Night Shadows (Children of Nostradamus Book 2)

by Jeremy Flagg

  “We’ll stop them,” Alyssa said. Jasmine appreciated the girl lending herself to the cause. A small part of her wanted to spare her the atrocities she’d witness when Jasmine got a hold of the General.

  There was a long pause, an awkward empty lull in the questioning. Jasmine sat up at the sight of Gretchen’s face. She had seen that expression before, the one where a person recalls every decision made in their life. Jasmine leaned in, ready to ask what she was thinking.

  “Eleanor,” she whispered.

  Gretchen evaporated from sight. Jasmine noted the impression in the chair growing faint as she left the seat. There were no footfalls or the sounds of breathing, just a crackling fire playing with the shadows of the room. Jasmine turned about, looking for where the punk may have run to.

  The lights at the end of the warehouse came to life. The fixtures were suspended from the rafters and projected onto the far wall of the warehouse. They were perfectly spaced apart, providing light to the entirety of the wall. Jasmine didn’t understand art, but she could tell somebody had spent a significant amount of time painting the wall. Along the corrugated steel, there were paintings of synthetics tearing apart people and several figures lying on the ground reaching outward, their faces in agony as they tried to stop the act.

  “Gruesome.”

  Behind the scene of brutality, a large black shape stretched from top to bottom of the wall. At first, she thought it was a giant circle emphasizing the center of the scene, but the more her eyes scanned the artwork, the more it appeared as if the circle was a swirl with a bird-like head.

  “A hawk,” she whispered.

  “A Nighthawk,” Gretchen corrected.

  Jasmine turned to see Alyssa’s pale face. The young girl stood from the chair and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders as she took several steps closer. Jasmine turned back to the wall and inspected the shape again. It was obvious, a stylized image of a bird.

  “I got a letter from Eleanor Valentine. I couldn’t figure out why a domestic terrorist paid me any attention. I figured she must have seen the future and felt the need to send a message to me.”

  Jasmine’s stomach turned uneasy as she felt the psychic pulling their strings again. “What did it say?”

  “Not much,” Gretchen admitted. “‘Await the Nighthawks’.”

  Gretchen stepped out in front of them and turned. The fire made the light on her face dance; the shadows deepened the lines, making her look older than she was.

  Jasmine tried to hide her annoyance at the psychic. “We’re the Nighthawks.”

  Gretchen shook her head and tried to process the words. “I knew it. I knew it had something to do with Conthan.”

  “How?” asked Alyssa.

  “Have you ever asked him about Edward Hopper? He won’t shut up about the man.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Jasmine put her hand on Alyssa’s shoulder. “We need to get the others.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” asked Gretchen.

  Her face gave away her insecurity. The woman was covered in piercings and tattoos, and if you met her on the street, you’d probably shy away from her. Despite her tough exterior, Jasmine felt a tinge of remorse for stumbling into the woman’s life. “We’re going to war.”

  “Oh, fuck…”

  Chapter 23

  1993

  The atmosphere was quiet, other than the beeps of the monitor attached to the young girl. Her hospital room lacked any bells and whistles, only monitoring equipment, her bed, and a chair by her side. Mark had been sitting next to her for nearly an hour, watching her chest rise and fall in time with the pulsing light on the machines. There was something calm and relaxing about watching over her, almost as if her abilities exuded her sedated state.

  A deep breath filled his nostrils with the smell of bleach, reminding him they lived in a sterile setting. The vile scents made him want to cough.

  His nightmares had been worsening, getting more terrifying each night. When he woke, images of creatures clawing at his clothing lingered. He stopped sleeping for pleasure and only did it out of necessity. Even now, he approached the twenty-four hour mark of no sleep. He reached a point of exhaustion, but his body needed to push forward. Sitting here in the dimly lit room was the closest thing he required to sleep. He hovered in a state between being awake and nodding off. At least in this state, the dark, violent images couldn’t reach him.

  Penelope had been in a coma for months, medically induced by Ivan and his staff. They weren’t sure how to control an empath’s abilities. Even Ivan, with all of his knowledge on mentalists, wasn’t sure how he could protect them against somebody capable of pushing emotions onto others.

  Mark wanted to speak with her. He wanted to ask her questions about his own state of mind. There was something weighing on his soul, and he feared the dreams were less the cause and more a symptom of his own deep-seated issues. Beneath the surface, he feared the dark rage emerging whenever his fortitude faltered.

  He leaned forward and touched her hand, careful not to disturb the IV penetrating the skin inside her elbow. Her skin was soft, to the point where it almost felt fake. The muscles in her hand didn’t respond as he clenched her fingers. He was sure it was in his head, but even the slightest contact seemed to give him a moment to breathe. His mind quieted.

  He looked to the bag hanging near her head, the fluid dripping consistently into the tube below. He reached for the chart at the foot of her bed, the red stamp, “Project Nostradamus” pressed onto the cover. He started flipping through the pages. He could barely make out the notes by Ivan, but he finally found information on treatment from when Penelope was first admitted.

  Mark looked at the device controlling the fluids being released into her body. He pushed several buttons until the Propofol slowed and then stopped. A buzzer in the machine sounded. He flipped the switch, silencing it. The room quieted. Now the fluid dripping into her body was nothing more than saline. He sat back in the chair and waited, his hand still clenched around her fingers.

  He leaned forward in his chair, startling himself awake. His eyes darted around the room as he wiped the sleep from them. As he tried to read the clock above the head of the bed, he became aware of two soft brown eyes staring back at him. She looked incredibly young with her eyes resting shut, but with them open, she didn’t appear to be any more than a child. He glanced at the door to see if any of the staff were present. Even drowsy, her lips curled in a faint smile.

  “Hi, Penelope.” His voice was soft but it felt as if he was shouting in the room.

  “Hi, mister,” she said, her voice quiet and coarse from months of not speaking. She gave a slight cough. He grabbed a paper cup and filled it with water from the small sink in the corner of the room. He held it up to her lips and let her take several tiny sips. She rested her head back on the pillow and let the water wet her mouth. “Where are my mamá and papá?”

  “Penelope, what’s the last thing you remember?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and they darted back and forth behind her lids. “Men were grabbing me. They were saying bad things. A boy said he’d make sure I was safe.”

  Her eyes opened and asked the question before her mouth could. “His name is Arturo, he’s safe and doing very well. He’s been asking about you, Penelope. He wanted to make sure you knew he did his best to keep you safe.”

  Her eyes closed again, appearing almost too heavy to keep open. She gave a slight nod with her head. “I remember, sir.”

  “We had to keep you asleep because of what you’re able to do, Penelope.”

  Her face was delicate. Her tan skin and dark hair mixed with her accent suggested she might be Latin American. Nothing in the report mentioned her family. As with Ivan, large portions of the document preceding her was scratched out, thick black lines removing any details worth knowing. The moment he saw the black marker he knew something horrible happened to her. He assumed her family was dead, most likely at the hands of A
merican soldiers.

  “Why are you sad, mister?”

  Mark realized every emotion dancing across his mind was out in the open for her. Ivan explained to him empaths were similar to telepaths in the fact that they could read another person. However, where telepaths could read thoughts, empaths focused almost entirely on emotional states. They also learned the day she arrived that not only could they receive emotion, they could project it outward. Her being awake was potentially influencing everybody in the center.

  “I’m not sad,” he said. “I’m just thinking really hard.”

  “You can’t lie to me, mister,” she said. “I can tell.” The words weren’t a threat, or even accusatory, just a simple fact.

  He didn’t mind being a human amongst these titans, however, their ability to invade the one space he didn’t want them, that made him worry. She was only picking up on his worry at the moment, but if a panicked guard walked in, or a shocked doctor, how would that change her state of mind? If she became panicked, it could wreak havoc with the entire building.

  “Do you know what you can do, Penelope?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know how dangerous it can be?”

  “Mamá would tell me that. She was always concerned the men would find us. She said if they knew what I could do, they would kill me.”

  Her tone was flat. For a child, she was extremely adept at keeping her emotions in check. Mark wondered if her parents had trained her to be numb to the world or if she had come by that on her own. The distant look in her eyes told him she was processing what happened, but if she had any feelings about it, he couldn’t read it on her face. Despite her childish features, she was the most skilled poker player he ever encountered.

  “Can you read my thoughts?”

  Her head gave a slight shake. She opened her eyes; the brown in her iris was so dark it almost appeared black. “I feel a lot. I can tell what you’re feeling. I can tell if you’re happy or sad. If I try really hard I can make you feel happy.”

  “How did you learn to do that?”

  She stared blankly at him, as if she didn’t understand the question. He pulled his chair closer, resting his arms on her bed. “When did you know you could do that?”

  “You’re eager,” she said softly. “But, you’re worried about something. Something has been bothering you lately and it makes you…” she paused as she glanced him up and down “angry.”

  “Penelope, I need to ask you a personal question.”

  She instinctively held her hand out for him, her palm facing upward, waiting for his hand. It hovered just above hers; he felt hesitant about what she might be able to see in him. He didn’t question her abilities, he questioned whether he could handle hearing his doubts confirmed by the young girl. She lifted her fingers, locking them around his much larger ones.

  He couldn’t tell if the tingling along his skin was her doing or his paranoia being overactive. She closed her eyes, shutting them tight as she let out a slight grunt. Her face distorted, as if she was smelling something rather unpleasant. He waited for her to say something, but her face continued to contort.

  You’re scared she’ll confirm your fears.

  Mark ignored the voice in the back of his head. It had gotten louder the last few months and now he felt crazy as he held conversations with the throaty man just out of hearing range. Mark focused on the girl, hoping she would tell him something, anything at this point. All he wanted was confirmation he wasn’t going crazy.

  She knows I’m here.

  The voice most often mocked him, poking at his insecurities. It was only when he felt the rage building in his chest that the voice became confidant, determined to give him an outlet for the violence brimming just below the surface. He kept it in check, but only as long as he stayed awake. When he slept he saw the shadow in his dreams, pushing at him, taunting him, determined to break down his armor.

  “Anger. Rage. Underneath the worry, there is a bubbling rage, sir.”

  Mark resisted the urge to draw back. He didn’t want to hear what might come next. Before he pulled his hand away, her fingers dug deeply into his hand, nails biting into his skin.

  “There is something wrong. Your dreams are haunted. There is something growing inside you. Something dark.”

  Her grip refused to relent. “It’s going to kill you, sir. It’s going to consume you. It’s evil. It wants you.”

  Her back arched as she sat bolt upright in the bed. Her nails cut deeper, drawing thin lines of blood from his palm. Her eyes glazed over, staring off into nowhere. She hissed through her teeth, as if she attempted to scare away a cat.

  “I see you.”

  She paused as if somebody spoke back. “You are an evil, evil man. Go away, bad man.”

  Mark reached for a needle resting on the table next to Penelope. If she grew angry, it would flood the center and with trigger-happy security guards. He wasn’t sure how long it would take before they came storming the room and shot them both. She continued looking at the corner of the room, talking to some invisible person.

  “Leave him alone.”

  Mark paused at the statement. “Leave who alone?”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  She attempted to recoil, letting go of his hand. Mark didn’t dare risk her losing control. He poked the needle into her arm and thrust the plunger down, flooding her body with a sedative. She gave him a sad glance before her eyes shut and she drifted off.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as sleep consumed her.

  Chapter 24

  2033

  Jasmine heard the glass shatter before she saw the fractured shards falling. High in the rafters, a window broke as a large object was hurled through the panes. Vanessa followed, jumping through with her wings tucked behind her. As she neared the ground they shot open, sending her speeding parallel to and only a few feet above the cement.

  They’re here. The call sounded through her head as if yelled by Vanessa. It dawned on her the fallen object was a synthetic. If there was one on the roof, there’d be another somewhere on the ground. She couldn’t imagine they’d be trolling through the warehouse district without backup.

  “There’s probably another one,” she said to Alyssa and Gretchen.

  “Gretchen, do you have a computer here?”

  The girl produced a piece of clear plastic and held it out to Alyssa. “Will my phone do?”

  “Can you keep both of you invisible?”

  Gretchen nodded. The punker grabbed onto Alyssa’s hand and both blinked out sight. Jasmine hoped the girl could find quick inspiration for her powers. She didn’t need to worry about people who couldn’t take care of themselves.

  Vanessa landed a few feet away. “I only saw one, but they know we’re here. They’re going to come in force again.”

  “We won’t be staying very long,” Jasmine said.

  A scream sounded from the room Skits had claimed as her bedroom. A flash of blue light burst through the cracks in the corrugated metal wall. A second later she stepped out, a head in her hand. She dropped the metal skull onto the floor and eyed the two women. “I think we have a problem.”

  The fallen synthetic started heading toward the group at a light jog. Jasmine focused on the skin underneath her bracer and on the softest metal. With a simple thought her skin tightened and her epidermis changed density. She ignored the pain searing through her muscles. With the less dense materials, she could shift without collapsing onto the ground. For a single synthetic, she wouldn’t need skin impenetrable enough to withstand tank munitions.

  Her muscles followed suit, strengthening in response to the added weight of her body. She started charging toward the machine as the tension in her limbs tightened. She imagined it wouldn’t be long; they’d wipe the floor with these two. Then they’d be on their way, hopefully to take this fight to the doorstep of their attackers.

  The machine dropped to all fours, running more animal like than human. She launched herself into the air, re
ady to tackle the synthetic to the floor. It dropped, sliding harmlessly along the pavement underneath her. It continued running, directing itself toward Vanessa.

  “What the hell?” Jasmine whispered as she tried to get her footing and change direction.

  She chased after the robot. It was going to charge into Vanessa, and while the woman was strong, she wasn’t quite a fighter. Jasmine watched as Gretchen appeared out of thin air along with Alyssa. She let go of the younger woman and grabbed onto Vanessa’s arm. As quickly as the tattooed woman appeared, she vanished.

  The machine halted its pursuit. Jasmine knew in that moment, whoever was coming after them wasn’t after the rest of the team, they wanted Vanessa. Somebody out there wanted the mentalist. At least this observation narrowed the list of attackers.

  “Come here,” Alyssa yelled.

  The machine stood upright and stalked toward the girl. She slid the glass phone into her pocket and ducked its first swipe. She went to sweep the robot’s legs out from under it, a well-rehearsed maneuver. The machine jumped, avoiding her attack. As it landed the synthetic launched a kick toward her head. She managed to block it, but not before it sent her rolling backward.

  “Something’s wrong,” she yelled.

  Jasmine caught up to them and grabbed the arm of the robot. It spun around and jabbed her in the throat. Even in her armored form, the impact caused her to choke. It followed the shot by reaching down and grabbing her at the knees. It lifted her up, then dropped her, sending her flat onto her back. She caught the machine’s foot as it attempted to stomp on her.

  Vanessa blinked into sight and slammed both her fists down on the machine’s back. Jasmine kicked the thing off her and scrambled to her feet. Gretchen appeared and grabbed both of their shoulders. The moment her skin touched their bodies, color vanished.