Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

  Except it didn’t. Something redirected his efforts, leaving her mind untouched by his, the effect like a mirror bouncing a beam of light all over a room, shielding the area behind it.

  “What the hell?” he said, springing out of the chair.

  She rose to face him, her smile widening as though she had discovered a hidden advantage in whatever plan she was hatching. Maybe that was exactly what had happened.

  “Oh, Michael,” she said, tilting her head in sympathy. “All anyone’s ever told you is how special you are, how powerful and smart and capable. And you believed every word. You’re so self-absorbed you don’t even notice when those around you are special, too.”

  “William,” he said, glancing at the door to the living room.

  “You’re not the only one that’s special around here.”

  “But he wasn’t like that before. When Elkin died, I used it in front of him. He was standing right next to me.”

  Charlotte shrugged, an arrogant smile pulling at her lips, like she wanted to burst out laughing and could barely contain it. “He’s maturing. You must’ve gone through something similar.”

  Shaking his head, Michael made for the door.

  “Wait,” Charlotte said. “Michael, don’t leave. I’m not finished.”

  Michael stopped at the front door and looked back into the living room to see Charlotte standing by the couch, William sitting up and watching him with a doleful expression on his bruised face. Michael wanted to go to the boy and comfort him, but the thought of being without his ability—of being so completely stripped of it—made his skin crawl.

  “Mich-ael?” William said, obviously confused.

  Charlotte was audibly sobbing, probably an act. This was all a game to her. “You don’t have to leave us. I just wanted to talk to you. Why won’t you talk to me, Michael?”

  Michael hesitated. William’s hazel eyes—a mixture of his mother’s brown and the green of that rapist, Paul Scallazo—seemed to be boring into Michael’s head like tiny, silent drills. He had to get out of there.

  Without a word, Michael picked up the sack of potatoes, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out.

  Chapter 25

  John Meacham’s confession was set to be delivered that evening.

  The people of Gulch gathered in the town hall. They removed large overcoats that released heat into the air, the smell of unwashed bodies. Children whined and fidgeted, obviously eager to be out of there and back home. Blake stood near the back, trying not to draw attention to himself. Midas Ford would be the one presiding over the trial tonight.

  There were only a few people missing, and Blake understood why. It had been Michael’s idea to keep Fran, Rocio, and Sally away from the trial. They didn’t need to be here when the time came to pass judgment on the man who had sold them into slavery. Ian had also decided to stay away; he was off getting drunk at the observatory with Peter and Eli.

  But Michael was here, standing next to Blake, eyes darting as he watched the room fill with people. He was either very nervous or expecting someone.

  “You okay?” Blake said.

  Michael nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “You seem a little nervous.”

  “No, I just want this to be over with so we can move on.”

  “Understandable.”

  The room went silent as John Meacham, head tipped forward in shame, began to speak before the crowd. Michael had spent that afternoon putting him into a trance designed to make him answer all questions truthfully. He was no longer a puppet—just a man who no longer recognized his own ego.

  “I have committed great crimes against the people of this town,” Meacham said, “and for that I am deeply sorry. I conspired to have slavers come into Gulch to kidnap Fran Baker, Rocio Martinez, and Sally Woodhouse”—at this, the villagers heaved a clamor into the air—“and I used town money to buy over fifty automatic rifles with the intention of taking over Lansing and Outridge…”

  Another clamor rose from the audience.

  “Hang ’im,” a farmer shouted.

  “He deserves to die,” a woman cried out.

  The people lifted their voices in protest. John Meacham stood with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, facing the audience, his head and neck bowed so they could not see his eyes, only his bald spot and the bridge of his nose.

  Blake felt sorry for the man. There was something so meek, even childish, about the way he was standing. Whatever Michael had done to him, Meacham was nothing but the shadow of his former self at this point.

  And what about Warren? Was he nearby, watching, listening?

  Ian had warned them about Warren’s escape, and Blake, Midas, and the boys had spent an entire morning deliberating—mostly disagreeing—over how they should take care of the situation. Dominic, without consulting anyone, had taken one of the automatic rifles and had spent the past two days combing the hillsides with no luck.

  “People of Gulch,” Blake shouted over the crowd. They turned to look at him. “Despite the massacre that took place three days ago, I do not want this upheaval in the town’s power structure to result in more violence. I say we show mercy and exile John Meacham, a man who, as you can all see, will never be a threat to us again. He is harmless without his men or his position of power, and I say we let him live.” Hesitantly, he added, “We are not savages, are we?”

  The next morning, half of the town followed Blake to the mouth of the canyon, where John Meacham—who had been outfitted with basic survival gear and packets of dried food—was sent off along the lonely road into the mountains. Michael had put the man into another trance, this one designed to leave him with no memory of the road back to Gulch once he left.

  Blake watched the man walk off, slightly bent beneath the weight of his enormous pack, dragging a small toboggan behind him in the snow. He bumbled along like a large, awkward child in his coat, and once more Blake felt a stab of pity for him. They had been friends once.

  As soon as Meacham disappeared behind the walls of stone, Blake urged everyone to go back to their homes and observe a few moments of silence. John Meacham may have been a tyrant, but he had been one of them.

  Chapter 26

  Dominic leaned against a boulder, using his hunting knife to pick grime out from under his fingernails.

  He was whistling a child’s tune, one he couldn’t name even though he clearly remembered the melody. Joyful and frivolous, the tune contradicted his mood, which was dark and cold.

  As Meacham stumbled forth, looking ridiculous under the weight of all that gear and dragging his little toboggan, Dominic stopped whistling and cleared his throat.

  “Dom,” Meacham said, blinking at him, his voice tinged with a child’s ignorant optimism. He looked happy to see Dominic. “What are you doing here? Are you coming with me?”

  “You sold those women into slavery,” Dominic said, holding the knife at his side, the tip pointed at Meacham. “They spent five years being raped and abused thanks to you.”

  “Fran and Rocio and Sally,” Meacham said, touching a finger to his lips. “Sally, Rocio, and Fran. Did I say their names right?”

  Dominic clenched his teeth against a sudden surge of mixed emotions. His anger remained, though now, having seen how far the man had fallen, the anger was suddenly being shoved aside by pity. Meacham probably couldn’t remember—or even understand—the extent of his crimes.

  Still, he had once crusaded to have Dominic hanged. And for what reason? Because Dominic’s brother had raped a young girl. Because Meacham had wanted power so badly that he had initiated a senseless attack against an innocent man, just so he could call himself their leader.

  “Dominic?” Meacham said, blinking hopefully at him. “Are you coming with me?”

  Dominic swallowed his pity. With barely a glance at Meacham’s face, he walked forward, brought the knife up, and slashed open the man’s throat. He looked away as Meacham fell to his knees with a loud thump, gagging on his own blood.

&nbs
p; When it was finished, Dominic stared down at Meacham’s curled-up body. The man had died looking like he’d fallen asleep and nothing more. Except for the pool of blood next to him. Dominic hadn’t even looked at the man’s eyes before killing him. He hadn’t been capable of it.

  He buried Meacham in an unmarked grave.

  Later that night, covered in dirt smudges, he crouched by Reggie’s bed and looked a long time at the man’s swollen face.

  “Hey,” Dominic said, waking him.

  “Dom?”

  Reggie sounded fine. He’d always been strong.

  “I was just wondering,” Dominic said, “about—about something.”

  Reggie’s puffy eyes appeared to tighten with affection, as if he knew exactly what Dominic wanted to say. Dominic struggled to get the words out. His arms were crossed tight against his chest and his eyes were locked on the floor tiles.

  “Do—do you love me?” Dominic finally said.

  Reggie grimaced as he tried to smile. It was obvious the gesture caused him pain.

  “More than you deserve, you son of a wench.”

  That was Reggie; unable to curse, even now. Something broke open inside Dominic. He slowly lifted his gaze to Reggie.

  “I’m sorry I left you,” he said. “All those years ago. I should have stayed. I was stupid.”

  Reggie’s smile widened. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I’ve always understood how you work. And I always knew you’d come back.”

  “Thank you,” Dominic said.

  Reggie reached up to take his hand. “Stay with me tonight.”

  “Like hell I will. Look at you.”

  “I told you. I’m fine.”

  Dominic tossed his hand away. “Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

  He started to leave the room.

  “Tomorrow night, then,” Reggie said.

  At the doorway, Dominic turned to look at Reggie. The genuine affection the man was able to convey using a face that was mostly bumps and bruises left Dominic speechless. To have that kind of love for someone, and not be afraid to express it, was a foreign concept to him.

  “Tomorrow,” he managed to say before turning off the lights and leaving.

  Chapter 27

  Warren’s mind raced behind a set of binoculars.

  Night had fallen like a shroud around the mountains. Shivering inside an enormous cloak he’d found in a ruined building in the Hollows, he watched the town from atop a steep cliff. Thanks to the Selarix, those ments would never find him, and Dominic’s tracking skills were no match for Warren’s. Out here, beyond the town’s limits, Warren was king.

  He set aside the binoculars. By the glow of a flashlight, he checked his supply of the drug, saw that he was down to two canisters and one needle. Enough for a few emergencies, but not much else. He would have to set up a base somewhere and plan his revenge with a steadier mind. Having clicked off the flashlight, he put the binoculars to his eyes once more and studied the town.

  Gulch was mostly dark except for the light of a half dozen torches standing inside the park in front of the Matinee. Villagers walked among those fires, socializing, laughing, comfortable with the new life Blake and his boys had given them. Men filed out of the town hall, looking pleased with themselves. Warren was familiar with the ceremony. He had seen it only once, with John Meacham, but the memory was clear in his mind.

  They had elected a new Overseer.

  “I’ll be damned,” Warren said when he saw who it was.

  Midas Ford walked out of the town hall wearing a suit he had probably purchased from Sinatra’s. It was customary for the newly elected Overseer to wear his finest clothing for a whole week—a suit if he had it, a vest and a hat if he didn’t.

  Warren wouldn’t have been surprised to see Blake as one of the newly elected ministers, and Dominic and Reggie, too. He should have killed Reggie in that jail cell when he’d had the chance. And Dominic—all those times he could have picked him off with a rifle during one of his midnight jogs.

  And where was Charlotte? He didn’t see her among the villagers, nor did he see her blonde slut of a sister, Arielle, or any of the other ments in their posse. That was fine. It would happen another day. He would find Charlotte, and he would give her what she wanted most: a strong man to take care of her and her boy. In exchange, she would help him get his revenge against Michael and Blake and every other asshole in this fucking town.

  He picked up his pack and headed east.

  Chapter 28

  From the corner of the café, the jukebox played a lazy tune.

  Peter looked down at his coffee mug, finding it difficult to speak. The other boys had noticed a change in his appearance over the past couple of weeks. He’d begun brushing his hair and tucking in his shirt despite all the teasing remarks Ian and Eli kept throwing at him. Rocio had really cleaned him up.

  “I’m leaving town,” he said finally in a voice that crackled with emotion.

  Eli slammed his fist against the table, startling all of them, even Dominic, who was sitting at the counter reading a newspaper from the NDR.

  “I knew it,” Eli said. “You’re pussing out on us.”

  “Whatever,” Peter responded. “If only you’d work up the balls to ask Sally out, maybe you’d know what true love feels like.”

  “True love?” Dominic said from across the room. He tossed aside the newspaper and got up. “Holy hell. Peter Rivers is in love.”

  “She has an aunt in Lansing. We’re thinking—she and I—” He released a sigh that seemed to float with relief. “Rocio and I are getting married, and her aunt invited us to stay on her farm. I’d help out and”—he shrugged—“maybe take it over someday.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Eli said. “You God damned—let me out of this booth, Mike. Get up. Let me out.”

  “Are you crying?” Dominic asked Eli, chuckling.

  “You too, Dom?” Eli said, puffing up his shoulders. “You’re going to get on me now of all times?”

  Ian let out a hiss of laughter. “He’s crying. Look at him.”

  Michael had gotten up to let Eli slide out of the booth. Eli stood before all of them, glaring at Peter. His eyes were indeed red and puffy around the edges.

  “I thought we were brothers,” he said. “Brothers don’t just ditch each other like that.”

  Peter looked away in shame as Eli stormed out of the café, taking big, angry steps. The bell above the door jingled as he slammed it shut.

  Chapter 29

  Meet me in our front yard at ten.

  Arielle had sent the whisper into his mind where it remained all evening, trapped like a butterfly bouncing around a glass jar.

  She emerged from the side of the house carrying a blanket. Michael met her halfway across the yard, and they kissed with the wind stirring the trees around them. It was a cool night and they were both wearing sweatshirts. Winter had passed, leaving the mountains with an unseasonably warm and damp spring. Michael had never seen such clear night skies, not like the one tonight, where it seemed there was only a glass shell between them and the cosmos.

  “Let’s watch the stars for a bit,” Arielle said as if she had read his mind.

  He nodded and took her hand.

  They spread the blanket out over the grass and lay on it, looking up at the sky with their hands clasped. At one point, Arielle curled against him with her head under his chin. They lay that way for a while, Michael curling her hair in his fingers and breathing in her scent.

  “You know?” Arielle said in a dreamy voice. “Sometimes I think we could run away together.”

  Michael looked over at her. Curled up like that, with her head resting on her elbow, she resembled a child.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Michael said. “We could go south, where it’s warm.”

  “I could start another Cold War Café, and you could start a shop and fix cars and engines.”

  “And we could get married,” Michael said.

  She stretched toward h
im and kissed him. Her lips were so soft he almost couldn’t feel them.

  “You would marry me?” she said with her eyes closed.

  “Once every year if I could.”

  “Once is enough. Would we have babies?”

  “As many as you can handle.”

  “I want two,” she said. “A boy and a girl. I want twins.”

  They held each other for an hour until it was clear she could no longer stay awake. Michael walked her to the front door. They stood kissing in the doorway for several minutes until he tore himself away. When the door had shut between them, Michael lingered for a moment to take in the crooning of owls and the smell of the wind in the trees.

  He strolled back home with his hands in his pockets, whistling a joyful tune.

  Charlotte watched from a window on the second floor.

  The tears had long since dried off her face. Life wasn’t fair, but this was just too painful to accept. After everything she’d been through and everything she’d done for her sister, why did Arielle always get what she wanted?

  A tingling in the core of her mind. Speak of the devil.

  “Charlotte? What’s up?”

  Arielle struck a match and lit a candle. She watched Charlotte through eyes heavy with fatigue.

  “I came to talk to you,” Charlotte said.

  Arielle’smouth hung slightly open. She was about to speak when Charlotte cut her off.

  “I saw you with Michael.”

  “Don’t start,” Arielle said, pulling off her sweatshirt. “He and I are together now. I told you.”

  “And you think that’s fair?”

  “Stop yelling.”

  “You took everything from me,” she screamed at her sister.

  Arielle froze, the sweatshirt hanging off one arm. Again she tried to speak, and again Charlotte didn’t let her. There was nothing Arielle could say that would matter.

  “Paul could have chosen you first that day, but he chose me. And because of that, I ended up with a crippled son. Every time a man attacks you someone comes to your rescue and makes sure that pretty little Arielle doesn’t get raped and ruined because otherwise Michael wouldn’t like her.”