The Lancaster Rule - The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. I

by T. K. Toppin

  Chaotic thoughts screamed in my head as she ranted on. Fear immobilized me. The complete absurdity of it made me dizzy.

  I am a normal person. I’m not crazy. I’m not an abomination!

  I’m not, am I?

  I’d gone to sleep for three hundred years, woken up in New Zealand, gotten kidnapped by insane fanatics, my pending execution was being recorded—which would no doubt happen as soon as this crazy bitch finished her ranting. Maybe it was just a little weird. It sparked a thought, making me wonder what the headstone on my grave would read: Born 2006, died 2333. A fresh set of tears rolled down my eyes. And no one alive would come to my funeral.

  “Put her on her knees,” the woman ordered the man behind me.

  In one swift move, the man kicked the back of my legs and the unrelenting tiles banged my knees. Pain made me gasp and suck in a breath. I squeezed my eyes tight, holding my breath until the agony became manageable. The beginnings of icy numbness and helpless resignation crept into my limbs like a sickness. And fear. A fear so deep and intense, a bleakness drowned me. I wanted to throw up.

  “You? Abomination?” the woman called down at me. She hunched down, bouncing on her heels and peered into my face like a hunter inspecting its prey. She even poked me with a finger to test my hostility. “What is your name? And in what year did you subject yourself to this…this atrocity?”

  I clamped my mouth tight, refusing to speak. Quin’s excitable ramblings rang in my ears like some mantra: “Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell anyone. No one must know how old you are. Don’t tell anyone.”

  The woman prodded harder. “Answer me!”

  “I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.” My eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to burst like a dam. “They didn’t tell me.”

  “Hah! What nonsense am I hearing? How can you forget?” Without preamble, she swung her fist into my face. “Remember now?”

  The impact jarred my face. It went numb. I imagined my left eye was somewhere inside my skull, ready to explode into a million pieces. Death by brain hemorrhage; it was better than whatever they had in store for me. Before I could recover enough to fully understand I was still alive, another blow slammed my head the other direction. My right cheekbone went numb for a split second before bursting into roaring pain. Molars throbbed. My breath stopped. I let out a strangled moan.

  “Tell me, you obscenity.” The woman grabbed a handful of my shirt in both fists and shook me violently. My teeth clacked together and my head juddered back and forth. When she finally released me, she swatted a hand across my mouth. Hot blood spewed out from my nose, scorching like acid. I gagged as the pain blinded me.

  Death, please take me!

  I hung limp, head lolled forward, shoulders bunched high with my arms pegged securely behind me. I watched as a long, mucous-filled gob of blood trailed out of my nose and spattered on the white tiles. Another followed, this time with a strand of saliva from my open mouth. It felt like I no longer had a face. I let out a strangled sob. Taking in a ragged breath in with my mouth, I tried to say something, but I only managed something close to a mewling cat’s cry, accompanied by lots of bloody spittle. The taste of my blood made me sick. I retched and coughed, tasting bile.

  The woman grasped my forelock and shoved my head back. She screamed something, but I couldn’t make out what. A knife appeared before my eyes, wavering in and out like a belly dancer’s torso.

  A flash of panic swept through me. Oh, shit. It’s going to happen now. Will it hurt? Will they cut me in half, like Madge?

  My breath faltered, and immediately everything came into sharp focus. I even smelled onions on the woman’s breath as it mingled with the coppery tang of my own blood.

  The knife’s edge gleamed with a sinister blue-gray sheen, and was cold and hard as it was pressed against my gasping throat. A sharp prick pierced the skin under my chin, searing me like a bolt of electricity. I convulsed, my spine rigidly straight, my breath shallow and quick. A deep chill seeped into my very core.

  If I closed my eyes, would it be like going to the doctor’s and getting an injection? Would that help?

  But I couldn’t bring myself to close my eyes. They darted every which way, trying to see every last detail of my life before it ended. My ragged breath deafened me, hurting my chest. It was torture to take in air. But I couldn’t stop. My chest heaved to keep me alive, to feed my soon-to-die body with air.

  “There, now,” the woman crooned, easing to one side. She beckoned one hand to the camera. “Look straight into the lens for us, now.” With the flat side of the knife, she stroked my neck as though buttering a piece of toast, caressing it. “Show the world what we do to people like you. There now, that’s a gooood girl.”

  My eyes obediently swiveled from the penetrating brown stare of the woman to the bright beam of light coming from the small camera. Blood drained from my face; making me lightheaded. And cold. Like I’d run a thousand marathons, my breath thinned as my heartbeats escalated into the stratosphere. The realization that I was going to die had me relinquishing whatever resistance I held onto. I accepted my fate. I was in this woman’s hands. She was going to deliver me to my death, like a doctor delivering a newborn. I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t do anything to stop her.

  I’m going to die. This is it.

  A dark blur in the corner caught my attention. Numbed by fear, I slid my eyes to the right, past the woman’s looming face. The door was ajar, but empty. Perhaps it was a shadow from hell. I was an abomination, after all, and hell was where I was going.

  The air in the room immediately tightened; it felt pressurized and thin. My ears popped, and then came a long, loud phhut. The man behind me clenched his fists tightly around my arms. He jerked and fell backward, pulling me with him, his hands still gripping my arms, but they twitched as if electrified, squeezing me painfully.

  “What—?” the woman snarled. She still held the knife poised where my neck had been. She straightened to launch an attack, but her mouth dropped. She stared with obvious confusion at the fallen man.

  A hot rush of liquid sprayed over my chest. It bloomed red and stank of rusty metal. Confused, I tried to twist around to see where it came from. The man behind me sat, half askew against the wall, his upper body slumped forward over me and a fountain of blood pulsed from a gaping hole—no, crater—at his right temple. I turned away with a jerk, horrified.

  Then I saw it. My eyes widened with terror, riveted to the door. A demon from hell!

  The woman spun to face the doorway, the knife already flying from her hand straight toward the black figure at the door. The figure flipped sideways, vanishing from sight, to be replaced by another that slid across the floor from the opposite direction, lying low. Another pulse of the air—phhut—and the woman grunted. Her body airborne; she jerked back three feet before landing with a sickening thud, flat on her back, head bouncing twice against the floor from the impact. The center of her chest smoked, ruined, and the heady, rancid smell of burning flesh filled the small room. An expression of complete surprise was etched on her face for eternity.

  I managed a hoarse, half-strangled scream. In a wild struggle, I freed my arms and scuttled to the farthest corner of the room, hoping to escape the madness. But the horror continued. I stared as the man with the camera only just registered what was happening. He dug a hand into the belt of his pants, fumbling to extract a gun. He attempted to aim at the dark figure on the ground, which seemed to turn into another black figure as if by metamorphosis. The shadow did acrobatic summersaults until it landed in a low lunge-pose, left knee bent before it, right leg extended behind. In one blinding blur of movement, it thrust its right arm upward, using the left leg to vault up—palm flat—straight into the cameraman’s chin. With a loud crack, his jaw broke inward, his head snapped back. He crumbled to the floor like a rag doll, lifeless.

  I sat with my body pressed into the corner, frozen, clutching myself. I tried pushing back, away from the madness, but my feet kept slipping i
n the oily wash of blood and bone fragments. Words left me. My breath wheezed sharp, painful. The black figure straightened, nodded once to me, and retreated a step. From behind, the other dark figure emerged, pulling off its hood to reveal a short, untidy crop of blond hair, a ruddy face flushed with exertion, and the most startling blue eyes stared at me.

  A man, not a demon.

  He looked me over with a frown. “You must be Josie. Quin sent me.”

  Chapter 7

  Lorcan Wellesley wasn’t an emotional man, nor was he passive. Practical, a realist, he’d always thought himself to be like a rock. And when the need arose, a man of action.

  When his son had been born, he’d celebrated with his wife and drank to young Max’s health, then constructively mapped out the best course of action to take regarding raising a child. When his wife had died, he’d cried quietly, once, then straightened up and got on with his life. It was a fact of life: people died, no matter how much you loved them or how hard you tried to save them. They just died. He wasn’t unkind or heartless. Just, he reasoned, a man who held his emotions in check, used reason and logic, and fought hard for what he believed was right. Even if it meant killing to fix a wrong.

  But when he saw Josie Bettencourt, frozen in abject fear, clinging to the walls, his heart all but broke. For a moment, he forgot who he was. Never had he seen, in all his life or experience, someone so terrified, so pitiful that it moved him to the point of immobility.

  The abandoned veterinary clinic where he and his partner found Josie and her captors was cleared in a matter of minutes. It hadn’t been too difficult to track them. The kidnappers had been sloppy, to say the least. The moment Quin contacted him, Lorcan used his network of associates to pinpoint Josie’s location. They zoomed to the Aguilars’ location, and from there it had been quite easy to follow the assassins’ tracks, by piggy-backing onto a faint satellite signal, which led straight to an old clinic on the outskirts of Wellington.

  Never trusting in things that came too easily, Lorcan tagged his former military partner, Ahmet. They geared up and hopped into Lorcan’s private shuttle. On arrival, they cautiously surveyed the location. Josie’s position had already been tagged in their sensors. Six other people were inside, mostly clustered in a common area once used by vets and their staff. One, dressed as a security guard, stood guard in the lobby. Whoever they were, they weren’t very professional, and came across as careless and arrogant enough to be stupid with their security. Lorcan and Ahmet waited until what looked to be a lunch was finished and three individuals headed toward Josie’s location.

  The first three were far too easy to eliminate; their meal had rendered them lethargic. Lorcan and Ahmet had found them reclining on old shelves, and used knives to slash throats. The only sound made was when one fell off the shelf in surprise. For the other three, they used the pulse guns to gain the element of surprise.

  Lorcan lowered himself before Josie, his hands open, unthreatening. Her green eyes were dark with fear, pupils dilated. She had retreated to where thought, and the need for speech, were no longer necessary—just action and reaction. She reminded him of a trapped animal. He remembered the little goldcrest he’d once caught, trapped in his room, beating against the windowpane. The memory of the bird’s chaotic beating heart, drumming against his palms played over his mind. The poor bird had died of fright; its tiny body contorted and then hung limp. Lorcan had felt sadness then, unable to do anything to save the little creature. He felt sadness now. He had to act with care else this young woman might end up like the bird.

  Josie’s mouth trembled, her colorless face wrecked and puffy with the beginnings of two brilliant bruises. She was in distress.

  “Shh, it’s okay now.” Lorcan spoke as soothingly as he could, inching closer, making sure to keep eye contact with her. “It’s all over now. You’re safe.” Did she even understand him? He was glad he had the good sense to hand his weapon to Ahmet, who now stood conscientiously off to one side, gazing out the open door.

  His words seemed to have no effect. She continued to cower in the corner, her gaze darting around. The bodies, the blood, him, Ahmet, back to him, studying his face, his mouth as he spoke, hands, clothes…

  Lorcan tentatively touched her arm. She flinched violently, emitting something like a squawk, and pressed harder into the corner. It looked like she was trying to get through the wall. Her chest heaved. She was hyperventilating. Then her eyes rolled back, and with a gasp, she slumped as she fainted.

  “Perfect,” Lorcan muttered. With gentle care, he scooped her up, shocked at how light she was, and carried her to the waiting airlift.

  * * *

  When he had gotten the frantic call from Quin Aguilar, Lorcan didn’t hesitate. Quin and Madge had saved his mother’s life a decade ago. He owed them a lifetime of debt. To hear Madge had been murdered pained Lorcan to the core. The Aguilars had spent months searching every known safe house looking for his mother, Terry. She’d been sleeping for fifteen years, brainwashed into hiding from the monstrous world around her by a so-called support group.

  Terry Wellesley had been a capricious but misguided actress from London. After Lorcan’s birth, she had gradually stopped working, and instead flitted from one support-group to the next. Finally, she’d attached herself to one that promoted the stasis pod philosophy. Lorcan, almost twenty, had been away at university when she disappeared.

  During the next fifteen years, Lorcan finished university, got married, started a family, and had attached himself to a number of prominent engineering firms until finally setting out on his own. Along the way, he harbored a festering hate for the Lancaster regime, which he believed had caused his mother to take such drastic measures.

  Lorcan’s hate spawned into an obsession. He volunteered into a special missions task force, a branch of the British Marines and linked directly to the Lancasters. He wanted to gain enough knowledge and expertise to be able to use it against the government. Along the way, he formed alliances with others who felt the same way he did. It hadn’t been hard to do; so many shared similar sentiments.

  Years later, he left the military and resumed life with his young family. He opened his engineering firm with the funds his mother had left him: her entire fortune, including a vast country estate in North Yorkshire. And finding his mother had never left his thoughts. When he finally reunited with his mother, and after six months of rehabilitation, Terry lived out the remainder of her life as a quiet recluse on the country estate. She was prone to severe fits of depression and dementia. One day, she soared off the roof to her death.

  Lorcan’s wife died soon after. Ovarian cancer, from which she chose to die with dignity rather than subject herself to the constant bombardments of cell regeneration procedures, treatments, and medications. Lorcan hadn’t agreed, but supported her decision and kept his objections to himself. Every day, as her life ebbed away, he had dutifully taken care of her. Washing her, feeding her, talking to her, holding her…until finally, she was gone, drifting away in her sleep.

  Lorcan looked down at Josie, slumped on the chaise lounge where he’d carefully laid her. His first thoughts were that she needed some clean clothes and a proper wash. Dried blood covered her, and she reeked. Without a second thought, he removed her clothes, shaking out the array of items they held with the efficiency of someone who knew what he was doing. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before and nothing he hadn’t done already. He’d done it before for love, and now he’d do it for necessity. Besides, no one else was there to do it.

  The smell of blood disturbed him, ever since… A quick image of his mother’s crumpled form on the ground, surrounded by an ocean of blood, flitted through his mind. He flinched the thought away. Taking a deep breath, Lorcan bagged Josie’s soiled clothes into a plastic bag. Tying it tightly, he threw it down the chute. The automated handyman would retrieve it at some point and fling it into the incinerator.

  He filled the tub with hot water and set the jets to slow pulse. Once it had fill
ed, he eased Josie inside, securing her lolling head against the side of the tub with flexible flaps. How many times had he done this for his wife? Thinking of his beloved Carmen calmed him. She’d always been such a strong and steady force.

  Seeing skin and bones didn’t affect Lorcan; he was used to it. Carmen’s cancer had ravaged her once lovely body to nothing but skeletal protrusions. The sight of Josie’s bony frame didn’t upset him, but it did make him wonder. Quin had briefed him on her history, if somewhat reluctantly, and a sudden shudder passed over Lorcan. Three hundred years was too long. It was impossible, simply impossible. The thought sickened him, and a pang of pity needled him.

  Poor girl. Using a wet rag, Lorcan moistened her face. It’s not your fault.

  He rubbed liquid soap along her body, feeling every jutting bone with a grimace. It’s my job to fatten you up now. He nodded with his usual practical sense. Right, let’s get on with it, then.

  “It’ll all be okay, my dear. Everything is all right now. You’re safe here. Just relax and go to sleep.” He spoke softly. She stirred a little, his ministrations no doubt nudging her to consciousness.

  Josie’s eyes fluttered, and her gaze rolled about the room, eyes widening and narrowing as she caught his face, as if trying to focus. He continued to wash her, smiling sometimes to give her reassurance. Through the steam and the astringent bite of eucalyptus oil, her eyelids fought to stay open. Slowly, her lids closed and she drifted off to sleep.

  Once he dried her, Lorcan put Josie in some loose cotton pajamas—leftovers from Carmen. He was glad he’d never thrown his wife’s things away. Lorcan then carried her into the guest room, laid her gently on the bed, and tucked her in. He stuck an overnight saline patch into the crook of her arm and an antibiotic patch on the other arm, then ordered the room temperature to a warm 24 degrees centigrade. He placed a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table, then retrieved all the trinkets he’d emptied from her pockets from the floor and placed them next to the jug.