have less than a year to live.”

  The old man’s voice strengthened. “You’re an answer to prayer, my son. Please consider whether you’re willing to follow me as a member of the Eight. You’re more than strong enough. And there should be time for me to teach you what you need to know.”

  Mathieu reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold medallion. He handed it to Steve. Embossed on its surface was the same image Mathieu had sketched in the last space. A deeply drawn bow curved across the shining disk, with an arrow nocked on the string, ready to fly. But instead of the gray pencil lines that had striped the bow in his drawing, this bow was set with narrow bands of color. Red, orange, yellow… all the colors of the rainbow.

  Steve curled his fingers around the warm metal. He didn’t know exactly what the image represented, but it gave him a profound sense of significance. Mathieu and the people he worked with were part of something that had endured for millennia. They were intimately familiar with the stuff of his nightmares, and they weren’t afraid. They had a solid, practical plan to deal with the threat. In their company, Steve would be a strong, valued ally, armed with effect
ive weapons and trained in the skills needed to defeat the enemy. Never again would he need to cower in terror, menaced by monsters he was helpless to defy.

  Steve pictured the bowstring snapping straight, sending the arrow shooting into the black and copper dragon’s mouth as it gaped wide. The shaft skewered his foe’s brain. His wings sagged; his powerful coils went limp.

  Steve smiled, hard and cold. He pressed the medallion back into Mathieu’s palm. “Yes,” he said. “Show me the Memories. Teach me how to use all the powers I’ve got. I want to kick some Seraphim ass.”

  Chapter 11

  Present

  Dovex left the session with the Human more elated and more discouraged than ever. Elated because the information the alien had divulged was new and fascinating. From a scientific standpoint, it increased knowledge of their species dramatically.

  Discouraged because, from a practical standpoint, it was useless. Nothing the creature with branching limbs (which Dovex still found odd, even after decades of watching the images the aliens broadcast into space) had said shed any light on the problem Sarthex had tasked Dovex to solve. The bonds the Humans were able to form with other members of their species remained as mysterious as they had at the beginning of the interview.

  Dovex swam toward the bridge. Sarthex wouldn’t be pleased with the report, but the Commander would probably allow further sessions with the alien. None of the information Dovex had divulged would give the aliens any significant strategic advantage, even if it should become known to those who opposed them. With a little careful planning, Dovex could easily amass vast quantities of similarly valuable-seeming but actually worthless tidbits of information to trade for further revelations.

  Satisfied with this plan, Dovex turned to contemplation of what the Human had said. The bonds it had described were horrible. Two individuals merged into a monstrous hybrid, like that deformed young that had appeared at the gates a few years before the end. Its body had been grossly warped and lumpy, split just above the midfins, with two heads and two sets of highfins emerging from the junction. It had spoken with two voices, yet had moved as one creature. Dovex had no idea how it had managed to survive the wandering years and come to a mockery of awareness. At least the Receivers had been wise and swiftly put an end to the thing’s wretched existence.