by Amalie Jahn
Thomas leapt from the bench in an uncharacteristic display of revelry, scooping her into his arms. “You did it!” he cried, as he pressed her face into his chest.
She had done it. She’d played an instrumental role in securing Dalton’s arrest and subsequent conviction, but the outcome was still bittersweet. As the courtroom erupted into chaos around her, a small but concentrated point of apprehension smoldered deep in her gut. Because while the experience taught her a valuable lesson about trusting her abilities as well as her intuition, she also knew Dalton was merely a cog in a much larger machine. The buck certainly didn’t stop with him. Someone higher on the food chain was running the show.
She pulled away from Thomas, trying to convince herself she didn’t need to take one last look at Dalton. He’d caused so much turmoil in her life – plowing a rift between her and her father, imprisoning her along with the trafficked women, and nearly strangling her to death. She should be happy to never have to gaze upon his face again, and yet…
Thomas tucked her under the crook of his arm, almost as if he could sense what she wanted to do, but in the end, she couldn’t keep herself from glancing toward the front of the room where Dalton was being led away by the bailiff.
He was facing her, shrouded in an opaque darkness as clear to her across the room as it had been during their first meeting. Their eyes locked and a small smile played at his lips. And then, without a hint of irony, he winked at her, mouthing the words ‘see you soon.’
The courtroom was clearing out, people pushing and shoving into the hallway. “Let’s go,” Thomas said, steering her into the flow of spectators being corralled toward the exit. If he had seen the exchange, he didn’t let on. Her mind exploded, imagining why Dalton thought they would ever come face to face again.
CHAPTER
2
PATRICK
Wednesday, August 24
London
Patrick looked up from the book he was reading, startled by a subtle shift in the universe. He never tired of Nietzsche's Die fröhliche Wissenschaft and was loath to set it aside, but upon looking at his watch, he realized immediately what event had just transpired.
His colleague, Roger Dalton, had obviously just been sentenced. The difference in time zones between London and Baltimore meant that although the sun was setting just outside the window of his Compton Avenue estate, it was only 1:00 pm on the east coast of the US. The timing was just about right.
He set his book face down across the arm of the settee and closed his eyes, pulling at the periphery of his subconscious. There was no mistaking the surge of Roger’s anger and disappointment flooding into his system, an obvious indication of the direction the jury had decided. Patrick didn’t linger in the astral plane and quickly pulled back into himself.
Reflecting on the sentencing, he felt a twinge of sadness for the loss of his associate, but quickly shook it off. Roger had no one to blame but himself for his arrest and subsequent fall from power. In Patrick’s opinion, he’d been far too lax in screening the men he invited into the ring, as well as those he relied on to run the operation. There had been too many loose lips. Too many loose ends. And to have kidnapped the woman officer who knew too much instead of killing her outright was just plain sloppy. It was no wonder the whole undertaking blew up in Roger’s face. If there was any silver lining to the whole ordeal it was that there were no direct lines linking them to one another.
Patrick made sure of it.
He was no fool.
It was a shame though, to lose Roger from his inner circle. He was one of the few allies outside the prophecy who was a true nihilist - who understood what it meant to be free of the universal moral law.
He took a sip of his tea – no sugar, extra milk - and let the warmth of it melt away any lingering regret. He wouldn’t allow losing one man to derail his agenda. The mid-Atlantic trafficking operation was but one small cog in his vast empire.
Onward and upward. That’s what his father had always said.
That was, until Patrick had him eliminated.
With his evening of relaxation disrupted, his mind wandered. He placed a tasseled bookmark between the pages of Die fröhliche Wissenschaft and returned it to the mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on the far wall of his library. Beside him, laid out on the table in the center of the room, were the scrolls and faded parchment which had become the obsession of his adult life. Without making the conscious decision to pause beside the desk, his fingers traced the edge of the closest worn document. And then, as if powerless to stop it, he succumbed to the allure of the one focus which could always calm his nerves and hold his interest – the prophecy.
Patrick had been a perceptive child, splitting his time between his divorced parents – his mother in California and his father in South Africa. He didn’t mind being shuttled back and forth, like a prized possession, though seemingly less valuable than the collection of Chinese antiquities they also fought over until he left for college. He was fully aware neither of his parents enjoyed spending time with him, and that he was merely a pawn in the pageantry of their lives, leveraging him at every turn to spite one another. However, unlike most children who would have been traumatized by this insight, it didn’t bother him in the least. In fact, he took great pleasure in the fact that he was a constant source of turmoil between them.
Regardless of whether he was in the US or Africa, he was never a priority to whomever he was with and he knew it. The best part about being a throwaway child was it gave him plenty of free time to pursue his own endeavors, which from the time he was a teen included researching the Sevens Prophecy.
As he sat now at his desk, rereading the prophetic message which had been passed down from scribe to scribe through the ages, he felt the same sense of overwhelming pride he always felt in its presence. For he was as certain now as he had been as a teen that its words pertained directly to him.
Septuagent Prophecy
Lo, I say to you, who doth wait with great fear and longing for the great tribulation. An hour shall pass at such time in which seven seers of light and seven seers of darkness will be sent down upon the earth from the bosom of the heavens, charged with resolving the fate of all who walk the earth. Mystical powers from the creator shall draw them nigh, one to another, until such time that each shall join together, light to light, dark to dark. Shall the light prevail, making great haste in their assemblage, all glory and honor shall reign upon the earth. And woe to the earth, shall the dark prevail, as anguish and servitude will perpetuate forevermore.
By thirteen, Patrick had already identified his ability to sense what other people were thinking and feeling from great distances as clairvoyance. But instead of assuming he was going mad, with unsolicited access to other people’s thoughts and emotions, he embraced his gift for what he assumed it was – something which made him superior to everyone else.
He scanned a list of names, written in his fluid script, beneath the prophecy. His name, Patrick Meyer, was at the top. Below his were names of the four other men and women he’d confirmed were also foretold of in the prophecy. Beneath their names were two empty spaces.
Two empty spaces, which were not only the focus of his days, but also the cause for his recurring insomnia at night. He felt certain he was close to finding the fellow psychics who would usher in the End of Days, changing the world as he knew it.
Changing it for the better.
At least for Patrick.
He was examining a detailed spreadsheet – a meticulously compiled record of the thousands of people around the world who were born on his birthdate, February 17th. It was an extensive list, but not fully comprehensive, as there were many people whose births were never recorded due to any number of circumstances. For this reason, among others, Patrick employed a team of researchers whose purpose it was to discover the last two dark psychics while eliminating any potential light psychics they encountered along the way. Better to kill off any potential threats if their loyalty was in question
. Prudence was Patrick’s middle name.
That several months had passed without any new developments frustrated him to no end. Every day his seven remained apart was a day the others gained to gather themselves. He shuddered to think. Fortunately, he’d heard mention of a new discovery earlier in the week, and was relieved when minutes later, the doorbell’s deep gong announced his fellow psychic, Javier, had arrived for their weekly dinner meeting to fill him in on the team’s progress.
“The beef looks delicious, as always,” Patrick told Elsa, one of the small army of servants he kept on staff. “Please give my compliments to Mrs. Drury in the kitchen.”
“I certainly will,” Elsa replied, backing out of the room. “Let me know if there will be anything else.”
He waited until the door latch clicked behind her, and as soon as they were alone, Patrick began grilling Javier about the lead on Number Six.
“She’s Brazilian, as we expected,” Javier announced in his thick Spanish accent, after taking a sip of his wine and tucking a lock of his shoulder-length hair behind his ear.
“So it is a woman after all? Eshanti’s drawings are correct?” He was intrigued. Before the discovery of the Brazilian, he’d been speculating about the abilities of the latest addition to their group, a girl they’d discovered in India, who had the capacity to subconsciously inscribe words and drawings, giving valuable insight to future events. When he discovered her, she’d shown him dozens of drawings of his likeness scattered around her room. She’d predicted his arrival with her art. “That’s truly remarkable considering this latest find in Brazil wasn’t even on the list.”
Javier chewed and swallowed a bite of his Wellington. “Apparently Eshanti’s psychographic ability is stronger than we imagined. Using her drawings of the girl and her surroundings, Wesley was able to track her down, questioning locals along the way. She lives in an isolated portion of the Amazonian river basin. And you wouldn’t believe some of the pictures the team sent back. Talk about primitive living. Houses built on sticks. Thatched roofs. Like a National Geographic special. They don’t even speak Portuguese, so Wesley had to find a local translator to communicate.” He took another bite and glanced up from his plate, a mischievous look in his eye. “They told him her name’s Akantha. It means ‘burning sun.’”
Patrick instinctively reached out into the astral plane in an attempt to connect to her, but he could not. Her location was far too remote. Or at least that was the reason he allowed himself to use as an excuse. “What does she do?”
Javier didn’t look up from his plate. “Pyrokinesis.”
“You’re kidding,” he gasped, imagining the good fortune of having someone with the ability to manipulate fire at their disposal. “And her birthday checks out?”
Javier nodded, setting his fork down for the first time, clearly enjoying his role as the messenger. “As far as we can tell. She’s the right age, and she was born in the summer, most likely February, based on the crops being harvested at the time of her birth, as well as her parents’ accounts.”
Patrick chewed on this information but was leery of allowing himself to get too excited. They’d found others before who had seemed promising but hadn’t proven to be part of the prophecy in the end. “And we’re sure she’s one of us?” he asked finally, accentuating her relation to their group.
Javier lifted his wine glass and smirked. “When Wesley found her, she was locked in a rudimentary metal cage in the center of a large clearing. Apparently she kept burning down houses. And sections of the forest.”
“On purpose?” Patrick interrupted, raising an eyebrow at the possibility.
“It seems that way,” he replied.
Patrick’s pulse quickened at the prospect of discovering the sixth member of the prophecy. “Where is she now?”
Javier dipped his final bite of beef in the au jus. “Wesley told the girl’s family he was a doctor who could help with her affliction. The plan was to bring her here, unless you’d prefer we take her somewhere else.”
Patrick’s uneaten food cooled on his plate as he contemplated his next move. It was typical for Wesley to bring the men and women they found to him for questioning. He’d been chosen for the job because of his gargantuan stature, as he was an imposing force most chose not to oppose. But Akantha was an anomaly. She didn’t speak a known language, much less have the ability to communicate well enough for their standard interview. And it seemed she might not be impressed by Wesley’s stature in the same way others had been in the past.
Their interrogation process was developed by Patrick and Javier in the early days of their pursuit. They’d met as teenagers, while Patrick was visiting the Mediterranean city of Marbella, on what was supposed to have been a family holiday during the summer of his fifteenth year. However, instead of sightseeing with his mother, who chose to devote her days to boutique shopping and sunning herself poolside, Patrick cast off on his own to explore the seedy underbelly of the city without her. Which is where he met Javier, in a back alley running a small gambling operation. He was drawn to the boy immediately.
“Do you remember the day we met?” Patrick asked him now, changing the subject. “How smart you thought you were, using your ability to bamboozle all those poor tourists.”
Javier chuckled. “I made more money with that stupid ball and cup gag as a kid than some people make in a lifetime,” he boasted.
“It helps when you can move the ball from under the cup with your mind,” Patrick teased.
In response, Javier raised his glass as if to toast, without the use of his hands. “That it does,” he replied, before taking a sip. “I couldn’t figure out for the life of me how you were able to guess where it was every time.”
“It helps when you can sense where the ball is, even when the bozo running the show keeps moving it.” Patrick laughed, and then regarded his associate more seriously. “I’m glad you trusted me enough in those early days to share your secret with me. Look at everything we’ve built together since then. And now this… finding Number Six. It’s like a dream come true. We’re so close to the end.”
“So close,” he repeated. “But first we need to figure out what to do with Akantha. She could be tough, especially since she seems intent on burning things up. Worse still, we don’t have a good way to communicate with her. It’ll be hard to explain who we are and who she is with regard to the prophecy.”
Patrick considered their options. It seemed as if there was only one solution. “I think it’s time to bring in Lillian.”
CHAPTER
3
JOSE
Thursday, August 25
Phoenix
The hospital was as quiet as hospitals ever can be, which is to say there was still a modicum of chatter from the nurses’ station and muted clicks and beeps could still be heard coming from patients’ rooms if you listened carefully. Beyond that, the halls were silent, as no visitors were allowed in the ICU overnight.
Jose passed through the ward on his way to the ER and gave a nod to Selma, one of the nurses who also worked the graveyard shift. The two had been out together several times but no relationship ever developed. This bothered Jose if for no other reason than he had always been drawn to the warmth of her smile. She waved to him, barely making eye contact, and quickly returned to her conversation with the others.
He slowed his pace once he was past their line of sight and scanned the patients’ names on the doors as he strolled down the hallway. He was familiar with all but two, who he assumed had been brought in since his shift the night before. Their files hung on wall hooks just outside their rooms, and after glancing back down the corridor to be sure he wouldn’t be seen, he snatched Chloe Hall’s clipboard from the wall and stepped inside her room.
The lights were off and except for a faint overhead light in the doorway and the eerie glow of the machinery monitors, the room was dark. He peered into the dimness and could barely make out the shape of a figure asleep under the sheet. Chloe appeared tiny
and her chart confirmed that she was only 17 years old, hospitalized as the result of a traumatic head injury – a horseback riding accident was listed as the cause. Jose crept slightly further into the room until he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest and the green halo of the ventilation machine. Wisps of hair peeked out from beneath the gauze around her head and he imagined what she’d looked like the day before, atop her horse soaring across the Sonoran Desert, the wind chasing her down.
Without a word, he reentered the hallway, cautiously replaced Chloe’s chart, and entered the room of the other newcomer to the ward, Matt Mulhaney. A quick scan of his chart revealed the reason for his admission – a front end collision with a dump truck early that morning. He’d spent all day in surgery having his arms and legs bolted back together, and while there was only a slight threat of internal bleeding, the doctor’s notes indicated he remained in the ICU because of his lethally high blood pressure. Framed by the light from the hallway, Mulhaney appeared to be a sort of prehistoric arachnid, his limbs suspended around him as if he was caught in a web of his own construction. Jose wondered if the man’s family was waiting somewhere in the building or if they’d relented and gone home after a full day of weeping and praying. He envisioned the man’s small children climbing over waiting room furniture, no longer satisfied with broken crayons and daytime TV, unable to comprehend just what ‘critical condition’ really meant.
Jose left the second patient’s room more confused than when he entered, and after confirming he hadn’t been seen, made his way through the double doors and into the elevator which delivered him to the emergency room where he was expected for work. The glaring brightness and cacophony of the ER was a stark contrast to the intensive care unit on the second floor. Vanessa, the head nurse, spotted him cutting through triage on the way to the break room and stopped him before he even had a chance to drop off his bag.