by R. T. Lowe
“Mr. Poole,” Lofton replied coolly, “if you’re insinuating I had anything to do with your dismissal then you are significantly overestimating my political influence. And why, may I ask, are you under the mistaken impression I am in any way affiliated with the ERA?”
The deputy mayor smiled, apparently sensing his advantage. “A little birdie told me, and this little birdie is very reliable. So this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to make it my life’s mission to bury you. I’ll find something. An impermissible political donation. A permit granted without proper authorization. A freakin’ unpaid parking ticket. Something. And when I do, you’ll regret fucking with—” He went suddenly silent and his cheeks puffed out like he was playing the trumpet. He sucked in a choking breath and fought with his tie, then his hand moved slowly down his chest and clamped hard, fingers curling in pain, pressing into the soft flesh beneath his white button-down.
Lofton eyed Mr. Poole curiously, placing an elbow on the table, fingers extended and palm facing the deputy mayor. “Mr. Poole, I surmise from your agonized expression, you feel as though that heart of yours inside your very ample chest is being…squeezed.” Lofton made a fist and the man’s eyes bulged in their sockets. Lofton unclenched his hand, face placid, observing calmly as Mr. Poole took in a wheezing breath, confusion written across his reddening face. “The reason you are about to die, Mr. Poole”—Lofton’s fingers pressed slowly into his palm—“is because you are in politics for all the wrong reasons.” Mr. Poole staggered, clutching at his chest, staring madly at Lofton. “The loss of your job,” Lofton went on, “incites you because you’ve lost your ability to peddle your influence to address your own selfish needs. You were appointed by the mayor to do the people’s bidding, to act selflessly to achieve the greater good. You failed on all accounts, but your successor—the one with the fucking tiger tattoo on her arm—will ensure the mayor doesn’t stray from her obligations. The world is about to change rather radically in the very near future and I can’t have you disseminating information regarding my association with the Evolution Revolution Army. Not just yet. Life is all about timing Mr. Poole, and I’m afraid your time is up.” Lofton’s knuckles went white for a moment, then his hand relaxed and Mr. Poole hit the floor, lying on his side, taloned fingers clawing desperately at his unmoving chest.
Jalen gaped in awe at Lofton, his reaction predictably worshipful. Lynch held the back of his hand to his mouth and yawned. Devory straightened his already straight tie and checked his phone impassively. Natalie and Iphi leaned forward in their chairs and gave Kayla murderous stares, waiting to pounce if she flinched, grimaced, or betrayed even an ounce of sympathy or emotion.
Lofton stood and looked over Natalie’s shoulder, frowning sadly at Mr. Poole, his eyes misting in apparent grief. Why does he bother with this ridiculous act? Kayla thought angrily, keeping her face an emotionless mask, though she felt like she was drowning in the lie that had become her life. She thought it fitting her first exposure to Lofton’s power was his crushing of a man’s heart. The heart symbolized beauty, passion, individualism, love, and all the intangible characteristics that inspired humanity to achieve greatness. Lofton had reached inside the deputy mayor’s chest and extinguished those qualities, squeezing until no life remained, reducing the heart to nothing more than a broken muscle. The world would fare no better if Lofton wasn’t stopped.
“Devory,” Lofton said evenly, “if you wouldn’t mind, please call 911 and let them know the former deputy mayor has apparently suffered a heart attack. Kayla, can you be a dear and inform the maître d’ we have a medical emergency. Oh yes—and pass along word we’re ready to order. I’m sure Mr. Poole wouldn’t want us to change our dinner plans on his account.” He smiled at her, letting her know he was only joking about dinner.
On her way out of the room, Kayla hesitated, seething with barely suppressed anger, flicking a glance at the man on the floor. His unseeing eyes had gone dim and a string of pink saliva dribbled from his parted lips, puddling on the floor beside him. The deputy mayor was dead, like so many others before him who had crossed Lofton, another sacrifice to his perfect world.
Chapter 5
Procrastinating
“So what makes you think the ghost of Agatha will want to talk to me?” Allison said to Felix when they reached St. Rose, the campus chapel.
He climbed a few weathered steps and took a seat, elbows resting on knees, a security light above the entry doors flickering dully behind them. “Well, she told me ‘the choice is mine and I need to find my truth.’ I have no idea what that means, and I’d like to think she didn’t say it just to confuse the hell out of me. I’ve been here a bunch of times and she’s never showed, so I figure since Agatha’s a Pierre-Croix and you’re a Pierre-Croix, maybe she’ll smell your Pierre-Croix blood and make an appearance.”
“Because I’m her great-great-great-great grand…something?” Allison laughed and sat down beside him, tucking her hands inside her sleeves and sliding over until she was pressed up against him. “You don’t mind if I borrow your body heat, do you?”
He smiled at her, enjoying her closeness. “My body heat is your body heat.”
“You’re very generous,” Allison quipped, her breath misting in the cold night air. “So where is this ghostly babe?”
When Felix found out from Allison she’d gone by her family name, Pierre-Croix, before she’d taken the name of her adoptive family (Jasner), he hadn’t waited long to tell her the ghostly incarnation of Agatha Pierre-Croix—PC’s first president—had lured him into the winding corridors beneath the old chapel and the underground network of tunnels with its endless wall of caskets where Agatha and the other founders lay entombed. She believed his story, as he knew she would, taking in the strange tale with a placid expression, but whenever he mentioned Agatha after that her face seemed to tighten. If she ever raised the subject on her own, she did so in a joking manner, and the one time she’d uttered a serious word about it, she’d only complained, “It just doesn’t fit.” Felix had badgered her a bit, but Allison chose not to clarify, which was how she operated when her analytical mind encountered a conundrum she couldn’t readily solve.
“Agatha!” Felix called out into the gloom, the hazy broken moonlight casting long shadows across the way. “Agatha! Where are you? Hello! Can you come out or whatever it is you do?”
“Hey Agatha!” Allison joined in. “This is Allison Jasner—formerly Allison Pierre-Croix—and I’m here with Felix, and he’d like to know what it means that ‘the choice is his’. He’s very confused and troubled by your inscrutable message. He gets weirdly sensitive about such things and I’m getting tired of managing his anxiety attacks. Agatha!” She turned to Felix and whispered, “It’s not working. Maybe we need a ouija board to summon her?”
“I don’t think she’s coming,” Felix grumbled. He looked up at the starless night sky and added as an afterthought, “Nice night though.”
“You’re an ass,” Allison snorted. “It’s freezing.” She blew a steaming breath in his face to illustrate her point.
“It’s weird being back,” Felix mused, staring out at the empty paths and the silhouettes of darkened buildings looming silently beyond the Star Trees, five towering Douglas firs, each one acting as a point in the terrestrial constellation. “It’s like we were gone for a year and never left. It’s cool seeing Lucas and them, but I was getting used to being in Cove Rock with you.”
“Used to being with me,” Allison said and laughed. “What am I? Some terrible burden that requires an acclimation period?”
“Not what I meant,” Felix replied with a grin. “It was just…good.” The month in Cove Rock had passed quickly. Allison seemed to sense when he wanted to be alone and when he needed her company. They stayed up late most nights drinking wine or beer by the fire. Sometimes they talked and other times they stared silently at the flames. They slept in late and drank strong coffee by the carafe, reading by the light of the picture window or walkin
g the beach. Sometimes Felix walked alone and Allison would watch him by the height of the cliff’s edge. When he needed her, she was always there, appearing at his side to toss driftwood into the ocean and talk about things, whatever was on his mind, important or trivial. Felix had killed his parents, and for that unforgivable act, a black poison would eat at his soul forever, but Allison had gone a long way toward making Felix feel he had something to live for, and that secluding himself from the world wouldn’t lessen the pain in his heart.
Allison smiled at Felix and placed her hand on his knee, a show of affection that had become common during their time in Cove Rock. Allison was reserved in some ways and protective of her own space, but there were moments where she reached out for a small physical connection, like now, and because Felix knew her so well, he appreciated what it meant to her. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Allison picking idly at her cuticles, Felix peering out at nothing. They sat there for a good while and then Allison’s face grew thoughtful and she broke the quiet. “So when are we telling them?”
“Telling who what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“What makes you think I’m playing?” Felix joked, then paused for a beat. “That’s all I could think about today. I was trying to talk myself into believing they’d be better off not knowing anything about the real world.” He sighed. “Then that thing Riley said kept coming back to me.”
“That their names are on that list?” The ‘list’ was how Riley the Drestianite had thought to seek out Allison and Felix and test them with his ‘magical’ electrical cords. If Riley was to be believed—and his death utterances seemed very believable—the Drestianites kept a document that named every person they intended to test and recruit (and kill, if the unfortunate candidate failed). Riley had told them all their names were on it, Lucas, Caitlin and Harper, so it was only a matter of time before one of Lofton’s testers abducted them, administered the test, and then murdered them when they didn’t demonstrate their ability to control the Source.
Felix nodded. “You think there could be another one like him? Like Riley?”
“Who knows?” Allison straightened her long legs and crossed her arms, frowning in thought. “It’s funny though. Caitlin was unpacking her stuff and dropped a picture on the floor. The frame broke and she yelled ‘shit!’ I think it was the first time I’ve ever heard her swear. She was trying to glue it back together and I watched her. I mean, I watched her. I must’ve had a scary look on my face because she looked up and jumped. Literally jumped. I guess for a second I was actually wondering if it was really Caitlin. If it wasn’t, I was prepared to…you know…kick her ass.”
“This whole thing freaks me out sometimes. And if it freaks me out”—he turned to Allison, seeing the familiar intensity in her eyes—“how do you think they’re going to react when we tell them? They’ll think we’re crazy.”
“Which is why,” she said, giving him a sly smile, “you’re gonna need to show them. You can’t just tell them. You can’t argue with proof. Just don’t do anything that’ll explode Caitlin’s brain. Or Lucas’s. He seems pretty upset.”
Felix grunted in agreement. “I think he’s doing a little better. Not talking about going home anymore. His little brother told him to stop texting. Seems like a tough kid. But you know how it messes with you when you see something like that. People dying. It’s just not…right. I mean, kids shouldn’t have to see shit like that.”
Allison folded her hands and rested her chin on her thumbs, blowing a puffy white cloud through her knuckles. “I had a thought,” she announced. “If you go online or watch the news it seems like something really bad is happening every second of the day. Shootings. The food supply. Terrorists. Lead in the water. Bridges collapsing. Planes going down. Trains crashing for no reason. It’s like our infrastructure is crumbling and every week there’s another massacre. All of it seems preventable.” She paused. “Remember what Bill told us before the break? He said it’s intentional. That there are people in the government allowing it to happen because when things get bad enough everyone will demand an alternative. I’m not sure I agree with everything he said though. I don’t think Lofton’s controlling just a few politicians to get what he wants. I think it’s much bigger than that.”
Felix didn’t have to consider whether that was possible or not. He knew it was. “You think Lofton’s orchestrating it on his own? The whole thing?”
“What else could it be?”
“Let’s say you’re on to something,” Felix said after a moment’s thought, concluding Allison was probably correct, as she was about most things she put her mind to. “Let’s say Lofton’s responsible for everything bad that’s happening.” He widened his eyes and threw up his hands in frustration. “What exactly am I supposed to do about that? I’m this Belus thing, right? The only person who can stop him and all that, but I have no clue. I feel…lost. Shouldn’t someone be, I don’t know, guiding me or telling me what to do?”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” Allison joked, nudging him with her knee.
He laughed and dipped his shoulder into hers, nudging her back. “Awesome.” He breathed hot air on his fists out of habit. “We’re hopeless.” He laughed again. “Maybe that’s why we’re sitting here at midnight looking for a ghost instead of figuring out what to do about the guy planning to take over the world. Speaking of ghosts.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Agatha—last chance! Agatha!”
They waited a few minutes, and when Agatha didn’t show, they made their way back to the dorm.
Chapter 6
General Shale
General Buddy R. Shale stepped into the library of his Potomac, Maryland home to find he wasn’t alone.
Kayla stood watching anxiously with Jalen at a short distance, their backsides pressed flat against a book-filled wall out of view of the entry hall. She expected the general to turn and run, shouting for help. Or at a minimum, to be startled and for the coffee mug in his hand to slip from his fingers and crash to the floor. Neither of those predictions came to fruition. General Shale held his ground and calmly brought the mug to his wiry lips, blowing steam across the surface, observing Kayla and Jalen for a moment before his gaze fixed on Lynch in the back of the room.
“I can only assume you have a death wish,” the general said smoothly, without any trace of fear in his voice. “In case you’re unaware of whose house you’ve broken into, I am General Shale, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” He waited a second for that to sink in. “Do you have any idea of the shitstorm you have just walked into?”
“We know who you are,” Lynch told him, rolling a wingbacked chair out from behind a huge executive desk richly finished in dark carved walnut. “Have a seat.”
“Excuse me?” the general roared, stepping forward, the soles of his polished black shoes clicking on the dark hardwood floor. “If you do not immediately remove yourselves from my home, I guarantee you will spend the remainder of your miserable lives locked up in the deepest, darkest pit this side of hell!”
Kayla knew the general was sixty-eight, though he carried himself with the bearing of a man half his age. Everything about him—his posture, his tone—spoke of a man who gave direction and accepted no dissent. Although she felt regretful for what they were about to do to the man, she couldn’t help but wonder how his wife could tolerate him. Domineering men, she’d always thought, deserved a fist to the face.
“I appreciate your spirit,” Lynch replied with a thin edge in his voice, “but I’m giving the orders today.” He waved his hand at the desk and a drawer rattled open. With a flicker of Lynch’s fingers, a handgun appeared, ascending gracefully, gliding toward the general, who stood staring at it, chin dropping in shock. “I haven’t checked to see if it’s loaded,” Lynch continued, “but I can’t imagine a career military man not chambering his own weapon. Now have a seat.”
The general cocked his head, staring wide-eyed into the mouth of the chrome plated muzzle
pointing at his face. “How are you doing that?” he whispered, his tone that of a skeptic trying to deduce the sleight of hand behind a parlor trick.
“I understand your curiosity, but I would prefer we conclude our business before your wife wakes up.” Lynch’s eyes moved pointedly to the coffered ceiling. “If she stirs, I’m afraid we’ll have no choice but to test your gun on her pretty face.”
“How dare you!” the general shouted. His upper lip drew back over his teeth and the cords in his neck bulged. “How dare—”
“Please keep your voice down, general,” Kayla said reasonably. “You don’t want to wake Helen, do you?” Kayla had crept upstairs with Jalen while the general was exercising in the basement well before sunrise. They’d given Helen a strong sedative to ensure she wouldn’t awake if the general began shouting. Kayla focused her thoughts, picturing Helen as she’d viewed her in bed, lying on her side in a light blue nightgown, her auburn hair graying at the roots, the makeup removed from her lined round face, a bookmarked hardcover on the nightstand beside her. Kayla froze the picture in her mind, then held her hands toward the center of the room and projected the image. “You see,” Kayla began as the general’s eyes filled with wonder at the sight of his wife sleeping in their bed in the middle of his office. “Helen is fine. She’s still sleeping.”
The general stepped back from the illusion and put a stunned hand to his face, his eyes unblinking.
Helen’s mouth parted and she let out a small cough.
“Looks like she’s fighting a cold.” Kayla was an illusionist whose skills were unparalleled among the ranks of the Drestianites. Her creations weren’t simple two-dimensional projections, nor were they static. Helen’s cough was an improvisation on Kayla’s part. She didn’t know if Helen was battling a cold or not, but it seemed like a nice touch and quite possible given the time of year. Kayla could do just about anything with her illusions. If she wished, she could make Helen sit up and talk, pick up the book, turn on the TV, or rotate her head around like an owl and take flight out the window. She was only limited by her imagination.