Millennial Prince (Jaxon Prayer Trilogy Book 2)

by Rachel West

  Jaxon rests a hand on the shoulders of the two men who guard his front. Slowly he pushes them apart, until Jaxon alone is facing the crowd. The whispers grow wild, they twist and morph until it’s like a constant buzzing in my ears. Another man spits to the ground. Angry eyes. Clenched fists. Not a crowd any longer but a mob.

  Jaxon stands before them showing no emotion. Stiff as steel with a look of ice in his eyes.

  A sob breaks the stand off and an old woman hobbles forward. She drops to the ground near the pile of bodies. In her hands she gathers the still body of a child. The woman’s sobs are loud, violent, like the world is dying in her arms. “My girl,” she cries, “my little girl.” She rocks back and forth with the girl in her arms.

  She lifts a trembling finger to the crowd. “He did not do this.” Her voice shakes with age and sorrow. My heart aches for her but there is nothing I can do. I take slow, shallow breaths, calming myself. “This is the work of monsters,” she shouts. “This is the work of the Praetors.”

  In that instant I recognize the women. Tanis - one of the first to swear her allegiance to Jaxon. Oh god, is this where her family lived. Did she lose a grandchild here? A daughter?

  Red and Jaxon exchange a look.

  No, understanding rushes through me, she didn’t lose anyone at all. So what is she doing? Play acting? Buying us time to escape? I look around - there is nowhere to escape to. We are trapped. Backed into a corner with no way out.

  Jaxon strides forward smoothly.

  “These men, these women, these children,” he says somberly, “Their death will weigh on my soul until I too am nothing but ash.”

  What is he doing? It sounds like he’s admitting guilt. I lean forward on my toes, every part of me wanting to rush forward and stand between him and the mob.

  “Their loss is a tragedy,” he continues, “And they will never be forgotten. But remember! These are not our first loses. The Praetors have been preying on your people for three hundred years. Look at this,” Jaxon waves his hand out over the bodies, “What man would murder a child? No, the Praetors are not men at all. They are criminals and monsters and their heartless crimes will be punished. We strike now!” He cries and his words become a weapon; a knife of pure steel that cuts into the heart of every man and women here.

  The crowd shifts restlessly. The anger is still there but its direction has changed.

  “How?” One bold woman asks, “We don’t got no weapons. We can’t do nothin’ against them.”

  “Look at yourselves, look around you. Every one of you is a weapon. The Praetors may have the power but right now we have the numbers. We have the edge over them. We have our husbands, wives, and children to protect. The Praetors are the invaders and it is time we drove them out.”

  “So what? We storm Crescent City? They’ll shoot us down from above. We’ll all die!” shouts one man.

  “No,” Jaxon reassures, “Now is not the time to strike at the heart of Haven. But we can break them down. Even the strongest fighter can only take so many blows before he falls.”

  “And how do we do that?” Yells another.

  Jaxon picks a man from the crowd and focuses his gaze. “Where is the nearest Praetor barracks?”

  The man, middle-aged with the beginnings of a gut, shuffles under the weight of Jaxon’s attention. “Uh,” he rubs a hand through his thinning hair, “Next to Westerlings.”

  Jaxon nods and I see a flash of recognition in his eyes. Westerlings is a large three-story pub that used to be a Westwick Slums favorite…until the Praetors moved in next door.

  Jaxon smiles, a reckless look that sends a shiver down my spine. “How about we go get ourselves a drink?” he calls to the crowd.

  There is a rumble of an angry cheer. A few men raise their fists in agreement.

  “If you want to see justice done for this massacre, follow me,” Jaxon demands. He strides through the crowd and not a single person steps forward to stop him. Red’s men trail out behind him like the tailfeathers of a hawk and the crowd allows us through unmolested. Jaxon sets his path unerringly in the right direction.

  “Is this a good idea?” I whisper to Red, who walks next to me, a few paces behind Jaxon.

  “I think it was the only option,” Red responds, “It was this or get lynched by that mob back there.” I look back to see who follows us. A hundred men-- no, more than that -- all follow us. Only a few stay behind, looking uncertainly after us. The others move in stiff semi-formation, five wide and dozens deep. Now we are no longer a crowd, no longer a mob.

  We are an army.

  CHAPTER 14

  Westerlings is visible before the barracks is. The bright, three story building has neon signs of orange and yellow urging guests to enter. Abandoned tables and chairs litter a wrap-around balcony that embraces the second floor.

  I remember Westerlings as it used to be. One of the few memories I have of my father is of him bringing me here. He sat me right on the bar so he wouldn’t lose sight of me as he downed drink after drink. I remember knocking over a beer mug, the shattering of glass on the ground, and the look my father wore as he hurried me from the place.

  The signs that look grungy and gaudy now used to be things of beauty. Warm light and the hint of smoke used to pour from all the windows. Cheerful, welcoming. The Praetors moved in fourteen years ago. They took over the slightly smaller neighboring building. Now Westerlings only keeps a skeleton crew, to serve the needs of the Praetors who are its only patrons.

  Today the lights of Westerlings are dimmed. Even though it is nearing the dinner hour only the bottom floor is lit.

  Our march stops at the entrance to the street. The Praetor’s barracks is a cold, barren building of grey cement and boxy windows. Apartment buildings surround the street on both sides. On the fourth floor of one of the apartments, a curtain twitches as a woman peers out.

  “Ezzor,” Jaxon calls for the darkly cowled man, “Send some of your men into Westerlings. Make sure no surprises can sneak up on us.” It takes me a moment to understand Jaxon’s meaning. The blood drains from my face when I do - -he’s sending Ezzor to kill any of the Praetors in Westerlings. To assassinate them.

  Ezzor thump his fist to his chest. A handful of men peel off like the fading mist and quietly make their way into the old bar.

  Jaxon gestures for Red to come closer. They lean their heads together, murmuring quietly so the rest cannot listen in. “Red, take your men and go in first. If we surprise them with our best fighters we might actually have a shot at making it out alive.”

  Red takes one look at me and it’s enough to stifle the protest on my lips. “Alright,” Red says to Jaxon, “but I’m leaving two of them here with you. Someone needs to watch your fool back.”

  Jaxon turns his back on the Praetors’ barracks and faces the men behind us. He seems to look every man dead in the eye. Weighing their strength, taking their measure. At last the moment passes and Jaxon address them. Solemn. Serious. “The Hamal street massacre will not be forgotten.” Then he turns and pulls out his synthblade, ignoring the roar of the crowd behind him.

  I hear the buzzing of Jaxon’s synthblade and I wonder if we are all going to die. Our numbers are meaningless if all of the Praetors carry weapons like Jaxon’s. All they would need is a spray of their guns -- none of us can afford the expensive, spidersilk armor that can stop a bullet.

  I must have made some noise, some sign of my distress, because Jaxon stretches his fingers out to grasp mine. He nods slowly at me, like he’s asking if I am ready. I nod back even though every part of me wants to flee this street. I am not a soldier. I am not a warrior. I have spent to my whole life running and I don’t know if I am ready to fight.

  “Let’s go,” I say softly, and my words almost manage to sound confident.

  Jaxon strides forward towards the barracks. The crowd bulges and swells out to each side of him. Together, we swarm over the building like a pack of starving hounds laying into their prey. Red leads the way, throwing the
door open with the weight of his body. By the time Jaxon and I get to the entrance we trample over the fallen door, torn from its hinges.

  There is a moment of shocked stillness as the Praetors in the front room stare blankly at us. From within, the room looks bigger than it possibly could be. There is a front desk off to one side, with a woman behind thick glass, mouth working soundlessly. The rest of the room is open, with only a few small offices lining the edges and desks filling the center like driftwood in the sea. The ceiling rises two stories overhead letting in light from above. It’s surprisingly beautiful from the inside, open and airy and not at all what I expected.

  Suddenly a scream breaks the silence. The patter of bullets. Pop pop pop. Like FireSparks on the Great Uniter’s birthday. More screams that are quickly lost in the sounds of battle.

  This is crazy. What are we doing? Not even half the men with us have weapons. I pull out my synthblade as the Praetors scatter in every direction. I follow Jaxon as he disappears into the main room. I trip over something soft and go stumbling to my knees and my synthblade goes clattering away. A body lies on the floor. Black and red. A Praetor, not one of our own. I stare numbly at his ruined face. Bits of jawbone stick out from his skin like the sharp spines of a porcupine.

  Someone yanks me roughly to my feet and I strike out with the back of my fist. “Woah,” Ezzor says as he nimbly dodges my attack.

  How much time has passed? How is Ezzor already here when he was supposed to be in Westerlings. “What--” I begin to speak but Ezzor cuts me off with a sharp shove into the wall. My back slams hard against the cool cement. My shoulder blades feeling as if they are going to shatter. An instant later a synthblade swings down where my head was seconds before.

  I stare, everything happening so quickly that I am unable to react. Ezzor, in one smooth motion shoves his synthblade into the Praetor’s throat. In and out. Hardly more than a heartbeat and the Praetor is dead. Ezzor crouches down and wipes the blood from his blade onto the Praetor’s clothing. With the other hand he snags the dead Praetor’s synthblade and tosses it at me. I catch it instinctively.

  “Make some use of yourself,” Ezzor says. A blush heats my cheeks. He’s right. What am I doing, standing here like an idiot while the world ends around me?

  With a cruel smile, Ezzor spins off, dancing through the crowd like an artist. Each movement economical, perfected. Every swing of his blade resulting in another body falling to the ground.

  The new synthblade bears a weight slightly different than my own. Lighter overall, but balanced differently, heavier, I think, at the tip. I pick my way through the crowd carefully. The injured and dead cover the floor. The injured cry out for help, trying to catch my ankles as I walk by. I adjust my path so not to trip again.

  It’s impossible to make sense of what goes on around me. Someone standing will suddenly fall. Alive then dead. Over and over. I don’t know how many Praetors were stationed here. A hundred. Maybe two. We have more with us, I think, but just barely. My hands are slippery with sweat and I adjust my grip on the blade.

  Someone comes up behind me and wraps their arms around my shoulders. “Put this on,” Jaxon says and his voice nearly brings tears to my eyes. I hold the grip of the synthblade in my teeth and shrug into the jacket Jaxon holds out to me. It smells of blood and gunfire. The uniform of a dead Praetor, but turned inside out so no crimson shows. “This too,” he tears off a piece of his bright blue shirt and wraps it around my arm. A sign to the others that I am not a Praetor. “That should be enough,” he says, “but be careful.”

  “Okay,” I whisper quietly and he disappears into the crowd without another word. Everything is moving too fast. The smell of blood is so heavy in the air I can taste it on my tongue. The crowd surges and retreats around me like the tide. Everywhere I look there is fighting and screaming and dying. I want to close my eyes. I want for none of this to be real.

  But it is and there is nothing I can do about it. I can stand here, useless, waiting for some Praetor to see me and kill me. Or I could join in. Make some use of myself, as Ezzor said.

  A gap in the crowd opens and it’s like fate. A Praetor stands there, back turned to me as he fights another. His shoulder twists as he raises his synthblade high and brings it down with a vengeance. A spray of blood flies in every direction and I know whoever he was fighting is dead. Rage makes my vision red.

  In that moment I forget all that Red has taught me about fighting. I forget about balance and movement and stances. I throw the entire weight of my body into the one thrust. The synthblade, buzzing slightly, cuts through the Praetors uniform and lodges in his back. The Praetors makes a small sound of surprise then his legs collapse out beneath him. My blade sticks against something. I twist it, trying to dislodge the weapon as the Praetor falls forward. I stumble with him, but in the last instant I pull my blade free.

  When I look up there is silence. Like the world has gone completely still. The room is empty of fighting all that’s left is the pained moans of the dying. We’ve overrun the first of the rooms - the large entryway that we first poured through. Men guard each of the doors, giving us a moment to catch our breaths by preventing any of the Praetors from flowing through.

  Jaxon strips uniforms from dead Praetors and hands them out to the men and women who joined us. Each with a blue band tied around their arms. Soon there is almost nothing left to Jaxon’s shirt and he pulls it off with a grumble, wearing nothing but a sleek, black undershirt. Over his clothes he pulls on one of the bulletproof Praetors uniforms and I sigh with relief at the added protection.

  Some unspoken signal starts the room into motion. The next set of doors proves a challenge; having been barricaded from the other side. This is good I think. It means the Praetors are afraid of us. Three of Red’s men throw themselves, one after another, into the door. A small crack appears then the entire door splinters on the next assault.

  Jaxon, at the front of the crowd, waves the others forward. There is the sound of gunfire. Jaxon’s body jerks and is tossed backwards like paper in the wind. Four men rush forward, but Jaxon waves them off. I run forward and he lets me near. He’s bent over, resting on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. “Are you okay?” I step forward, frantic for him.

  Jaxon nods slowly but doesn’t speak. I run my hands down his sides but there is no blood. The Praetor’s uniform saved his life and I say a prayer for whatever caused him to pull it on before opening the door. Slowly, Jaxon stands but he remains hunched over in pain. A curse escapes his lips. He picks something up from the floor. I squint, hardly able to see him through the smoke and blurriness of my own eyes. A gun?

  He strides to the doorway again and crouches off to one side. He reaches out, gun in one hand, and lets loose with bullets. From the other room the Praetors do the same and our people split down the middle and scatter to each side of the door to avoid the gunfire. Someone screams as they are hit. Jaxon shakes his head. A standoff. The Praetors could hold the door all day and all day is not something we have time for. Back-up would have been called for the moment the attack began.

  “Red, Ezzor,” Jaxon calls for the two men. “Take your men, go to Westerlings. See if you can get onto the roof of the barracks from there.”

  “What about the back windows?” Red asks. “We could try to slip a few people in through there.”

  Jaxon tilts his head considering, “It is worth a try,” he shrugs. He points to one of the men half eavesdropping on the conversation “You,” he says, “what is your name?”

  “T-taylor,” the man stutters.

  “Taylor, have you any friends with you here today?”

  “My brothers, sir -- your highness.”

  “Jaxon is fine. Take your brothers and a few others. See if you can get in through any of the windows around the buildings.”

  “Ye-yes sir,” Taylor responds. He inches backwards, never taking his eyes of Jaxon until he bumps into the wall near the entrance.

  “The rest of you,” Jaxon shout
s over the crowd. “Strip the Praetors of their armor. Take their weapons. Search the room for anything of use.”

  The stillness that filled the room a moment before ends. Frantic movement as each Praetor is tossed for anything of value. I avert my eyes, feeling like a grave robber, but knowing we don’t have time for such niceties.

  Jaxon spots me in the crowd and comes over to where I stand. “Are you okay?” He strokes my temple and when he drops his hands there is blood on his fingers.

  “It’s not mine,” I assure him.

  A smile touches his lips for an instant then his face goes dark. “If we cannot get through this door we will have to retreat,” he says half to himself.

  “Red will find a way,” I assure him.

  Jaxon’s head jerks forward, as if suddenly surprised to see me next to him. “Of course,” he says halfheartedly.

  There is the sound of scattered gunfire from beyond the broken door. Moans of pain.

  “See,” I grin triumphantly. Red always comes through. No matter what.

  “Send them through!” Someone yells and it takes me a moment to place the voice. Ezzor.

  Jaxon doesn’t even have to announce the order. Seconds later the men are rushing through the door, spreading out once they reach the other side. Ezzor and Red stand proudly amongst a row of dead Praetors. There aren’t many. Maybe a dozen.

  “They’ve fled,” Red announces.

  “All of them?” Jaxon’s brow draws down in consternation.

  “Yup,” Red answers and there is something like a smile on his face, but filled with exhaustion and confusion and the mirror-image of death.

  Jaxon shakes his head and I can’t tell if he is relieved or disappointed. “Search the entire barracks. Make sure there are none left alive.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Red motions to the dozen men that always follow in his wake. They disappear further into the building. My heart pounds heavy with fear for a moment and for an instant, I know, I just know, that something bad is going to happen to Red.