Night Legions

by Jeremy Flagg

  “Does she scare you sometimes?” Gretchen whispered from the side of her mouth.

  “Terrified,” Conthan admitted as the door snapped back to its opaque state. “If she goes rogue, we run.”

  “Deal,” Gretchen said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  2033

  Red light bathed the room and its naked flesh in a warm tone. The center held a stage where half a dozen women danced slowly to the music flooding the space. Other, topless women moved about the floor, drawing in their shoulders ever so subtly to emphasize their already ample breasts. Conthan suddenly felt overdressed and far too classy for the venue.

  They were greeted by a woman at the door, her black silk robe providing a modicum of modesty. She eyed the three of them and quickly moved to Gretchen, running the back of her black nails along her cheek and smirking as her head tipped back.

  “Welcome to the Siren’s Call. If you see anything to your liking, I’m sure we can negotiate a price.”

  I can’t believe she brought us to a sex club. Yet didn’t shock Conthan, not in the least. He’d witnessed her wild streaks in college. Still, getting drunk and streaking through Times Square didn’t quite hold the same level of debauchery as being in an underground sex club.

  “Did you bring us fresh meat?” The woman looked past Gretchen to Alyssa and Conthan. She leaned in close to her and whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear, “Or perhaps…”

  “They’re mine,” Gretchen said. The woman pouted until she added, “But it’s fun to watch them play.”

  Conthan ignored the hostess’s baiting. She wanted a reaction, to see the virgins flinch at her overt insinuations. Her eyes reflected a green light for a moment. Conthan understood her bionic implants were scanning them for weapons. If he had been lured in by the flirting, he might not have noticed the costly modifications.

  Alyssa grabbed his shoulder and whispered, “They’re all enhanced.”

  Gretchen gave him a light tap on the face. “Go put on your best heterosexual disguise and stay occupied. Alyssa, keep an eye on him. I’m going to go see what the bartender can tell us.”

  Conthan and Alyssa followed Gretchen through the club, noting the male clientele were captivated as women danced on stage. The men sipped drinks, staring at the ladies like predators. He wondered how many of those horny bastards realized the women on the stage had the ability to throw them through a wall. A server passed, her arm holding a tray of drinks. As she used her metal appendage to dispense liquor, Conthan realized this was a very specific clientele.

  “Look at their suits, or their watches,” Alyssa said as she scanned the room. “I’m pretty sure I see at least one senator. The money on the table is hundred-dollar bills.”

  Conthan strolled through the room, taking a moment to inspect the women. After checking out each exposed body and counting to three, he moved on to the next. He gestured for Alyssa to sit on a red leather couch in a secluded corner of the club.

  Alyssa flagged down a waitress. “It’s my friend’s birthday. I’d appreciate it if you kept the drinks flowing.” She revealed a wad of cash from her jacket pocket, giving the server time to inspect the abundance of money. As she handed the two hundred-dollar bills to the waitress, she took a moment to caress the woman’s hand.

  “My birthday, huh?”

  “I figure you’d do better with alcohol than a woman grinding in your lap.”

  Conthan held up a finger. “Point for the smart woman.”

  He waited for judgment from his companion, perhaps a sneer or even a look of disgust. Alyssa studied the room, her eyes lingering on the clusters of men crowding around the stage. He leaned closer, following her eyes to a trio of women giving lap dances in a booth across the club.

  “You can’t tell me this doesn’t weird you out a little?”

  “Because I practice a lifestyle of physical modesty? No, you won’t find me stripping like this for money, but a show for my life mate? Perhaps.”

  “Oh.” Conthan held his tongue, knowing if he spoke he’d taste the rubber of his shoe as he wedged his foot in his mouth.

  “I’ve been judged my whole life for my faith. My faith. There is nothing but egotism in judging others.” Alyssa gave a slight chuckle when she saw Conthan’s look of amazement. “Not the answer you expected?”

  “Nothing about this is ex— “

  “Three o’clock. The hostess. She’s eyeing us.”

  Conthan pointed to a brunette waitress as she walked by, stealing a glance as he did at the entrance. The hostess attempted to discreetly make a phone call, occasionally looking in their direction. With a nod, she slid the phone away from her ear. She pulled a waitress aside. They spoke quickly, and the waitress vanished.

  “Dammit, she ratted us out,” Conthan said. “Can’t a gay man stare at naked women in peace anymore?”

  Their waitress appeared, holding two glasses filled with amber liquid. Conthan stepped around her and moved toward the bar. The hostess continued eyeing him, no longer attempting to be discreet with her fascination. If he wasn’t the most wanted man alive in the United States, he’d be flattered such a beautiful woman stared.

  Gretchen leaned across the bar, pushing her drink out of the way. She flirted with the bartender, eliciting a laugh. Even as she chuckled, the bare-chested woman rolled her eyes, probably used to being hit on by anybody who propped themselves on a stool at her bar.

  “Gretchen,” Conthan said, trying to keep it to a low whisper. “We’ve got to go.”

  “Thanks, Becca,” Gretchen said with a wink. “I’m looking forward to seeing him again. Man really knows how to leave an impression.”

  “Now, Gretch.”

  “What’s going on?”

  At the doorway, a dozen men in bomber jackets poured into the club. The hostess pointed toward the bar. In a seedy club catering to the wealthy’s morally ambiguous desires, being a Child of Nostradamus remained taboo. Conthan’s fist clenched as he thought of the many ways he’d destroy Jacob’s minions.

  “Do we run?” asked Alyssa as she leaned against the bar.

  The image of the well in Conthan’s chest, stone bricks coated in black liquid, flashed. Conthan let the liquid overflow. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not this time.”

  * * * * *

  Dwayne stood back several feet as Skits approached the grave. Unlike the serene front of the convent, the adjoining cemetery radiated an eerie quality. The massive crosses and crying angels littered the overgrown yard.

  Skits dropped to her knees. The grass remained luscious, meticulously maintained. The glow from Dwayne’s hand made it easier to see the writing on the stones. Agatha’s shadow stretched along the path from where she waited in the door, blocking out the interior light.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  He didn’t know if he should wrap his arms around her or give her solitude with the woman’s grave. The relationship between them remained a mystery. He had hoped Sister Muriel would tell whimsical tales about Skits and he’d feel relief that his sister had been loved. Now, looming over her shoulder, he had a sense of déjà vu. Years ago, he hid during their parents’ funeral, watching from a distance as Skits was forced to grow up too soon.

  “Sister Muriel was called the ‘Saint of the Streets.’ I would meet her in the less reputable parts of New York and help as she acted as a light against the darkness.”

  Dwayne listened as his sister paused to let out a slight sob. Rocking back on her haunches, she kept her face pointing forward, hiding the tears. As a point of pride, Ayers didn’t cry in public, a trait they both shared.

  “She handed condoms to hookers. She provided clean needles to addicts, and more than once, she gave somebody the coat off her back. When one of the working girls wanted out, or their pimp beat them, Sister Muriel paid out of pocket to get them a hotel room. I wasn’t the first.” Dwayne’s stomach turned in knots as he realized what she meant. “I’m glad to know I wasn’t the last.

&nbs
p; “Sister Muriel got beat up by one of the girls’ pimps. He roughed her up pretty bad, but he refused to kill a nun. The next day, with her arm in a sling and two broken fingers, she went back. I said I went with her for protection, but really,” Skits laughed, “she protected me from myself.”

  “She sounds like she earned her title.”

  “Sister Muriel believed the world could be saved if you cared. She cared so much for us. I didn’t believe her. Sometimes, you can’t just care, you know? Sometimes you need action. She loved… I…” Skits took a deep breath. “I did some really bad stuff.”

  Dwayne didn’t know what to do. In the safety of a convent, he expected some sort of holy revelation for his sister. As she spoke, he found himself hurting. He wanted to isolate himself, to yell, to weep for forsaking the one person who needed him most. Straightening his back, he focused on his sister, doing the one thing he should have done years ago: stay.

  “But you know what’s funny? She knew I killed Rory. She didn’t approve, but this nun, this woman who knew the worst the world had to offer, she accepted it. When I showed up a little drunk or when I promised I would shank Gallagher, she promised to pray for me. She knew I was fucking killing pricks, and she offered to pray for me.”

  Skits rose to her feet and turned. The eyeshadow had run down her face to a point where it was covered in dark black smears. “She never stopped trying to save me.”

  Dwayne couldn’t stop himself as he closed the distance between them and hugged his sister. She threw her arms around his torso and bawled. She might be younger than him, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to think of her as the child he abandoned again.

  “She reminds me of you,” Dwayne whispered in her ear.

  “Sister Muriel made the world a better place,” Skits said in between ragged breaths.

  “Take all the time you need,” Agatha said from the doorway. “When you’re ready, I put on some coffee and I think I have something you might like to see.”

  Dwayne leaned back, making eye contact with his sister. “You might be rough around the edges, but I remember a girl saving me a while back. You might have a different approach, but I bet if Sister Muriel heard what you’ve been up to, she’d be proud.”

  “It doesn’t feel like that lately,” she admitted.

  “I know,” he agreed. “There haven’t been many victories recently.”

  He gestured to the door and Skits walked with him, their arms linked. For a horrible older brother, he hoped this moment was the start of something new. He’d do penance for his decisions the rest of his life, but he hoped he’d finally be able to be protect her.

  Once inside, they found Agatha sitting with two cups of coffee and a box in between them. After the emotional gauntlet he ran on this trip, he worried the box contained something that would knock the wind from his lungs. The nun’s smile juxtaposed he and Skits’s emotional state.

  “She passed peacefully,” Agatha hurriedly said. “Over dinner she claimed God would visit her that night. I found her the next morning, her belongings already packed away in this box. I can only describe her as being the most peaceful she had ever been.”

  The portly woman opened the box. Dwayne noted the rosary beads she pulled from the top of the contents. A favorite sweater, a cross with porcelain Jesus, and a coffee mug came next. When the leather-bound Bible came out, Skits offered to hold it, running her thumbs over the well-worn spine. The next small leather book also struck Dwayne as familiar.

  “I’ve read her diary,” Agatha said. “I’ll be frank, I questioned Sister Muriel’s decisions for most of her stay here. First, she takes in a young girl and raises her. I thought the girl belonged in an orphanage with other children, but Muriel believed God had a plan. We watched His plan unfold and we believed. When she took to the streets to care for those in need—” Agatha took a deep breath. “Well, we struggled. She claimed to do God’s work, but the Church differed in opinion. If only the Church could see the error of their ways.”

  Agatha reached out, grasping Skits’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Sasha, you meant the world to her.”

  Confusion registered on Dwayne’s face. “Sasha?”

  “Sasha Ayer?” Agatha asked, confused. “I’m sorry, we never met, I was going off the photographs.”

  Digging through the box, the nun produced a handful of Polaroids. After flipping through image after image, she found the one and turned it for them to see. Dwayne’s stomach sank as he looked at a girl barely old enough to be a teenager. Beneath the purple bruises on her face, the black eye, and the stitches along her forehead, he recognized his sister. Along the bottom in elegant penmanship was scribbled a name, “Sasha Ayer.”

  “My name in a different life.” Reaching out, Skits held the photo, her fingers grazing the reflection of her younger self. “Sasha is how I wound up in the hospital.” Her voice trailed off in a whisper.

  Agatha gave a slight shrug. Dwayne couldn’t help but wonder if Sasha had been an alias she used when she used to…

  “She kept these photos of all the girls she helped. I’m not sure if they were reminders of the good she was doing. More often than not, it was evidence for the cops when a girl went missing.” Agatha held up a photo, admiring it closely. “There were moments when she was genuinely happy. By the grace of God, Sister Muriel knew her calling.”

  She handed them another photo. Dwayne inspected the two women in the snapshot. Sister Muriel look perplexed as she held up an economics textbook. The young woman, maybe in her early twenties, rolled her eyes. The nun’s confused expression juxtaposed the girl’s laughter perfectly.

  “Is that Vanessa?” Dwayne asked, trying to imagine what that face had been like before the Nostradamus effect.

  Agatha smiled as she examined the photo. Her beaming face gave away the fond memories she had of their leader. “She was something special. Sister Muriel saw it long before the rest of us. I wasn’t sure of it at first, but her intuition was too precise to deny it: Vanessa had powers before the Nostradamus Effect. Then after…” Agatha let out a deep sigh.

  “Vanessa found it difficult to find absolution by the grace of God. Despite her lack of faith, she returned midway through college. I suspected something about her had changed. The outgoing girl we watched grow in front of us hid. I didn’t know why until one night I forgot my Bible and returned to the chapel.”

  Agatha handed the photo to Dwayne. For years he stood by Vanessa, aware she witnessed his every thought. Painful memories of his childhood, the death of Michael, the savage way he handled rescuing his sister, Vanessa partook of everything. Despite their bond, she remained quiet about her past. Dwayne recognized the anguish she felt when discussing it, but never did he imagine her story originating in a convent.

  “She was beautiful, spectacular even. The priest who resided with us was an unsavory fellow. Only Vanessa defied his will. I feared for her safety, but then—” Agatha made the sign of the cross. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding like a radical believer, but Vanessa was sent to us from God himself. Vanessa, an angel sent from Heaven, reaffirmed my beliefs. I thank her for that.”

  “I think we understand,” Dwayne said. The night she rescued him, from bandits and himself, he believed the angel of death had come. Even after he discovered her abilities and Vanessa revealed the reality of her mutation, he wasn’t quite sure of motivation. He never thought to ask, but now he wondered if she had found God.

  “Is she okay?” Agatha’s eyes wavered. She clutched one of his hands, brushing off the spark between them. She didn’t say it out loud, but he understood her need to find light in these dark times.

  “No,” he admitted. Agatha’s expression shifted, trying to not frown at the revelation.

  Skits grabbed the nun’s hand. “But she will be.”

  “He has a plan,” Agatha said. “Even if we don’t understand.”

  She, Dwayne thought. God wasn’t the mastermind behind this situation. A psychic, a lone woman, mo
ved them like chess pieces. Dwayne had to know. “Does her diary mention Eleanor Valentine?”

  “Eleanor? The woman who worked for the government?”

  “Yes,” Dwayne said calmly.

  “It might?” she said, unsure. Dwayne tried not to show his disappointment. “But even if it doesn’t, I can tell you Eleanor is the reason Vanessa wasn’t taken from us by the government when she was just a babe.”

  “What?” asked Dwayne.

  “Vanessa had been left on our doorstep. It happens more than you’d believe. Agents tried to take her away. There was a kerfuffle in Sister Muriel’s office, but I remember hearing Eleanor Valentine assure Muriel the child would remain here. I hadn’t thought about the psychic, just that there was a lot of fuss over the infant.”

  Sister Agatha’s eyes lit up, then her face grew flustered as the dots connected. “Did she know something? Was this meant to happen? But…”

  “Dwayne, we need to go,” Skits said, tapping her watch. Moving to her feet, she held up the photo. “Do you mind if I keep this? It’s a reminder.”

  Agatha started to protest their leaving, but Dwayne held up his hand, stopping her. “I cannot begin to thank you for this opportunity. But Vanessa needs us.”

  “Thank you for the memories, Sister Agatha. May Sister Muriel rest with the Lord.” Dwayne admired the sincerity in Skits’s words. He didn’t know if his sister held belief in a higher power, another question he’d eventually have to ask. Maybe not God, but Skits certainly believed in the woman who had saved her.

  “I hope the memories illuminate your path,” Agatha said.

  Dwayne shook the nun’s hand and started for the door. Rushed farewells had them standing in the courtyard of the convent.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

  “Sister Muriel…” Skits took a deep breath. She turned around and Dwayne watched as her skin radiated a light blue, her powers ready to burst her body into flame. The fire in her eyes shone bright. “Vanessa is in the middle of this web.”