by T. K. Toppin
Adam nodded, swallowing. “No, John. Thank you.”
Chapter 59
Under guard, Adam was escorted out, and we retired to our room in the clinic for a rest. I sat on John’s bed. A desperate weariness shadowed his face. And sadness. His head dipped low and his body slumped. Pale and drawn, his dark eyes were stark and barren against the white of his face.
“Why the end of the year?” I asked.
“Because those that got away or those traitors still bent on overthrowing the government will get ideas in their heads. A year should give us enough time, and free reign, to flush out any splinter groups that form.”
“How will you find out who the traitors are?”
“That’s the hard part. But I can assure you, every single member of this cabinet, as well as the other world leaders and their ministerial members, will be closely investigated, monitored, and screened. I don’t care if people get offended or upset. I want people to hear about it. To know what it is we are doing, and how we are trying to fix things. The press can harp on about it into the next century—I don’t care. I want no stone unturned.”
“It never ends, does it?”
John snorted low and flicked a thumb under my chin. With a weak smile, he held my gaze, but I saw his eyes had drifted elsewhere. “No, it doesn’t. Peace is just an idle dream. I wish it could happen in our time, but I doubt it very much.”
“Do you think there’ll be more trouble?”
“I do—that’s a given.” He shrugged and tilted his head back, contemplating something.
“So it’s not really over.” I held his hand in mine, brought it to my lips and pressed a kiss into his palm. It smelled antiseptic and metallic. Blood.
“Not quite. There is something that’s still bothering me.”
My heart sank. “What’s that?”
“You.”
“Me?” I gaped. “Oh, jeez! You’re not still on about me, are you? After everything that’s happened, you still think I’m involved?” I flung his hand away and was about to pummel his chest with fists when he caught them, grinning. All talk of war evaporated from his face, and his eyes glittered with other interests.
“Idiot!” I exclaimed, grinning. “You big fucking idiot!”
“What am I going to do with you?” John brought me closer so that I leaned on his chest. He studied my face, which I knew bloomed with assorted cuts and bruises and, even now, my top lip protruded more than it usually did, puffy from a cut. “I’ll have to marry you now. I can’t have the entire Citadel running around saying how some girl saved my life—”
“What?”
“You know. Jumping in front of assassin’s knives and getting mauled and scarred for life. Throwing yourself in front of exploding bombs, taking on a madman who’s trying to ram his head through a brick wall. All the while, I lay helpless on the ground, bleeding to death. Not a good image for a World President—”
“What?”
“I’ve no choice now but to marry you and hush you up. Keep you locked away in some closet. Chained up. Gagged. No telling who you’ll mouth off to and gloat about what a helpless fool I am. How scandalous!”
“What?”
“Yes. I don’t know, though. I barely know you. I mean, you’re a bit thick, clumsy as hell, hard of hearing, and have a strange sense of style. June sound okay? I hear it is the most popular time for nuptials.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“Now.” John clamped his mouth into a prim line. “That swearing of yours—you’ll have to do something about that. Not at all respectable for the wife of the World President to be cursing and carrying on like that.” His eyes rolled up to the ceiling for inspiration. “I’ll definitely have to order a specially made gag.”
“Oh, as if you’ve never uttered a curse word in your life? Never gone through life without once saying shit or fuck? I mean, who talks like you people do—”
“You people? Really Josie. Your advanced age is really making you cranky.”
“—like a bunch of prissy schoolmarms. Constipated, is what I say! To never use a swear word is just wrong.”
“Prissy schoolmarms? That’s a phrase from three hundred years ago, correct? I’m sorry, we call them something else now.”
“I mean what the fuck is wrong with people in this century? Does everyone talk like they have a stick up their ass? And why does—”
“Josie!”
“What?”
John leaned forward, held my face, and smiled. His face softened immediately.
“Josie,” he repeated, and made a dramatic sigh. “I think…you need to shut the fuck up.”
And then he kissed me—thoroughly.
A Look Forward
The disturbances didn’t end, or the killings. The horrific nature of war carried on for months and months afterward. The world pitched into turmoil once more. What happened at the Citadel was just a scratch on the surface, the catalyst for many more things to come. John had predicted correctly. All over the world, new splinter groups popped up like psychedelic mushrooms, determined to hit us when we were down. The captured members of The Path were tried, convicted, and sentenced to life imprisonment or servitude; whichever suited the crime better. Corrupt members of the government, both in the Citadel and around the world, were sifted and weeded out with regularity. With more still to reveal themselves, the investigations and interrogations continued. Those who managed to escape the glaring eyes of John’s investigative team had the good sense to keep quiet.
Generally speaking, the world was tired of it all. The everyday person on the street just wanted a sense of normality and peace. The younger generation, having been born and raised during the calmer times of Baird Lancaster’s rule, began to inspire a sense of hope, with daily protests seeking peace and unity reminiscent of long ago times I’d seen in history videos. While the intent was good, I couldn’t help but note that they also seemed a bit forgetful of what had passed before them. With three hundred years tucked under my belt, I sure had seen enough repetition of world events to know that peace was fleeting.
But enough about that. I made a promise to start living, and I couldn’t be concerned about things I couldn’t control. I was alive, in a future I’d never foreseen, and I was going to start living in it to the fullest.
Lorcan was cremated and placed with his beloved Carmen in a small churchyard in North Yorkshire. Max’s ashes were placed nearby. John consulted me on where they should be placed. Since we knew how it had ended, I thought it prudent that Max shouldn’t join them, but at least be close by. Simon snorted and insisted the dead were just that: dead. And they didn’t care where they were buried, so long as they were not forgotten.
It ended up we were married in late June. After three delays, mainly due to security measures, a press leak, and another attempted assassination of both John and myself, the fourth try was somewhat lucky. While the wedding itself had always been tagged as a small affair, on the actual day we did get married, it didn’t stop yet another attempt at our lives from happening. So, amid a shower of bullets and explosives, instead of congratulatory rice, we finally got hitched. The next day, the world press had somehow managed to get a video clip of John and I diving for cover just before the marriage altar exploded into a million pieces, the trellis above us crashing down, and John hoisting me—skirts hiked to my thighs—over the heads of invited guests, to be caught by none other than Simon. That scene played on all media platforms for three days before the world eventually got bored and moved on.
It somehow seemed right, befitting, that we should be so joined. Our circumstances have not, in the least, been normal. Why should it be any different on our wedding day? Soon afterward, we were neck-deep in more attempts on our lives as well as threats to our Citadel. Things were back to normal.
About a month after I became Mrs. Lancaster, on a miraculously quiet summer’s day, with the skies blue and clear and life, for once, not about death and killings, war and treachery, I received a
package.
It was a simple, small wooden crate stuffed with synthetic packing material resembling straw and shredded paper. It had survived the many stringent inspections and security scans most packages delivered to the Citadel endured and, more importantly, those addressed to the presidential residences.
Opening it, I saw nestled amid the straw and paper, a large jar of homemade cherry jam—complete with a red and white piece of checked fabric wedged under the tightly sealed cap.
No note was attached, but with a painful lurch in my chest, I knew who it was from. I smiled until it hurt my face, and tears leaked from my eyes so that I could barely see.
Quin Aguilar.
The Lancaster Trilogy continues with The Master Key
My Thanks…And a preamble
I first conjured up this story in 2007, joining up bits and pieces of ideas and knitting them together. It was a formless, disjointed, nonsensical heap of scenes that slowly evolved into what it is now. At this time, I hadn’t put anything to paper as yet, and kept it all in my mind. I’d wanted to write a novel for a long time, but never committing to anything and always with half-baked attempts that never went past two chapters. After all, I was a graphic designer and I had no time or business writing. And I couldn’t possible know what the hell I was doing anyway. I kept scoffing, thinking and telling myself that writing was for people with some formal training in creative writing. But it was there, the desire to channel my creative energies elsewhere. The bookworm in me needed to stop visiting the worlds of others and create her own.
At the beginning of 2008, some friends and family were gathered together, toasting the New Year on the beach. One of us said to put two hundred things you wanted to do into a bottle, and you had to pull one out every day, and do it. My only desire was to write and finish a novel. So Lynn, thank you for turning to me and saying: “Just do it!” and then giving me that figurative kick in that strategic place. I did it.
Early 2008 was spent writing non-stop. In three months, I’d completed the rough (hideous) first draft on what is now The Lancaster Rule. It didn’t start out with that title; that honour goes to Jessica, my first fan. She also gave me the motivation to plough on.
The rest of the year was spent learning the ropes of being a writer, what it entails, and the excruciatingly hard journey we all take. Writing was the easy part. Now came the hard. Rejection letters consumed my life. I’ve learned quite a bit along the way. It’s amazing what those rejections teach you. And when, at last, I got accepted by a small publishing house, I had to keep reminding myself how incredibly fortunate I was. My thanks to Champagne Books/Burst Books, who saw something in my book, and me, and took a chance. In 2010, The Lancaster Rule was published. It was soon followed with its sequels, and then, my contracts with Champagne came to an end and I decided not to renew and venture out into the scary world of self-publishing.
I also want to thank my close friends, who I’m pretty sure listened with polite interest while I ranted on about becoming a writer. Don’t worry, I won’t rant any more, but I will harass you to spread the word, encourage people to buy my books, and…well, anyway. And the to the slew of new friends I’ve met along the way on social media, the like-minded weirdos called writers. Whatever the connection, you’ve all been incredibly supportive and understanding, especially now as I embark on my indie publishing journey. Putting this book out, again, after a rough and brutal editing has been made that much easier and more rewarding, and having a network of professionals to confer with always helps.
And finally, special thanks my husband Stephen, for his unwavering support and continued encouragement. He is also my best and harshest critic! (He didn’t fall asleep while reading it).
T.K. Toppin — July 2017
About the Author
T.K. Toppin is a published author of Speculative Fiction and SFR (Science Fiction Romance) novels and short stories. The Lancaster Rule, her debut novel and its sequels, The Master Key and The Eternal Knot, were previously contracted by Champagne Books Group/BURST Books. She was also previously published by Ring of Fire Publishing to release the To Catch A Marlin novels and short stories.
T.K. was born, raised and lives in Barbados and is currently writing. When not writing, she’s procrastinating or watching too much television. She’s also discovered the addicting world of Instagram.
For More on T.K., visit her Blogsite
Twitter: @TKToppin
Facebook: Written By T.K. Toppin
Instagram: @written.by.tktoppin
Table of Contents
A Reflection
AWAKE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PART 2 – ALIVE
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
A Look Forward
My Thanks…And a preamble
About the Author