Prophecy (Residue Series #4) (2 page)

“You are standing in the Auditorio Nacional,” he referenced casually with an accent. “It is said to be one of the greatest auditoriums in the world, and is a landmark, here, in Mexico City. We own this building, my associates and I. Whilst this declaration is not on paper, it is proven through our use of it now and the many times in the past. I secure it for us on occasions in which an audience is required. It is a trophy, one of many,” he said, remaining rigidly immobile except for turning his head in my direction. “You, Jameson, are the most recent in my collection.” Without pausing or any hint at how offensive his statement was, Sartorius continued. “Celebrated artists have performed on this very stage where you now stand. And, tonight, you will join them in giving us yet another extraordinary performance.” He watched his insult burn through me, and once sufficiently entertained, he questioned, “Do you regret turning yourself in, Jameson?”

I regret having to wait to slit your throat.

“Regret, Jameson,” he uttered again, his voice hissing with impatience. “Do you feel it for having handed yourself to us without reason?”

“There was a reason, Sartorius.”
And her name is Jocelyn.

“Which you must have known would not be honored.” Sartorius’ snide manner drew me back to him. “We would never give up such a precious asset,” he admonished.

“An asset to you,” I muttered. “A danger to the rest of The Sevens.”

Sartorius chuckled to himself. “And that is precisely why it took so much political capital to keep the two of you alive. You have created a problem for us, Jameson, you and me. My associates want you dead. They don’t see the potential in you…the power that can be harnessed.”

They know enough to be fearful of i
t.

Sartorius’ attention returned to the curtain. He spoke wistfully, openly enamored, seemingly intoxicated by the future he foresaw in using us.

“She is powerful…,” he whispered, “…and you recharge her.”

Intentionally, I broke through his ludicrous whimsical musing and reminded him, “She isn’t a battery, Sartorius.”

He blinked, returning from his daze, and ignored my statement as if it had been nothing more than a breeze passing his ears. “The Dissidents, however, are not so precious to me.”

I stiffened at the sudden change of subject, and at the acknowledgement of the people who had joined me to openly oppose The Sevens. They had risked their lives in hopes of a life free from the fear and control of their subjugators, and not only had their dreams been shattered, but they now lived in constant fear and far greater jeopardy than before.

“They do serve a purpose,” Sartorius deliberated. “But you already knew this, didn’t you, Jameson? It’s the reason you disbanded them, before coming to us, in a final attempt to keep them safe.”

My memory called up an image of the swamp in which the Dissidents had made a home. Beneath the cypress trees, swallowed by thousands of tree trunks, were the shacks and planks running between them; the dwellings where people once baked bread, played music, and shared their catch of the day. There was no music in my memory, no joy or leisurely happiness that the Dissidents had come to thrive on while hiding from The Sevens. Instead, people hauled suitcases or personal belongings stuffed into canvas bags, rowing them in canoes down the village waterways. Boats rammed each other out of haste, the planks shook with the weight of hurried feet. My memory was of the mass exodus brought on by my orders. As if reading my thoughts, Sartorius put them into words.

“You told them to seek shelter elsewhere, to go into hiding, because you knew we would come for them. You knew you couldn’t attack as planned,” Sartorius surmised. “You didn’t have the resources. All heart and no way to use it…such are the notions of a juvenile, Jameson, in believing you could oppose us….” He clucked his tongue quietly at me. “So you told them to scatter, didn’t you,
young
Jameson? Don’t be so harsh on yourself, however. In reflection, releasing them was the only correct course of action you took.”

I glanced at him, because Sartorius didn’t delve out compliments. I was skeptical, and his follow up statement justified my suspicions.

To drive home the point he was making, he added, “Because we
are
coming for them, Jameson. And one by one they
will
be found.”

I clenched my teeth before my instinctive response could come out.
I’m going to kill you. I’m going to gut you, pull out your entrails, and make you watch. You stupid sack of shhh…

He knew I cared for them, and he was using it against me. And the fury he imparted from his warning only strengthened with his final utterance.

“Under no circumstances will what you see tonight provoke you. You will not move. You will not speak. You will show no emotion. Am I understood?” My silence caused him to repeat it. “Do you understand me, Jameson?”

My level of alertness peaked then as I tensed for whatever it was he had planned.

“Jameson,” he said, demanding I answer.

My lips opened just enough to quietly hiss my answer. “Yes, Sartorius, I heard you.”

Since handing myself to The Sevens, I had been to so many rallies that I’d lost count. They had been fairly consistent in process and purpose, with only the location and audience changing. Held in either warehouses throughout Germany, coffee shops closed for the night throughout South America, open fields in Madagascar, it didn’t matter. Sartorius followed the same agenda. But not once had he made that kind of threat.

Leaving my side, he motioned with a snap of his hand to start the rally. As was typical, once again, I found Vires on all sides of me, strategically placed there before the curtain could part and slide to the end of the stage.

Before us, sitting in the upwardly sloping red velvet seats, were thousands of witches, some with pointed hats, some with the handles of their broom laid across their laps, some appearing as typical as an average businessman. Most wore the traditional black cloak so common in our world. But there was no unifying characteristic other than the family stone they wore somewhere on their bodies.

Besides this, what stood out to me was the multitude of them. Mexico City was one of the most populated urban areas in the world, with easy transportation to and from the metropolis. Of course there would be a great number of us here, and they would all have been required participants tonight.

By design, a rally evokes…even demands jubilation from its audience, and is bolstered by food, drink, dancing, social engagements. Those are the very purposes for which people gather. But that was not the goal here tonight, and they knew it. There was no excited chatter, no mingling across the aisles, no sense of joy at all from this crowd. Those who knew each other gave a simple, quiet nod before returning their attention to the stage. A woman in the back row grunted as she shifted in her seat, which could be heard with distinct clarity from my position on the stage.

We were in a different city, in a different forum, and yet the result was the same. I had seen it at every rally. These people had been summoned here not by their own free will or for their enjoyment of the arts. The Sevens required their attendance to ensure that what would be shown on the stage tonight would not be misconstrued, or easily dismissed. It would be remembered, scorched into their consciousness, and serve as a message of what happens when one disobeys The Sevens.

Sartorius stepped up to the edge of the stage and raised his hands in the air in a grandiose gesture, using the moldavite stone on the tip of his cane to enhance his image of false supremacy.

Using their native language, he bellowed in Spanish, “Channelers, Elementalists, Levitators, Healers. Witches…Friends. Tonight, I am not a Seven. I am an inquisitor, and eyewitness to atrocious crimes, the result of which has left us, our world, in a state of vulnerability. This is something we cannot risk.

“It is wrong, I suggest, to reject the rules we agree to live by. It is wrong because they have been established for your safety. To challenge them puts all lives in danger…mine…the person sitting beside you…your own….”

Sartorius delivered his concealed threats with magnificent impact. His speech had been repeated nearly every evening for weeks now, time enough to perfect each pitch, tremble, and pause. The eyes that stared back at the stage confirmed it. For the most part, they had been empty, as they always were, and grew tenser until fear seemed to have become a palpable entity which had crept its way out of their gazes to settle in their terrified, downturned grimaces. He was an extremely effective orator, innately suited for these rallies.

“Dear Friends, you have been called here tonight to bear witness to punishment for treason, barbarianism, and conspiracy, the likes of which we have never seen in our world. If left unchecked, these crimes flourish, corroding our way of life, gutting us from the inside out. And as you bear witness, I implore you to keep in mind…extraordinary dangers such as these call for extraordinary measures.”

I stood straighter at this point; readying myself for what usually came next. At this point in the rally, a fist would hit me somewhere in the back, I would fall to my knees, and the pummeling would start. There would be no bag shoved over my head this time, giving the audience an unobstructed view of the pain being inflicted on my body. My facial contortions served to further influence the audience against breaking the crimes Sartorius was accusing me of.

But nothing followed now other than Sartorius’ voice, as he roared a command that I hadn’t expected.

“Bring out the Dissidents!”

Once my mind registered this change in the agenda, my head snapped to the side in search of what he was insinuating. From the wing opposite me, through the darkness, figures began to emerge. Dressed in torn, faded garments, a group of Vires led them to the front and center of the stage, neatly lining them up in a row behind Sartorius.

As they came into view, my fingers curled into fists, tightening with each new Dissident who took the stage. Sartorius watched me closely because he was privy to knowledge that no one else here was aware of.

I knew every single one of them.

Sartorius strolled to the beginning of the line and shouted their names as he passed by. “Daniel Aymes…Teresa Mill…Bartholomew Pierce…Kathryn Davidson…Joseph White…Arthur McMillan…Cornelia Sullentrop. You have been convicted of treason, barbarianism, and conspiracy to harm others. For this, you will pay the ultimate price. However, in an effort to show greater kindness than what you have shown us, we have graciously allowed you to determine the method of your own death.”

The last word emitted from Sartorius’ mouth spurred me into action.

My arms rose to encircle the Vire closest to me. With his head lodged between my muscles, I used his body weight to send a sidekick into the hips of the first Vire to respond. He stumbled backwards until he lost his footing, collapsed to the floor, and slid across the stage.

One down.

I cranked the neck of the Vire I held enough to hear the split of bone, a sound that confirmed he was no longer a threat.

Two down.

I threw his lifeless body at the Vire lurching toward me. They both fell into a pile, tripping two more as they approached.

The attacks started coming from all angles, which I fended off using the techniques I’d learned from Theleo and improvised defense moves. My arms and feet found their targets easily as more Vires advanced, sending a steady stream of contact my way. My motions were smooth, effortless, a mastery of precision and strength. I felt in control of them and of those around me. “Come on!” I heard myself roar. “Come on!”

Then came the blow from above.

It was swift, silent, and effective. A damn good shot.

I fell to my knees a second after the strike landed on my head, directly from overhead, the one area I hadn’t kept in my sights. Whoever had levitated, had done it well.

My head spun.

My eyes refused to settle on any particular point.

My mind screamed at me to stand, knowing I had only seconds before…

And that was when my time ran out.

The kick to my face launched the first round of attacks on me, and I welcomed them.

My head whipped back and my body spun off kilter. Then I was on the floor, the cold, grey concrete slab that made up the stage where I was told to perform tonight.

And if ever there was a performance that combined blood and pain, I delivered it.

This was the hardest beating yet. Blood ran from every opening on my face and from several gashes across my skull. I determined this by the warmth that now covered my hair and skin. My right eye swelled shut and my left incisor rocked loosely from its place. But it was the sharp pain radiating from the side of my ribcage that made it obvious I had suffered a fracture. It intensified each time someone’s foot or fist struck my body.

I had been warned not to move, and Sartorius seemed intent on reminding me. He foresaw this happening. I now understood his keen focus on me as the Dissidents were escorted to the stage and for the cause behind his little pep talk before the rally began.

From my one good eye still able to open, I found him in the middle of the stage, just beyond the line of Dissidents who remained in place, and noted his smug expression. My beating wasn’t just for submission; it was also a tool to drive home his message about what happens when one of us stepped out of line. I had done this, literally, and paid the price.