Prophecy (Residue Series #4)

by Falter, Laury

  Leaving my side, he motioned with a snap of his hand to start the rally. As was typical, once again, I found Vires on all sides of me, strategically placed there before the curtain could part and slide to the end of the stage.

  Before us, sitting in the upwardly sloping red velvet seats, were thousands of witches, some with pointed hats, some with the handles of their broom laid across their laps, some appearing as typical as an average businessman. Most wore the traditional black cloak so common in our world. But there was no unifying characteristic other than the family stone they wore somewhere on their bodies.

  Besides this, what stood out to me was the multitude of them. Mexico City was one of the most populated urban areas in the world, with easy transportation to and from the metropolis. Of course there would be a great number of us here, and they would all have been required participants tonight.

  By design, a rally evokes…even demands jubilation from its audience, and is bolstered by food, drink, dancing, social engagements. Those are the very purposes for which people gather. But that was not the goal here tonight, and they knew it. There was no excited chatter, no mingling across the aisles, no sense of joy at all from this crowd. Those who knew each other gave a simple, quiet nod before returning their attention to the stage. A woman in the back row grunted as she shifted in her seat, which could be heard with distinct clarity from my position on the stage.

  We were in a different city, in a different forum, and yet the result was the same. I had seen it at every rally. These people had been summoned here not by their own free will or for their enjoyment of the arts. The Sevens required their attendance to ensure that what would be shown on the stage tonight would not be misconstrued, or easily dismissed. It would be remembered, scorched into their consciousness, and serve as a message of what happens when one disobeys The Sevens.

  Sartorius stepped up to the edge of the stage and raised his hands in the air in a grandiose gesture, using the moldavite stone on the tip of his cane to enhance his image of false supremacy.

  Using their native language, he bellowed in Spanish, “Channelers, Elementalists, Levitators, Healers. Witches…Friends. Tonight, I am not a Seven. I am an inquisitor, and eyewitness to atrocious crimes, the result of which has left us, our world, in a state of vulnerability. This is something we cannot risk.

  “It is wrong, I suggest, to reject the rules we agree to live by. It is wrong because they have been established for your safety. To challenge them puts all lives in danger…mine…the person sitting beside you…your own….”

  Sartorius delivered his concealed threats with magnificent impact. His speech had been repeated nearly every evening for weeks now, time enough to perfect each pitch, tremble, and pause. The eyes that stared back at the stage confirmed it. For the most part, they had been empty, as they always were, and grew tenser until fear seemed to have become a palpable entity which had crept its way out of their gazes to settle in their terrified, downturned grimaces. He was an extremely effective orator, innately suited for these rallies.

  “Dear Friends, you have been called here tonight to bear witness to punishment for treason, barbarianism, and conspiracy, the likes of which we have never seen in our world. If left unchecked, these crimes flourish, corroding our way of life, gutting us from the inside out. And as you bear witness, I implore you to keep in mind…extraordinary dangers such as these call for extraordinary measures.”

  I stood straighter at this point; readying myself for what usually came next. At this point in the rally, a fist would hit me somewhere in the back, I would fall to my knees, and the pummeling would start. There would be no bag shoved over my head this time, giving the audience an unobstructed view of the pain being inflicted on my body. My facial contortions served to further influence the audience against breaking the crimes Sartorius was accusing me of.

  But nothing followed now other than Sartorius’ voice, as he roared a command that I hadn’t expected.

  “Bring out the Dissidents!”

  Once my mind registered this change in the agenda, my head snapped to the side in search of what he was insinuating. From the wing opposite me, through the darkness, figures began to emerge. Dressed in torn, faded garments, a group of Vires led them to the front and center of the stage, neatly lining them up in a row behind Sartorius.

  As they came into view, my fingers curled into fists, tightening with each new Dissident who took the stage. Sartorius watched me closely because he was privy to knowledge that no one else here was aware of.

  I knew every single one of them.

  Sartorius strolled to the beginning of the line and shouted their names as he passed by. “Daniel Aymes…Teresa Mill…Bartholomew Pierce…Kathryn Davidson…Joseph White…Arthur McMillan…Cornelia Sullentrop. You have been convicted of treason, barbarianism, and conspiracy to harm others. For this, you will pay the ultimate price. However, in an effort to show greater kindness than what you have shown us, we have graciously allowed you to determine the method of your own death.”

  The last word emitted from Sartorius’ mouth spurred me into action.

  My arms rose to encircle the Vire closest to me. With his head lodged between my muscles, I used his body weight to send a sidekick into the hips of the first Vire to respond. He stumbled backwards until he lost his footing, collapsed to the floor, and slid across the stage.

  One down.

  I cranked the neck of the Vire I held enough to hear the split of bone, a sound that confirmed he was no longer a threat.

  Two down.

  I threw his lifeless body at the Vire lurching toward me. They both fell into a pile, tripping two more as they approached.

  The attacks started coming from all angles, which I fended off using the techniques I’d learned from Theleo and improvised defense moves. My arms and feet found their targets easily as more Vires advanced, sending a steady stream of contact my way. My motions were smooth, effortless, a mastery of precision and strength. I felt in control of them and of those around me. “Come on!” I heard myself roar. “Come on!”

  Then came the blow from above.

  It was swift, silent, and effective. A damn good shot.

  I fell to my knees a second after the strike landed on my head, directly from overhead, the one area I hadn’t kept in my sights. Whoever had levitated, had done it well.

  My head spun.

  My eyes refused to settle on any particular point.

  My mind screamed at me to stand, knowing I had only seconds before…

  And that was when my time ran out.

  The kick to my face launched the first round of attacks on me, and I welcomed them.

  My head whipped back and my body spun off kilter. Then I was on the floor, the cold, grey concrete slab that made up the stage where I was told to perform tonight.

  And if ever there was a performance that combined blood and pain, I delivered it.

  This was the hardest beating yet. Blood ran from every opening on my face and from several gashes across my skull. I determined this by the warmth that now covered my hair and skin. My right eye swelled shut and my left incisor rocked loosely from its place. But it was the sharp pain radiating from the side of my ribcage that made it obvious I had suffered a fracture. It intensified each time someone’s foot or fist struck my body.

  I had been warned not to move, and Sartorius seemed intent on reminding me. He foresaw this happening. I now understood his keen focus on me as the Dissidents were escorted to the stage and for the cause behind his little pep talk before the rally began.

  From my one good eye still able to open, I found him in the middle of the stage, just beyond the line of Dissidents who remained in place, and noted his smug expression. My beating wasn’t just for submission; it was also a tool to drive home his message about what happens when one of us stepped out of line. I had done this, literally, and paid the price.

  When they were finished, Sartorius strolled to me, bent down, and clapped. The sound reverberated across the s
ilent theater. “Excellent performance, Jameson. Excellent performance.”

  I opened my mouth to curse back but my body was lifted by two Vires using my arms to hoist me up, and I was dragged to the side of the stage. I readied myself for the release and the certain fall to the concrete floor, where my body would suffer more extensive damage. But despite my props being out of breath, a fact I took an enormous amount of pride in, they didn’t drop me. Sartorius, apparently, had ordered them to keep me upright…and visible for all to see.

  Sartorius turned back to the audience and proclaimed loudly a warning that was most commonly heard from Peregrine. “Rebellion will not be tolerated. To reinforce this point, we will begin the punishments.”

  In immediate response, three Vires took their positions behind the row of Dissidents, and their purpose was clear: A Levitator, a Channeler, and an Elementalist would offer a range of lethal blows to choose from.

  The Vires restraining me tightened their hold, knowing my opposition would come quickly. Being prepared for it this time, they kept me pretty well locked down.

  Not considering me much of a threat any more, Sartorius pinned his attention on the first Dissident in line. “Daniel Aymes, for your role in breaking the laws established for the sanctity of our world, by what means do you wish to die?”

  With his back to me, I couldn’t see his expression, but the quiver in his shoulders told me everything I needed to know. He was terrified. Still, despite the fear swallowing him, Daniel remained silent. I remembered him clearly from the village. He was skilled in accounting and had formed a complex, but fair, bartering system. He knew nothing about fighting, or dying. This was his first experience with both.

  Sartorius gave him no extension of time. Almost immediately, he replied casually, “Very well then.” After a quick nod from Sartorius toward the three Vires readied behind the Dissidents, Daniel’s body was flung upward, slamming into the auditorium’s overhanging ceiling, a force that sent a shower of concrete back to the stage. When Daniel’s body returned, it landed with an explosion that rocked the auditorium.

  Groans and shrieks from those unable to stifle their reaction rose above the crowd. Heads turned away, a few vomited in the aisles.

  I processed these reactions only slightly because my own had taken over. A roar resounded off the walls, coming from me, my vision blurring from its intensity.

  Fighting against those restraining me, I weakened them enough to free myself. But I didn’t get far. Sartorius sent additional Vires to subdue me, plenty to immobilize every limb and form a supplementary circle for increased protection.

  “Teresa Mill,” Sartorius said, wasting no time in starting again. “By what means do you wish to die?”

  After a glance at Daniel’s body, she followed his conduct and refused to answer. When Sartorius recognized these responses for what they were – final acts of rebellion – he moved more rapidly. After another brief nod by Sartorius, a Vire took hold of Teresa’s arm and proceeded to channel his vehemence directly into her. She was dead in seconds. The next four Dissidents suffered fatal injuries that ranged from becoming encased in fire to being pressed against the ceiling until they were asphyxiated. With each victim, I fought harder, and was suppressed with growing hostility.

  Sartorius didn’t care that these were the people who The Sevens had promised to keep safe so many generations ago, and who now were being punished simply for seeking a life of freedom. What mattered now to Sartorius and his associates was that they served a purpose; they were minions, pawns in The Sevens’ goal to dominate. This rally was meant to drive home this very point.

  The last Dissident standing was Cornelia. I had met her once, after an invitation for dinner at her cottage in Salem, Massachusetts. She had housed a defected Vire, one who had stolen a record of the first channelers’ prophecy of the future; although I couldn’t be certain that was the crime that had led her to the stage tonight. Sartorius’ sneer, and the evident pleasure he took in standing before her, made me think it was.

  “Cornelia Sullentrop,” he stated, his eyes sparkling at what was to come. “By what means-”

  She didn’t let him finish. The hunched, squat body of hers held more resilience and contention than the audience before her as a whole, and it wouldn’t allow Sartorius the benefit of taking power over her. It was, I knew by the straightening of her back and the lift of her head, what drove her to whisper her defiant last words.

  Her lips lifted in a bold smile and she hissed, “Something prophetic this way comes.”

  Sartorius’ face twisted in offense as rage followed closely behind, because he understood exactly what she meant: He hadn’t won. He could take her life, and all of those on the stage, but it wouldn’t deter the end. The future…the prophecy…was still coming, and when it arrived it would be The Sevens who lost.

  My broken ribs sent pulsating sparks of pain through me and my swollen eye throbbed, but I welcomed the distractions. Physical pain made me alert. My energy high, I could unravel her riddle too. And it gave me hope. Ignoring the odd sensation of my loosened tooth, a grin spread across my lips.

  Sartorius’ own lip curled in unmistakable insult as he brushed aside his suit jacket and withdrew a dagger. No sooner had it appeared did it disappear, thrust deep inside Cornelia’s chest.

  I didn’t have time to feel remorse, or pity, or fury. Sartorius pulled the blade from her body, motioned for the Dissidents to be removed, and spoke again before Cornelia collapsed to the stage. His next command brought on a feeling I hadn’t expected, and an intensity I wasn’t prepared to handle. He spat the words, “Bring out Jocelyn Weatherford,” and all I sensed while searching the wings for movement was agonizing desire.

  2

  REUNITED

  I HAD JUST WITNESSED THE DEATH of seven innocent individuals, and their murderers were now escorting the woman I love into the execution frenzy.

  Committing the faces of those leaving the stage to memory, I would make sure they would die for it. The fact they were acting on Sartorius’ command didn’t mean a damn thing to me, not when it came to Jocelyn.

  She was here to serve a purpose, that much I knew. There was no other rationale for Sartorius to risk his prized possession in this way. There were too many variables he couldn’t control…a revolt from the audience, Dissidents following them here, a rescue attempt which only a handful of Vires would be present to stop. So, whatever the reason was to bring her, it was worth the risk of losing her.

  Then all my rambling thoughts came to a halt, because Jocelyn appeared from the dark.

  Wearing a white dress, her arms and shoulders bare, she was entrancing. Every person in attendance had their eyes pinned on her. But their reasons were different from mine. They saw her as a symbol, while I knew her to be a person. They had dressed her in a way that looked delicate, but I knew her true hardiness.

  She had lost weight, which told me that she wasn’t eating enough. Her movements were languid, which meant she was fatigued. Her eyes were hollow, empty of emotion, either a reaction to the environment or as a result of the wall she must have built to preserve herself from what she was enduring.

  I wanted to hold her, carry her away from here where she couldn’t be used as a tool any longer. I wanted to lay her down, kiss her, feel her body against mine. I wanted her to be safe. I wanted her happy. I wanted the hollowness in her eyes to be filled with life again.

  She didn’t recognize me, at first. A scan of the stage told her only that a Vire had been beaten and was now being restrained. I could see this in her expression when her innate need to heal others kept her eyes on me a bit longer than they should have.

  I’m here, sweetheart, I said, trying to channel across the depth of the stage to her. I’m right here with you.

  She hadn’t lost her yearning to help others. I could see that, but it was during that lingering gaze on me when she saw who was hidden beneath the blood and pus and swollen skin. Her face contorted, not much, just enough to be picked u
p by an observant eye. And her body instinctively shifted in my direction.

  Yes, it’s me. I’m right here.

  The Vires escorting her corrected her path and she ended up in front of Sartorius. If he had been observing us, as I suspected he was, then he knew that placing us in the close proximity could cause upheaval. Still, as if he had all the power and influence in the world, he casually extended a hand to her, silently insisting that she take it. She responded hesitantly, taking his fingers cautiously.

  You haven’t turned her, have you, Sartorius? You failed to recondition her to willingly do your bidding, didn’t you? I thought, my excitement returning, energy surging through me. You told me once that was your ultimate wish, and even though she’s now within your power, in the flesh, without anyone to help her, she resisted you. You are a failure of a man.

  But my excitement turned to alarm and my entire being contracted because he led her across the stage to me. Sartorius did nothing unless it was to his advantage. If he brought her here tonight, and he now wanted to bring us together, there was a depraved reason behind it.

  Having seen my reaction, Sartorius warned, “Steady yourself, Jameson.”

  Nevertheless, he stopped several feet from me.

  Only after the flare in my nostrils subsided and the clench of my jaw abated did he continue. Then he made a demand so quietly, so blunt without emotion that I questioned whether I heard him correctly. “Touch her,” he said.

  As I processed his words, his eyes narrowed at me.

  “Touch…her.”

  “No,” I replied flatly.

  I wanted nothing more than to touch her, to feel her skin beneath my fingers, and to make sure she was not an illusion conjured by brain injuries from the beatings or from my desperate need to see her again. But Sartorius’ insistence raised questions, and triggered an automatic refusal from me.

  “TOUCH HER!” Sartorius bellowed, causing many in the audience to stir.

  “No.”