Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

  “Don’t overdo it,” Rocio whispered at him.

  The crowd laughed at Eli’s announcement. Two Legionnaires emerged from around the corner, saw Eli and approached. Eli put his head down.

  “What’s going on here?” one of them asked.

  “Got us a rowdy one,” Eli said, motioning at Peter with his chin. “Tried to wrestle me to the ground.”

  The guards looked at Peter, saw his split lip and swollen cheek, and nodded.

  “Don’t go easy on him. They should know how we do things here.” He studied Eli a moment longer. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re not—”

  The man didn’t finish. Eli kneed him in the balls, sending him down to the floor with a yelp. The other guard pulled his sword out of its sheath with a metallic swiping sound and held it level with Eli’s chin.

  Rocio swiped at it, knocking it out of its deadly path at the last second. It glanced off Eli’s shoulder armor.

  Peter had joined the fight by this point and was dancing around the guard, striking at his throat and kidneys. With a dry heave, the guard tumbled to the ground, eyes rolling up in his head.

  Abort, Abort. Get the hell out!

  Dominic.

  “Oh, spite,” Eli said. “Did you get that, too?”

  But Peter was looking up at the central staircase leading to the second floor.

  “Smoke,” he said, and his face split into a grin.

  Eli followed his gaze and saw dark smoke pouring up against the ceiling from the second floor. A smell like burnt wood and plaster assaulted their nostrils. The thick black fog tumbled down the stairs, moving less like smoke and more like some kind of galloping demon. Real smoke didn’t move like that.

  Perfect timing, Mike, Eli sent.

  “What’s happening?” Rocio said.

  Peter cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted a command.

  “Fire! Everyone get the hell out!”

  Ian stepped into the room, his footfalls silent against the lush, red carpet. His mouth was still open in shock at the scene laid out before him.

  Two men, both wearing leather facemasks, were in the process of tying the woman to the ceiling and bedposts. In this position, she looked as though she were kneeling over the foot of the bed in a posture of crucifixion. She was naked except for a leather bra and panties, a ball-gag in her mouth, the freckles on her belly just as Ian remembered them.

  The men looked at Ian, eyes wide and teeth bared inside their masks. They wore no shirts and one was fat with curly hair all over him, the other skinny as a rail with a nose that made an unsightly bulge inside his mask. The woman looked at Ian, eyes rolling madly as she moaned around the gag.

  Ian fell into his next movements. He sped up his awareness, the room and its inhabitants coming into stark detail; the sweat clear on their flesh, the smell of leather invading his nose. He went around the bed, his hunting knife flashing in his right hand. His first stab took the skinny man in the right kidney. Before the man could fall to his knees, Ian managed to slash the rope holding up the woman’s left arm. He tried not to think of her as someone he knew, but the name kept surging in his mind.

  Sally Woodhouse. Look what they did to her. Look what they did to Sally.

  He kicked the skinny man’s legs out from under him and let him bleed out on the carpet. Then he slashed the rope holding up Sally’s right arm before leveling the knife between himself and the larger man, whose mind reeked of a signature Ian had sensed before.

  The man backed up against the wall, stammering as he tried to calm Ian down.

  “Please, wait, stop.”

  He held up a gloved hand to halt Ian’s approach. The gloves, Ian saw with a flash of rage had spiked metal knuckles.

  The sick bastard. The freak.

  Ian lunged forward, grabbed the man’s hand, and pulled. The man’s leather boot caught against the carpet. He fell smack on his knees and began to howl in pain.

  Ian tore the mask off his face and froze when he saw who it was.

  “Joe Bigg,” he said.

  It was one of his father’s ministers, the man who oversaw the water purification and distribution process. The man who was always cleaning his nails and fixing his stinking gelled hair. The man who constantly looked down his nose at everyone as if he had made the water that kept them alive.

  Joe Bigg had come into Ian’s house many times before, for meetings with his father. Bigg had always liked Sally Woodhouse, had always told John Meacham that he had to find himself a maid like that one, because she was such a fine piece of ass. Ian had overheard many such conversations, had in fact grown up hearing them.

  “You son of a bitch,” he told the minister.

  “Oh God, Ian,” Bigg said, breathless and panting. “Thank God it’s you. I’ve—I’ve been gathering information to—to put together a team to come get her…”

  Ian punched him in the mouth and felt a satisfying pop. Bigg fell on all fours and coughed out blood and teeth. Across the room, the skinny man was clawing his way toward the open window.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Ian said, lifting his right foot and slamming the heel into the man’s kidney wound with a wet smack. The man coughed out all the air in his lungs and collapsed.

  Ian ripped off his mask, already suspecting who he would find.

  “Gerald Kepplinger,” he said. “I’m not surprised.”

  He turned the man onto his stomach. That familiar, sleepy old face. Even now, scared out of his wits, the man’s eyelids were at half-mast. His lower lip glistened with spit, trembled as he tried to speak. From the bed, Sally grunted as she tried to untie her feet from the bedposts.

  “Ia-Ia-Ian Meacham,” Kepplinger said. “Y-you can’t do this. Your father’s expecting us back.”

  “Is that right?” Ian brought his knife close to the bridge of the man’s nose. “Is he expecting you to have eyes when you get back? Tell me, who runs the power plant when you’re out being a sadistic pervert?”

  The man’s enormous eyelids squeezed shut, a pair of trembling walnut shells. He made a squealing sound like a live pig being sliced open, and kicked his legs against the carpet.

  “Please. Please.”

  Ian flew forward, the knife slipping out of his hand, as Bigg tackled him from behind, clamped a hand over the back of Ian’s head, and ground his face into the bloodied carpet.

  “You little prick. I don’t care who your father is. You’re gonna—oomph!”

  The pressure lifted, allowing Ian to breathe again. He twisted around, kicked Joe Bigg away, and saw Sally, in all her red-cheeked beauty, standing over them with Ian’s knife ready in her hand. Cords of muscle were visible in her thighs and arms. Her breasts, lifted into pink circles by the brassiere, rose and fell as she drew a series of deep breaths. A web of blood stained the blade.

  Joe Bigg let out a gasp as he dropped to the carpet. He struggled for a moment, and then he was still. His last breath almost sounded like a sigh of relief.

  The fierce look on Sally’s face melted away. She stared down at Ian, eyes wide with fright.

  “Here,” she said, tossing him the knife.

  Ian caught it by the hilt, tossed it up, and caught it again so he was holding it with the blade pointing down. He rolled away from Bigg and stood before making his way toward Kepplinger. The skinny man struggled to get up, but Ian kicked out the back of his knee, sending him down again. He stepped over the man, bent down, and planted the knife in the back of his neck, killing him almost instantly.

  “Smoke,” Sally said, facing the door. “Can you smell it?”

  Ian checked to make sure both men were dead. Satisfied, he slapped his hands together as if to clear away particles of dirt.

  Sally, with practiced movements, removed the leather bra and panties. Ian watched her, his chest heaving as he raked in blood-scented air. He couldn’t see or smell any smoke; all he saw were the freckles on Sally’s chest, the dark-orange nipples like eyes watching at him, as she struggled back into a Roman maid costume.
She hadn’t bothered to turn around.

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t see enough when you were a kid?”

  “What?” He scoffed and went back for the knife. The act of removing it from Kepplinger’s neck made a loud sucking sound. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The hole in the closet wall?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m assuming that was you.”

  “Uh...” Ian wiped the knife on the bed sheets before tucking it back into its sheath. “We’ll talk later. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going back to Gulch.”

  A sudden piercing sensation at the border of Ian’s consciousness. A telepathic attack, maybe.

  No. It was just Michael.

  Let me in, prick.

  Ian opened himself to Michael’s influence. He looked at the door and saw thick gray smoke flicker into view the way a TV screen flickers when you adjust the antenna.

  The son of a bitch had actually pulled it off; a sustained illusion, complete with a realistic smell. Ian had taught him to create decoys, but those were mere flashes; a play on a person’s perception of light. This was something else. How in the hell…

  “I’m not going back,” Sally said, having confused Ian’s awestruck expression to mean he didn’t believe her. “I’m not going anywhere near your father.”

  Ian looked her steadily in the eye. “My father won’t be around for very long. Trust me.”

  She apparently saw that he meant every word and nodded. Ian opened the door, took her by the hand, and led her—both of them coughing now—into the smoke.

  Dominic entered the street again.

  He’d left Reggie on the roof. Men and whores and Legionnaires rushed out of the Palace and turned to look at the building, expecting a pillar of smoke. The illusion wouldn’t stretch that far, though, and it was flimsy at best. Soon the guards would realize their mistake; the building wasn’t burning down at all.

  Dominic ran around to the back of the Palace. The alley was filled with men kissing the necks or lips or shoulders of gaudily dressed women. Light from the building’s elegant windows fell against the brick, illuminating the couples pressed to the walls. There was blood on Dominic’s face and hands. These people might see that as a threat. He went on regardless, looking through the windows as he passed, sending to the boys that if they had to come out, they should meet him here.

  Men glanced at him, their faces elongating in fear and surprise. They pulled their women out of the alley. A few of the men, the ones looking for trouble, stood in his way.

  “Alleyway’s closed,” one said, all beard and yellow eyes, wearing a stained shirt, torn jeans, and boots. He was inspecting the blood on Dominic’s hands and the knife he held in one of them.

  “Put it away,” the man said.

  Dominic shook his head. “I need to get through.”

  “You put that knife away and give up some coin, and maybe we’ll talk.”

  Dominic was silent. He could sense Michael’s illusion waning. The boy wasn’t strong enough yet—Dominic was still stunned he was able to pull off a mass illusion at all, when such a thing was said to be impossible without support.

  A surge of optimism rose in his chest. Like the old days. It felt good not to be alone anymore.

  A jab to the man’s throat sent him down to his knees like a curtain loosed from its rod. Dominic was behind the other men before they could make sense of what had happened. He was a shadow moving in ways a shadow wasn’t supposed to move. The men were stunned.

  A woman screamed as one of the men was lifted and thrown. Another man smiled, but not with his lips; the smile had been cut into his neck. He fell clutching his wound, gurgling his last words, eyes searching for his attacker.

  They fell one by one. The women in the alleyway, seeing no attacker, probably assumed that a malevolent force of some kind had been unleashed into the alley, a demon that merged with shadow and had no solid form. People had described Dominic’s work that way before.

  Blood pooled. The women left footprints of it on their way out.

  The last man to die fell on a pile of bodies, eyes looking up at the sky, hands clutching the wound in his belly. His eyes focused once more to take in the sight of Dominic’s face as he smiled down at the man.

  “They should pay me to take the trash out in this city.”

  The man blinked a few times and died.

  Dominic’s hands were covered in fresh blood and hung down by his sides, one holding a dripping knife, the blade scarlet in the glow of the windows.

  Sensing the movement, he took a step back and watched a chair fly with a fsh noise through the glass, sending bits of it raining down on the bodies. The chair clacked against the brick wall and toppled. People partying and laughing in the street looked into the alleyway and saw Dominic staring back at them. He pointed at them with the knife, and they shuffled to get away.

  Peter was the first through the window, followed by Rocio Martinez, dressed in her costume and covered with sweat. Dominic grabbed Rocio by the waist to help her out, and when she saw his face, she drew in a delighted gasp and hugged him.

  Peter helped Eli get his massive bulk through the window by pulling the armor on his Legionnaire disguise. He came through finally, helmet popping off, and landed on the leg of a body.

  “Damn,” he said, looking up at Dominic. “You really cleaned up the place.”

  “Where’s Michael?”

  Peter looked through the window. “Upstairs. He made the smoke.”

  “We have to cross Nero Street. Let’s split up. I’ll take the woman.”

  “Rocio,” she said, stressing the first syllable and giving him a sour look.

  “Both of you take High Street”—he was looking at Peter and Eli—“Cut through the old industrial yard to the rendezvous point. Reggie will cover you along the way.”

  “What about Michael?”

  Dominic closed his eyes.

  Michael, he sent, his head starting to hurt. You have one minute.

  Michael responded a few heartbeats later.

  He’s here.

  Chapter 9

  Michael took the woman’s hand and led her out of the room.

  It was filled with smoke that burned his mouth and nose every time he inhaled. It wouldn’t hurt him because it wasn’t real, and yet his mind had to make it real to his senses in order to maintain the illusion. It was the pain, the acrid smell, the burning sensation in his eyes that made it real for everyone else.

  They ran down the hallway.

  Michael—you have one minute.

  Dominic, and he sounded anxious.

  A man stood at the other end of the hallway, unaffected by the smoke. He pushed the illusion out of Michael’s mind like wind snuffing a flame. The smoke disappeared, here and everywhere else.

  He’s here, Michael sent, and then he focused his attention on the telepath.

  He must have been in his early forties. Nothing much stood out about him except the way he was dressed. The clothing, not quite a costume like those of the Legionnaires, but colorful enough to be a uniform, indicated he was one of Roman’s.

  “Who are you?” Michael said.

  The man was blocking the stairs. Behind Michael was a window, but he was on the second floor and couldn’t risk a broken leg. And of course, there was the woman.

  The telepath gave Michael a lopsided grin, one eye half-closed in a way that suggested amusement. There was a Desert Eagle in his right hand.

  He lifted the gun and shot it. The blast was deafening, and Michael heard a thin squeal in his ears for a time afterward. Fran Baker jerked back. Michael, twisting to push the woman out of the way, his awareness heightening, saw the slug enter her left shoulder and go straight through it to shatter the window beyond.

  Michael ducked, taking Fran down with him, covering her with his body, the command springing from his mind with the urgency of a fired bullet.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  Silence. There was
no response from the Desert Eagle. Michael opened his eyes and saw the man staring at him, eyes open all the way in shock. The gun trembled in his hand. His index finger was bent away from the trigger at an odd angle, and it squirmed as if in a battle between touching the trigger and staying as far from it as possible.

  “Put it down,” Michael said, and he no longer had to visualize the string in the man’s head to tell him what to do. There was no pain either. His mind felt crisp.

  The man’s right arm jerked. The gun flew from his hand.

  “An ascendant,” he said. “You’re—you’re Michael Cairne.”

  Michael ran to scoop the gun up from the floor. He aimed it at the man’s sternum.

  Footsteps pounded from above. Michael sensed Ian coming down from the third floor, accompanied by someone with lighter, more feminine steps.

  Ian appeared in time to see Michael backing away from the telepath, gun held steady and straight.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ian said. “Shoot him.”

  Michael looked into the man’s eyes, could sense his telepathic reach trying to disarm Michael’s hold over him. It wouldn’t work.

  And yet Michael couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. The man was just standing there.

  Ian walked over, plucked the gun from Michael’s hand, aimed, and shot the man three times in the chest. He slid down the wall, clutching his wounds, eyes blinking in surprise. Ian was about to plant a bullet in his skull when Michael stopped him.

  “That’s enough. Keep it under control.”

  With a grimace, Ian held off. They ran to Fran’s side. Michael tore off fabric from the hem of her costume and used it to wrap the wound.

  “Come on,” Ian said. “We’ll take care of her in the car.”

  “Can you walk?” Michael said.

  Fran nodded. She smiled when Sally Woodhouse entered the hallway. “They got you, too? Good.”

  “Come on, girl,” Sally said, and helped her up.

  Ian led the way, gripping the pistol with both hands, sweeping each corridor they entered. The Palace was empty now. Discarded cigarette butts still smoked on the floor. Soon there might be a fire in here for real.