The Prophet Box-Set: Books 1-4

by David Beers

  His only regret was not helping at the end. Somehow reaching out and grabbing his Prophet from the air.

  It’s not over.

  Nicki heard the words, though neither she—nor anyone else she knew—had spoken them. She’d heard the voice once before, but had forgotten it. The voice spoke to her as she flew over the desert, the transport falling to certain death.

  The voice had said, Let it come. Just trust it, and let it come.

  And Nicki had listened, letting the gray light fill her and save her life.

  The same voice was here now, speaking to her again.

  It’s not over. Maybe it never will be, but this is not the end.

  Nicki was in darkness, a place between sleep and wakefulness. She didn’t know how long she’d been here, only that the Disciple had put a rag underneath her nose and forced her to inhale.

  It’s time to wake up, Nicki, the voice said.

  Nicki couldn’t talk, couldn’t ask any questions.

  Remember, whatever is about to happen, nothing is over. Not nearly.

  “We give thanks.”

  Nicki’s eyes opened slowly, this voice very different from the one she heard in the darkness. This was a man, and his voice sounded both old and confident. Years had taken their toll on his vocal chords, but they’d also made him believe that whatever he said was truth.

  She blinked a few times, her eyes trying to focus on the world around her.

  Nicki attempted to move her arms—wanting to wipe the sleep from her face—but they didn’t move.

  “Whuh?” she said, realizing she was in a standing position and immediately trying to walk.

  “No, you won’t be moving a lot,” the voice said and Nicki heard it growing closer to her. It had been behind her, but it was circling around now. “You’re wearing what the Prevention Division calls a necklace, and it’ll keep you from attacking me or anyone else you might come in contact with while you’re here.”

  The man came into view.

  Bald, fat, old, and wearing dark robes that Nicki knew immediately weren’t from the Old World.

  Her eyes found his head, its hairlessness striking. Not just bald, but completely lacking even a single hair follicle.

  “I did a lot to bring you here, Nicki Sesam,” the man said as he stepped closer. “I went through years and years of being alone, serving my Master the best I could, and He’s finally given you to me.”

  The man’s eyes didn’t waver, didn’t even blink. He stared at her with a force that she’d never seen, one that spoke of a faith that had long ago crossed the line into zealotry.

  A zealot for what, though?

  The old man stepped so close that their noses were only inches from each other. His eyes darted to Nicki’s forehead, and his hand followed. She felt the back of his knuckles rub across it.

  “I can’t wait to see what’s inside.”

  To be continued…

  The Prophet: Death

  Thirty-Seven

  Raylyn Brinson stood once more in front of the First Council.

  They sat above her, not a single hair to be found on any of their heads.

  It’s almost over, Raylyn thought. Everything, all of this. It’s almost over.

  This would be the end, the last time that Raylyn ever had to stand in front of this ancient council. She had arrived here for the first time a few weeks ago … but that felt like another life. This Raylyn had not stood before them. It had been someone else. Another woman who hadn’t seen the things she had.

  A hopelessly naïve woman, and someone Raylyn hardly even understood.

  “We give thanks,” the First Priest said.

  The other four Priests repeated the mantra.

  “We give thanks,” Raylyn said last.

  “How are you, Sister Brinson?” the First Priest asked.

  “I’m well, your Holiness.”

  “Were you able to get any sleep this past week? The five of us have tried to keep many of the issues facing the True Faith from reaching you.”

  Were you able to get any sleep this past week?

  A simple question, but one that didn’t have a simple answer. Raylyn wondered if she would ever have simple answers again, or if the world had moved past that. Her world, at least. Perhaps simplicity was only for children, and perhaps a week ago Raylyn had been childlike. This new world was full of complexities that Raylyn wasn’t sure she could ever unravel.

  No black and white.

  Only gray.

  “Yes, your Holiness,” she said, lying without hesitation. When she first came here, such a thing would have been unthinkable. Now, she hardly even cared if they knew she was lying.

  “Good, good,” the First Priest said.

  I hate him, she thought. A new thought, not something that had ever risen in her conscious mind before. She’d felt many feelings toward the man sitting above her, but never explicit hate. Now that she had thought it, though, she found the truth undeniable. I hate everything about him.

  And the rest of them?

  Yes, Raylyn found some residual hate rubbing off on them, as well. Simply for knowing the First Priest.

  “We’ve called you here today, Sister Brinson, to thank you for your service. We’re going to do it privately, if you don’t mind. There is much work to be done outside of these chambers, as you know. Will a private ceremony be acceptable? There will be an announcement that goes out to the True Faith, and it will be recorded accurately for historical purposes as well.”

  “Of course that’s fine, your Holiness,” she said.

  “Step forward then.”

  The row of Priests stood up behind their table. They wore black robes and looked down upon her. The First Priest pulled a coin from his pocket, and despite Raylyn’s hate, her heart sped up.

  She might hate the First Priest—might even hate the other four standing next to him—but she loved her God. She loved Corinth.

  The coin was blood red, and green dots lit across it as it left the First Priest’s hand, floating into the air.

  “This coin is Corinth’s Blood, that which he shed for us. It is only given to those who have served Him with distinction and valor. In 7,000 years, only 12 of these have been granted. You are number 13, Sister Raylyn Brinson,” the First said.

  The coin slowly moved through the space between her and the Council. Raylyn’s eyes held it firmly in her vision, never breaking from it. Not even the green nanoparticles could hide the red beneath.

  Corinth’s Blood, Raylyn thought as tears flooded her eyes.

  She had never—not even once—thought she would receive an honor such as this. Raylyn didn’t know the last time such a coin had been awarded, only that it was almost unheard of. Yet, she now saw it moving toward her.

  She put her hand out, palm up.

  The red coin fell into it, the green light dying and the red staring back up at her.

  Raylyn didn’t want to close her hand, didn’t want to block out the beauty in front of her. She forgot about the Priests above and even the room around her. All that mattered was the coin she held.

  “The True Faith Ministry gives its thanks to you, Sister Brinson,” the First Priest said. “For standing true in the face of the Black and for helping locate Its Prophet. Your service will never be forgotten.”

  “We give thanks,” the four Priests to his side said as one.

  Raylyn closed her hand over the red coin and brought it to her heart. She held it there, shutting her eyes—the tears in them running down her cheeks. She’d never felt such joy in her entire life.

  She heard the Priests sit down, but she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to leave this moment, not for them or anyone else. She wanted to remain in it for as long as possible.

  No one said anything, the room silent.

  Finally, Raylyn swallowed, then opened her eyes and looked around. She brought her left hand up to her face, wiping the remaining tears with her palm.

  “Sister Brinson,” the First Priest
said, “there is something else we need to tell you.”

  Raylyn’s breath caught in her throat, her chest frozen. The First’s voice had changed, though subtly. There had been gravity in it before, a sense of duty that the whole room shared. That had disappeared and been replaced with …

  Happiness?

  Glee?

  Both words felt right, but also slightly off. Because the First Priest’s voice held cruelty too.

  “Yes, your Holiness?” Raylyn asked as her lungs started working again.

  “It’s unfortunate news, but it must be done,” the First said, though he didn’t sound like there was anything unfortunate about it. He sounded positively fortunate. “Your courter, Manor Reinheld, was a member of the Black. We’ve taken him into custody, and he’s currently being detained with the other followers.”

  “What?” Raylyn said. She didn’t understand the man’s words. Was he speaking a different language?

  “Manor Reinheld killed many, many True Faith adherents, Sister. He tricked you, and tried to trick us as well. He will face the same fate as the rest of the Black,” the First said.

  Raylyn’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She stared at the five in front of her, but their faces grew blurry as tears filled her eyes.

  Manor. Manor. Manor. The name ran through her mind with barely a pause between words.

  Slowly, the First Priest’s message made its way into her brain, a tunneling worm that she couldn’t hold back.

  The tears flowed again as understanding filled her.

  I’m fine, she thought. I’m fine. You’re fine. All of this is fine.

  She kept thinking the words even as her knees unhinged, kept thinking them even as her body collapsed to the floor. It wasn’t until the blurry room around her turned black that she finally stopped thinking them, falling unconscious in front of the five most powerful people in the True Faith.

  The coin rolled from her hand and across the floor. It began its movement quickly, but slowed the further it went. The room was silent except for the sound of its metal ridges running over the stone floor.

  The coin started turning inward, making a circle and slowing further.

  At last, its energy spent, it wobbled on its edge and fell to the floor.

  The blood red face of Corinth stared up at the ceiling.

  “It’s you,” the man said.

  Rhett opened his eyes. He had heard the wall flicker away and then listened as guards shoved someone in. He’d even heard the watery noise as the wall restored itself, returning to solid white again. He’d kept his eyes closed the whole time, because he honestly didn’t care who they threw in here with him. The pain in his shoulder was gone—the True Faith had at least done that for him—but everywhere else, hurt reigned.

  A deep, all consuming pain that knew no end. Not of the body, but of the soul.

  They could throw the High Priest himself in here and Rhett wouldn’t have cared.

  Rhett did open his eyes when the man spoke, though.

  He was younger, lean. The man looked like he might have seen some horrific things recently, but then, Rhett figured everyone had.

  “Who are you?” Rhett asked from where he lay. The back wall had a bench attached to it, and Rhett spent his days either sleeping or staring at the ceiling. He preferred to sleep because then the pain receded slightly.

  “You ….” The man paused and looked around the room as if someone else might hear him. He looked at the ceiling next, most likely checking for listening devices. Finally, his eyes flashed back to Rhett, but he said nothing.

  Rhett looked back to the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over and we’re going to die. I don’t think whatever you say in here will help or hurt. If you’re with the Prophet, then your fate is sealed.”

  The man looked to the ground and stood silently for a moment. “You converted me. Five years ago. My name is Manor.”

  Rhett closed his eyes.

  How many had he converted? More than he could remember, that’s all he knew. He said nothing and the other man was quiet too. Finally, he walked over to the other bench and sat down on it.

  “It’s really over, isn’t it?” Manor whispered.

  Rhett nodded, tears brimming hot behind his closed eyelids.

  “Were you there when it happened? Is that why you’re here and not out in one of the cities?”

  Rhett nodded again. He couldn’t find words; it was hard enough acknowledging the truth internally.

  “Me too. Kind of, I guess. I saw it anyway. I just can’t believe it. Even now, a week later. It doesn’t seem real.”

  Rhett understood, though he said nothing. He’d been contemplating the same thoughts for the past seven days; none of it seemed real. He knew why; Rhett’s faith had been so strong that the thought of failure was unfathomable, and now, his mind simply refused to believe it. He sat in a cell with no hope of escape, and still his mind held onto the belief that this wasn’t real. That perhaps in some other universe, things were still unfolding as they should. The Summoning. The Union. It was all taking place, and he’d simply walked through the wrong door and ended up here.

  Rhett heard the wall fall away again and looked over—were they bringing in more prisoners? How many people would they cram in here?

  The wall hadn’t disappeared completely, though. It was only transparent.

  A woman stood on the other side. Her eyes were red and puffy, her right hand closed around something that Rhett couldn’t see. She’d been crying, that was clear, and Rhett thought he saw similar pain reflected in her. She wasn’t one of David’s, he knew that, but that all pervasive depression hung across her body like a heavy coat.

  You can’t hide that kind of hurt, he thought.

  She wasn’t looking at Rhett, but staring at his new cellmate.

  Rhett looked over to him, too. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. Tears were in his eyes now as he watched the woman standing behind the wall.

  She shook her head, a large tear spilling out of her eye and down her cheek.

  Manor didn’t move. He said nothing and the two stared at each for a few more seconds. Rhett only watched, unsure of exactly what was happening. Finally, the woman took a step back and the wall refilled, blocking their vision to the outside world.

  Still leaning on his knees, Manor looked down at the floor. Rhett watched him from where he lay. There was a slight hitch in Manor’s chest, but he made no noise.

  “Someone without the Blood?” Rhett asked, looking back to the ceiling.

  The man in the cell with him said nothing.

  Rhett didn’t care. What did it matter if a heart was broken? Millions of hearts had been broken, and millions of throats slit—none of it mattered in the slightest. Perhaps he and this man had once been united, but that was no more.

  David is gone, he thought. It doesn’t matter what else happens in this world, because soon you’re going to die.

  Rhett closed his eyes and went back to depression’s cold embrace.

  Soon you’re going to die.

  For Rhett, soon couldn’t be soon enough.

  The First Priest stared at the woman the way a predator might stare at some new, large animal. Wary, and ready to strike at even the slightest hint of aggression.

  She sat alone in her room. There was no bed—only a single chair and a toilet. She’d been there a week, just like the other one they brought back. Rhett Scoble. The First Priest had kept these two alive, though he’d had the older couple killed before even starting the trip. He hadn’t cared in the slightest about the two that had briefly housed Hollowborne.

  These people were different, though.

  With Veritros, no one had been able to get her lieutenants. Nothing had been learned from her.

  The First Priest had both the weapon’s closest friend and also his sister. The First had thought little about the High Priest since returning, partly because he didn’t have time and partly because he didn’t think there was much to him any
more. He could sit in the One Path with his treasure, but the First didn’t see his hand reaching very far—certainly not all the way down here beneath the Earth.

  Which meant, the First could do as he wanted.

  He could rebuild the True Faith, and the two people he held captive … they would help. Even if they didn’t understand that yet. The next time the Black decided to show up, the world would be ready.

  The First had broken a Proclamation, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be forgiven.

  Let me enter, he told the wall separating him from the woman. The wall flickered for a second and then fell away completely.

  The First Priest stepped through the open space; Rebecca Hollowborne’s eyes flicked to him for a second, but then she looked away, back down at the floor in front of her.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  Nothing. No words, no movement of her head. She stared at the floor, and while the First Priest wanted to think she looked like a dumb animal … a cow perhaps, he knew she wasn’t. The woman was a predator. Even now, trapped and locked away, he saw danger in her. She had betrayed her brother, but that didn’t change who she was—if anything, it demonstrated her danger.

  “You do,” he said. “You know.”

  The First took a few more steps into the room and the wall rippled upwards, becoming solid again.

  “You did a good deed. You saved the world.”

  Still, she didn’t look at him.

  “It’s not done though, is it?” the First asked. “The Black. It’s probably already looking for Its next weapon. We may have defeated your brother, but we’re not done with It, are we?”

  The woman acted as if he wasn’t even in the room.

  A chair formed out of the far wall and floated to the Priest, folding out in front of him. He sat down and leaned back in it, crossing one leg over the other.

  “You are going to help me make sure It doesn’t ever return. Because you know It better than anyone else alive, and there was a reason you turned on your brother, wasn’t there? If you don’t help me, his death—your betrayal—it’s all for nothing.”