Night Legions

by Jeremy Flagg

  “We’ll save her,” Dwayne tried to assure his sister.

  “I’m going to kill anybody who tries to stop me.” The twitch of her lip and the bright shine in her eyes reminded him just how wild his sister could be. He didn’t try to hug her, calm her, or talk her down. They’d never be a normal family, but this was something he couldn’t argue.

  “The Warden,” he said.

  “The Warden,” she echoed. “The Warden dies.”

  * * * * *

  Each owner of a bomber jacket could be replaced by the next. The Caucasian men in their late twenties were similar enough in appearance they could be related. Conthan wondered if the men were genetically made, grown in a test tube with the single purpose of serving Jacob as loyal lackeys. Their iconic vacant eyes and twisted smiles appeared even more demented under the red lights of the club.

  “There’s a dozen of them and three of us,” Gretchen said. Even in the dim light of a brothel bathed in poorly composed techno music, she startled at the violence-hungry eyes of the Barren.

  Anger had a taste, metallic perhaps, a bold flavor at the back of his mouth that had yet to reach his tongue. Power rippled through his body, vibrating his skin until it reached his hand. Fingers twitched, the slight motion signaling to open the portal. One, two, three small black holes opened the chests of the men in the entry. From other portals that appeared in the alley leading up to the club, human innards emptied onto the ground.

  Portal four dissected the neck of a man, swallowing his skull. Screams filled the club as the head fell into the lap of a woman paused in her lap dance. The women in various states of dress were veterans of violence, keeping calm as they hurried to exits as fast as heels allowed.

  “What the hell is going…” A man finished tucking his dress shirt into his pants as he approached Conthan from a collection of plush sofas. “You’re the Child from the White House,” he said.

  Conthan wanted to ask if he had watched the part where the president’s head exploded, or if he was an idiot. The man’s fist clenched as he drew it back too far to be swift. Conthan wanted to bring the guy’s head down on a knee, but his powers reacted faster than his body. The fist vanished into a small black portal, then emerged in front of the patron's own face. Knuckles connected with his nose, sending him staggering backward.

  Behind the jackets, Alyssa moved like silent death. She blinked into sight, her arms latched on to a man’s head, spinning it on his neck with an audible crack. Her left foot shot out, crushing the knee of another bomber jacket. As the men turned to face the threat, she blinked out of sight. What Gretchen lacked in fighting ability, was made up with her stealth, there one second and gone the next.

  Click. The thin cylinder of a gun pressed against the back of his head hard enough to force a hiss. Once upon a time, he’d hope the invisible duo stalking the club would come to his rescue. Even as he contemplated opening a portal, he found he could create one, maybe two before his body required a recharge. Without a belly full of food and a chance to sleep, he’d be less than super.

  With a quick step to the right, his left ear went numb with a searing shockwave of a gun fired. Conthan spun, grabbing the end of the weapon. He ignored the heat from the barrel as he squeezed, slamming the butt of the gun against the bartender’s face. Yanking the gun from her grip, he spun just in time to see one of the smiling men charging in his direction.

  The husk of a man didn’t hesitate as Conthan raised the weapon. From inside the bomber jacket, he pulled a silver switchblade. With only a dozen feet to go, Conthan squeezed the trigger twice. Tufts of fabric exploded from the man’s jacket, and Conthan turned his attention to the next two preparing to square off against him.

  The trigger pulled easily, barely any effort to fire a burst of three rounds. The first two missed both men as they jumped out of the way. The third caught the leg of the closest man. The next pull elicited a hollow click.

  “Shit,” Conthan hissed as the man refused to die.

  The switchblade reflected the red of a light in the ceiling. Conthan used the gun to block the slash of the blade. Though far from a fighter, he found his adrenaline flowed freely. The henchman’s leg kicked from the side, and Conthan attempted to recall every training session with Alyssa. She’d claim he needed to wear down his opponent, study his moves, press forward only when there was an opening. Dropping the gun, Conthan grabbed the bomber jacket and cupped the stiff fabric over the man’s crotch. Not quite able to hurl him like a pro wrestler, Conthan managed to bounce him off the bar and into the collection of liquors. Crashing bottles emptied their contents along the floor, the smell of sweet alcohol filled his nostrils.

  The wounded bomber jacket hurled himself at Conthan, pinning him against the bar. Conthan grunted from the pain as a fist drove into his kidney. He drove his elbow back, hitting the man in the torso, winning himself enough space to turn. He caught his attacker's arm and prevented the blade from dragging across his torso. With his free hand, he reached down and plunged a thumb into the leg wound. Despite the obvious pain, the Barren continued trying to slide the knife across Conthan's neck.

  A bar stool came out of nowhere, slamming into the Barren, sending him to the ground. Gretchen panted from the exertion. Conthan was about to ask about Alyssa when he saw the woman gracefully dodging the attacks of the remaining four henchmen. Her body twisted, spun, and deflected each blow. When they had a moment to breathe, he'd have to ask if she ever entered a fray with the worry of losing.

  Picking up the gun by the slide, Conthan got closer to the fight. With a swing, he cracked the pistol along the skull of one man. Even as the henchmen fell, he turned, attempting to lash out. The toe of Gretchen’s boot caught him in the neck, sending him to the ground. Another kick and the body stopped moving, unconscious, or better yet, dead.

  Alyssa screamed a blade connected with her forearm. Blood dripping, the injured limb stayed close to her body. Relying on her good arm and feet, she managed to keep the attackers at bay. Conthan tightened his grip on the gun as he prepared to club another one in the head.

  Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Three bullets. Three bodies. Gretchen blinked into view. Alyssa dropped to the ground, snatching a razor from the hand of a dead bomber jacket. She seemed prepared to launch into a run, until they saw the origin of the gunfire. Alyssa dropped the inferior weapon.

  “Synthetics,” Conthan hissed.

  In an empty well in the depth of his psyche, a thundering voice offered him unlimited power. Dwayne had warned him about the sweet seduction of his abilities. Nearly bone dry, Conthan scraped together enough energy to save Alyssa. As his fist eased open, it wasn’t like Dwayne described, the euphoria of losing himself to the electricity. It wasn’t a sensation he’d be able to explain with words.

  A black void opened in the neck of one synthetic, severing the cables from the power source to the central processing unit. Conthan's body relaxed; a calm washed over him as he realized his powers would never fail him. The matching wormhole appeared two blocks away. He caught himself, pulling back from the draw of his abilities.

  The moment he broke contact with the part of him that summoned black holes, fatigue sank its claws into his chest. Dragged first to his knees, then to a puddle on the floor, he stared at the ceiling of the strip club. A mirror there gave away his pathetic rolling around. He wanted to sit up, but his muscles refused to respond.

  “You destroyed my bodyguard.”

  Through narrow slits, Conthan could barely make out the source of the voice. The room blurred to the point where he wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or closed. A toe nudged his arm.

  “The name is Needles,” said the voice. “I hear you’re looking for me.”

  Conthan stopped resisting and drifted into oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1996

  Mark raised the coffee mug to his lips, painfully dragging out the sip. He did it to give himself time to think. Typically, he didn’t need more than one slurp before he collected hi
s thoughts and moved forward. This marked his fifth. Ariel prepared for the tongue lashing, the brutal judgment he had a tendency to dispense when people didn’t measure up to his standard.

  “I see.”

  She dropped her head, covering her face with her hands. Arturo paced back and forth in the living room, caught up in his own thoughts. If it wasn’t for her friend snitching, Mark wouldn’t be any wiser as to what happened that night with the senator. Arturo was better at playing by the rules than she. Compared to the man who could hurl fire from his hands, she remained the hothead.

  Arturo tripped over his feet and shot her a dirty look. If they had been alone, she’d have tackled him to the floor. But Mark tended to frown on roughhousing since it usually resulted in maintenance repairing parts of the center. She didn’t dare incur his wrath in his private quarters.

  “So?” she asked.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  Her chin dipped in a subtle nod. “He wasn’t like Penelope. He tried to force Jonah to kill himself. He talked to me without speaking. I saw images.”

  He ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair, locking his fingers behind his head. “The military would be pissed.” He eyed Arturo, signaling him to come sit. “But we are not telling them a damned thing.”

  “Mark,” Arturo pleaded.

  “No. One of the reasons the two of you are safe is because there are only two of you. If it became obvious there were more, they’d start saying things like dissection, expendable, and God only knows what else. I don’t want more mentalists here until the military is pushed aside.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  A knock sounded at the door. She and Arturo exchanged nervous glances. Had Mark’s apartment been bugged and the military prepared to barge inside? The temperature in the room rose as Arturo’s abilities catalyzed. Mark motioned for them to calm down as he walked to the door. She breathed a sigh of relief as Ivan stepped in.

  “He needed to know this.”

  She recalled a time not so long ago when Mark and Ivan had been mortal enemies. After Goddard attempted to kill Ivan, the two men had become inseparable. She found it disturbing how much they thought alike. Mark had eased his views on the scientific approaches Ivan favored. Ivan respected Mark’s protective stance over the mentalists.

  “What couldn’t wait?”

  Despite Mark’s request for her to respect Ivan, she still found it difficult to trust the Russian scientist. Even after years of working with him. Something about the lanky man continued making her uneasy.

  “Ariel went out on her first assignment with Jonah.” They sat down at the dining room table. “While there, she discovered a telepath.”

  Despite his masterfully controlled facial expressions, Ivan couldn’t hide his surprise at the news. “Is he alive?”

  Mark nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure that he spoke to me without moving his lips? Or sure that he tried to make Jonah kill himself? Yeah—”

  “Ariel,” Mark barked. “Less attitude.”

  “I’m certain,” she finished in a pleasant tone.

  Ivan had a look that constantly drifted between nervous and excited. She understood why in her crime dramas, the Russian always turned out to be the mastermind behind some diabolical scheme. Ivan had that shifty appearance; he just needed to work on his intimidation factor.

  “We can’t tell the military. Or anybody outside this room.” Ivan echoed Mark’s earlier thoughts.

  “Jonah would—”

  “No,” he cut her off. “He has aspirations of rising in rank. It’s best we not tempt him.”

  She didn’t like lying to her handler, but Ivan didn’t want the man involved. Something in the pit of her stomach sat uncomfortably as she tried to make her own decisions about Franklin. In the heat of the moment, the excitement of meeting somebody else with gifts overwhelmed her senses. Now, she debated if letting him flee had been the right move.

  Mark treated her like a daughter. In fact, the man spent more time with her than his own son at this point. Despite their bond, she chose to keep Franklin’s offer and the others like him secret. The image of mentalists gathered in the decadent library remained a secret to all but her.

  Mark reached for a bottle of aspirin near a stack of unopened mail. Crushing several of the small white pills between his teeth, he eyed Ivan. He spoke between chewing. “The military knows a telepath kidnapped the senator. But thankfully, other than a handful of scientists, nobody knows Ariel and Arturo are immune to their abilities.”

  “At debriefing, I’ll tell them I don’t remember anything from the moment I walked into the room till when Jonah grabbed me.”

  “They know telepaths can alter your memories. They’ll think it happened to you,” Ivan said. He had a ghastly quality about him, sunken eyes and skin almost too loose for his body. In Russia, would he be considered attractive, or did women there see him as undesirable?

  “I don’t have any memory of hurling Franklin against the wall. I forced the door to the apartment shut and couldn’t stop myself.”

  Ivan examined her statements closely, nodding his head with each sentence. “You’ve become quite adept at lying, Ariel.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck. She couldn’t tell if it was from the stress or the buzzing of the fluorescent lights illuminating Mark’s quarters, but a headache crept into her head. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, the small beeper on her hip vibrated. She pulled at the annoying device and scoffed at the number.

  “It’s Jonah,” she said. All three men’s gazes hardened at the mention of his name. “I have scheduled training with him. Don’t worry about me.” She called it “powers training,” when she and Jonah would run through scenarios they might find and how she could combine military tactics with her telekinesis. Other than Ivan playing therapist, it was the only time she got to explore her gifts.

  “Are you sure about this?” Mark asked.

  Ariel ignored the question. “Not to change the topic, but is Elizabeth still bringing Raymond?”

  “Yes, but why do you ask?”

  After tracing her finger along the table, she held it up. “You might want to spend some time cleaning. I mean, unless she’s into bachelor pads.”

  He gave her a dirty look. “Are you sure you can keep this from Jonah?”

  “I’m five by five.”

  Leaving his quarters, she couldn’t quite place it, but something about him questioning her sincerity bothered her. For years they had been close. He did everything in his power to keep her safe and protect her from outside threats. Now, she had power at her disposal, but he still felt the need to protect her like his favorite toy. It wasn’t quite betrayal, but his lack of faith in her abilities compounded the uneasy feeling.

  She wrestled with the look on her mentor’s face as she walked through the Facility. She reached the locker room leading and pressed her hand on the door lock, waiting for the familiar click and the whoosh of it opening. Inside the small white room, her tactical armor hung in a locker just to the side of a private shower.

  The pants and shirt had some sort of technology that hid her from security cameras. The outfit had been manufactured in the Facility labs, the fabric resilient enough to prevent the slash of a knife. Eventually they hoped to make fabric this thin with the ability to disburse kinetic energy from a bullet, but for now, she grabbed her bulletproof vest and walked through the room to the training area.

  At the warehouse, she tormented synthetic soldiers while the military observed; here only she and Jonah had access. The warehouse was for demonstration purposes, to show the military the devastating abilities she wielded. This placed served as her real training facility. Jonah barred the military and the research staff from watching or recording their interactions. He claimed it allowed them to train as a unit, something not possible while under a microscope.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve had better.”


  “Nightmares?”

  “No.”

  “I lie awake every time it happens,” he confessed. The lines along his face seemed deeper from the lack of sleep. He tossed his vest against the wall and started stretching his arms.

  “Nightmares?”

  “The dead try to talk to me.” He spread his legs and bent at the waist, his fingertips touching the ground. “They plead for their lives. The worst is when I see their families, children pleading for me to not kill their parent.”

  “I just assumed—"

  “I could kill without a conscience?”

  “Well…” She felt foolish now. “Kind of. I thought they trained you for that.”

  “I’m trained to kill. I’m not trained to cope with it. It’s one of the shortcomings of the military. Maybe someday they’ll change.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Her eyes rolled as an auto-response.

  “Was that your first encounter with a telepath?”

  She made sure she didn’t tense at the question. “Are you sure that’s what happened?” She rolled her head, stretching her neck as she continued watching him.

  “So, you didn’t know a telepath can force your body to work against you?” He squared against her, bringing his hands up. For the first few minutes of every session, they’d box. Punch. Duck. Sweep. Jump. Repeat.

  “Then you didn’t know that if the telepath isn’t focused enough to prevent it, the person they’re taking over can see things too, though the telepath’s eyes? Like a two-way street.”

  Shit.

  The punch wasn’t fast, but it hit her face hard enough to turn her head. It tasted as if her mouth was filled with pennies. She opened her lips, running her tongue along her teeth making sure he hadn’t knocked them loose.

  “He wasn’t the most skilled telepath I’ve encountered.”

  “You saw?” She eyed the corners of the room, making sure Jonah hadn’t missed any surveillance equipment. Very little of the Facility had privacy. Mark’s quarters had so many safety protocols to prevent snooping from foreign agencies, she could share anything there. Here, however, she didn’t trust the military.