Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  I was still staring around, trying to jar some kind of inspirational flash, any ideas that might get me out of this nightmare, when the man with the blond ponytail appeared over me.

  I stared up at him, breathing hard. My lungs were already catching and hitching on the smoke whenever the wind shifted.

  “Relax, Miss Taylor.” He spoke soothingly, as if I were a wild animal panicking on its chain. “I know this is frightening, and I am sorry for that. But you have been chosen to be a part of something glorious. Whatever pain you feel in the process will be nothing once you are on the other side.” He smiled at me, stroking my hair. “You will be welcomed back to the halls of our Ancestors with open arms… as a goddess and a warrior!”

  I stared up at him, unable to make sense of his words.

  His smile widened, still unnervingly genuine-looking. “I am sincerely beginning to think you really don’t know who you are, Holy One.”

  I frowned, staring back at the fire. I fought back and forth in my head, trying to think if there was anything I could say to him, any argument I could make to convince him to let me go. I kept coming up blank. When I looked up at him, my terror turned into rage.

  “You’re not SCARB,” I said. “You’re not anyone. You just beat her up and kidnapped her. You stole her from her owner. And me… you stole me.”

  I swallowed, thinking about Jon and Cass outside that club, finding my headset by the curb. I pictured them asking people what happened, and no one admitting they’d seen anything.

  “You took me from my friends.” Staring up at him, I thought about my mom, my aunt Carol, my uncles. My anger grew colder. “Now you’re just going to stand there, grinning at me like an asshole while you light me on fire?”

  “This is for a greater cause, Holy One,” he said. “I am happy to see that cause fulfilled… not for the suffering that is its unfortunate by-product.”

  “Who do you think I am, exactly?” I said.

  “You are one of our beloved intermediaries,” he said, smiling more warmly. “You are of the First Race, Miss Taylor. It was no easy thing, finding you. We began to fear we would not accomplish it at all––or that we would be too late to make the offering. We feared the window for the Bridge to come would pass us by.”

  “The Bridge?” I clenched my jaw, trying not to eye the fire I could feel coming closer to my skin. “What is that? What does that mean?”

  I couldn't help but think about how easily the lace shirt I wore would go up, and my hair, which was coated in a layer of hair spray. The low-rise pants would take longer to burn, but my skin would be on fire by then, so maybe it wouldn’t matter.

  Talking to him was distracting me from my imminent death, but it was also distracting me from thinking my way out of this. I tried to think around the edges anyway, looking for a way out, but I saw nothing.

  I tried not to think about Jon. Or my mother.

  Mom would lose it––I mean, really, really lose it. She’d been a mess since Dad died. If I died too, especially from something this insane, it would send her right over the edge. If they dragged her to New York to identify the burned up corpse of her daughter––

  “Where am I?” I said, cutting off the thought.

  I looked around the trees and lawn, and found I vaguely recognized the place. I could see arches between columns, some kind of medieval-looking structure, almost like––

  “Is this a church?” I said.

  The man smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You’re burning people outside a church?” I stared up at him. “Didn’t they stop doing that a few hundred years ago?”

  When he only smiled wider, I struggled with my wrists, but only managed to slide a few inches further down the log. I was dangerously low now. I wouldn’t even have the log to protect me, or buy me time when the fire reached the end of my spoke.

  Some part of me couldn’t just lie there though, hoping for a slower death.

  Thinking about that, I motioned towards the man on the third log with my head.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked Ponytail.

  He followed my motion with his eyes, smiling once he gazed upon the half-naked man covered in scars and tattoos. “Ezekial? There is nothing whatsoever wrong with him. He volunteered, Miss Taylor.”

  I struggled with my wrists and slid more, gasping.

  I tried to feel over the cuffs with my fingers. I had to assume they’d chained me with the same thing they’d used on the seer. Whatever material it was, it gave slightly under my fingers, but I couldn’t make a dent in it.

  “We are making tribute to the One True God,” the man explained. “The birther of the Bridge, and of the Sword. The Creator. The Speaker of Worlds. You really should feel honored, Miss Taylor. Your blood will shape the course of our races for generations to come. It will bring us to the next stage of our evolution as a species. The Bridge should be here, you see. The time for the end is swiftly approaching, and she should be here…”

  I fought to make sense of this, couldn’t.

  I was still looking around, trying to figure out where we were. Had they driven us somewhere outside the city? If so, why could I see so much light wherever I glimpsed pieces of the horizon? Looking back at that stone basin surrounded by fire, it hit me.

  “The Cloisters,” I said, disbelieving. “You’re burning me at an art museum?”

  My mind whirled around what I remembered about the place, trying to decide if anything about the location could help me. It housed the Met’s medieval art collection. It was in Fort Tyron Park, as close to the boondocks as existed in Manhattan.

  I hadn’t been here in years, not since my first trip to New York with Jaden, but I remembered the oddly out-of-place reconstructed medieval church, or pieces of a church, sitting on top of a hill in Washington Heights.

  It was unlikely anyone would stumble upon us up here, apart from museum security, and Ponytail’s guys must have done something to neutralize them. No one came to New York parks at night. Even homeless people didn’t hang out in parks anymore; they were too likely to get rounded up and put in state-run “work-reclamation” projects.

  Somehow, I had my doubts the SCARB cameras up here would be working. There still should be flyers, but maybe Ponytail and his friends had a way around those, too.

  Looking around, I realized we were half-surrounded by stone walls, the outer walls around the museum itself. Would anyone even see the smoke, given how dark it was here and the lights, virtual projections and holograms in the city itself?

  My eyes returned to the bonfire. Flames had already climbed halfway down the row of broken crates forming my spoke in the wheel.

  The reality of the increasing heat on my face brought my brain into sharper focus. I couldn't just lie here and wait for my skin to start to blacken.

  I did the only thing really left open to me: I screamed.

  Lunging against the chains holding my wrists to the wood, I screamed again, louder.

  The seer across from me started screaming too, amplifying the sound.

  “Miss Taylor!” the man said loudly, to be heard over my yells. “Do you want me to gag you and your new friend?”

  “HELP US! PLEASE GOD HELP US! THEY’RE KILLING US!”

  “No one can hear you, Miss Taylor,” he said.

  “FIRE!” the seer screamed. “FIRE! TERRORISM! FIRE!”

  “POLICE!” I screamed. “POLICE! HELP! 911! FIRE!”

  “It is too late for us to stop, in any case” the man added calmly. “You will only get your would-be rescuers killed.”

  “FIRE!” I screamed, glaring at him. “MURDER! FIRE! THEY’RE KILLING US!”

  The seer across from me yelled louder. “FIRE!” she screamed. “FIRE! MURDER! TERRORISTS! THIRD MYTH TERRORISTS!”

  Ponytail glanced at her, then aimed his gaze back at me. “The ritual is already underway. To stop it now would be blasphemy. A crime against God. We will not stop it, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”


  “TERRORISTS!” I screamed, louder, following the seer’s lead. “TERRORISTS! FIRE! FIRE! WE’LL PAY YOU TO HELP US! PLEASE!”

  “Miss Taylor.” Ponytail sighed. “This is pointless. And very childish.”

  “TERRORISTS!” the seer yelled. “FIRE! MURDER! TERROR––”

  I heard a dull thunk and turned, staring at the seer. The bald guy with the beard had hit her in the head with the butt of a rifle. I watched her head bleed, her eyes roll up in her head.

  “HELP!” I screamed again. “FIRE! FIRE! TERRORISTS! FIRE!”

  “God is the only one who can save you, Miss Taylor,” Ponytail said, clasping his hands at the base of his spine. “I suggest you direct your appeals to Him.”

  When I continued to scream as loud as I could, the man sighed, motioning towards the bearded Russian with the mean eyes. I winced when I saw him walking towards me with the same rifle, but Ponytail waved off whatever he saw in the other’s expression.

  “Not her,” he warned. “Do not abuse her. She is still an intermediary.”

  The Russian stopped at Ponytail’s words, pursing his mouth as if thinking. I watched his fingers as he reached behind his own neck, untying a dark bandanna he wore. Gripping it in one hand, he slung the rifle over his shoulder, walking right up to me.

  I struggled harder, sliding the rest of the way down the log in my attempts to get away from him, but I couldn’t move much, not even my head. Gripping my hair, he easily got the bandanna around my head, then held my nose to get me to open my mouth. When I did, gasping, he forced the cloth between my teeth. He knotted the ends so tightly on the side of my head, I couldn’t close my mouth.

  The sweat-drenched rag stank, making me gag, contorting my body in a painful dry-heave.

  He smirked at me, flicking my forehead sharply with his fingers.

  Then he rose smoothly back to his feet.

  I tried screaming against the bandanna, but I could barely hear it over the fire.

  “You simply do not understand what an honor this is,” Ponytail said as the Russian moved away, balancing his rifle back on his shoulder. “Clearly, you have compassion for the lesser races. That is why you objected to our hurting the ice-blood. That is why you ally with her now. Well, we are simply doing the same, only on a global scale, Alyson. We wish to save the world. At the very least, to play our small parts. If you understood the meaning behind our sacrifice, you would want to help us…”

  Through the gag, I let him know in no uncertain terms he was definitely wrong about that.

  He smiled, but I saw the patient look in his eyes.

  “Most people’s lives are inconsequential, Miss Taylor. You will never have to suffer through that lack of meaning. Your life has purpose. A glorious purpose. You will appreciate that more fully, I am sure of it, once you are on the other side.”

  Again, I tried to let him know through the gag exactly how I felt about that.

  He smiled, his small blue eyes reflecting firelight.

  “Yours is the blood that will aid us the most,” he said. “Unfortunately, we have been unable to identify you precisely. We have your soul narrowed down to a number of second-tier deities.” Leaning over me, he rested his hands on the log. “More of your kind has incarnated down here than we expected, frankly. Based on interpretations of the Codex of the Three, we expected there to be five first-tier souls prior to the arrival of the Bridge. But the texts were wrong. Our Patrón told us of nine intermediaries with identifiable physiological traits. We can only hope this means the rapture of the Displacement will soon be upon us.”

  His smile grew affectionate. Reaching down, he stroked my hair.

  I winced away from his hand, but I couldn’t get away.

  “We chose you, Alyson,” he said, softer.

  I glared up at him, telling him through the gag where he could stuff his great honor.

  He smiled faintly, as if he understood my words.

  “Granted, some of that was logistical,” he conceded. “We could not find all nine, even using medical records. We must assume some live in remote areas, either in Asia or somewhere else, completely off the grid and unknown to the Registry. You were one of the few we could positively identify. You were also clearly not one of the Four. Your absence seemed least likely to cause problems to the upcoming glorious Displacement, and our Patrón agreed. You were isolated from others of your kind. Young. Relatively unattached. Doing nothing of real significance with your life––”

  I let out a disbelieving sound, trying to give him a piece of my mind about that, too.

  His smile grew a touch colder.

  “Quite frankly, you were convenient,” he said, stroking my hair again, ignoring my flinch and jerk away from his fingers. “We identified only one other intermediary in North America, and that individual proved extremely difficult to track. A few others we found were trained infiltrators, and therefore significantly more risky to approach. You were in a stationary location, tied into the official network, and routinely wearing a government headset. You appeared to be entirely untrained as a seer. You let the Registry implant you…”

  Again, I could only stare up at him, fighting to think. I glanced at the fire, unable to stop tracking its progress with my eyes. It was only about two yards away now. I was sweating from the heat. I writhed against the chains, unable to help myself.

  “I’m not a seer!” I said through the gag. “For the thousandth, millionth, billionth time… I’m not a seer!”

  The man smiled at me benignly.

  I flipped over my arm, so my “H” tattoo was on display. I jerked my chin towards it.

  “Not a seer!” I yelled through the gag. “Not a fucking seer!”

  Glancing down at my arm, the man smiled wider. “You are not a Sarhacienne, it is true,” he conceded. “You are not of the Second Race, Miss Taylor. You are of the First Race. That is why you are able to wear that tattoo.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  Looking over my expression, he shook his head, sighing deeply.

  “It is such a pity and a disservice to you, that you were never educated on the beauty of the scripture of your own people.” His voice and expression exuded disapproval. “This would mean so much more to you, if you were not so dismally ignorant. Take my word for it, Miss Taylor. For a mere human like myself to meet the incarnation of a First Race being, in person…”

  He sighed again, shaking his head. “It is an unqualified honor. You have no idea the blessing your presence brings to this occasion.”

  Bowing his head with that overly dramatic formality, he smiled wider.

  “As I said, we were unable to identify with exactness which being your soul represents, but Javier over there…”

  He pointed at one of the followers wearing all black.

  The man, a young-faced Latino who was one of the three who had been tending the fire, smiled at me shyly. He bowed to me with his hands in prayer position, blushing like a fan meeting a feed star.

  I could only stare at him, unable to believe he could look at me like that, when he was about to barbecue me.

  “He’s our resident expert on the commentaries,” Ponytail explained. “…and our liaison with the Patrón, who first told us of you. After researching the relevant texts, Javier is now reasonably certain you are either ‘Trickster’ or ‘Serpent.’”

  The man bowed to me again, still smiling like a boy with a crush.

  “I believe ‘S-Serpent,’ Miss,” he stammered, his words carrying just the faintest trace of a South American accent. “A most n-noble deity, Miss.”

  Ponytail beamed at him, them turned to me.

  “Before the Patrón, we searched for a very, very long time to find one of your kind,” he said. “Years, in fact. But then the Patrón came to us, offering his help. He gave us Javier, and new texts to scour for clues. More importantly, he gave us the biological markers with which to look for one of your kind. Our sympathetic Patrón most generously supplied us also with access to the I
nternational Registry databases, and aided us with identification of the markers for the Four. Once we received those things, it was inevitable we would find a match. For our Ancestors are always among us, even when they choose to travel in disguise…”

  All I could do was stare up at him.

  Truthfully, I had no idea what he was talking about. On the plane, Jon mentioned something about a third race, but he made it sound like a myth. He also mentioned a being called The Bridge, but again, he hadn’t explained what it was.

  I looked over at the female seer.

  She was conscious, despite the blow from the rifle. That probably wasn’t great news for her, but I felt a surge of relief when I saw her eyes open, and more or less clear as she stared around her, likely looking for a way out, just like me.

  She definitely felt like my only ally in this coven of freaks.

  She’d fallen down her log more, so must have been struggling to free herself. The fire was closer to her than me, so her spoke was burning faster, too.

  There was no way I could help her.

  I watched her stare at the approaching flames, her dark purple eyes wide with terror. They’d gagged her, too. For the first time, I also noticed she wore a collar, different from the more decorative one I’d seen on her that morning. It was heavier, of a darker, more vibrant green that shimmered in reflected firelight.

  Without the collar, there’s no way she’d still be cuffed to that log. She would have taken over their minds by now––used her seer powers to make them unchain her. Then, if she was anything like me, she would have told them to shoot themselves, or maybe one another.

  Even just the thought of it made me wistful.

  Feeling my stare, she looked over.

  Her eyes turned pleading as she studied my face, as if she believed her only shred of hope lay in me, just like I did with her. The fact that we each saw the other that way, when neither of us could do jack shit to help the other, only made me feel worse.

  The fire was only about a yard from her log now.

  Heat flushed my skin from my own fire. It bordered on painful now, so I know it must be unbearably hot for the seer. The terror in her eyes made my stomach hurt.