Prophecy (Residue Series #4) (3 page)

When they were finished, Sartorius strolled to me, bent down, and clapped. The sound reverberated across the silent theater. “Excellent performance, Jameson.
Excellent
performance.”

I opened my mouth to curse back but my body was lifted by two Vires using my arms to hoist me up, and I was dragged to the side of the stage. I readied myself for the release and the certain fall to the concrete floor, where my body would suffer more extensive damage. But despite my props being out of breath, a fact I took an enormous amount of pride in, they didn’t drop me. Sartorius, apparently, had ordered them to keep me upright…and visible for all to see.

Sartorius turned back to the audience and proclaimed loudly a warning that was most commonly heard from Peregrine. “Rebellion will not be tolerated. To reinforce this point, we will begin the punishments.”

In immediate response, three Vires took their positions behind the row of Dissidents, and their purpose was clear: A Levitator, a Channeler, and an Elementalist would offer a range of lethal blows to choose from.

The Vires restraining me tightened their hold, knowing my opposition would come quickly. Being prepared for it this time, they kept me pretty well locked down.

Not considering me much of a threat any more, Sartorius pinned his attention on the first Dissident in line. “Daniel Aymes, for your role in breaking the laws established for the sanctity of our world, by what means do you wish to die?”

With his back to me, I couldn’t see his expression, but the quiver in his shoulders told me everything I needed to know. He was terrified. Still, despite the fear swallowing him, Daniel remained silent. I remembered him clearly from the village. He was skilled in accounting and had formed a complex, but fair, bartering system. He knew nothing about fighting, or dying. This was his first experience with both.

Sartorius gave him no extension of time. Almost immediately, he replied casually, “Very well then.” After a quick nod from Sartorius toward the three Vires readied behind the Dissidents, Daniel’s body was flung upward, slamming into the auditorium’s overhanging ceiling, a force that sent a shower of concrete back to the stage. When Daniel’s body returned, it landed with an explosion that rocked the auditorium.

Groans and shrieks from those unable to stifle their reaction rose above the crowd. Heads turned away, a few vomited in the aisles.

I processed these reactions only slightly because my own had taken over. A roar resounded off the walls, coming from me, my vision blurring from its intensity.

Fighting against those restraining me, I weakened them enough to free myself. But I didn’t get far. Sartorius sent additional Vires to subdue me, plenty to immobilize every limb and form a supplementary circle for increased protection.

“Teresa Mill,” Sartorius said, wasting no time in starting again. “By what means do you wish to die?”

After a glance at Daniel’s body, she followed his conduct and refused to answer. When Sartorius recognized these responses for what they were – final acts of rebellion – he moved more rapidly. After another brief nod by Sartorius, a Vire took hold of Teresa’s arm and proceeded to channel his vehemence directly into her. She was dead in seconds. The next four Dissidents suffered fatal injuries that ranged from becoming encased in fire to being pressed against the ceiling until they were asphyxiated. With each victim, I fought harder, and was suppressed with growing hostility.

Sartorius didn’t care that these were the people who The Sevens had promised to keep safe so many generations ago, and who now were being punished simply for seeking a life of freedom. What mattered now to Sartorius and his associates was that they served a purpose; they were minions, pawns in The Sevens’ goal to dominate. This rally was meant to drive home this very point.

The last Dissident standing was Cornelia. I had met her once, after an invitation for dinner at her cottage in Salem, Massachusetts. She had housed a defected Vire, one who had stolen a record of the first channelers’ prophecy of the future; although I couldn’t be certain that was the crime that had led her to the stage tonight. Sartorius’ sneer, and the evident pleasure he took in standing before her, made me think it was.

“Cornelia Sullentrop,” he stated, his eyes sparkling at what was to come. “By what means-”

She didn’t let him finish. The hunched, squat body of hers held more resilience and contention than the audience before her as a whole, and it wouldn’t allow Sartorius the benefit of taking power over her. It was, I knew by the straightening of her back and the lift of her head, what drove her to whisper her defiant last words.

Her lips lifted in a bold smile and she hissed, “Something prophetic this way comes.”

Sartorius’ face twisted in offense as rage followed closely behind, because he understood exactly what she meant: He hadn’t won. He could take her life, and all of those on the stage, but it wouldn’t deter the end. The future…the prophecy…was still coming, and when it arrived it would be The Sevens who lost.

My broken ribs sent pulsating sparks of pain through me and my swollen eye throbbed, but I welcomed the distractions. Physical pain made me alert. My energy high, I could unravel her riddle too. And it gave me hope. Ignoring the odd sensation of my loosened tooth, a grin spread across my lips.

Sartorius’ own lip curled in unmistakable insult as he brushed aside his suit jacket and withdrew a dagger. No sooner had it appeared did it disappear, thrust deep inside Cornelia’s chest.

I didn’t have time to feel remorse, or pity, or fury. Sartorius pulled the blade from her body, motioned for the Dissidents to be removed, and spoke again before Cornelia collapsed to the stage. His next command brought on a feeling I hadn’t expected, and an intensity I wasn’t prepared to handle. He spat the words, “Bring out Jocelyn Weatherford,” and all I sensed while searching the wings for movement was agonizing desire.

2
REUNITED

I
HAD JUST WITNESSED THE DEATH
of seven innocent individuals, and their murderers were now escorting the woman I love into the execution frenzy.

Committing the faces of those leaving the stage to memory, I would make sure they would die for it. The fact they were acting on Sartorius’ command didn’t mean a damn thing to me, not when it came to Jocelyn.

She was here to serve a purpose, that much I knew. There was no other rationale for Sartorius to risk his prized possession in this way. There were too many variables he couldn’t control…a revolt from the audience, Dissidents following them here, a rescue attempt which only a handful of Vires would be present to stop. So, whatever the reason was to bring her, it was worth the risk of losing her.

Then all my rambling thoughts came to a halt, because Jocelyn appeared from the dark.

Wearing a white dress, her arms and shoulders bare, she was entrancing. Every person in attendance had their eyes pinned on her. But their reasons were different from mine. They saw her as a symbol, while I knew her to be a person. They had dressed her in a way that looked delicate, but I knew her true hardiness.

She had lost weight, which told me that she wasn’t eating enough. Her movements were languid, which meant she was fatigued. Her eyes were hollow, empty of emotion, either a reaction to the environment or as a result of the wall she must have built to preserve herself from what she was enduring.

I wanted to hold her, carry her away from here where she couldn’t be used as a tool any longer. I wanted to lay her down, kiss her, feel her body against mine. I wanted her to be safe. I wanted her happy. I wanted the hollowness in her eyes to be filled with life again.

She didn’t recognize me, at first. A scan of the stage told her only that a Vire had been beaten and was now being restrained. I could see this in her expression when her innate need to heal others kept her eyes on me a bit longer than they should have.

I’m here, sweetheart,
I said, trying to channel across the depth of the stage to her.
I’m right here with you.

She hadn’t lost her yearning to help others. I could see that, but it was during that lingering gaze on me when she saw who was hidden beneath the blood and pus and swollen skin. Her face contorted, not much, just enough to be picked up by an observant eye. And her body instinctively shifted in my direction.

Yes, it’s me. I’m right here.

The Vires escorting her corrected her path and she ended up in front of Sartorius. If he had been observing us, as I suspected he was, then he knew that placing us in the close proximity could cause upheaval. Still, as if he had all the power and influence in the world, he casually extended a hand to her, silently insisting that she take it. She responded hesitantly, taking his fingers cautiously.

You haven’t turned her, have you, Sartorius? You failed to recondition her to willingly do your bidding, didn’t you?
I thought, my excitement returning, energy surging through me.
You told me once that was your ultimate wish, and even though she’s now within your power, in the flesh, without anyone to help her, she resisted you. You are a failure of a man.

But my excitement turned to alarm and my entire being contracted because he led her across the stage to me. Sartorius did nothing unless it was to his advantage. If he brought her here tonight, and he now wanted to bring us together, there was a depraved reason behind it.

Having seen my reaction, Sartorius warned, “Steady yourself, Jameson.”

Nevertheless, he stopped several feet from me.

Only after the flare in my nostrils subsided and the clench of my jaw abated did he continue. Then he made a demand so quietly, so blunt without emotion that I questioned whether I heard him correctly. “Touch her,” he said.

As I processed his words, his eyes narrowed at me.

“Touch…her.”

“No,” I replied flatly.

I wanted nothing more than to touch her, to feel her skin beneath my fingers, and to make sure she was not an illusion conjured by brain injuries from the beatings or from my desperate need to see her again. But Sartorius’ insistence raised questions, and triggered an automatic refusal from me.

“TOUCH HER!” Sartorius bellowed, causing many in the audience to stir.

“No.”

Hi jaw jutted out in fury at being denied before a crowd which my presence here was meant to subdue, Sartorius refused to yield. Instead, he proved to what extent he would go to rebuild his reputation as one to be feared by jeopardizing the life of his most prized possession. Raising the dagger he had used to impale Cornelia, still coated with her blood, he placed it against Jocelyn’s neck and then leveled his eyes at me.

You son of a…

I glared steadily at him but I didn’t hesitate, immediately advancing the three paces it took to reach them, lifting my hand to her face and placing my palm against her cheek. It was easier than I thought, or than I wanted, drawn there by her eyes, the edge of Sartorius’ blade, and my desperate need to remove the space between us. At the very same time, her hands rose and settled against my face, and her touch sent a rush of exhilaration through me.

She felt the same because at the moment our skin met she whispered my name… “Jameson…,” she breathed and her melodic voice riveted me.

It was hushed, filled with sympathy, and it echoed through me, reminding me of my own ability.

It had been so long since I had channeled with anyone that it felt…surreal. But I was glad this reminder was with Jocelyn and no one else. It was intimate, and something I wouldn’t want to share with anyone but her.

“Jocelyn…” I whispered, making sure my lips did not move. Still, I sounded hoarse in my own mind.

She smiled, such a beautiful smile.

It had been nine weeks since we saw each other and the urge to be with her rapidly became uncontrollable. There was no stopping the flood of emotion pent up for so long, and it broke through with overwhelming force. Nothing, not The Sevens, nor the distance, could ever diminish the feelings I have for her. And this became obvious when the simple touch of our hands wasn’t enough. Not for me.

“Damn it all,” I said out loud, giving in, moving forward so eagerly our bodies stopped my motion. She gave me a perplexed look.

“I’m tired of being reserved,” I heard myself grumble before my lips came down on hers.

I suddenly became acutely aware of her hips against mine and the smell of flowers in her hair, the feel of her dress as it brushed across my forearm, but nothing dominated my senses more than the feel of her lips. They were soft and trembling with emotion until they grew impatient, wanting.

“You feel so good,” I thought.

“Jameson…,” she sighed, her voice thick with emotion in my head.

The audience faded away; there was no longer any murmur from the crowd as they observed us, no theater walls forming a temporary prison, no Vires on hand to control us, and no Sartorius watching with intent curiosity. There was only the feel of her touching me, her movement, her desire for me. Nothing else in the world mattered at that moment.

All the worry over her safety, the loneliness that had settled in the pit of my stomach and the fears that invaded my nightmares over what she was enduring…all of it was gone. In its place was Jocelyn, my sweet Jocelyn…