Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

  In his well-lit office, Louis Blake sighed. He was at his desk writing letters that he intended to send to the few men in the NDR who still supported him. Men who could send him word of the current state of things and newspapers and memos detailing any new legislation on telepathy.

  So far, it seemed Michael could have a home there, along with any other telepaths who chose to serve with him. Once all of Blake’s children had a home, he could finally rest. He didn’t care what happened to him at that point.

  The cloud of cigarette smoke hovering above his desk twisted suddenly, like a dancer yanked offstage, as the door in front of him burst open. It was Kiernan Sail, the boy who’d grown up being called things like “Red” and “Birthmark.” He approached Blake’s desk, breathing hard. In the candlelight, the port-wine stain across his cheek resembled a spattering of blood.

  “I have to leave,” he said. “Today.”

  Blake sprang from his chair, stubbing out the cigarette as he spoke in a low whisper. “Does he know?”

  “Not sure. Warren caught me inside one of the barns. He asked me what I was doing there, and how I got in.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him someone left the door unlocked, and that I was making sure no one was snooping around inside.” He shook his head solemnly. “Don’t think he bought it. But you should see all the guns they got stored in there, Major.” His eyes narrowed. “Assault rifles and such.”

  “I don’t care about that right now,” Blake said. “You’re in danger, Kiernan. Get out of here as fast as you can. Leave Meacham to me.”

  “He plans to assassinate you.”

  Blake froze. He stood looking at Kiernan as though he’d never seen the man before in his life. “The town would go to war.”

  Kiernan grimaced. “I’m sure it would. But Meacham can’t stand the peace any longer. He’s ready to take over Lansing and Outridge. Everything is set. He’s even got enough assault rifles to outfit all of his men. I’m talking M16s, Blake. And grenades, even.”

  Blake rubbed his right temple to soothe a sudden ache. “That’s where the town’s money has been going. He made it seem like he was spending it on booze and lumber for new guard towers.”

  Keirnan was shaking his head slowly. “He’s been hiding a lot of stuff. You’ll see if you go out to the barns on Apple Orchard when there aren’t so many guards.

  “But listen, there’s something else you don’t know about John Meacham. Those three women your boys brought back—the men who kidnapped them weren’t raiders, they were slavers disguised as caravan drivers that Meacham invited into Gulch. He let them kidnap those women in exchange for the guns—”

  The window behind Blake suddenly shattered, a vile crack followed by the tinkling of falling glass. It triggered Blake’s reflexes and sent him rolling over the desk for cover.

  As he crouched behind the desk, he looked up to see Kiernan Sail arch with the grace of a dancer, eyes fluttering, head lolling at an unnatural tilt. Then he dropped. His eyes stayed open, a sure sign he was dead from what looked to be a bullet in the forehead. And yet his body twitched.

  Blake scrambled over to the man.

  “No,” he said in a high, shaky voice. He realized a moment later, as the sound of rushing mountain wind entered through the broken window that there was no way a slug could have passed by Blake and hit Kiernan unless it came from a sniper on the roof across the street.

  The twitching stopped as Kiernan’s nervous system went silent. Blake closed Kiernan’s eyelids, a pathetic way to express his gratitude but it was all he could do for now, and then he scrambled over to his desk and pulled out his pistol. He checked the clip, chambered a bullet, blew out the candles in the room, and made his escape out the back door.

  He ran along the street in the dark of night, taking cover where he could and wishing he’d brought his coat. Using telepathy, he scanned for the sniper, but instead picked up the heat of fervent brain activity a few streets over. There was a group of people, not just one.

  Trying to keep calm, he poked his head around the corner, keeping his back to the wall, pistol up against his sternum.

  In the wash of light coming from a truck’s headlamps, John Meacham and a few of his men were beating someone. The man being brutalized tried to get up. Whoever he was, he was covered in his own blood.

  “John,” Blake shouted into the street. “What’s the hell’s going on?”

  Meacham ordered his men to stop. “Blake, that you? We caught one of your boys committing treason. I had him followed.”

  Blake lowered the gun and ran toward them, thinking of Michael.

  John Meacham dies, the boy had said, and he had sounded like he meant it.

  Was Michael the one being beaten?

  John Meacham released a loud, dramatic huff of relief when Blake arrived. “Good. For a second there I thought he’d gotten you, too.”

  The closer Blake got, the harder his stomach twisted. He recognized the man on the ground as Reggie Smith despite the damage that had been done to his face, a scoped hunting rifle lay beside him.

  Blake kneeled by his side.

  “Spiteful savages,” he said through his teeth. Reggie’s eyes were going to swell something fierce. At the moment, he was barely conscious. He would live, but not without scars.

  Blake rose and looked over the faces of Meacham’s men. Elkin was there with his skinny face and neck, his lopsided grin. Blake recognized all the others—except one who wasn’t present.

  Where was Warren?

  “Now you put that gun down,” Meacham said, and only then did Blake notice his hand and the gun were trembling from his rage. “Your boy just tried to assassinate you. But he got my boy instead, which means I lost someone and you lost someone. That’s what happens when we let violence rule our town.”

  Blake’s finger slid over the trigger. Meacham was having too much fun to notice.

  “You know what the penalty is for attempted murder, right Blake?” Meacham looked down at Reggie, who had curled up like an infant. “He’s mine now.”

  “Where’s Warren Jones?” Blake said.

  “What?” Meacham said, eyes hooded like he was suddenly tired.

  “There are two men in Gulch who can shoot like that. Where’s Warren Jones? Tell me, John, and speak the truth because I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  Just then, Warren came jogging up the street from the other direction, opposite the Matinee. The slimy son of a bitch must’ve run around the Hollows to make it look like he was coming from the wrong direction to be the shooter. Blake gave him a hateful glare, imagining where he could have ditched his rifle. This had all been planned; they had been watching Kiernan Sail for a while now.

  “He goes straight to Midas Ford to have his wounds treated,” Blake said. “And he’ll stay until Midas sees fit to release him.”

  “This man just tried to kill you,” Meacham said. “Hell, he ain’t even a ment like you and your boys. I don’t know why you trusted him in the first place.”

  Blake saw the hint of a smile on Meacham’s lips. The man was trying to keep from laughing out loud.

  “You’d better come up with convincing evidence that he’s your killer,” Blake said, reaching down to pick Reggie up. “Or even I won’t be able to call off Dominic.”

  That would give them something to think about. Meacham’s grin fell away.

  “Good luck,” Blake said as he dragged Reggie away.

  Meacham kept quiet.

  Later, John Meacham went as far as to claim Kiernan Sail’s body for burial to maintain the illusion of mourning that he had created. After a somber ceremony, they buried the man in the town cemetery. There was no indication anywhere on John Meacham’s face that he knew he was burying a traitor. The man could act. His demeanor conveyed just the right amount of grief.

  Word of the attempted assassination spread quickly, along with rumors that John Meacham had planned the whole thing. There were also rumors that Blake had set it up
to incite war so he could finally use his secret weapon: Michael. Everyone agreed there was no one left to trust anymore.

  That night the townspeople stayed indoors in case fighting broke out in the streets. John Meacham spent the night locked in his house, surrounded by his lackeys.

  Reggie went straight to Midas Ford for treatment but was kept under surveillance. John Meacham had instructed three of his men to watch the prisoner at all times, and to shoot anyone who tried to remove him from Midas’s medical center.

  Louis Blake gathered the boys and Dominic in their living room on Silo Street. The girls were told to go someplace safe and not get involved. Blake assured them he would pinpoint their location and send protection. Arielle had given Michael a strange look before leaving, almost like she had something to tell him, but thought it might offend him. She was gone before he had a chance to ask.

  Caught up in a rage after hearing what had been done to Reggie, Dominic turned over the dining room table and punched a hole in the wall.

  “Son of a bitch bastard! I’m gonna slice him open and remove his spiteful heart with my bare hands.”

  The others kept silent. After a minute of raging, Dominic took a deep breath and centered himself.

  “Where are the girls?” he said. “Are they safe?”

  Peter closed his eyes and reached, then opened them and responded. “They’re down the street. Pink house.”

  “No they aren’t,” Dominic said. “Not all of them.”

  Michael closed his eyes and reached out much as Peter had done. Dominic was right. Arielle hadn’t gone with the others to the pink house. He sensed she was somewhere in town, the café probably. But why would she be there?

  Arielle, he called to her. Come back to Silo Street. Fast.

  Her response was clear and immediate, as if she had been planning this moment. Maybe that was the reason for the look she had given him at the doorway.

  I’ve got an idea, she sent. Come to the café. Now. And do everything I say.

  “I’m out of here,” Michael said, making his way to the door. Blake and the others didn’t try to stop him.

  Chapter 16

  Peter rubbed circles over his face in exasperation.

  Michael had left in search of Arielle before anyone could stop him. Peter had heard his bike tear through the night until it became a distant drone.

  “You okay, Pete?”

  Blake’s voice sounded stern, like it wasn’t a question, more a demand to snap Peter out of his thoughts.

  “I’m ready,” Peter said.

  Blake ordered him and Eli to go down the street to the girls’ house and remain on the defensive. It was possible Meacham would send men there, and if Gulch fell into a state of anarchy, with the men in town outnumbering the women three to one, there was no telling what could happen.

  “Come on,” Peter said, motioning for Eli to follow him. He burst through the front door and jogged across the moonlit yard. Crickets chirped in the bushes and trees.

  Eli hung back. “How about you follow me for once, Rivers?” He made for the driveway, where they had left their bikes.

  “It’s down the street,” Peter said.

  “We might need them. Come on.”

  Eli was right. If the town went to hell, they might need to get out quick.

  They brought the engines to life and sped down Silo Street toward the pink house at the very end.

  “Ian, you’re with me tonight,” Blake said. “Dominic can take care of himself.”

  Dominic had already disappeared, having flown out of the house much like Michael had done.

  Ian had to admit he felt abandoned. Blake put a hand on his shoulder.

  “How do you feel about this?”

  Ian looked him straight in the eye without blinking. “I want him dead just as badly as you do. Come on. I know all his hiding places.”

  Blake dug a set of keys out of his pocket. “We’ll take my truck. Here.” He passed Ian a pistol. “You point that thing at your father’s men only. A civilian tries to stand in your way, use hand-to-hand or telepathy.”

  “I won’t need a gun,” Ian said, passing it back. He felt in his pocket for the switchblade he always kept on him. There it was. Blake appeared to understand and led him outside.

  Blake talked while he drove. Ian kept silent, mired in his own vengeful thoughts.

  “Hey, Ian,” Blake said as they barreled down the dark road, headlights paling the trees sweeping by their windows.

  “Yeah?”

  Blake hesitated as if unsure of how to proceed. “You let me deal with your father. Trust me on this. No matter how much death you see in your life, if you kill your own father, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  Ian considered this as he looked out the window. Blake was right. He couldn’t kill his own father.

  His father’s men, on the other hand….

  “Let me off here,” he said.

  “What?” Blake shot him a confused look. “Why?”

  “Warren,” Ian said simply. “He’s mine.”

  Blake brought the truck to a screeching halt and let Ian jump out.

  Chapter 17

  The storage room of the Cold War Café was frostier than usual. Elkin’s nipples were hard beneath his shirt, but that was from something other than the temperature, for sure.

  Arielle lay before him on a pile of aprons and towels, still reeling from a blow to the temple. She couldn’t even look at him. That was good. This time he was the one in control.

  No, wait—that wasn’t it. She was looking at Charlotte’s boy, who was whimpering a few feet away as Toby James held the knife to his throat. Elkin and Toby had caught the girl out in the open and had chased her and the boy inside. It was almost like they had wanted to be caught.

  Now, here she was in front of him, helpless and scared like he had always imagined. It had been so easy. After tonight, the town would be theirs, and he would have Arielle every night, just like this, with no one to get in the way.

  As for the boy—Toby would hold him back for now. Toby James was good at that sort of thing, following orders and keeping his mouth shut. Normally, Elkin would have sent them into another room, but he liked the idea of the girl being watched while they did it. After that incident with the skillet, when the girl had almost burned off half of his face, Elkin had been thinking of ways to shame her—to make her feel the way he’d felt that night and every night since.

  “It’ll be all right, William,” Arielle told the boy in a shaky voice. “He’ll never touch anyone again. Not after tonight.”

  If Elkin hadn’t been half drunk, he might have wondered what she meant by that. He’ll never touch anyone again. She was probably just trying to intimidate him. But he was past being afraid. He was calling the shots now.

  The boy was breathing heavily and shifting on and off his bad foot. With Toby’s knife against the boy’s throat, Arielle wouldn’t dare scream for her boyfriend or the doctor or anyone else—not this time.

  A drop of Elkin’s sweat landed on Arielle’s neck as he positioned himself between her legs.

  “You scream and we cut the boy,” he said, his voice taking on a shaky shrillness that even he recognized as perverted and desperate. He could no longer contain his excitement. “You don’t own this restaurant no more, you see? Now I owns it, which means you’re trespassing. Meacham drafted the bill tonight. Exile for Reggie, Dom, and Blake, and all ments get stripped of their businesses. So you never get to kick me out again. You never get to tell me where I can and can’t go. You understand me, you little blonde bitch?”

  Her breathing was quick and shallow, each puff of air warm against his face. And yet she kept looking past him like she was determined not to meet his eyes. Fine with him. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference, really.

  The boy had started to whine.

  “Aunt Arielle, he’s hurting me.”

  Arielle didn’t look at the boy as she spoke. “It’s okay, William. This’ll be over soon.�
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  Elkin grinned. “Like hell it will. I’m gonna take my sweet time.” He reached down to the collar of her shirt and stretched it open, then reached inside with a greedy smile.

  Arielle tried not to wince.

  This was what Elkin had wanted all along, and like a stupid little girl, she had tolerated him inside her café, assuming he was no more than a dirty, simple-minded man, harmless as long as John Meacham didn’t let go of his leash.

  What a stupid girl she’d been. Tonight she would fix that. Do everything I say, she had told Michael. And he had listened to her. He was still listening—watching and waiting, as she had instructed, barely controlling his anger. It radiated from him like heat. This had to work the way she had planned. It had to.

  “Just tell me one thing before you rape me,” Arielle said, looking past him at the shadow near the back. Elkin didn’t seem to notice the shift in her awareness.

  One more minute, she sent. Are you getting this?

  The shadow responded, unhappy at her request, ready to come forward as soon as she said the word. She looked at Elkin and spoke in a soothing voice.

  “It was John Meacham’s sniper who shot Kiernan, wasn’t it?”

  Elkin’s perverted grin deepened. He apparently liked this new angle. And why not? He was going to kill her anyway; might as well brag about how smart he and his friends had been in pulling this off.

  (All over Gulch, eyes opened wide; people stared at walls, windows, their own hands, not seeing what was in front of them, but seeing something else—a vision unraveling in their minds…)

  “It was Warren,” Arielle continued, wincing as Elkin’s hand, like a hairless, pale tarantula, grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed. “Warren shot Kiernan Sail, didn’t he? No one else could have made that shot.”

  Ever watchful, the shadow against the back wall shifted.

  Stay back! Arielle sent. This is my way of getting payback and you had better not interrupt me. Not yet.

  Elkin tore her shirt down the middle, exposing her breasts. She had always thought of them as being too small. Now they seemed too big—eager to invite evil things.