COPYRIGHT
Prophecy
Laury Falter
Text copyright ©2013 by Laury Falter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author or the publisher.
First Edition: February 2013
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9855110-9-8
For my fans. I keep a special place in my heart for you. Thank you for reading my stories.
PROPHECY
by
LAURY FALTER
1
RALLY
THE FIRST HIT I FELT, the ones that followed…not so much.
That’s the brilliance of the human body. It protects you by limiting your senses. By the time I lost count of the barrage of fists slamming into my face, they registered only as nudges with enough power to shift my body from side to side. I didn’t notice the blood trickling from my nose or the ringing in my ears. Not yet, anyways.
Through the thick burlap sack that had been thrown over my head just prior to the beating, one that had evidently been used to carry feces at some point, I could see some movement. The slivers of bodies visible through the stretched fabric moved too quickly for any true identification, but I knew there were more than just a handful surrounding me. Maybe if some of them broke from their established dress protocol and wore something other than their damned black uniform and moldavite stone I’d be able to distinguish them.
It didn’t matter, though. A fist was a fist.
Another one landed against my cheek, snapping my head to the side and causing the opposite cheek to fly outward like a deflated balloon.
That was a good one. It had enough depth to knock me off balance.
Bring it on, because when it’s my turn, you’re going to wish you’d killed me.
I rotated back just as my head absorbed another shot.
The only sound in the room was the irregular but consistent grunts, which I surmised came from me alone. When Vires attacked, they did it quietly, devoid of reaction, so I wasn’t going to be able to identify them by sound.
Even if I could ID one, it wouldn’t matter. There wouldn’t be any justice for them, no retaliation by me. But I didn’t hold any personal affront about it. Their robotic nature, their fixed movements told me that I was nothing more than an object to them, a target which only needed to be sufficiently suppressed. These men and women had gone through hell and any trace of their personalities had been broken down and erased in order for them to be rebuilt in the manner The Sevens had directed, one that left them absent of emotion or personality. They didn’t care because they were taught not to. And that’s where we were even. I couldn’t care less what they did to me. Every bruise, every cut gave me power, resilience, resolve, because I knew – we all did – that the true attackers were The Sevens. So long as they were hitting me, I was of value to them, and they’d keep me around. And if I was kept around long enough, I could get who I came here for.
The thought of her above all others, stopped me from returning their blunt force with my own. That realization plagued me during every altercation, an ever-present reminder that somewhere, hidden inside these walls, was Jocelyn. That understanding alone reinforced in me that I would bring the fight to them, but not now, not yet. First, I needed to find her.
As another well-placed fist jolted my head to the side, her image slipped across my consciousness, her dark hair flowing, her intoxicating eyes locked on me. They were innocently seductive, pleading with me, having no understanding of what they did to my insides. What she didn’t know, what I couldn’t tell her because she had been ripped from my arms and stolen from me by The Sevens’ Vires was that she tore me up more than any fist ever could.
The pummeling slowed to an end. This assault, I noted, lasted only three minutes; an indication that it wasn’t intended to make me submit, only to bang me up a bit, leave me a little bruised and bloody. That meant we would be heading for another “rally” today, where my body would serve as the message, the key talking point.
The bag was pulled from my head then, taking a good section of my hair with it, and the room returned to order, Vires roaming around like nothing had occurred, as if I wasn’t standing here with blood streaming from my nose and ears.
I picked up the black shirt I’d been putting on before the assault and slipped it over my shoulders. My head began to throb, with a persistent, and loud, pulsing that jostled my view with each pounding. Blinking in an effort to correct my vision, I finished buttoning the shirt and went in search of the moldavite stone I’d been assigned, wiping the blood from my nose with the back of my hand. It left a smear across my skin, and I smiled.
This was my sick, private joke against them, because what The Sevens didn’t understand was that I had been preparing for this fight since birth; not the little nudges I get from this squad but the bigger one, the one that’s coming. I’d been trained for this, coached in martial arts, disciplined in pain resistance, and pushed to the breaking point and beyond. That was their weakness, The Sevens. They had no idea what they were up against.
I found the stone, laying at the foot of the bed I’d been issued, as if it were waiting there for me. Someone had placed it safely out of harm’s way, a good enough distance from the attack that it wouldn’t be damaged.
I almost laughed.
My new “family” stone was given more respect than actual flesh and blood.
I put it on my collar, rubbed away the blood streaming from my ears, and turned for a final inspection in the mirror mounted on the inside of my open locker.
At that moment, I suffered my first physical reaction of the morning. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, like I did at the start of every day, my stomach churned, as it always did. I gave myself a cursory inspection, focusing on ensuring everything was in the right place before that familiar disgust could set in. My lapel was straight, the tail of my shirt was tucked in evenly behind my belt, and both shoes were laced. Then, just before my eyes could narrow in vehemence, I turned to face the room.
A sweeping evaluation of the men and women around me confirmed that no one paid me any attention. I had again become a speck in the sea of black. This didn’t surprise me, though. I knew when making the decision to turn myself in to The Sevens that I would essentially become a number, an outcast definitely, but nothing more than number. Anyone who set foot through the door and into these barracks was taught from an early age to eliminate any sign of individualism. But I wasn’t here for the same reasons as the rest of my bunkmates. In the eyes of The Sevens, and likely in the eyes of my bunkmates, I was here to serve as a message to the provinces, those people who would, or had, dared to attempt to overthrow The Sevens. I didn’t need to know how to handle various mystical weapons or learn their code of conduct or acquire their mannerisms in order to fulfill my purpose here. I only needed to appear before the Dissidents with bruises, a few scrapes, some dried blood, and their objective would be met: Exhibit the Nobilis banged up a bit and it would create fear in the hearts of those who The Sevens control. And this would prevent any future notion the populace might have of opposing The Sevens.
Right on schedule, the Vires in the room began filtering out single-file, with only their footsteps and the rustle of their clothes giving any indication they were moving. I fell in line at the end, equally as alert as the rest but for a very different reason. As we marched toward the mess hall, a
course that took us through the dark, winding maze of corridors and into the bowels of the Ministry, I mentally marked every door, every turn, every archway, because eventually one of them might lead me to Jocelyn. There had been no sign of her, and it had been agonizing, but I’d find her. One day, The Sevens, or the Vires guarding her, would slip up, let down their defenses, and leave a clue as to her whereabouts. That was the thin thread of hope from which I hung.
The mess hall was a clattering of dishes and muted conversations. I sat alone, in the back, swallowing dried eggs and undercooked bacon, ignoring the pain in my jaw, and watching. This was my routine. I went unnoticed here, a ghost among the robots, and I took advantage of it. Here, I noted the Vire routines, who was stationed with who, the size of their groups, who dominated them, all of which would be incredibly important when I was able to free Jocelyn.
There were essentially two levels, the beginners and those who had “come of age”, which meant they had learned the appropriate skills to be a killer. I was housed with those who had come of age. The youngest appeared to be eleven years old, and he was extremely lethal. Most of all, however, I was interested in detecting if any of them would be following in Theleo’s footsteps, the legendary Vire who had defected to our side to assist the Dissidents, and who had since disappeared into oblivion on my final command before committing myself to the Ministry. One group was proving to be of particular interest to me, with their hushed, private conversations and frequent sideways glances in my direction. They were led by a man the size of a tank with pale skin and a massive chest. I knew him only by his aptly-given nickname, Stalwart, and he seemed to know me too. I’d place a bet that he’d told his small two-man contingent to be acutely aware of me and my whereabouts since I first came to the Ministry. Today though, it was me doing the stalking. I was actively listening in on his comments about two Dissidents being interrogated when a voice boomed across the room.
“Jameson Caldwell.”
I heard it, although it had to find its way through the ringing in my ears.
When I didn’t stand immediately, the Vire at the main entrance to the mess hall shouted it again, firm, brisk. He didn’t bother to scan the crowd for me, keeping his eyes front and center, knowing I would be required to respond if I were somewhere within.
Gradually, I rose to my feet and joined him at the door.
“You have been summoned,” he said with barely a look at me before spinning on his heel and beginning his “Vire march”, a strange hard right-foot plant, down the hall.
He didn’t bother relaying details to me. I was a peon, of less significance than a pebble he stepped on. Regardless, I already knew where he was leading me. I had taken this walk countless times over the nine weeks since I arrived. We reached a fairly wide balcony jutting from the side of the Ministry’s first floor and as I was surrounded by black uniforms before being levitated into the air, I was no more surprised than when the bag had been dropped over my head earlier this morning.
This was routine.
We were in the air no longer than a few minutes before the sky darkened. It was morning back in Italy, where the Ministry was located, but almost midnight here in Mexico City. Being the largest city in the country, and with the greatest population, it was easy to identify from above. The lights sprawled beneath us blinking back, growing larger as we dropped toward them.
We landed, our feet touching the flat roof of a building inside the city perimeter. Taller structures rose overhead around us with windows lit, so I was shoved through the roof access door before anyone looked out one of those windows and sighted us. We descended the flight of stairs to the first floor, stepping into an enormous area with rigging overhead and a curtain that stretched from one side of the room to the other. Sartorius stood directly in front of it, as if he expected it to part and he would be revealed in reverie.
I had to keep my eyes from rolling.
When he saw us arrive, he beckoned me to him, his cane’s moldavite stone glinting in the beams of light that crisscrossed from the casting lights above. As the Vires who had led me here dispersed to take their places with the others in their squad at the various exits, Sartorius returned his gaze to the velvet red folds a foot from him as if they held more interest than me. I had stopped outside arm’s reach, facing him, just as he gave his command.
“Bow.”
Fighting the urge to resist, I bent at the waist, but did not lower my eyes, words rambling through my mind: Enjoy it while it lasts. Watch your back you piece of sh-
“You are standing in the Auditorio Nacional,” he referenced casually with an accent. “It is said to be one of the greatest auditoriums in the world, and is a landmark, here, in Mexico City. We own this building, my associates and I. Whilst this declaration is not on paper, it is proven through our use of it now and the many times in the past. I secure it for us on occasions in which an audience is required. It is a trophy, one of many,” he said, remaining rigidly immobile except for turning his head in my direction. “You, Jameson, are the most recent in my collection.” Without pausing or any hint at how offensive his statement was, Sartorius continued. “Celebrated artists have performed on this very stage where you now stand. And, tonight, you will join them in giving us yet another extraordinary performance.” He watched his insult burn through me, and once sufficiently entertained, he questioned, “Do you regret turning yourself in, Jameson?”
I regret having to wait to slit your throat.
“Regret, Jameson,” he uttered again, his voice hissing with impatience. “Do you feel it for having handed yourself to us without reason?”
“There was a reason, Sartorius.” And her name is Jocelyn.
“Which you must have known would not be honored.” Sartorius’ snide manner drew me back to him. “We would never give up such a precious asset,” he admonished.
“An asset to you,” I muttered. “A danger to the rest of The Sevens.”
Sartorius chuckled to himself. “And that is precisely why it took so much political capital to keep the two of you alive. You have created a problem for us, Jameson, you and me. My associates want you dead. They don’t see the potential in you…the power that can be harnessed.”
They know enough to be fearful of it.
Sartorius’ attention returned to the curtain. He spoke wistfully, openly enamored, seemingly intoxicated by the future he foresaw in using us.
“She is powerful…,” he whispered, “…and you recharge her.”
Intentionally, I broke through his ludicrous whimsical musing and reminded him, “She isn’t a battery, Sartorius.”
He blinked, returning from his daze, and ignored my statement as if it had been nothing more than a breeze passing his ears. “The Dissidents, however, are not so precious to me.”
I stiffened at the sudden change of subject, and at the acknowledgement of the people who had joined me to openly oppose The Sevens. They had risked their lives in hopes of a life free from the fear and control of their subjugators, and not only had their dreams been shattered, but they now lived in constant fear and far greater jeopardy than before.
“They do serve a purpose,” Sartorius deliberated. “But you already knew this, didn’t you, Jameson? It’s the reason you disbanded them, before coming to us, in a final attempt to keep them safe.”
My memory called up an image of the swamp in which the Dissidents had made a home. Beneath the cypress trees, swallowed by thousands of tree trunks, were the shacks and planks running between them; the dwellings where people once baked bread, played music, and shared their catch of the day. There was no music in my memory, no joy or leisurely happiness that the Dissidents had come to thrive on while hiding from The Sevens. Instead, people hauled suitcases or personal belongings stuffed into canvas bags, rowing them in canoes down the village waterways. Boats rammed each other out of haste, the planks shook with the weight of hurried feet. My memory was of the mass exodus brought on by my orders. As if reading my thoughts, Sartorius put them in
to words.
“You told them to seek shelter elsewhere, to go into hiding, because you knew we would come for them. You knew you couldn’t attack as planned,” Sartorius surmised. “You didn’t have the resources. All heart and no way to use it…such are the notions of a juvenile, Jameson, in believing you could oppose us….” He clucked his tongue quietly at me. “So you told them to scatter, didn’t you, young Jameson? Don’t be so harsh on yourself, however. In reflection, releasing them was the only correct course of action you took.”
I glanced at him, because Sartorius didn’t delve out compliments. I was skeptical, and his follow up statement justified my suspicions.
To drive home the point he was making, he added, “Because we are coming for them, Jameson. And one by one they will be found.”
I clenched my teeth before my instinctive response could come out. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to gut you, pull out your entrails, and make you watch. You stupid sack of shhh…
He knew I cared for them, and he was using it against me. And the fury he imparted from his warning only strengthened with his final utterance.
“Under no circumstances will what you see tonight provoke you. You will not move. You will not speak. You will show no emotion. Am I understood?” My silence caused him to repeat it. “Do you understand me, Jameson?”
My level of alertness peaked then as I tensed for whatever it was he had planned.
“Jameson,” he said, demanding I answer.
My lips opened just enough to quietly hiss my answer. “Yes, Sartorius, I heard you.”
Since handing myself to The Sevens, I had been to so many rallies that I’d lost count. They had been fairly consistent in process and purpose, with only the location and audience changing. Held in either warehouses throughout Germany, coffee shops closed for the night throughout South America, open fields in Madagascar, it didn’t matter. Sartorius followed the same agenda. But not once had he made that kind of threat.
Prophecy (Residue Series #4) Page 1
