Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

  He was so sure of his logic that he licked his lips in anticipation as he ran. He’d left his pistols back at Roman’s sanctuary, which created a problem. There was no time to run back. He’d have to pull a couple of old tricks out of his hat, instead.

  “Hey, you,” he said, stopping a mercenary who looked to be off duty. The man was tall and broad and shiny inside his leather jacket and pants. The way he blinked at Dietrich suggested he was simple-minded, like most mercenaries—just a walking gun without a brain. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars for that Desert Eagle on your belt.”

  “This?” The mercenary said, opening his jacket and looking down in amazement at the silvery gun. “That’s twice what I paid for it.”

  Dietrich gave him a flat look. The man was dumber than a rock.

  “I’m in a hurry. Give it to me now, and I’ll give you”—pulling out his pack of cigarettes—“five hundred dollars.”

  He spoke the last three words while staring at the mercenary’s forehead and imagining that good old dancing string every living soul possesses, for better or worse, bending to his will. Easy as pizza, his mother used to say. Like nothing in the world.

  It’s a thick, juicy wad of bills. Five hundred dollars. Just look at it.

  The man stared at the pack of cigarettes in utter amazement, eyes as wide as golf balls.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Five hundred big ones. Ho, baby. I’ll take it.”

  He yanked the pistol out of his pants and held it butt-first toward Dietrich, who exchanged it for the pack of cigs and sprinted down the street, grinning like a child.

  Nero Street was lit by a parallel string of streetlamps, the only place in the city that had this luxury. It was because of all the tourists that came here. And just as he’d expected, it was full of people, like a well-lit airstrip on which everyone had decided to throw a party.

  This wasn’t good news for Dietrich. The enemy could blend in easily with the right costumes. It was common practice for rich men to bring male slaves with them everywhere as bodyguards—or as treats to be savored in the privacy of one of Roman’s hotels, away from the family. If the enemy were dressed like slaves, he’d have a hell of a time picking them out of the crowd.

  Rushing now, Dietrich glanced into each alleyway he passed until he found what he was looking for. A bearded man slumped against a brick wall, wearing a long, brown coat and holding an empty bottle of grain alcohol. Dietrich bent over and slapped the man’s face until he opened his clouded eyes.

  “Give me your coat and bottle.”

  The man blinked at him. “Kiss my ass, buddy.”

  Dietrich pointed the Desert Eagle at the man’s face. “Now.”

  Gasping and coughing, the bum lifted himself by pushing against the wall. Dietrich helped him up, then stripped him of his coat and bottle and gave him a hard kick in the ass to send him stumbling out into the street. Once the man had turned the corner, he dressed himself in the rancid-smelling coat, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and found a place to sit against the wall.

  Chapter 4

  “Did you hear that?”

  It was Michael who’d spoken out loud. They were on the roof of The Emperor’s Palace, directly above the three women they had come here to rescue. Peter and Eli had dressed themselves in a new set of slick costumes and looked ready to dance, drink, and gamble the night away. They had even put oil in their hair to make it shine.

  Peter began to send. I thought we were—

  But Michael clamped down on his arm to stop him. He looked the others in the eyes, touched his forehead, and shook his head, no.

  “What is it?” Dominic said.

  They gathered around Michael to listen.

  “We have another telepath in our midst. A Type II, I think. I felt him searching for us.”

  “He probably knows we’re trying not to be seen,” Peter said. “What if he’s one of Roman’s?”

  “Then he would have sounded the alarm,” Dominic said. “If telepathy’s out of the question, then we go in the old-fashioned way, with guns blazing if we have to. I’m not turning back.”

  Reggie nodded, took off his coat, and began to undo straps holding a miniature scoped rifle against his back. It was homemade, one of Reggie’s own inventions.

  “Good thing we have streetlamps,” he said. “I’ll cover you if you have to go out the front.”

  Dominic gave Reggie a serious look. “Don’t focus too much on the street. Someone might come up behind you. Check the rooftops every few minutes.”

  “Only if you say please,” Reggie said, flashing Dominic a smile before crouch-walking to the edge of the roof overlooking the busy street.

  Eli kept fidgeting.

  “If you have to pee, do it now,” Dominic said with a frown.

  Eli turned into the shadows and relieved himself. When he was finished, Dominic gave them each the cold, hard look they recognized from training.

  “I’m not coming back for anyone who gets left behind. You have to keep up.”

  The boys nodded, each wearing a glum expression. The night was warm and full of the sounds of men and women, mostly men, enjoying themselves below.

  “I don’t have a hold on the telepath,” Michael said, “but I can feel him. He’s trying to resist our block. He’s strong.”

  “An agent,” Dominic said, checking the ammo clip in his pistol. “I’ll take care of him. The rest of you stick to the plan. If you come up against a rough patch, just shoot your way out, notify the rest of us, and meet at the rendezvous point. Peter, Eli, you ready to go undercover?”

  The boys nodded and the group split apart. They went off toward their starting positions, already closing their eyes in preparation.

  Chapter 5

  Peter and Eli strolled through the front doors of The Emperor’s Palace.

  Their hair had been styled into sharp, messy spikes. Eli had several earrings clipped along one ear. They wore denim jackets with colorful patches sewn onto them, designs of flaming skulls, blood-soaked daggers, anarchic symbols, and studded leather belts. Their boots were thick, black, and steel-toed, and their jeans were torn at the knees. Eli’s right sleeve had been ripped off, exposing a chubby arm covered in tattoos. Peter wore spiked bracelets on both wrists and was smoking a cigarette. He looked ready to kill something.

  “Can we serve you?” said a man dressed in a white-and-gold tunic and a Centurion helmet with an oversized red plume. He wore a white cape draped over one shoulder that he stroked as if it were a cat.

  A gladius hung from his belt. Peter had never seen such a deadly-looking sword. The man was a Legionnaire, one of the settlement’s elite guards, and his stony grimace marked him as a man not to be messed with.

  “We want girls,” Eli said, swaying slightly, his eyes fishy and blank. “Whores, you know.” He counted with his fingers. “One whore, two whore, three whore, four.”

  “He’s sunk,” Peter said, grimacing at Eli and then smiling at the guard. “We had a few too many down at the club. But my friend ain’t lying. You got any whores available?”

  The Legionnaire frowned at them with eyes set deep in a face like a clay brick.

  “You boys new here?”

  Peter scowled at him. “We ain’t new to whores, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  The Legionnaire grabbed Peter by the collar and pulled him close. Peter could smell the man’s rotting teeth as he spoke in a bearish growl.

  “I asked you a question, spiteful pissant.”

  “Okay, okay.” Peter waved his hands in deference. “Whatever you say, my man.”

  Eli burped. “You’re in trouble,” he sang, falling back a few steps.

  The Legionnaire looked at Eli and then at Peter, his expression one of distrust mixed with boredom.

  “You boys cut out,” he said, pointing at the door with his chin. “You ain’t got the money to be in here.”

  Peter gave his most charismatic grin. “It’s my birthday, and I’m eighteen years old.
Where I’m from, we don’t got a whole lot of girls, you know what I mean? So this is a special occasion.”

  “We got cows, though,” Eli said with a blank-eyed grin.

  The Legionnaire’s lips pulled back in disgust.

  “Like I was saying,” Peter said, “you check my left pocket down by my belt, and you’ll find my birthday present. Courtesy of my dear old dad. Where I’m from, eighteen years old means I’m a man ready for his first woman. My brother here”—he indicated Eli—“had his first two years ago. Tonight his whore is on me. I’m doing this so he’ll stop screwing my dad’s cows, you know what I mean? It brings shame to my family.”

  “I got a real sweet one back at the farm,” Eli said, and burped low in his chest. “Hoo boy.”

  Another Legionnaire came up behind the first. They studied Peter and Eli for a moment before the first one reached into Peter’s pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

  “Caesar’s ghost,” he said, smiling. Several of his teeth were capped in metal. “Why didn’t you say it was your birthday?”

  He counted the bills, peeled off a few, and stuffed them into his armor. Peter frowned at him.

  “With this,” the man said, holding up the wad, “I’d say you got enough for one whore.” He gave a black-toothed grin. “Guess you boys will have to share.”

  “But we brought enough for two,” Peter whined.

  Eli clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You take her, bro. I’ll just watch.”

  The two Legionnaires looked at each other.

  “But I get to pick her,” Eli said, to which Peter nodded glumly.

  The inside of The Emperor’s Palace was not at all palatial. Its name was undermined by the chipped paint on the doorframes and low ceilings; the stained flooring was obviously a cheap laminate substitute and not tile at all. The stairs creaked with the weight of loitering patrons.

  The boys felt claustrophobic as they tried to navigate the hallways, as the building was packed full of men and prostitutes smoking cigarettes, flirting, and drinking beer and a clear, foul-smelling liquor. From somewhere close by, a pianist banged out an out-of-tune but upbeat song. Legionnaires stood watch over the crowd, occasionally restraining men who had become too drunk and rowdy and pushing them toward the front doors.

  Peter and Eli allowed the guards to check them for weapons before following them into a well-lit back room. Here, a number of women in skimpy clothing lounged on armchairs and couches, reading magazines and playing board games. The guard shut the door behind them and cleared his throat. A few of the women looked up before going back to whatever they were doing.

  “Up!” the guard shouted.

  The women rolled their eyes and pushed themselves off the seats. Peter examined their faces. They weren’t made up in Roman fashion like the whores he’d seen back in the foyer and hanging out on the stairs. These women wore cheap jewelry and tight leather outfits that showed rolls of loose skin around their midsections. These were the stragglers of the bunch, the ones that hadn’t been chosen.

  But not Rocio Martinez. Peter’s eyes lit upon her face as if it were a match someone had struck in a dark room. She was here for a reason—punishment, maybe. Unlike the other women, Rocio wore a long white tunic that went down to her sandaled feet. It left her arms exposed up to the shoulders. Two criss-crossing golden bands at the waist accentuated her curves and made visible her ample hips. She was a small woman, standing by the window and blowing smoke from a cigarette out into the night air. Peter could smell the sweet, cinnamon scent of burning cloves.

  She stood her ground as the other women stumbled forward, yawning and clucking their tongues. Peter and Eli ogled their bodies like the horny teenage farm boys the guards expected them to be.

  You see her? Peter sent.

  Yeah, by the window. I recognize her.

  “Stand up straight,” the guard said, resting his sizeable fists on his hips. The women ignored him and kept their eyes pointed down at the floor.

  Rocio caught his eye. She recognized him. He could feel it.

  You see that? Peter sent.

  Sure did, Eli responded. Wonder what she thinks we’re here for.

  You know what she thinks we’re here for.

  The women stood in a line. The guard approached them, fists still on his hips.

  “Well?” he said, looking at Peter and Eli. He continued in a bored voice. “The Emperor’s Palace is happy to offer you one of these fine young maidens, each one eager to serve your every desire.” He cleared his throat and added, “You boys got one hour in the next room. I hear anything out of the ordinary, I come in there and rip your balls off, you got it?”

  The boys nodded and inspected the line of women. Peter tried not to focus too much on Rocio. He couldn’t let it be obvious that they knew each other.

  Rocio made it easier for the boys. She strutted across the room and stood a foot in front of the other women, still holding her cigarette. A golden headband contained her silky brown hair, which had been shaped into a large bun on top of her head. Exquisitely curled strands dangled over her forehead, partly hiding her eyes, which were wide and brown, rimmed with dark make-up, above an elegant nose and lips that seemed to expand as she blew out smoke.

  Damn, Peter sent.

  I know, Eli sent back.

  “We’ll take her.” Peter thrust his chin toward Rocio like he was only partially interested.

  She smiled at them and winked, and then she took Peter by the hand and led him toward a wooden door in the back of the room.

  “One hour,” the guard said.

  “We got it,” Peter said.

  Chapter 6

  “Five years,” Rocio said through clenched teeth as soon as the door had shut.

  Peter looked around the room. No windows.

  Shit, he sent out.

  Eli sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders sagging. “God damn it. This is the worst possible room we could be in. It doesn’t even have a window.”

  Rocio crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them.

  “Did Blake send you? Is that what this is? A rescue mission?”

  Peter breathed in and out, trying to control his panic. “Lower your voice. You don’t realize how much danger we’re in.”

  Her face softened, though she kept her arms crossed.

  “Little Petey Rivers. I remember when you were just a boy. You grabbed my breasts one time on a dare.”

  Peter frowned. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

  “You were such a little pervert. And you’re Eli, right? I remember you pissed yourself once during a town meeting. You ran out of the room like your pants were on fire, afraid your friends would find out.”

  “I was ten years old,” Eli said, rising from the bed. “Are we really doing this right now?”

  “Enough,” Peter said in a harsh whisper. “We need to come up with a way to get out of here. We’ve got one hour.”

  Rocio walked over to the bed and sat down. Peter watched her, amazed at how little she had changed.

  “When you finally stop staring at me,” Rocio told him, “I’ll tell you what I think we should do.”

  Peter lowered his gaze and cleared his throat. He and Eli listened.

  “You boys are Type II telepaths, right?”

  They nodded.

  “Good, ’cause I have an idea. You”—she pointed at Eli—“are going to have to punch him”—pointing at Peter—“in the face.”

  Eli looked at Peter and shrugged.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Chapter 7

  Michael ducked beneath the window ledge, aware of two different realities at once.

  In one reality, he was on a metal fire escape platform three floors above the ground, dressed in all black and pressed against a brick wall, a window half open above his head. In the other reality, which was in his mind, he was an invisible, floating entity that could see through the walls to pinpoint any and all surrounding individuals. He saw them as pale phan
toms in a murky blackness, standing all around him, attached to nothing.

  He had his ears as well.

  “You’re mine tonight, apple pie,” the man said, slobbering over each word.

  There were two people inside the room, with two Legionnaires standing guard outside the door. The room was a sprawling suite with an enormous, canopied bed extending into the center. He saw that much through the window when he dared to peek through. Pale pink sheets everywhere, white pillars set up around it to make the place feel like Ancient Rome, a golden plate and utensils still stained with food by the window. Michael would have to step over this table somehow if he was to crawl inside—

  No. He had a better idea.

  “Oh, my liege,” the woman said, sounding bored. “I am yours to command.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, apple pie. Oh Lord. You’re quite the apple seed.”

  Michael cringed. What was this shit about apples?

  He poked his head up and stole a glimpse into the room. Fran Baker, wearing a golden headband and dressed in flowing white silks, lay on the bed, auburn hair spilling over her chest and shoulders in soft ripples.

  The man hovered over her, propped on his left elbow. Tufts of white hair stuck out from the sides of his balding head. His bony arms and legs—he was completely naked except for a pair of white undershorts—resembled raw chicken wings, and his face was not much better. A large, hooked nose hung beneath a set of miserly eyes. When he spoke, his lips gleamed with the moisture of lust.

  “I’m going to strip you and worship you, goddess. Oh, my goddess, apple of my eye.”

  He parted the waves of hair covering her chest and his knobby hand went straight for the buttons or string—Michael couldn’t tell exactly what it was—that held her outfit together in the front.