by R. T. Lowe
“Born to… fire?” Felix said uncertainly.
Lofton appraised him. “You don’t know The Warning, do you? ‘Nations will burn, armies will fall at his feet, and all who refuse to succumb to his rule will be slaughtered like sheep’. When you quoted that to me, I assumed you were familiar with it.” He paused, arching a brow. “So you don’t know the signs of the Belus—or the Drestian?”
Felix shook his head, recalling the lone reference to ‘signs’ in the Journal: ‘I watched for signs he might be the Drestian’. No explanation beyond that was given, and for the Belus, there were no allusions at all to any ‘signs’.
“‘Born to fire,’” Lofton explained, “means that on the Belus’s eighteenth birthday, he will announce his arrival with fire.”
“So… so when I turned eighteen, that was… what? I blew up my house! With fire!” Bill’s attempt to cure Felix of his debilitating nightmares had awakened the cursed memories of that tragic night, forcing Felix to stand witness and watch himself—his sleeping self—destroy his home and kill his parents. He would never be able to forgive himself for what he had done, and recognizing that, he’d buried the memories deep in his consciousness, but now that they were once again so dangerously close to the surface, he felt the tremors of his old pain and guilt like an anchor dragging down on his soul. “Why did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” Lofton said sympathetically. “I’m sorry that you lost your adoptive parents. It couldn’t have been prevented and it’s obviously not your fault. Nevertheless, you were born to fire and no one can prove you weren’t immaculately conceived. Those are the signs of the Belus. Therefore, you are the Belus.”
“Why do you care?” Felix asked, fighting off the icy fingers of regret curling around his heart, forcing down the dark memories to the deepest pits of his psyche, walling them off, sealing them shut. “Why do you want me to be the Belus when the prophecy says that only I can kill you? That doesn’t make any sense. If I say I’m the Belus, the Order will want me to kill you and your followers will want to kill me, right?”
“Precisely,” Lofton agreed and smiled at him as if appreciating some secret irony. “And that is why only we can be truthful with one another. Sourcerors are the most valuable commodity on the planet, Felix. There are far too few of us and I can’t create them. We are simply born. I do what I can to find them, but the bloodlines scattered centuries ago and the only predictive characteristic is lack of siblings. Other than that, it’s almost entirely random. Of course, there are perils that await the uninitiated, obstacles that reduce the population of adult Sourcerors to a fraction of what I desire.”
“Protectors?” Felix hazarded.
Lofton nodded, his teeth clenched. “One day very soon the Protectors will feel my wrath, but I have no conflict with the Order, Felix. Why would I? Our philosophical differences are grounded in a prophecy that’s as fictitious as whatever’s playing at the local cinema. If I wanted to, I could eliminate the Order in less time than it takes to enjoy a good meal. That, however, is the last thing I want. I would just as soon cut off my own nose as unnecessarily kill so many Sourcerors.”
“You want them to join you,” Felix guessed.
“Yes.”
Felix understood, and when it all came together for him, the rationality and symmetry of Lofton’s plan was oddly comforting. Lofton was no psychopath, he was rational, and that meant he was… what? Predictable? “That’s why you need me to be the Belus. You want me to lead them so I can force them to follow you.”
“Force?” Lofton said uneasily, shifting on his bench. “Once they see we are on the same side, there should be no reason to force them. For two thousand years, the Order and the Drestianites have fought a mutually destructive battle, weakening each other, doing the Protectors’ job for them. And for what? Who were they fighting for? For us, Felix! Sourceror against Sourceror, brother against brother, for me and you! Yes—if my followers saw us sitting here tonight, they would try to kill you to protect me because they believe in The Warning. But when you side with me, they’ll understand you would never try to hurt me. In one day, with a single gesture, we will end centuries of needless Sourceror bloodshed and will be united in a single cause.”
“Your cause,” Felix pointed out, reminding himself that Lofton, despite his rationality, had murdered untold thousands.
“Our cause,” Lofton corrected. “Peace is in everyone’s interests.”
Felix grimaced, thinking of the bloodbath at the Rose Bowl, the unspeakable deeds of the Faceman and the other testers, the orchestrated massacres and the terror of the Numbered Ones, the totality of the resulting carnage and fear plunging the country into despair, making it vulnerable and ripe for Lofton’s coup. So much death and suffering. All of it the responsibility of the man in front of him.
“Granted,” Lofton acknowledged with a twist of his head, “the path to peace cannot be achieved without the sacrifices of the innocent. That is my cross to bear. But my burden will be lessened when you accept me as the Chosen One.”
“The Chosen One,” Felix repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper. “So it’s true then—you are the Chosen One.” He quickly corrected himself. “According to the prophecy, I mean.”
“According to the prophecy,” Lofton confirmed. “I admit there may be some among us—on both sides—who resist straying from the prophecy, but ultimately, they will listen to me and they will listen to you. If there are a few who would rather continue living in the darkness of the past, we will give them the option of death.”
Felix blinked at the casualness in which Lofton handed down death sentences. “That’s not very appealing.”
Lofton smiled thinly. “I think they’ll accept the alternative, but we must remember to maintain appearances. The belief in the Chosen One may seem silly to you and me, but the power of prophecy is inestimable. We must use it to our advantage.”
Felix remained silent, pondering Lofton’s words.
“What do you say, Felix?” Lofton grinned at him. “I asked you before, and I ask you again now. Imagine the world we can create when all Sourcerors stand together. There are no limits to what we can accomplish.”
Felix felt like he was being drawn in, unable to think of a logical reason to refuse Lofton’s proposal. Then the feeling vanished as he reminded himself again of the litany of Lofton’s atrocities, and as his mind dwelled on the worst of them, one of Lofton’s first came rushing to the surface. “You killed your family. And I’m…”
“Family,” Lofton said, his expression at once turning sorrowful. “I know we’re related, Felix. Our mothers were, well, sisters. I didn’t know until recently.” His eyes moved to Felix’s face, studying him. “I haven’t had family for a very long time.” He lowered his eyes as if he was uncomfortable.
Because you killed them! Felix wanted to shout out, but something held him back. Pity?
“Would you like to hear the signs of the Drestian?” Lofton asked slowly.
Something in Lofton’s voice made Felix shiver. He nodded, tentatively.
“Creation,” Lofton said. “‘Back from the ashes’ is what my followers like to call it. To give life where there was none before.”
“The Numbered Ones?” Felix asked. “Is that what you mean?”
“Among other things,” Lofton replied cryptically and his eyes looked distant. “And there are other signs.” He went quiet.
Felix waited, watching him, wondering what he was thinking.
“Gifts,” Lofton finally said. “Abilities, some unique and some rather ordinary among Sourcerors, but the sign for which the Drestian is best known is… is killing his parents on his eighteenth birthday.”
Felix stood there, puzzled, and when he realized the implications of Lofton’s words, his breath caught in his throat. “You knew? You knew the prophecy before they died. You were just… just…”
“Playing a part?” Lofton offered with a wry twist of his mouth. “To say I had no choice is a rather feeble
explanation though it’s the truth. To be the Drestian, I had to become the Drestian—in every respect.” Lofton rubbed his hands together as if they had suddenly gone cold. “My parents knew they would have to sacrifice themselves. My father’s strength was inspiring. He understood the world would fall off the precipice without the Chosen One to set things right. My mother, however, refused to believe that The Warning was a fallacy. There was nothing my father or I could do to convince her. I tried everything, but she was stubborn and very strong in her own way. She died… unwillingly.”
“Jesus,” Felix whispered, feeling bad for Lofton’s mother, and for Lofton too, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He didn’t have to kill her. He could have chosen not to.
“Indeed,” Lofton replied solemnly. “As I said, only the foolish underestimate the power of prophecy and faith. I did what I had to do. She died painlessly, though if I live a thousand years I will never be able to erase the memory of the look in her eyes. She thought I was a monster.” He set his mouth firmly, giving his head a shake. “She had to die so that billions could live in peace. I don’t regret my actions, but I wish she could have accepted her fate.”
“You ask a lot of people,” Felix said.
Lofton sighed then smiled sadly. “Trips down memory lane are painful affairs for our family, aren’t they?” He glanced down at his watch. “Which brings me to one last piece of business before I must depart. I have a board meeting in Toronto that requires my attendance.” He smiled at Felix. “Not even the Chosen One can avoid all annoyances.”
Felix forced a smile out of parentally ingrained politeness.
“The Journal,” Lofton said, and the smile fell from Felix’s face. “I know my mother kept a Journal that she managed to get to your mother. An attendant she employed smuggled it out of the house. Her name was Lyndsey and I recently had the pleasure of speaking with her in Wales. She’s rather insane, you should know, and I suspect reading the Journal may have sent her already feeble mind over the edge. She admitted holding on to it for years because she couldn’t recall what she was supposed to do with it. Those around her can’t make heads or tails of her ramblings, but with a little push”—Lofton shrugged apologetically—“I was able to ascertain most of what she had been exposed to.” Lofton’s expression turned hard and his eyes fixed on Felix. “As you might imagine, I can’t allow the Journal to become food for public consumption. I’m portrayed in very unflattering terms, yet that isn’t my gravest concern. The existence of people like us must remain hidden from Wisps. It is in both our interests that the Journal is destroyed. If it isn’t, we risk a new battle, the likes of which has never before been seen, one I dearly hope to avoid.”
“Okay,” Felix said, knowing what Lofton was about to ask of him, yet dreading the request all the same.
“I believe you know where it is. Please bring it to me. Think of it as a test.”
“I thought I passed your test in the quarry.”
Lofton’s eyes widened in surprise. He smiled, recovering quickly. “I want to begin the next chapter in the country’s evolution and it would mean a great deal to me if I don’t need to prepare for the possibility of the Journal’s dissemination. And it is a test, Felix. A new test. When I have it in my hands, I’ll know where you stand.” He smiled again. “Cousin.”
“Let me think about it,” Felix said quickly, refusing to commit, or even seriously consider committing, on the spot.
“With you, I’m willing to be patient,” Lofton said graciously, “but there are limits. Things are moving quickly, Felix, and before I, well, implement certain initiatives, I would like assurances that the Order is with me—that you are with me. Are you?”
“How should I let you know?” Felix asked, avoiding the question. “About the Journal?”
“Text me,” Lofton said with a hint of a smile then gave him a phone number. “I’ll meet you here.” He glanced around. “I hope to hear from you soon.” He stood and walked toward Adams Street.
Felix sat on a bench, staring at the cold, unwavering eyes of the pagan gods, feeling the pressure of an unwanted decision looming over him. He shook himself out of his stupor and texted Allison, waiting a few more minutes before getting up and jogging across the grounds for the Old Campus, not relishing the idea of stalking the old buildings in the darkest hours of a dreary night.
Chapter 14
BAIT
Across town, Allison’s phone vibrated in her pocketbook. She snuck a glance. Felix again, wondering where she was, no doubt. He probably checked to see if she was in her room, which meant Caitlin would also be worried. When she saw them tomorrow she’d tell them she went back to the library but that they must have crossed paths so she studied in a cubicle and dozed off. That seemed believable enough.
“You remind me so much of my Becca,” the man on the barstool beside her slurred.
Allison nodded sympathetically at the drunken man—his name was Hank—and looked over his shoulder. The “L” shaped bar had grown crowded during the past hour and from the shreds of conversation Allison had overhead over Hank’s incessant blubbering she’d gathered the late shift at the local glass manufacturing plant had just punched out. It was a hard, thirsty crowd with a preference for cheap beer and cheaper whiskey. Allison sat straight and leaned her back against the wall, a seat affording a view of every person in the establishment. Hank ordered another round of Jack and Cokes and when the bartender had trouble deciphering his words Allison spoke up, shouting over the jukebox next to the video poker machines in the corner, ensuring no one could think she was anything other than sloppy drunk.
Two men at the other end of the bar held up their glasses to Allison in a toast. One shouted at her, “On us!” Their heads were shaved and they both wore tank tops to display their mounds of rippling muscles adorned with garishly inked tattoos. She thought she glanced a swastika on the inner arm of the man on the right. They were easy to hate and Allison would have found pleasure ripping off the swastika and shoving it down his leering mouth, but she wasn’t hunting skinheads tonight.
“…and to think I haven’t seen her in two years,” Hank was slurring.
Allison felt a hand on her leg and brushed it off. She may have reminded Hank of his beloved and estranged daughter Becca, but her dress, which was better fitted for someone Caitlin’s height, stopped well short of mid-thigh and the sight of her long legs in four-inch heels was apparently more than he could resist. She threw back her head and let out the loudest laugh she could muster, causing Hank to smile stupidly at her, clearly confused about what he’d said that could have been so amusing.
Hank gulped down half his drink and wiped a rough hand across his stubbly face. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, trying to whisper, “but sometimes I just wanna be held.”
Allison, cringing inwardly, pulled him toward her, letting his forehead rest against her shoulder. She smiled for the benefit of those watching and searched the bar, settling on a space in the corner where three people had just arrived. They were standing at a table, having a conversation with the waitress. Two women and one man, all dressed in the same manner as the patrons—jeans, flannels and work jackets—but there was a hint of crispness that immediately caught Allison’s eye. Their shirts were spotless and ironed—right off the hanger?—and they wore their jeans uncomfortably, as if the denim chafed their thighs.
Hank put his hand on Allison’s leg again.
Still smiling, Allison took his hand in hers and used her elbow to tip over her glass, spilling the pint of Jack and Coke into his lap. Making sure the ensuing commotion captured the attention of everyone—the customers at the counter and at the tables in front, the men playing pool and the pair at the poker machines—she laughed at Hank’s drenching and announced she needed a smoke. With all eyes on her, Allison took her pocketbook from the counter and stumbled drunkenly toward the bathrooms in the rear of the bar, rolling her ankle and shouting “ouch” as she grabbed for it and half hopped and half limped her way through the
back exit.
The night was cold and the alley smelled of rotting food and other refuse that hadn’t been collected in far too long. A row of garbage cans to her left rattled and Allison watched as a raccoon clambered up on top, staring at her, daring her to make it move. Allison backed away from the door and faced it, allowing the raccoon to eat its garbage in peace. The bar was blind to the alley, a brick structure that was windowless in back, sparing its customers views of the mountain of garbage and the nocturnal habits of rodents and raccoons. There were no eyes here, Allison knew. No one watching. No one to come to her aid if her plan went sideways.
Voices from inside the bar carried to the alley and the door shuddered, opening, scaring the raccoon off its throne.
Allison placed her pocketbook on the ground and balled her hands into fists, steeling herself, ready to wage battle with the Protectors. A light high up on the building’s exterior shone down and reflected on a head—a bald head. The skinheads sitting at the bar, Allison realized. Shit! Where are the Protectors?
“There you are,” one of the men said, sounding relieved. He tilted his chin at Allison and she saw a tattoo of a Coptic cross burning in ruby red across his neck, blood dripping from its crossbar.
“Me first,” the other one laughed and held out his arms—there were swastikas on both—as though expecting Allison to welcome his arrival with a warm embrace.
The door groaned and clicked shut and the three of them stood in the dim light of the alley. The men were both taller than Allison and they looked powerful, their chests and arms chiseled with layers of muscle drawn over in flourishes of reds and greens. She guessed they had acquired their physiques (and their tattoos) in prison.
The man she thought of as ‘Coptic’ strolled past the other and circled to Allison’s right. ‘Swastika’ walked toward her, smiling so lewdly she thought it wouldn’t be appropriate to call it a smile.
