The Lancaster Rule - The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. I

by T. K. Toppin

  Smiling, Josie handed him a glass. He muttered his thanks, and tore his gaze away from her, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. The setting sun cast an enchanting glow on her narrow face, warming it in orange and gold. Bits of green and yellow flashed from her eyes, her plump lips shone with wine and—oh bugger, she was talking. What was she saying? He tried to focus.

  “…today, and I swear I could smell the food from the television.” Josie stared deadpan at him, a hint of humor glittered in her eyes.

  “You’re always thinking of food. Bleeding hell, you can even smell it on TV now?” Lorcan snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “You do know that’s not possible. That’s just some fancy they came up with centuries ago to make television sound more appealing.”

  She pouted and tilted her head. “Hmm. That’s what you think. How do you know for sure?”

  He laughed heartily. She was a funny girl. Lorcan grabbed her arms and swiveled her to face him, the laugh still tickled his face. Smirking back, the corners of her lips curled up into a tight, dimple-like crease.

  “Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he said.

  Her eyes widened, the smile slowly faded, to be replaced by a look of curiosity. “Really? What?” Josie’s gaze darted about him, trying to find this “something” he had, which she obviously guessed was somewhere on his person.

  Pushing up his shoulders, nerves rushed through Lorcan. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a fisted hand. Breathe; he ordered himself, unable to believe he was actually doing this. He’d engaged in several deadly salvos, organized rescue missions, gotten shot, bombed, and beaten numerous times, and went on dangerous recon tours, all without batting an eye. But this…it was like he was about to face the executioner.

  Taking Josie’s hand with the other, he turned her palm up and gently dropped the pendant into her open hand, keeping his hand covering hers. She looked down, a faint line drawn between her brows, but with eyes alight with curiosity. Glancing up at him, a brow shot up.

  “I hope you like it. It’s just that…well…” Words jammed his throat. Unbelievable! He wanted to kick himself. “Just have a look and tell me if you like it.”

  Lorcan removed his hand to reveal the shiny silver pendant. It was a flat oval with a small round ball at the top where it attached to a rope chain, the links so intricately thin and tiny it looked like a length of fine, silky thread.

  Josie sucked in a breath and her mouth made an O. She looked up at him with unashamed marvel, like a very young girl, so her comment of “wow” hardly surprised him. But it did melt his heart into a puddle at his feet.

  He beamed back. She likes it.

  “What’s it for? I mean, thank you. I like it very much.” Smiling, she stared at the pendant, turning it over gently with her other hand.

  “Well, for two reasons.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “The first being that I—we—really like having you here, and we want you to think of this as your home. And I hope you feel that it is as well. Even though you are eating us out of it.” He grinned and winked. “And the second, well, here, I’ll show you.”

  He took the pendant and pressed the round ball at the top. It depressed with a small click, and popped up to reveal a flat stem no wider than a child’s fingernail. He turned it a hundred eighty degrees, and pulled it out about a quarter of an inch. The oval pendant snapped open like a book. Inside, attached to the ball and stem, was a silvery, glass-like rod about an inch long. He took it out, still hanging on the chain, and dangled it before Josie’s confused face.

  “It’s a memory crystal,” Lorcan explained. “I had all your past data encrypted and stored onto this stick, and then designed the pendant to keep it in. It’s an all-in-one thing, voice activated. To activate, just press the bottom bit right here…” He indicated with his thick index finger a small knob at the base of the crystal. “And you can start commanding it, or just insert into any personal unit, imager or television, and it can be accessed that way.”

  Lorcan watched at Josie, waiting for her reaction. She stared at the memory crystal in silent awe; her lower lip gave a small tremor. Lifting her eyes to his, green orbs leveled with his. They stood basically the same height, he just a few inches taller. A fat tear spilled from her eyes. She started to say something, but only a small squeak came out. Instead Josie reached up and flung her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight. In the gasp of a sob she muttered “thank you,” and buried her face at his neck, shaking with silent tears. He returned the embrace, shushing her soothingly. Gently, he pulled away and without thinking twice, covered his mouth over hers in a slow kiss that grew steadier and surer when she kissed him back. His heart dissolved immediately.

  Damn. His mind buzzed with a haze of fuzz and soft, buttery chaos. A sharp and painful throb zinged him between his legs. I’m drowning.

  Pulling away, with reluctance, he rested his forehead to hers. Embarrassment and shyness had them both shifting awkwardly.

  Josie stepped back stiffly. Surprise lit her face, mixed with a warm glow of passion. Heat rushed to his face, which he was certain glowed red. He was glad for the shadows of evening.

  Lorcan offered a weak smile. “Uhh…”

  The spell broken, Josie covered her mouth with a hand, but a nervous smile peeked out. She stared at something interesting on the floor.

  “A present and a kiss.” A quick titter left her mouth, a hand still at her lips. “Wow.”

  “Well, I do try to impress the girls.” Lorcan stuffed his hands under his arms. He thought it best to keep them out of trouble. The desire to grab Josie again and take her in another kiss was overwhelming. He wanted her. Badly. He swallowed hard. “I hope that, well, I mean—I didn’t mean…” Clearing his throat, he watched her closely between quick, nervous glances at the flowerpot, the chair, the setting sun. “You didn’t mind, did you?”

  Josie shook her head. She seemed unable to look him straight in the eye and had difficulty suppressing a smile, judging by the way she pinched her lips with her fingers. “No. It was…very nice.” Her face shone like a sunburn.

  Unable to help himself, he tentatively snaked out a finger and traced a line down her arm, and had the pleasure of seeing her inhale sharply. “I have to be honest, Josie. Since Carmen, I mean, since she died…” The internal conflict of words and emotion caught in his throat. He knew it contorted his face and made him appear stern. Words fought to get out, but his mouth pressed closed against the swelling tide. That annoyed him. What was wrong with him? He darted his gaze about and tried to organize the flurry of thoughts rushing through his head. Lorcan didn’t know what else to say. In the end, he resorted to a smile, a grimace really, his finger still trailing down her arm.

  “I know,” Josie replied, her voice a whisper. She jerked up a shoulder and thrust her hands in her pockets. Looking him in the eye, she sucked in a breath. “It’s okay, really. There’s no hurry, is there?”

  Relief flooded him as he studied her face. With a nod, he cupped a hand behind her neck and pulled her into an embrace. They stood so for some time, her head resting on his shoulder, hands still wedged in her pockets. Lorcan pressed his lips against the crook of her neck and leaned in, as if she stood as an anchor for him.

  Chapter 11

  I huffed with frustration.

  Lorcan, while still as attentive and affectionate as always, spent every free moment with me in either conversation or company. We laughed and smiled as we always did, sometimes holding hands without thinking, or leaning against each other if we were close by. But a certain hesitancy existed between us—from him, mostly. I sensed it, and many times caught him with his eyes lingering on me a little longer than necessary. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Except that was as far as it went. I’d study him minutely, trying to anticipate his next move or thought. And when either of us discovered the other looking, we’d avert our eyes with a guilty smile and changed the subject to something more neutral. It’s like we were teenagers. It was stupi
d.

  Frustrating. We were grown adults. Surely we could talk about it, right?

  I thought about the kiss until it gave me a headache. I hadn’t misread it, nor was I mistaken about the mutual feeling. But he hadn’t kissed me again, or mentioned it at all. Two weeks had gone by, and I was beginning to think I’d imagined it all. There’s taking things slow, but dead slow was another matter. By habit, I touched the pendant around my neck. And sighed.

  Something held Lorcan back, and I wished he’d hurry up and work past it. Three hundred years was a long time without sex. Well, not really. It felt more like a moment ago for me, like waking up from a nice, long rest. But still…

  And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what the problem was. Everywhere I looked, there were pictures of Lorcan’s dead wife, Carmen. She was in every corner of the house, lurking and floating like a ghost that won’t give up the living. Shit, I even wore her fucking clothes! Though angry, guilt festered in me for thinking ill of the dead woman. She was probably a very nice person, based on what I’d been told. Even the chatterbox Mrs. Patel thought so, and she’d tear up with sadness when she spoke of Carmen—which was quite often. It’s usually Carmen-this, Carmen-that…

  Fuck Carmen!

  And something else bothered Lorcan as well. He wouldn’t say, but he was preoccupied with his work, spending longer hours poring over his computer. He held meetings with a slew of colleagues in the basement office he kept, and every second conversation was about “the Lancaster tyrant’s spawn.” I’d already heard an earful of lengthy tirades on the subject, from the unfair labor laws to the stingy pension plans to poverty and starvation in smaller Lancaster countries, severe punishments of supposed criminals who were never to be heard from again, and if so, suspiciously suffering from amnesia. He’d go on and on about the government and how things needed to change, and soon.

  The more I heard, the more I despised this Lancaster spawn, and the image of his face I sometimes saw flitting across the television had become something like a dart-board, with imaginary darts covering the dark, brooding face like warts. In fact, listening to what was being said about Lancaster and his method of rule, I began to empathize with everything Lorcan said. He’d already suffered at the hands of the previous Lancaster incarnations, which had caused his mother to basically lose her mind. And now, if I understood correctly, Lorcan’s company was directly contracted to complete several engineering projects for the government, and this gave him endless days of frustration. I imagined that loathing someone so much, yet having to work for them to make a living, couldn’t be easy. Talk about sucking in your pride.

  In the past months, it had become a sort of custom whereby, most nights, I’d take a steaming mug of coffee to his office downstairs. He’d usually be hunched over his desk, tapping away at his console—at the pressure table that’s now the keyboard—and glaring at the projected image across the room. The line between his eyes drawn deep, his grimace more pronounced. He always looked worried.

  If Lorcan wasn’t poring over designs and balance sheets and numbers, he was firmly ensconced with a handful of colleagues going over said designs, balance sheets, and numbers. So long as the door was open, I’d walk in and he’d gratefully take the mug with a smile. His audience usually hushed immediately or spoke in whispers to the person next to them. Some, I’d noticed, were even bold enough to glare accusatorily at me as the cause of the interruption. I never spoke to any of them, though sometimes I acknowledged them as I walked out as quietly as I’d come in. Some were regulars, some were ever changing, but all had the same dourness about them. I reasoned things must really be bad at work for them. Either that or, it seemed, engineers were seriously boring people.

  Even Max was scarce during the day, and I missed his company. He went from always being around to simply vanishing. When I asked for him, the reply was usually the same: “He’s doing Max-stuff.” Or, if by chance I came across Max before he disappeared for the day, he skirted around me and hustled away as if I had the plague.

  Hurt, alone, and idle, I’d taken to sulking. It made me feel better, if that makes any sense. I guess wallowing was good.

  Mrs. Patel was amazing, and great company to be with. But too much of her and she started to get on my nerves. There’s only so much I can take of how to make roast leg of lamb with rosemary sauce and buttered vegetables, or Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice and herbs. Cooking wasn’t my strong point, but I listened to the older woman with polite interest, waiting for the chance to change to other topics the moment Mrs. Patel paused to take a breath—if she paused for breath at all.

  Boredom assassinated me. I was now able to do more things on my own, and being physically stronger helped. Instead, I was left on my own with nothing to occupy my time. It seemed, all of a grand sudden, everyone was busy and had their own things to preoccupy themselves with.

  Everyone but me.

  Had they put their lives on hold to accommodate my recovery? And now that I was somewhat better, life had resumed for them? I don’t know, and the more it bothered me, the more I didn’t care. Okay, I did at first, but didn’t want to admit it. It hurt me. Deeply!

  Leaving the house to venture out into the world was something I longed to do. Everything I’d seen or heard had been filtered through the television or home computers. I wanted to learn how to use things—the car, the phone, even the stupid washing machine—but no one seemed willing to spare a moment to teach me. It was always, “In a moment,” or “Not right now, maybe later.” Being a guest, though I’d been assured it was my home too, I didn’t think I should abuse my stay by trying to work them on my own and then break things.

  My contact with other people was limited to three, sometimes four, if you counted the butcher, but then he always seemed to have eyes only for Max. But there it is. Lorcan, Max, and Mrs. Patel were my only human contacts. I didn’t consider Lorcan’s colleagues people of any interest. Not even Gianni, one of Lorcan’s assistants who took it upon herself to make friendly conversation with me.

  Gianni was a nice sort, friendly and animated, but knew nothing about me except I was a friend of the Wellesleys, recovering from an accident. I liked her in a casual sense, admiring her effervescence and daring fashion style, but was a little reluctant to pursue a friendship. It might mean having to explain a lot more about myself than I wanted to, and at the rate she yammered on, I was afraid she might let slip my secret one day. And then there was her manner. Like she was doing me a favor by being friendly because she worked for Lorcan.

  Then there was the building surveyor, Michael Ho. Despite his serious appearance and abrupt nature, he always thanked me with extreme politeness if I ever offered refreshments to anyone else. And before leaving, he made a point of returning whatever glass or mug used back into the kitchen. The kitchen was where I spent most of my time, trapped by Mrs. Patel. Ho would then engage in short but polite conversation with me on topics such as meteorological matters or the cost of living. Whatever the subject matter, I replied with feigned interest. He had an intense aura about him, which annoyed me, and made me very uncomfortable. He behaved like the strange uncle every family had, who looked at you too long, touched you too familiarly. Michael Ho didn’t really scare me; just made me wary each time he pinged my radar. I avoided speaking to him unless absolutely necessary.

  But at the end of the day, they were just miscellaneous people who didn’t know me. Know me. And so, they were on the list of people I didn’t to talk to more than I had to. One slip and I’d be in trouble. The paranoia Quin had instilled in me, and Lorcan kept kindled, had become more like an obsession. Apart from a naturally strong aversion to being kidnapped and assassinated on camera, I observed how the press-frenzy media madness worked with fascinated horror.

  Not an avid television viewer by choice before, now I was glued like a voyeur to watching useless footage of whatever aired. From the new super-breed of celebrity actors and entertainers to sports figures and celebutants, whereve
r they went, the press went too. Privacy was a word that no longer seemed to exist. The cameras were no longer flashes and microphones thrust into people’s faces, but something close to electronic probes that glided as if by magic, capturing up-close, super-zoomed, larger-than-life images of their subjects, followed by a slew of frenetic “guiders” asking hordes of questions and making threats and demands. They even tapped into public surveillance feeds to capture newsworthy images.

  Apparently most celebrities took to wearing personal bodyshields that repelled these camera probes to at least ten feet away, or hampered the transmitting signal. To physically destroy the probes was a criminal act. Others chose to walk with their personal security droids: thick-necked, sleek and metallic, faceless save two gleaming red dots for eyes. These robots barreled away threats and emitted static that scrambled signals.

  Whatever the case, it was a scene much like a feeding frenzy in the middle of a shark-infested ocean. One I wanted to steer clear of.

  * * *

  August fourth, 2333. My birthday was in two days. How old would I be now?

  Twenty-five? Or three hundred and twenty-seven.

  Or was I a year old?

  I flounced about the house, going from room to room, picking up random things, avoiding pictures of Carmen, and sitting in chairs or on the floor in various rooms. Sometimes I stared out the window, looking at the tree line, wondering what the world beyond was like. But mostly, I was bored. Always bored.

  Lorcan was downstairs, and had been with several people for the last three hours, staring at a projected image of some amphitheatre and quarrelling. I happened to see glimpses of the activities. The need to be around other people had become so great; I stole downstairs to hunker down at the top of the stairs, just to hear their voices. They only bored me further with talk of someone’s three sisters and technical drivel like “line of sight” and “delayed charges” and “three for three”—whatever that meant. Then they had quarreled about its opening night, about lighting and effects details, and so on. Resigned, I meandered back upstairs and considered the possibility of Mrs. Patel, and whether to risk passing the day with her. I decided not, and ended up wandering about the gardens.