Millennial Prince (Jaxon Prayer Trilogy Book 2)

by Rachel West

  Ezzor shrugs placidly. “Our goals are the same,” he says. “And I’m willing to pay the price, whatever it may be. Whether that means following a Millennial down or taking things in my own hands. The Great Uniter will fall.”

  A commotion draws my attention from our conversation. A shifting mass of men is shouting near the edge of the roof. Something --- a body is tossed over the edge before jerking to a halt. Garbrand Westwick. The Millennial of the manor. Ropes are tied under his arms and around his neck, with his body hanging midway between roof and courtyard. The tinkle of shattering glass echoes across the marble steps as a small pocket watch falls to the ground.

  Laughter bursts over the courtyard as one of the men jiggles the rope, causing the body to jerk to and fro like a playwrights puppets.

  “What are they doing?” I turn to Ezzor. “Cut him down.”

  “These men have just watched hundreds of their comrades die. Let them have their fun.”

  “We are not monsters. We are fighting a war. We will not make a mockery of their deaths.”

  “The men--"

  “Cut. Him. Down.” I repeat with no room for argument.

  Ezzor nods and slowly bring fist to chest. “As you command.”

  I refuse to take my eyes from the body despite the sickened feeling in my gut. I will give Garbrand Westwick this one, final respect. There is a flurry of movement as Ezzor reaches the roof. Groans of protests as he leans over the ledge and brings synthblade against rope. A faint buzz and the body falls. It hits the ground with a heavy, hollow thud echoed by a sharper pop as Garbrand’s head cracks against the marble.

  “Thank you,” I whisper but my words are stolen by the wind.

  CHAPTER 21

  Nolan Welsby. Nineteen years old. Leaves behind his wife, Elizabeth Weslby (née Johanson) and one daughter Nina Welsby.

  I finish filling out the small piece of parchment and add it to the growing pile to my left. Along with it I count out eight blue chips to send to his family. Twelve hundred went into battle at Westwick Manor. Three hundred dead. Twice again as many wounded.

  A rattle shakes the ceiling and a thin layer of dust floats down from the ceiling. I blow the dust off a blank sheet of paper that will soon carry another listing of the dead. Ever since the attack on Westwick Manor and the felling of the Presidio frequent shellings have become the norm. The Hollows, deep underground, have proven a safe haven once again from the Great Uniter and his Praetors.

  A dozen men risked their lives clearing Westwick Manor. Removing the bodies of rebel and Praetor alike to the Crematorium before sickness and disease could override the Manor. Even still, with the risk of shelling too great we haven’t been able to take up residence in the Manor as planned. The common people displacing the Millennial. It’s what everyone pictured, what they all imagined. I snort to myself, even in death Garbrand Westwick has managed to spite us.

  I begin writing the next name but I am quickly interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” I shout loud enough to be heard across the room and through the thick door. “Hey Kalia,” I say as she comes walking into the room in a subdued step. “You didn’t need to knock. You should know that.”

  Kalia shrugs. “You’ve been locked up in here for three days, no one wanted to bother you.”

  I look around the War Room, remembering the usually frantic pace that has somehow quieted since Jaxon departed to Crescent City. The cavernous room has remained empty. Empty except for me and my lists of the dead.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to--" I cut myself off. Because being alone was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed. The image of the blonde boy with the synthblade sticking from his throat flashes through my mind once again. I wonder if I’ve written his name on a little envelope filled with blue chips. I wonder if he left behind a wife or a child or a sister.

  “It’s fine,” Kalia leans forward onto the table, fingertips extended and taking her weight. “Ezzor is looking for you.”

  “I don’t think I’m that hard to find,” I gesture out to the empty room. “Why’d he send you?”

  “Dunno. I think you make him uncomfortable,” she grins conspiratorially. “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t do anything to him.”

  “Hmm,” Kalia snorts like she doesn’t believe me. “Well, he’s waiting at the greenhouse entrance. He claimed he had something to show you.”

  “At this time of night?” I sigh and push the pile of papers away from me, resigned to following along in whatever idea Ezzor has now. “Lead the way,” I motion to the door.

  As we pass by my rooms Annie peaks her head out the door. “Hey,” she says. “Where are you going?” Shrugging, I gesture to Kalia. “Wait for me,” my sister says. The thin aluminum door to our room falls shut but is quickly pushed open again as Annie comes out, pulling a thin purple jacket over her shoulders.

  Since the battle there’s been a thawing between us. Not quite forgiveness, not quite acceptance. But an opening in her walls. A delicate thread once again connecting us like maybe she’s not quite willing to forsake all the bonds of family. I’m surprised at her desire to join Kalia and I, but I’m unwilling to question it.

  “Nice jacket,” I tell her. “Where did you get it?” I think of all the new clothes I have seen her in. Perhaps the boy I found her with? A paramour trying to woo her with gifts? I feel a sharp twinge of guilt, realizing that I should have found new clothes for her instead of leaving her in the too-large hand-me-downs I’d brought to the Hollows for her. But there’s just been so much to do. I shake my head. I don’t have time to worry over what I haven’t done. I just need to do better by her.

  My sister falls into step with Kalia and me as we pass through the markets and down the well-lit tunnels towards the greenhouse entrance. The Hollows have been overrun and we pass group after group camped out along the pathways with blankets and small piles of clothing and food.

  “How many do you think there are?” I nod towards a small couple sleeping on the floor as we pass.

  “Not sure,” Kalia replies. “Vertigo is out of rooms but he keeps letting them in. With the shellings a lot of people are afraid. At least it’s safe here, even if it’s getting a bit tight.”

  “Are you planning another attack?” Annie derails the conversation. “Where will it be? Are we going to move into the manor?”

  “Annie,” I snap, then restrain my instinct to argue. “Now’s not a good time” I say more softly.

  I shush her as we approach the greenhouse entrance. Ezzor peels off of the shadows to come and meet us. “Ezzor. What do you want? I’m exhausted and there are a hundred things that need finishing. I don’t have time to go capering about the city with you.”

  “Come with me,” Ezzor replies.

  I roll my eyes, noticing how he purposefully avoids my questions. I tap my finger against the synthblade strapped to my leg, comforting myself with its presence. “Fine,” I say shortly. “Annie, stay here.”

  “What? No, I want to go with you. I’m going insane in here.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “She’ll be safe,” Ezzor cuts into my argument. I shoot a glare in his direction but he’s too focused on my sister to notice.

  “See,” Annie points. “He says it will be safe so I’m coming.”

  “Fine,” I wave off her arguments. Whatever game Ezzor is playing I just want to get it over with. We leave the Hollows through the greenhouse entrance. Kalia carefully shuts the gate behind us with a whispered promise to wait on our return.

  The streets are quiet above ground. Buildings, usually lit up with a hundred different colors of lights, have all gone dark. Windows boarded over and sheets hung in doorways as if somehow darkness would keep the people within safe from mortar.

  We head towards the gaping wound in the skyline where the Presidio used to stand. Crossing street after street in the shadow of darkened buildings. I keep a careful eye on the sky, looking for the twinkling lights that indicate a Pr
aetor sweep overhead.

  As we pass an open square I spot a lone body lying in the street. From a distance it looks like nothing more than another homeless man resting through the early hours before dawn. But as we draw closer I see the lack of movement in his chest. I smell the faint, familiar scent of death and old blood.

  I cover one of Annie’s eyes with one hand. She grumbles and snaps her fingers around my wrist, pulling slightly. “Don’t Annie,” I mumble quietly. “We’ll be past in a moment.”

  I lead her past the body. Her steps are awkward and ungainly, her path guided only by the pressure of my body. As we near the body the smell of death grows stronger. I look quickly to see if it is anyone I know. One hand is splayed out on the ground. Something has crushed it and bits of bone puncture through flesh. A fly buzzes around my eyes and I try to slap it away.

  “I’ve seen dead people before,” Annie whispers harshly, with a faint hint of pride in her voice.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “But you shouldn’t have to see anymore.”

  In the distance I hear screaming. The yells echo all through the buildings surrounding us. Bounced off so many high walls and empty alleyways that I can’t tell which direction the cry comes from. The smoke though - it gives it away. Black clouds stream violent and reckless into the air as a building burns a few blocks to the east. The shelling from earlier. I wonder what stood there? Another schoolhouse? Or the home of someone believed to be associated with us? Or just some poor innocent who had nothing at all to do with this? The Millennials have been indiscriminate in their attacks.

  The wind carries the scent of smoke away from us - all that’s left is a lingering hint in the air. “This way,” I nudge Annie to the right with my knee. Away from the smoke. Away from the screaming.

  We could have stopped this long ago. We could have turned ourselves in and ended the suffering. Ended the dying. It feels like every win has led to nothing but more suffering. But it’s too late. Somehow what we’ve started has snowballed out of control. It’s no longer us rallying the people but the people rallying to us. They want their own lives. They want to make their own choices. Even if we turned ourselves in now, the death wouldn’t stop. We’ve torn this city apart. There is no room left for compromise. There are no diplomatic solutions. The Millennial’s only choice to end the violence is to wipe us out. All of us.

  As Annie and I turn a corner the body disappears from sight. I drop my hands from my sister’s eyes and step back. “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “Ask him,” I point to Ezzor who’s peering around the corner of another building. “This is his little adventure.”

  “Quiet, we’re nearly there,” Ezzor’s whisper is carried to us on the wind. He waves us over and the three of us form a straight line tucked against the edge of the building.

  At fifteen feet high the wall that separates the five neighborhoods of Haven is much smaller than the giant wall the circles the city. With its flat top there is plenty of room for Praetors to patrol its length, although until recently it was only the gates where you’d find them.

  Overcrowding has forced the rows of houses all the way to the gates edge. Along the walls, the Praetors limit the height of the buildings to a single story leaving only the wealthiest shopkeepers and citizens of the slums able to afford the semi-private properties.

  We wait quietly as a two person patrol walks the length of the wall. With the taking of the manor and the destruction of the Westwick Presidio the Praetors have been hard pressed to send patrols into the slums, but they’ve managed to effectively lock down our neighborhood by shutting down the flow of people and goods. I’d never realized how easy the walls made it for the Praetors to close down a portion of the city. Close the gates. Shoot anyone who approaches walls. How long will it be until starvation becomes our greatest threat?

  In the distance the patrol slowly melts into the darkness. We have only moments until the next passes. Ezzor waves me forward first. “That one,” he points to one of the small shops. “With the porch.” I nod and hurry across the street, forsaking silence in the name of swiftness.

  As I reach the butchers shop I crouch down next to the small porch jutting from the entrance. My sister comes next, followed by Ezzor who somehow manages to make the crossing at a run without making a single sound.

  “How much further?” I ask.

  Ezzor gestures towards a small cellar door with a small blue stripe across the top corner. A freebranch. So Ezzor is bringing us outside of the neighborhood. But why? The freebranches. A generic name for something that has a hundred iterations. Sewer paths. Ropes thrown over walls. Tunneled passages through a wall that is far more porous than the Praetors know.

  I crouch down to loosen the chains that hold the two metal doors together but they separate at a touch. The locks just a façade to keep out the curious. Greasy, metallic smelling air assaults my nose. I gag once before bringing my reflex under control. Short, shallow breaths through my mouth allow me to continue forward and four rough, wooden steps bring me to the cellar floor.

  Ezzor hands me a flashlight and another is passed to my sister. A twist sets the room aglow in an eerie blue light. I stumble back with a cry of dismay as the light catches on plastic covered bodies hanging from the ceiling.

  I shine an accusing light on Ezzor, the blue glow playing softly against the shadows of his cloaked face. I remember his words at Westwick Manor. The casual way in which he acknowledged his part in the murder of thousands with the downing of the Presidio. Has he decided he’s had enough of following a Millennial?

  I push Annie behind me, placing myself between her and Ezzor. I should have known better than to bring her with me.

  Ezzor laughs and reaches into his sleeve. I tense, preparing to pull my synthblade, but all he pulls out is a third flashlight. He shines the light on one of the body bags, peeling back a corner of plastic to show the dulled, too human eye of a pig.

  “Butcher shop,” he smirks.

  I drop my arm loosely to my side and give him a tight smile. Annie looks between us, aware of the undertones to our actions but oblivious of the meaning. Ezzor snorts and takes the lead, pushing aside the hanging bodies of the dead animals like paper. He stops in the far corner of the room and pulls away a sheet of plastic covering the ground revealing a dark hole in the ground. Two hanging pig carcasses swing ghoulishly overhead.

  The freebranch.

  “Ladies first,” Ezzor says wryly.

  I glare at him then shine my light down the hole. It looks like a short drop, maybe eight or so feet -- still enough to cause some damage if you land wrong. The scent of old stone and something newer, metal? The air has that chalky, just worked feel to it that tells me this is a newer renovation.

  I drop to my stomach and peer over the lip of the hatch, sneezing as dust crawls up my nose. I swing around, going feet first. If I hang off the ledge the drop will only be a few feet. I maneuver myself into the right position, feeling foolish as Annie and Ezzor watch my careful positioning. I grip the flashlight tightly between my teeth so I won’t lose it on the way down.

  I drop down. The shock sends waves of dull pain up through my shins and into my knees. Something light moves next to me. I startle slightly, and shine my flashlight, expecting to see a rat. Instead I see a ladder made of rope and metal threads hanging flat against the wall. It shifts, as someone’s weight drops onto it. Annie squirrels down the improvised ladder followed quickly by Ezzor.

  “You could have told me about that before,” I accuse.

  Ezzor shrugs, “You could use the training.”

  Annie laughs and I can’t help but grin in response. Ezzor takes the lead once more as we wind our way through a short tunnel and into someone’s basement. Huge sacks of something, grain or flour perhaps, clutter the basement. Large crates are packed in each corner. The air smells sweet, not the rotten-sweetness of the dead we’ve grown so use to, but actually sweet. Like confectioners’ sugar and candy.

  “We’re here,”
Ezzor calls calmly into the darkness. There is a moment of silence as I wait to see who Ezzor has brought me against. A light blooms in the far corner with half a dozen hazy shapes moving in its shadow.

  “Ezzor?” Jaxon’s familiar whisper calls out.

  “Jaxon!” I shout into the darkness.

  “Quiet!” Ezzor claps a hand over my mouth. I wrap my fingers around his wrist, digging my fingernails into his gloved flesh, and attempt to break his grip. There is a moment of resistance against his greater strength but with a sigh, that I feel more than hear, he relaxes his hold.

  “Jaxon,” I whisper this time.

  I dash through the small basement, dodging crates and barrels with a dexterity born of desperation. The glow of the light draws closer and there he his. My pulse picks up at the sight of him and suddenly the world fades around me until all I see is the smile quirked on his lips and it’s as if nothing else exists.

  I throw myself at him. His breath puffs out in a sudden burst of air as we go stumbling two steps back and crash against a shelf. Something falls from the shelf and goes clattering across the floor but I don’t have a thought to spare for it because his arms are dropped around me and then his lips are pressed against my own. He’s saying something in between his kisses but his fingers caress my neck and all sense is lost.

  A lifetime passes, a lifetime that is gone in a moment and then we are breaking apart. Both hands on my shoulder he pushes me back and looks me over. “Hi,” he says.

  “Hey,” I respond with a foolish grin.

  “I have a present for you.”

  “Really?” I ask distractedly. I stretch up and twist my fingers with his; pulling his hands from my shoulder I step into the circle of his arms.

  He shakes one hand loose and reaches blindly behind him, fumbling against the shelf until he finds what he’s looking for and raises it between us.

  A cupcake.

  Something between a laugh and a sob bursts from my throat. A stupid cupcake just like the one I sacrificed on the day we met. It seems so long ago now, like it happened to different people in a different time. My lip trembles as I dip my finger into the yellow frosting. The frosting has grown hard, days old and crusted over, but it’s the sweetest thing I’ve tasted in weeks.