Alistair looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watching. Nothing looked out of place around him though. Just people passing by. He walked into The World’s End restaurant and purchased a hot tea, keeping an eye on the street through the window. He stole glances of each person that entered the restaurant through reflections from shiny surfaces.
Stepping back onto the sidewalk, he noticed a dark-haired man staring at him from the opposite street corner. As soon as Alistair stepped in the man’s direction, the man turned away, walking through the crowds. Keeping his distance, Alistair followed, certain the man was Anthony.
After only a couple blocks, the man turned at the old church. Alistair watched as the man went into the cemetery and disappeared behind a building. “What is it with Fallen and cemeteries?” he asked himself before crossing the street to follow.
Walking through the cemetery, he couldn’t help but wonder why they were in this cemetery. Looking side to side, he kept alert, feeling the need to be ready at a moment’s notice. But he reached the back of the cemetery without any alarm. That was, until he saw Anthony crouched next to an empty tombstone that Alistair was quite familiar with.
“They tell people that this tombstone is the oldest in the cemetery, that the inscription has weathered off over the years.” Anthony glanced over, acknowledging Alistair. “But you and I know that’s not true.” His smooth Italian accent had a kindness to it. Which was not what Alistair had expected.
“How do ye . . . What are ye talking about?” Alistair knew the truth of the grave. To his knowledge, he was one of only a few. Anthony would be among those few.
Anthony approached Alistair, stopping short. Alistair stayed on his guard, ready for anything—anything except what happened next. Anthony knelt, which only confused Alistair more.
“What are ye doing?” Alistair wasn’t sure what to expect next.
Anthony stood. “I hope I did not offend you. I only wanted to pay homage to the royal House of Stewart.”
“You know?”
“It was once my job to know,” Anthony said. “Have you ever heard of Knights of the Circle?”
Alistair shook his head. He had heard of many secret organizations over the years, each with a political agenda and claiming knighthood. None had impressed him as chivalrous enough to actually be knights, although there was something familiar about the name.
“They were once called Knights of the Round Table,” Anthony explained. “Long story short, there is a specialized unit belonging to the Mighty here in Europe. They answer only to Europe’s council members and the David. This small, specialized unit serves to protect those of royal descent. Because I have served as a Knight of the Circle, I know you, Alistair Stewart, are descended from the forgotten line of The House of Stewart. Your family is royalty. Your ancestor abdicated the crown in 1688 to serve as Mighty, leaving England’s throne to his daughter and nephew, who had no abilities. It was believed that Charles Edward Stuart had no children. But he did—Edward James Stewart, spelled as the original Scottish line spelled it. The boy was raised as a commoner in secret. His grave is marked by that stone. It is not the oldest grave here. It has no name because—”
Alistair cut him off. “Because his dying wish was to be buried as the son of royalty, or be left nameless.” Alistair had been here many times and had heard the story from his father and grandfather. His family had wealth and were well respected. He had always thought the story had been just that, a story; to the point of having heated discussions with his dad, council member Charles Stewart. This was the first time he considered there might be truth to the tale.
“Why are you telling me this?” Alistair asked as he considered the story.
“Nearly thirty years ago, your father released me from my oath so that I could live a normal life. It didn’t work out the way I planned, and I was forced to leave Vincent with Elizabeth and have stayed hidden since. But, if the prince asks for my assistance, I will give it.”
Alistair stood in the cemetery letting it all sink in. I am royalty? Does this change anything? After a moment, he remembered why he had come looking for Vincent’s father. With a renewed sense of purpose, he stared down Anthony.
“Serve me, eh? My head’s a bit mince—mixed up. But ye can start by not killing Stephen.”
“Why would I kill Stephen?”
The two locked eyes. Alistair tried, but didn’t have the gifts that Stephen did. If only he could see inside. Anthony had to be lying. Yet the man’s facial expression, tone of voice, eyes, and mannerisms all indicated that he was being sincere.
Alistair broke his stare and began pacing. He was missing something. There was more to it than he knew. He looked back to Anthony, scenery around him beginning to fade, Anthony along with it. He watched as the vision began to unfold in front of him, the same vision he had seen from Joe’s mind. Only now, they weren’t jackals and a wolf. It was Stephen, all alone and surrounded by Fallen, each one having an ability. None were the weaker soldiers.
Alistair watched in horror as Stephen fought with more might and vigor than Alistair had ever witnessed. For a moment, he thought the fierce fighter would overcome the horde. More and more Fallen ran to the fight until Stephen fell. As he lay there, the crowd kicked and jeered that Stephen had been beaten. Alistair watched as Stephen neared death.
Shrieks and screams issued from the crowd as a flash of blinding light and the crack of thunder sent the horde scattering back into the darkness. Vincent alone remained next to Stephen’s listless body.
A firm hand shook Alistair’s arm. The vision faded as he struggled to see around the cemetery, his eyes regaining their sight.
“Are you okay?” Genuine concern carried across the air on Anthony’s words.
“I’m guid. But I have to go.”
“When you come back, we can talk some more.” Anthony turned away.
“Ye don’t understand. You’re coming with me.”
“I can’t.” Anthony’s shoulders sagged. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand all I need to. Will you uphold your oath—your vow to serve as a knight?”
Anthony stopped on top of the wall, poised to jump over. “I was released from my oath. I owe you nothing.”
Alistair fought to keep his voice steady. “Stephen will die in twenty-four hours if you don’t.”
****
Alistair returned to DC with Anthony in tow. The objective was clear: find Stephen. Joe’s vision would soon come true.
Alistair left Anthony at a hotel to await further instructions. Alistair had grown up with numerous servants over the years. Still, Anthony’s sudden compliance at his behest left Alistair questioning all that he thought he had known about the man. Anthony wasn’t acting like Fallen. But not all who fell became married to the Fallen in complete servitude. Stories had circulated over the years of those who fell from Mighty for reasons other than to join the ranks of Fallen or to seek personal gain. Alistair knew of others who were Outcasts. Perhaps Anthony fit into this group.
As soon as the Scotsman arrived at Enclave, he made a beeline to a comm. He tapped commands on the screen and spoke. “Find Stephen Cross,” he commanded.
“Stephen Cross is not presently in Enclave.”
What? “Find Aidan McGaffy.”
“Aidan McGaffy in not presently in Enclave,” the computerized female voice responded.
“This isn’t good.”
“May I be of assistance?”
“I don’t know,” an agitated Alistair yelled back. “Can you?”
“I will try,” the comm replied. “Commander Brahms is in the command room down the hall. Would you like to speak with him?”
Before the comm had finished, Alistair broke into a full sprint down the hall. He knew the room the commander was in. He slid to a stop, slapping the emblem on the wall to open the door. As the door opened, he bolted into the room before he realized that Commander Brahms wasn’t alone.
Looki
ng around the room, he saw all the council members, the David, and Commander Brahms gathered around the conference table, along with some of the various respected elders. The commander stood and faced Alistair, all eyes now on him.
“We are in a closed meeting.”
Alistair knew the voice. He looked around the room again and saw an old gentleman, stately in appearance, glaring at him in disapproval.
“I see that, Dad. This is important.” He turned to the commander. “Commander, where is Stephen? Did ye send him on a mission?”
“Yes,” the commander boomed. “We received information on Bernard. We sent your team along with Colvin, Aidan, and Cassandra.”
“Ye sent them without me?” Alistair realized he sounded a little too emotional, maybe even disrespectful. But that wasn’t important. “Why didn’t ye wait?”
“You were on a mission, an important one. I wasn’t sure when you’d be back. They’re in good hands.”
“Where did they go?”
“They should be back soon. Settle down.” The commander dismissed Alistair and turned back toward those seated in front of him.
“Ye do not understand.” Alistair grabbed the commander’s shoulder and spun the large man back to face him, to plead with him. “Joe’s vision. It’s happening. I need to be there. I saw it, nearly twenty hours ago. It’ll be fulfilled in the next four hours.”
In an instant, Alistair became aware that the whole room was on their feet. The mood had changed. Whatever important topic they had been discussing was now forgotten. He didn’t take his eyes off Commander Brahms.
“I’ll go with you,” the commander said, heading for the door.
“No,” Alistair said.
Commander Brahms stopped.
Alistair continued. “Ye can’t.”
“Now you give me orders?”
“That’s not what I meant. Me visions, they’re clear and specific. I know what needs be done. I just don’t know where.”
“Commander, if my son had a vision, we’d all be better off if we let him go alone, if that’s what he says needs to be.” Charles approached and stood at the commander’s side. “Nothing good has ever happened when he deviated from one of his visions. They call to him, showing him the best possible outcome if he follows it.”
Commander Brahms looked around the room. Many of the elders nodded. “They’re here, in DC—Arlington,” the commander offered.
“What is it with cemeteries?” Alistair said, thinking out loud. Everyone continued to stare at him. “I’ll find them.”
As soon as he was outside of Enclave, he called Anthony to have him meet near Arlington National Cemetery at the US Marine Corps War Memorial. Together, they would find and save Stephen.
When he was clear, he used his amulet to vanish his way to the monument where he expected to wait for Anthony to arrive.
“It certainly took you long enough.”
Alistair snapped his head around to see who was behind him, only to see Anthony with a wry grin, almost hidden by his long, salt-and-pepper hair.
“You still have an amulet?” Alistair asked.
“I never had one. I don’t like them.”
“Then how?”
“I’m a priest,” Anthony said. “I can sense the presence of others like us. I started feeling it as soon as we arrived in DC. And just over there.” He nodded toward the cemetery. “I’m feeling a lot of power.”
“How long have you been tracking them?”
“Since you dropped me at the hotel earlier,” Anthony replied.
“And what if you were wrong?” Alistair said.
“I couldn’t be, not today. You and Joe both saw me there, right?”
Alistair felt stupid for a moment. The logic of it made sense. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“I’m surprised you didn’t think of that,” the Italian replied.
“Me, too.”
Together, they made their way to Stephen and his team, following Anthony’s guidance. With each moment, the sky grew darker, until the sun had set. Before long, shadows began to fade into darkness. The two men stood at the top of the hill looking down the steep bank from Arlington House.
In the distance, the Washington Monument stood tall. Alistair followed the line of sight up the street from the Lincoln Memorial, back to Arlington. Then, just noticeable through the trees, movement caught his eye.
“That’s them,” Anthony said. “How many Mighty?”
“Seven.”
“That’s all?” Anthony started down the hill.
“Stop.” Alistair grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong with you? There doesn’t seem to be many more Fallen.”
Anthony looked, staring down intently. “You’re right. I feel so many more though.”
Alistair released his arm. Anthony took a step, still glaring down the hill. “Look, two of them have broken away.” Anthony pointed to two figures running from the others.
Alistair looked in the direction indicated. “That’s Bernard. The other must be Stephen. That’s where you need to go.”
Anthony hesitated and looked back toward the others. “Vincent’s down there.”
“Stephen needs you.”
“My son needs me. They seem to be evenly matched. I’m helping my son.”
“NO!” Alistair grabbed Anthony’s arm again. “You must help Stephen.”
Anthony jerked his arm away. “My son first,” he challenged.
“I’ll help Vincent.”
“You won’t be enough. I can feel what’s down there. You don’t have any idea who is down there.”
“I do,” a deep, bold voice called out from behind them.
The two men turned toward the mansion. A tall, well-built, black man approached them. Both held their ground. Alistair wasn’t sure what to make of him. He had just seen Bernard being chased by Stephen, or so he thought.
“That wasn’t me Stephen chased. It was a mimic, probably Angelique. She’s strong, but not like me.”
Alistair had so many questions. None of it made sense. He looked at Anthony, who continued to stare at Bernard. “It’s all right,” Anthony said. “I can sense he’s no longer Fallen.”
“Anthony, I’ve got yer son covered. I promise, nothing will happen to him. Go save Stephen. Ye don’t know what’s at stake.”
Anthony glanced down the hill to the group, then back in the direction of Stephen. “Knowing who’s down there, I’m beginning to have some idea.” He ran down the hill and called back. “Not a scratch!”
Alistair looked at Bernard, still questioning in his mind. Where had he been? Whose side was he on? Why now? “Are ye ready?”
Bernard nodded and grabbed hold of Alistair with one arm, picking him up off the ground. “Are you?”
Before he could answer, Bernard leaped into the air and landed halfway down the hill. Two more leaps and they were in the tree line next to the action. From this vantage point, Alistair watched the battle and began to understand Anthony’s worry. The Fallen seemed better organized than ever before. The Mighty weren’t fighting well, as though they hadn’t been working together these past months.
Alistair studied them, wanting to detect what was different.
“Should we go?” Bernard asked.
“Not yet.” Alistair watched. Something was off. He looked away from the battle, toward the visitor’s center, where an aged man emptied the trash cans. “Can ye get us there in one jump?” He pointed.
Bernard grabbed hold of Alistair and let out a deafening roar. The air whistled by them as they soared. For a moment, Alistair questioned whether they would come down. They both, however, came crashing down on the other side of the janitor, landing hard on the concrete. Alistair moaned as he lay there for a moment.
“Alistair, you all right?” Bernard struggled to his feet.
“Yeah, I’m guid.” Alistair managed to stand. He looked around. The janitor was gone.
“What was that about?” Bernard asked.
“If I’m
right, the janitor wasn’t a janitor. He was somehow dampening the powers of my team.” He looked around one more time. There was no sign of the man.
“Let’s go join the fight.”
Bernard beamed. “About time.”
****
Stephen threw Bernard against the wall. For whatever reason, he hadn’t been able to see inside Bernard, as he had before. In fact, only Stephen’s physical warrior strength and speed seemed to be working. Something was affecting him.
It also seemed to affect Bernard, whose strength also seemed diminished. Instead of fighting hard, Bernard fought as though he were scared—running more than fighting. Bernard picked himself up from the ground.
“We don’t have to fight, Bernard.” Stephen slowed his approach. “I know you want to come back. I felt it last time. You don’t feel worthy. It’s okay. None of us are. That’s the point.”
Bernard growled with every heave of his chest, struggling to keep his distance. “You’re so stupid to think you can convert me,” he shot back. He lunged at Stephen, knocking him backward, but not down.
Bernard continued running. Stephen followed close. The two ran into the amphitheater where the fighting resumed. For each punch Bernard threw, Stephen threw two. Bernard’s strength began to fail. His few punches that did land felt weaker than Stephen had remembered. In what Stephen perceived as desperation, Bernard grabbed hold of him, like a tired boxer grabs hold of his opponent to stop the onslaught of punches.
Stephen shoved Bernard as hard as he could, roaring like a lion. He was angry Bernard had Fallen. Angry Bernard wouldn’t see reason. Angry that Bernard continued to fight when the fight was over. He watched as Bernard landed and slid across the amphitheater stage.
Stephen approached the stage, slow and cautious, not from fear of Bernard—but from fear that the beast inside himself would feed on his anger. Stephen loved Bernard; that was what he tried to focus on.
Chronicles of Stephen BoxSet Page 46
