The Prophet Box-Set: Books 1-4

by David Beers

  And then, without any input from her, the platform disappeared and Nicki found herself back in the motel room. Gray static filled the room, much thicker than what she’d seen with the dark man’s webs. It filled everything, and though she could see through it, she knew no one else could.

  But you’re not with them right now. You’re somewhere different. Between life and death. Between the very moments of life. You’re walking between raindrops right now.

  Nicki looked around the room. The ceiling above was in the process of exploding. She saw wood and brick frozen in the air, on their way to the sky. High above, there appeared to be another transport—the first one she’d ever seen in the Old World. Nicki turned back to the room. Men wearing helmets hung in the air, their bodies in the process of being thrown backward. She looked to her left and saw the first man that had entered, the one with the gun. His shoulder was bleeding and his eyes were open. He stared back at her, but Nicki knew he didn’t see her. He’d only been looking at her when she stepped between into this different … plane.

  Nicki walked over to the man, his gun discarded somewhere in the room—probably hanging in the air like the other suspended men. His eyes didn’t follow her as she moved. She squatted down next to him and looked at the wound, but knew nothing of it. Not whether he would live or die.

  That’s not true.

  You know the answer to that very well.

  And Nicki found she did.

  In this plane, this world that existed outside of time, she understood that she could kill them all. The men wearing their helmets, the one lying here on the floor—even herself. Whatever was happening, for this very moment, she controlled it. And if she continued, if the gray light filling everything kept expanding, they could all die.

  Where’s Dad? she wondered. The memory came back at once, how all of this started. Him … something hitting him and propelling him back against the sink’s mirror. Nicki stood and turned, her eyes frantically searching for her father.

  Whatever force she had used, it was hitting him as well. He wasn’t in the air, but she saw the pressure pinning him to the wall, his hands plastered to his left and right. The man that had been trying to beat him to death no longer stood on the ground, but hung in the air where his black club could no longer hurt her father.

  Yet you can. You will. If you don’t stop this.

  A dark man waited for her when this was done, one with gray eyes and the power to destroy armadas. At least one Ministry waited as well. None of that mattered though, not when Nicki looked at her father. Everyone in this room could live, if it meant he continued living, too.

  But for how long?

  No answer came. Nothing was promised, but his death wouldn’t be at her hand.

  She went back to the place she had stood at. She breathed in, knowing what to do, even if not how. It was like a baby naturally rooting for its mother’s nipple, simple instinct.

  She took another breath, keeping her eyes open, and as she sucked in air, the gray returned to her. Through her eyes and mouth, it returned to its owner.

  Nicki took back everything she had shoved into the world, and when there was no more gray but only the sun’s brilliant light above, she collapsed to the floor.

  The Disciple stood across the street from the Bancroft Motel. A person on the other side of the world, one named Raylyn Brinson, would not have believed her eyes—indeed, she had just witnessed the very same man die.

  Or, at least, this Disciple appeared to be the same man.

  His name was also Rogan Nether, but that mattered little to him. He was one of many Rogan Nethers, all of them looking exactly the same. He didn’t know that one of his brothers had just died, but he wouldn’t have cared if he did. The First Council had given the Disciple his orders, and now he stood across from the Bancroft Motel for one reason.

  A woman was inside, and his job was to bring her back to the True Faith.

  He had watched as others entered the motel room, while he remained standing back. Something hadn’t felt right. The first man who entered was from the True Faith, the Disciple could feel his nanotech. The others, though, they were from this place.

  All of them descending at once, the Old World and the New World.

  Yet, the Disciple didn’t feel comfortable about it, so he hadn’t ventured inside. His mission was to bring the girl back, and dying would ensure he failed.

  A few minutes later, light exploded from the room, and the Disciple understood the color well. Perhaps as well as anyone else on Earth, for it was such a light that had given him and his brothers their purpose. The Disciple harbored no doubt, no second guessing. The light could only originate from one being—the weapon.

  He had taken a few steps back, the light shining through the open door. He knew a transport floated high above, but the Disciple didn’t worry about it.

  He watched the room explode. The roof ripped from the building, rocks and bricks surging into the sky. Glass burst from the room’s small windows. More light raced outward, filling the entire parking lot.

  For a brief moment, the Disciple thought he would die, too, as the light would surely consume him as it was everything else. His eyes remained open as it rushed toward him.

  And then, the light stopped.

  It paused for a single moment, and then reversed course, moving back over the vehicles and structures it had just enveloped. Slowly. Not in any hurry, as it had been seconds before.

  And a few seconds later? It was gone. No more gray light. No more Color of the Damned.

  The Disciple stood still for another second, feeling uneasy, but no longer the sense of impending death. Rogan Nether, one of an infinite number, trusted his instincts—as did his brothers. They lived and died off such instincts.

  The Disciple made up his mind and crossed the street. He felt nanotech only in the man who had entered first, and didn’t bother looking at him as he made his way into the room. The Disciple thought briefly of killing him, but knew that it had nothing to do with his mission.

  The girl lay in the middle of the room. The Disciple heard groans, a single outright scream, and weak movement as people dealt with the mayhem’s aftermath. The girl wasn’t moving, but the Disciple saw she still breathed. He walked over to her and looked down. He felt no fear, though a mixture of hate and respect rested in his heart. The light only meant one thing, and this creature had created it.

  The Disciple bent forward and lifted her up, placing her on his shoulder. He turned and looked at the man on the floor. The Disciple didn’t understand why he was here, but he had come for the girl … and that led to a few options.

  He had either come to kill her or protect her.

  Perhaps he possessed the Blood of the Touched.

  The Disciple’s mind reached for the man’s nanotech, not bothering to read it yet. There would be time for that later. Instead he lifted the man in the air, not overly careful, only sure not to cause severe harm.

  With both people on either shoulder, the Disciple left the room.

  The Old World’s Pope, Yule Goran, was at his desk when he found out the horrible news. He sat at his desk more and more, and he absolutely could not stand it. He preferred to walk around the Vatican’s gardens, to be in the Lord’s world rather than what man had created.

  He couldn’t do so now, though, and this news ensured he wouldn’t be doing so for a long time to come.

  “Cardinal Wen?” Yule asked.

  “He didn’t survive the assault.”

  Yule leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, offering a brief prayer up to the Heavenly Father. The Cardinal had been incompetent, and Yule no fan of his, but all life was sacred.

  “Make sure his family is taken care of,” the Pope said, opening his eyes. “I believe he has two siblings. Send the Priests from their Churches to talk to them.”

  “Yes, Most Holy Father.”

  The Pope stood from his desk, his leg muscles tightening and stretching as he did. He wanted to walk to the
window, but what was the point? He would just end up back here in a few minutes.

  “What would you like to do as far as replacing Cardinal Nitson?”

  The person before him was Cardinal Quillian Woodall, and he’d handled himself admirably up until that question.

  The Pope sighed. Yule couldn’t be too harsh on the man; what did he know? Nothing. A Cardinal died while apprehending a criminal. Sure, it was odd, but Woodall couldn’t be blamed for not understanding the situation’s severity.

  “We’re not going to worry about the Cardinal’s position right now. Have whoever you want fulfill his duties until there is a better time. The person that we were after, the young woman, what happened to her?”

  “There’s no trace of her.”

  “But the people inside the room, they’re alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surveillance? What did the Cardinal’s transport transfer back to us?”

  “It’s ready whenever you would like to view it, Most Holy Father,” Woodall said.

  “The Lord helps those who help themselves, so let’s go ahead and start helping one another.” Yule leaned forward to his desk and pressed his intercom.

  “Yes, Most Holy Father?”

  “Would you mind setting up something for Cardinal Woodall to play his surveillance on?”

  “Of course, Most Holy Father.”

  A few seconds passed and a Nun walked into the room. Woodall handed her a small item. Yule had no use for any kind of technology. He didn’t necessarily agree with his predecessors’ refusal to allow new technology into the Old World, but it was still foreign to him. As long as it worked, he was fine.

  Yule walked over to the window at last and waited for the video to start playing.

  God, he began, wanting to pray, but quickly finding he didn’t have the words. He didn’t know what to say, nor what to ask for; Yule only knew this was expanding beyond his grasp. The weapon had returned, perhaps another was loose on his soil, and he was here … unable to help. He closed his eyes for a second, but instead of seeing Jesus as he so often did—he saw the High Priest’s bald head staring back at him. His unflinching eyes and his lizard like stillness. Yule opened his own eyes quickly and murmured, “May Your will be done, not mine.”

  He turned around and looked at the tarp lowering from the ceiling. A projector had descended as well, and the lights were dimming.

  Yule watched the surveillance footage.

  He saw the gray light.

  He saw the roof surge upward twice.

  He saw the explosion.

  Yule watched it all until rocks blew through Cardinal Wen’s transport.

  “There’s more,” Woodall said. “We’ve been able to piece together coverage from cameras in the surrounding area. It’s not as all encompassing, but it works.”

  Yule said nothing, and the tarp switched to a grainy picture that took a moment to adjust to. Yule finally understood he was at ground level and looking at the destroyed motel room. The gray light that had poured from the room was gone, and Yule saw a man crossing the street. Glass and broken brick still littered the parking lot, but the gray terror appeared finished.

  The man entered the building and a few seconds passed. Perhaps a minute. The Pope and the Cardinal remained quiet as they watched.

  Finally, the man returned into the daylight carrying two people. Yule could just make out the girl, but only because of her bright blonde hair.

  “Who’s the other person?”

  “We think it’s the first man who entered the motel room. He was the only one who went in without tactical gear.”

  “We think, but we’re not sure?” Yule asked

  “No, Most Holy Father.”

  The recording ended. The lights remained dim for a few seconds before brightening. The tarp pulled back up into the ceiling, and the Pope watched it go, wishing he could go with it. Just roll up inside of it and hide from all of this.

  “Do we know who the man carrying them is, or where he took them?”

  “No, Most Holy Father.”

  The Cardinal didn’t turn around to look at the Pope, but kept staring at the wall in front of him. The Pope understood he was nervous, though for all the wrong reasons. Yule made the Cardinal nervous, though he was actually harmless in all this. Yes, he could end the Cardinal’s career, but what did that matter when the world faced extinction?

  Blasphemous, Pope. Your Lord God’s Power will triumph against all.

  Yule nodded, taking his mind’s chastisement.

  “Did her father live?” the Pope asked.

  “Yes. We have him in our custody.”

  Thank you, my God, Yule prayed, hearing good news for the first time in … well, it felt like his entire life. “Bring him to me. How quickly can you have him here?”

  The Cardinal stood and turned to the Pope. He was looking at the floor, doing quick calculations in his head. “Within two hours, I think.”

  “Go then. Get him and bring him here. Be quick about it, Cardinal Woodall. More than you can imagine rests on it.”

  The Cardinal turned and walked from the room, nearly fleeing and the soles of his shoes echoing off the high ceiling above.

  Twenty-Five

  The First Priest’s hands shook and he held one in the other on his lap, trying to stop the shaking. It was no use, but what was he to do? Simply sit there with them shaking?

  The black box surrounded him, the small thing that he always hated. He hated it more now, though. Worse than ever. Had he thought negatively about the High Priest the last time he came here? Yes, something about how the High Priest shouldn’t have doubts, and if he did, then he shouldn’t be the High Priest.

  And did other thoughts underlie those? Thoughts that you dare not actually put into words? Yes, of course. Because if the High Priest should not be the High, then perhaps you should? Wasn’t that the basis for your blasphemous thoughts?

  The First looked down at his hands, now preferring to focus on them rather than his thoughts.

  He had to focus; there were things the High must know about. The First finally understood that he never wanted such a title, not now and not ever.

  Because the First had seen what happened at the compound in the southern end of the True Faith’s Ministry.

  He’d watched the replay today and he’d sat in front of Raylyn Brinson, heard her words.

  When he usually came to the black box intent upon calling the High Priest, he hoped that the man would come quickly. Now he wished the High would take his time, would perhaps never come, if that was even possible. Though he knew it wasn’t.

  His eyes started itching, and he knew his time alone was finished. He hadn’t even had five minutes by himself to get his damned hands to stop shaking.

  The green holograph flowed from his eyes, filling up the dark space in front of him.

  “My First Priest, how are you?”

  The High sat directly in front of the First. His back wasn’t turned to him, nor did he stare into the air at something no one else could see. No, this time the High looked straight forward, his face simultaneously discerning and blank. Hairless, like the First’s, yet holding …

  (Don’t think it. Don’t do it.)

  Something sinister.

  (I told you not to think it!)

  “I’m well, my Holy,” the First said.

  “You don’t look well. Your hands are shaking. Tell me, what’s making them shake?”

  The First swallowed. “We attacked the compound early yesterday morning.”

  “And the results? Did our Disciple bring us the weapon, or at least kill him?”

  “The Disciple is dead. Everyone we sent died, except for the woman in charge.”

  The High Priest stared forward for a second, almost as if he saw no one in front of him. He donned no quizzical expression, no acknowledgement that anything had happened at all.

  The First only looked at him, trying to press his hands deep into his lap and keep them from dancing th
eir jig.

  “So the weapon is at large? Is he still at his compound?”

  “Yes. We know his name now. David Hollowborne. He wasn’t born here, in the True Faith. He’s of the Old World.”

  “And so is the other one, no? The one I told you to send a Disciple to retrieve?”

  “Yes, Most Holy. That’s correct.”

  The High Priest blinked once. “We will deal with her in a moment. First, what are your plans with this weapon? Have we sent more soldiers to the compound?”

  “Not yet, my Holy. I needed to discuss with you, and I also needed to have a conversation with the woman we sent. Brinson.”

  “You’ve had your conversation with her, correct?”

  The First nodded.

  “I would like to see it.”

  The First Priest blinked, and when his eyes opened a blue holograph overlay the green one. The green faded until nearly invisible, the same happening in front of the High Priest.

  Raylyn Brinson stood in front of him again.

  Her face was bloated, her eyes rimmed red with crisscrossing veins running across them. Dark circles lay beneath her eyes like weights, pulling bags down her cheeks. Her own hands were shaking and the First Priest saw it as clearly now as he had earlier in the day. Frightened didn’t begin to describe the woman’s state. Terrified wasn’t even apt.

  “He … He …,” the woman tried to stammer out, but her voice caught in her throat.

  The First Priest said nothing in his box, only watched the scene play out.

  “I’ve seen the replays,” the First had said. “How did it happen?”

  “He … He was too ….” Again, she broke down crying, unable to complete a sentence.

  “I need you to hold it together until we finish here,” the First had said. “Go on.”

  The woman hadn’t looked up, only sat in her chair sobbing. Sitting in the black box now, the First remembered how he’d felt—angry, disgusted, and above all … fearful. Because he had seen the holographic replays and watched how easily the man destroyed everything they brought against him.