Dark Sight

by T. G. Ayer

  “Remember, there is nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. As terrible as it sounds, there is no escape from this disease, so packing up your family and running for the hills isn’t advisable. You may do so if you wish, but you’d only be adding to the panic when it does erupt. And it will be fruitless, for they will all die anyway if we can’t eradicate the disease.”

  “So we’re supposed to stay and keep working only to die?” Corina lifted a brow.

  Max nodded. “Or you could run away. And die.” Max smiled sadly. “In the end, it is your choice. But if we are able to find a cure for the disease, then rest assured you will feel the full brunt of the agency’s punishment for desertion.”

  Flavius smiled. “Well. How about we hope for a cure then. I’m not sure what’s worse. FAPA punishment or living in the hills with my ex-wife and our two brats.”

  Everyone laughed and the levity broke the strain of the conversation. Max disbanded the meeting and headed for his office, where he paused beside his desk to stare out the window at the green rolling hills.

  The trees hid villas, townhouses and marketplaces, but the sprawling city was built with such respect to the natural surroundings that you could hardly tell how large it was. It almost looked rural.

  Max sank into his chair and stared at the files piled upon his desk.

  As much as he’d put on a positive face for his team, the hopelessness of the situation made ordinary office work feel increasingly pointless.

  Chapter 7

  Aurelia’s death still weighed on Maximus’s soul.

  He’d known the oracle well, having been the designated FAPA representative who’d visited her every few months to hear her prophecies.

  Her existence was both the best and the worst kept secret, with most governments and organizations knowing about her, but with the general public largely unaware of her importance, or of her prophecies.

  Her foretellings had grown garbled and incomprehensible over the last few years, so bad that on the last two visits Max had returned without any actionable information. His frustration had only been amplified by General Aulus’s impatience with the whole concept of prophecy. His boss had never been a fan of the Pythia.

  Max flipped open the first file. Wasting the last remaining days of his life on dull routine was pathetic, but he remembered his words to the team and realized he was in no position to set a bad example.

  He’d perused and signed off on a dozen files when he opened a report from the Las Suertes Office.

  The report referenced claims that a scam artist had predicted how a rich tennis player would soon die of a terrible illness.

  Max frowned. Had news of the coming catastrophe leaked out in Las Suertes, of all places?

  From the report, the two agents, incompetents that they were, had brushed the story off as a crackpot trying to scam her clients. Granted that could be true, but given what Max knew, it was alarming enough to warrant further investigation instead of assuming it was merely a scam.

  The young woman who had made those claims, a physical therapist in Barbarina Town, could conceivably be the real deal. Many people, like Flavius and Corina, possessed legitimate powers to foresee events.

  Which was the very reason they’d been aware of the upcoming destruction. Aurelia herself had implied something a year ago, but at the time her predictions had begun to make less sense, and her cryptic utterance had been hard to unravel.

  A few months back, four FAPA seers had dreamed of similar events but that had been a one-off, as none of those agents had since reported a similar vision.

  Max re-read the report before him, trying to understand the woman in question and what possible motive she could have for masquerading as a seer and making such claims.

  He put Citizen Allegra Damascus’s name into a FAPA search program – if she had ever been interviewed or suspected in connection with a crime or trial, or if she was in the habit of making prophecies for payment, the program would reveal it.

  Nothing came up.

  So why had the local agents jumped to the conclusion she might be a scam artist? It did not make sense.

  Nothing in her history implied that she was crooked, nor was there anything in her past that implied an ability for prophecy.

  Why had she so suddenly begun to have visions that were so terrible and dire?

  It was rare for seers to come into the gift in their late twenties. The power usually reared its head in the early teens and only grew stronger with age. Complete visions of a particular person’s future were very rare, not at all likely for a mere beginner.

  He stiffened as a thought crossed his mind.

  Could it be ….?

  Max held his breath as he counted back the days since Aurelia’s death. It had occurred just six hours before the incident with the tennis player, as described in the report of the visions of the mysterious Citizen Allegra Damascus of Barbarina Town.

  Could it possibly be . . . ?

  He grabbed the phone and listened to the ticking of the rotary-dial as he dialed each number. Right now, it sounded like the ticking of a deadly clock, counting down the seconds to a horrific demise.

  Click, tick. Click tick.

  The agent who answered identified himself as Kendall, the same Kendall who’d filled in the report. Now that Max had had a moment to reread the file, he’d gleaned that Kendall, along with his partner Ravik, had failed to take the woman seriously at all. Hadn’t even bothered to write up her version of the events.

  After a quick discussion, Max put the phone down in disgust. The local agents had completely mishandled this new seer. In light of this experience, she’d hardly be inclined to help FAPA, or the government, now.

  The case file also confirmed that the woman had had a vision while the two agents had visited. But Kendall had insisted the vision had been a ploy, a scam to get rid of him and his partner. His report had been restrained, but had been clear enough in his contempt of the woman.

  Contempt or fear?

  Max shook his head. Often people did things when afraid that made absolutely no sense in the clear light of day.

  He leaned back against the soft cushion of his chair, peering out the door to where his deputy sat. “Marcus. You have a minute?”

  Marcus lifted his dark head, his short dreadlocks swaying slightly as he got to his feet, hurried into Max’s office and closed the door.

  Marcus Asante, if he were a girl, would be called prim and proper.

  His clothes were always perfectly folded, gathered or pleated, the colors of his garments well-matched and never clashing with the garish purple of the FAPA shoulder swag. His hair, always rich and glossy, looked good even in the dreadlocked style he loved, which could sometimes so easily end up looking like a cross between a bird’s nest and a tangled nest of vipers.

  Max knew because he’d worn the style himself for years, in his wild youth, before finally giving it up when he’d taken his new position in charge of the FAPA Capital division.

  Marcus sat on the edge of Max’s desk, peering at the file and accompanying paperwork, his manner no different than at any other time, despite having just learned of the threatening plague. He possessed a cool nerve as well as brains, and the man was astute, a quality Max appreciated in a second-in-command.

  Moreover, Marcus was a talented investigator. Max would have been hard pressed to find anyone better suited to take on as deputy.

  “What’s up?” Marcus asked in an easy tone.

  “I have a case in Las Suertes. I’m thinking of going in person to check it out.”

  “Sensitive case?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Max slid the file over to Marcus and used his cobra-shaped scroll opener to point at the line that indicated Allegra’s visions.

  Marcus grunted, took the file and skimmed the contents. Done, he closed it and met Max’s eyes. “I know where you’re going with this.”

  Max nodded. “You usually do.”

  Marcus smirked, but ignored the comment. �
��I agree personal contact is advisable given the sensitivity of the situation. Recon only?”

  Max nodded. “We can’t afford to scare her off. If she’s the real deal, then she herself may not know the extent of her power.”

  Marcus shifted to stare out the window. “You’re thinking she could be the new Pythia?”

  Max shrugged. “Given the timing, it’s certainly possible. Either that, or she is a powerful seer that has managed to remain under the radar all her life.”

  “Or she’s a powerful seer who has only just begun to have visions.”

  Max nodded. “That would explain how careless she’s been.”

  “Agreed. According to that report,” Marcus said as he pointed at the file, “she’s a scam artist. But from what I’ve read, it looks like she’s merely inexperienced. No scammer worth her salt would make such visions public without having a publicity plan in place.”

  Max laughed. “Excellent point.” He got to his feet and grabbed a stack of files, placing them onto Marcus’s already-splayed palms. “While I’m gone, you can handle the Bank of Hera heist.”

  Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Hardly scintillating work in view of an end-of-the-world epidemic.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” warned Max, hiding a smile. Marcus was good at his job, whatever case it was. And knowing him, he’d likely have the heist case wrapped up before Max returned from Las Suertes. “Give the water contamination case to Lila. And Giorgio can take the robbery at the Sicilian Ambassador’s villa.”

  Marcus nodded, gathered the files and headed for the door. On the threshold, he turned and met Max’s eyes. “Will you be gone long?”

  Max shrugged. “A day or two?”

  “You flying?”

  Max shuddered. “Not like I have a choice. Can’t afford the delay of a road trip right now.”

  “Make sure you take your potion.”

  Max grimaced. “That stuff is poison.”

  “It’s either poison, or throwing up all over yourself. Not a good look for the Commander of the FAPA Capital office.” Marcus grinned.

  With that he disappeared, chuckling when Max flipped him off.

  Chapter 8

  Lord Severus Langcourt stared out at the dull Londinium sky. The heavens hung low, pressing down on a city already darkened by greed, mistrust and betrayal. He’d been clenching his jaw almost without realizing, and now the dull ache forced Langcourt to rotate his jaw to ease the pressure.

  He turned away from the rain-soaked scene, and focused his stony black scowl on his assistant Charles Roquefort. Roquefort was the type of sycophant that would never rise within the ranks, no matter how much he simpered.

  Langcourt kept him around partly because of his cowering, which in Langcourt’s opinion translated neatly into supreme, humble efficiency. And it did not hurt that Roquefort persisted in addressing his master as Sire, an appellation generally reserved for sovereigns.

  The man wore his hair in a short, straight-across-the-forehead cut, as if he somehow believed that sporting the style of Caesar would automatically increase his standing. Langcourt inhaled sharply, making Roquefort's mouse-like nostrils twitch in response.

  “I had thought that Aurelia’s death would mean the last of the Pythia line.” Langcourt found it hard to speak the words, given fury filling his throat. He’d thought himself finally rid of those interfering females.

  “The Pythia’s death is surely a great loss to the world, Sire.” Roquefort, as usual, took the wrong lead and said the wrong thing.

  Langcourt clicked his tongue and glared. “Aurelia’s death is no great loss. The Pythia blood should have dried up a long time ago. Several of my family’s—nay, my ancestors’—plans were thwarted by untimely warnings from those cursed crones.”

  Langcourt glanced outside again. The bleakness of the view was a far calmer picture, reflecting none of the roiling emotions he felt deep within his core.

  Suddenly the room, with its heavy tapestries and deep pile carpet began to close in on him.

  The old villa had been in his family for centuries, and was filled with treasures from around the world, from cities conquered by long-dead Roman generals of pure Langcourt blood.

  Langcourt’s family was well-remembered within the history annals, well respected even today in a time when warriors were no longer revered.

  Such a shame that the modern world put more stock in peace and harmony than in conquering and submission. Langcourt would have been far more at home in the time of the Roman occupation, far happier being the conqueror for all the world to see, than fighting in the shadows, hiding his truth.

  He cleared his throat and snapped his gaze to Roquefort, twisting his neck to glare at the small man. “I’ve received notification from our agents in Fornia that a possible new seer has come to light.”

  Roquefort frowned and Langcourt enjoyed his confusion.

  “Seers reveal themselves all the time, Sire. Perhaps it would be unwise to concern ourselves too much with a new one? Our worry will likely be unfounded. Seeing as the Pythia is dead, without issue.”

  The man was all too confident of himself. His ability to go from sniveling underling to overconfident smart mouth, was annoying to say the least. Which was why Langcourt enjoyed verbally beating him into submission every so often.

  Langcourt sneered. For all Roquefort’s attempts at intelligence, he did manage to fail spectacularly all too often. Langcourt leaned over, rested his hands on the desk and stared at his assistant’s face.

  “My dear boy, it would be wise for you to expand your mind, think a little more outside that little box which your consciousness currently occupies.”

  Langcourt’s cold smile widened as Roquefort’s eyes grew a tiny bit larger.

  “Perhaps you also need to understand the ramifications of the existence of a powerful seer. Then you would realize that the Pythia line contained many intelligent individuals. And as an intelligent individual, I myself would have put into place various contingency plans that would keep the line hidden as best as I could, keep the existence of at least some descendants hidden from the world. Particularly from people like me.”

  Roquefort’s expression cleared as Langcourt’s words sunk in. “Forgive me, Sire. It hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “That is exactly my point, dear boy.” Langcourt’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m beginning to tire of your inability to keep up. I may have to consider a replacement should you continue to display such a pathetic lack of intelligence.”

  Roquefort, for all his simpering, was unable to come up with a response to that and Langcourt enjoyed the man’s discomfort simply because he enjoyed seeing that flare of pain in a person’s eyes.

  He supposed Roquefort served his purpose. A living pincushion that was also useful in performing menial, but necessary, tasks.

  “As I was saying, a new Seer has piqued the interest of our Fornia division. Seeing as your background can be useful to this particular case, I’d like you to investigate the genealogy of the Pythia line again. See if we can get a trace on a descendant in Fornia. Or anywhere else for that matter.”

  On the mention of Roquefort’s professional expertise, the man perked up, sat straighter. He was, of course, merely a lecturer, his qualification only at Master’s level.

  Langcourt would have been much happier with a doctorate but he’d had little choice. Roquefort had been the only genealogist at Cambridge acquiescent enough to do Langcourt’s bidding.

  He sighed inwardly.

  I suppose one must persist despite the obstacles placed in one’s path.

  He turned to face the bleak view once more. “The last Pythia lived in Ralabia State for a time, one of those benighted Southern states settled by a mongrel mixture of immigrants. There is a possibility that she left behind a secret heir. She’d have hidden the existence of the child for its safety. And for the safety of the Pythia line.”

  Roquefort cleared his throat. “And perhaps given the child a differ
ent birth name?”

  Langcourt nodded as he watched inky blue clouds bank on the horizon. “Check the timeline of when Aurelia lived in Ralabia, and match it up to births to anyone with the slightest connection to her. Friends, servants, employees. The gift is passed through both males and females of the Pythia bloodline, but can only manifest in a woman.”

  Behind Langcourt, the genealogist was scratching away in his notebook.

  “That should make it easier to focus on female descendants. I expect you will be creative in your investigations.”

  “Yes, Sire. I don’t expect it to take too long.”

  Langcourt sharply turned on his heel. “Again, you disappoint me, Roquefort.” The man startled, unsure again, and Langcourt smiled. “Aurelia was not the only female who may have birthed a secret child. You will need to go further up the line, as far back as you possibly can, to identify possible heirs. I don’t think you understand the scale of this investigation.”

  Roquefort’s eyes hardened for a moment. As a genealogist he ought to know the intricacies involved in such a search, but sometimes the man displayed a severe lack of intelligence.

  Then Roquefort nodded, his expression a little more certain. Perhaps the challenge satisfied him, but Langcourt cared little for his assistant’s justifications. He slid open a drawer in his heavy pedestal desk and removed a thick, leather-bound book.

  Placing the book on the desk in front of Roquefort, he said, “This is a record of all known descendants of the Pythia line going back two thousand years. It’s as detailed as our investigators were able to get. Until you, of course.” Roquefort smiled. “I expect you will be more thorough.” It wasn’t a suggestion. Langcourt’s tone said he expected nothing less than perfection.

  It would be easy and enjoyable to pound down the man’s self-respect further, but Langcourt needed to leave him some sense of devotion if he was to function as expected.