by Ellery Kane
—Q
A light drizzle began to fall, pattering against the leaves near my feet. I folded the note and slipped it back inside my pocket. “Artos!” I called. “Artos!” Alongside the water, I saw him circling, hair raised, teeth bared. An uneasiness tugged at me, pulling me away. Still, I walked toward him, feigning bravery.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Artos yelped, his eyes fixed on a small fishing boat. It rocked methodically in the waves. From down in the boat’s hull, a familiar hand extended—reaching up toward me, as if from the grave. It was the color of candied chocolate. The disembodied voice, when it came, was also familiar.
“Ms. Knightley, we need to talk.”
Coming Soon
THE ADVENTURES OF LEX KNIGHTLEY continue in Revelation, the third and final book in the Legacy series.
If you would like to receive a notification when Revelation is released, please sign up for Ellery Kane’s newsletter: http://eepurl.com/bigOYr
Acknowledgements
WRITING IS A SOLITARY PURSUIT. Publishing a book is not. To that end, I am indebted to Prophecy’s production crew:
My editor, Ann Castro, and the team at AnnCastro Studios—Katrina A. Martin and Jae Gravley—for giving the book its polish.
Cover design artist, Giovanni Auriemma, for a striking cover. Literally.
My friends and family for safeguarding my sanity as I continue to chart the unknown territory of authorship.
And the one and only member of my publishing committee for protecting me, always, with the ferocity of a dragon.
For my mother …
because my story begins with yours
“The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves, they find their own order … the continuous thread of revelation.”
—Eudora Welty
PROLOGUE
THE FIRST TIME I SAW, I knew. Just like when old bones can sense a change in the weather. What I saw—what I still see—cannot be unseen. Some things are like that, I guess. Uninvited guests, they took up permanent residence in my mind, returning again and again without warning. Elliot’s lifeless face. My mother’s chest exploding red. The crimson trail of Shelly’s blood in her bedroom. My mother would’ve called them flashbacks, but it felt a lot like being haunted.
It was early December, a day like any other. I was running my usual route with Artos trotting beside me. I heard the truck before it rounded the corner. Loud men’s voices, raucous and unhinged, started barking at me from a block away. I yanked Artos into the ditch, but the truck swerved toward us, narrowly missing my foot. Words of outrage stuck in the hollow of my throat, where they died, unspoken. The men inside—at least ten of them—cackled through black bandanas as the truck screeched down the street. One of them hung from an open window, casually waving a rifle in his hand, as if he was greeting the neighbors.
I was fixed, frozen in mid-stride like a broken toy, until Artos pulled at his leash and jolted me forward. Up ahead, the truck stopped. Two children scurried across the road like small animals. For a moment, the world was still, waiting. And then, he fired.
CHAPTER ONE
MR. RIGHT
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TWO,” I muttered, glaring at Edison and Elana. They were sitting side by side on Mr. Van Sant’s leather sofa. “Did you really think I would like that guy?”
Edison snickered, prompting a swift elbow from Elana. “What’s wrong with Teddy?” he asked. “He’s named after a dead president, you know. That should count for something.”
I rolled my eyes, contemplating my long and unpleasant evening with Theodore Bryce Griffith III. “Yeah, and he thought the Guardian Force was a rock band.”
Edison grinned. “An honest mistake.”
“Sorry, Lex.” Elana patted my knee across the coffee table. “I told Edison he wasn’t right for you.”
“But then again, who is?” Edison retorted. “You’re sort of particular.”
I shrugged, feeling guilty. It wasn’t their first failed attempt at matchmaking. In the two and a half months since Quin left, Edison—at Elana’s urging—had introduced me to a long and distinguished list of his former classmates. She insisted it would be a “welcome distraction” for all of us.
“I don’t need any distractions,” my protest halfway believable. Only Artos knew I slept in Quin’s T-shirt, wishing it still smelled like him.
So first, there was Eric, Mr. Wandering Eye, who flirted with Elana on our double date. That one didn’t end well. Next was James, Mr. Isn’t It True That. The son of another prominent defense attorney, his conversational skills consisted mostly of his father’s cross-examination techniques. Last week was Percy. With a name like that, it was doomed from the start. I let him kiss me anyway, hoping his lips, soft but inept, would do something to me, erase something indelible inside me. Afterward, he stood there almost, but not really, looking at me, and I realized I was exactly the same. It was unsettling, but strangely comforting. Before I could protest, he kissed me again.
Elana shook her head. “She’s just waiting for Mr. Right.”
“I told you. I don’t want to date anyone.”
“Not entirely true,” Edison countered. “I think we all know what’s going on here, Lex.” My stomach churned as I conjured Quin’s face. “You’ve already got a boyfriend. It’s obvious.” He gestured toward my cell phone on the coffee table. Inwardly, I was relieved. “Some mystery man has been texting you all night.” With a sly smile, Edison leaned toward the table and reached for my phone, but I beat him to it. He laughed.
Elana was not amused. “Who is it, Lex? You know you can tell us.”
“I know.” But when I imagined myself saying it out loud, it was inconceivable—the kind of secret you bury so deep that releasing it would mean uprooting an entire part of yourself. Augustus. I’ve been texting Augustus.
CHAPTER TWO
PUBLIC MENACE
“BE CAREFUL.” Elana’s voice was muted by the car window, as I pulled away. She held her jacket like a tent over her head to avoid the light rain that was beginning to fall. Already damp, her auburn hair stuck to her cheeks. She gave a small wave before ducking back inside.
Slow down, I reminded myself, tapping the brakes as the car rumbled across the Golden Gate Bridge. Lights flashed red ahead of me, signaling a mandatory military checkpoint. A soldier—flashlight in tow—approached. Lowering my window, I felt the wet air rush in and pepper my face with cold droplets. I steadied myself and prepared for his questions.
“Hello, Miss. Could I see your driver’s license and registration, please?” I handed him both with a demure smile, casually studying his forearm. Tattooed. Just like all the others.
“You live over in Tiburon, huh?” I nodded. “Is that where you’re headed?” Another nod. “Use any EAMs this evening? Onyx?” He shined the light across my face, pausing to consider my eyes.
“Uh, no. No, sir,” I stuttered. Though these checkpoints were interspersed throughout the Bay Area and had been operational for almost a month, I still felt unnerved with each pass-through. This is what it’s like to have a secret.
The soldier held up a picture, protected from the rain by a plastic sleeve. In bold type, it read, Wanted Fugitive For The Crimes Of Burglary, Illegal Drug Trafficking, Embezzlement, Racketeering, Public Corruption. Do Not Approach. Considered Armed And Dangerous.
“Have you seen this man?” he asked.
“No.” Not since last week.
Oblivious to my wordless drama, he waved me through. “Travel safe,” he called out as I pulled ahead, tires sloshing. In my rearview mirror, I watched him approach the next vehicle and another. A string of headlights trailed behind me—same questions, same answers. I could only wonder which of them, like me, had something to hide.
I parked a half mile from the marina, tucked my father’s gun inside my waistband, and ran the rest of the way. The rain had subsided to a cold mist. I shielded my face with my sweatshirt as my feet splashed ahead
blindly. Never the same way twice—that was our agreement.
Near the water, I slowed my pace, taking a cautious glance around. There was no one. The only sound came from the boats—their hulls creaking and plaintive as they rocked on the waves. I passed the small fishing vessel where I’d found him and took a tentative step onto the bow of my pretend houseboat. Each time I came here, I imagined Quin’s voice in my head. Our houseboat? Seriously?
The door was ajar. “Hello?” My voice was half croak, half whisper. I slipped inside, shutting out the bitter night air. From behind me, the click of a flashlight illuminated the cabin. I jumped.
“It’s about time.” Augustus was sitting on the bed, cradling his gun. Snake-like, his eyes followed me without blinking. In a week, his beard had grown even thicker. Beneath it, I imagined his face, like the rest of him, was gaunt. “What took you so long?”
I opened my backpack and handed him a foil-wrapped pimento sandwich—his favorite, apparently. “A simple thank you will suffice,” I said as I unpacked the rest of his supplies, secreted from our old stockpile—crackers, cans of soup and vegetables, medicine. In the awkward silence between us, I could hear Augustus chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing.
I closed the cabinets and turned toward him. “They’re still looking for you.” He gave no response. I gestured to his beard where a glob of pimento lingered. “Xander gave another press conference yesterday. He keeps trying to convince everybody Zenigenic is innocent in all this.”
“Hmph.” Augustus grunted thick with contempt, wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve. The shirt, borrowed from my father’s closet, was at least two sizes too small for him.
“Your name came up again—in case you were wondering.” Augustus said nothing, but took a long swig from a bottle of water I brought. “Xander said he’s fully cooperating with police. He called you a menace. A public menace. And he’s blaming you for Onyx, along with everything else.” Since Augustus had disappeared, he’d become a convenient scapegoat for all Xander’s transgressions. “He wants you—if you’re alive, that is—to turn yourself—”
“Enough!” Augustus slapped his palm against the bed. For a moment, his eyes were intense, seething, like the Augustus I knew. Then as fast as the fire ignited, it was doused. He grimaced and leaned back against the cabin wall.
“Take it easy,” I cautioned. “Your shoulder’s still healing.” When Artos discovered Augustus in the fishing boat, his wound was already infected, the edges blackened like a rotting apple.
“Your fault,” he muttered.
“My fault?” His persistent refusal to accept any responsibility for his predicament was expected—typical Augustus. Still, it rankled me. “You can’t stay here forever, you know. I hope you haven’t forgotten what we discussed. You still haven’t told me what you’ve got on Xander, and I’m not doing this because I—”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “You despise, detest, and abhor me. You wish me a long and painful death, etcetera, etcetera.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Good. I’m glad you remember.” I handed him a new disposable cell phone from my pocket. “Start using this one … just in case. And don’t text me unless it’s important.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Life-or-death important, not pimento-sandwich important.”
Augustus mocked me with a military salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
“One more thing,” I said, nudging the cabin door open with my hip. “There’s a razor and shaving cream in the drawer. You might want to use it.”
CHAPTER THREE
CRUMPLED
I SPED HOME, eyes alert to anything that moved. It was almost midnight and well past the newly established curfew. Except for the pulsing red light from the alarm my father recently installed, the house was dark. Its cavernous, black eyes watched me. Artos met me at the door, sniffing my shoes with vigor, the lingering scent of Augustus teasing his nose.
Even before I read my father’s note that was scribbled on a pad in the kitchen—Gone to work on a story … be back soon—I knew he wasn’t there. His jacket and Eyes on the Bay press pass that usually hung on the door hook were gone. I was relieved. At least, I wouldn’t have to lie to him again.
I poured myself a bowl of cereal and flopped down onto the sofa, exhausted. With a click of the remote, I had instant company: Barbara Blake.
“SFTV is reporting live from the scene of another grisly drive-by between warring street gangs, Oaktown Boys and Satan’s Syndicate. Since early December, violent crime in the Bay Area has exploded, with a forty percent increase in homicides. Most are believed to be related to recreational use of Onyx. The death toll keeps climbing with three teenagers caught in the gangs’ crossfire tonight. Mandatory military checkpoints and a 10 p.m. curfew have done little to quell the brutality.
The violence in San Francisco has spurred increased use of Emovere in other large cities like Los Angeles and New York, prompting government officials to consider requiring the use of EAM monitors. Responding to the public’s growing panic, Chief of Police Caesar Gonzalez announced the arrest of two additional suspects linked to disgraced Drug Czar Augustus Porter. Gonzalez called these men “instrumental” in illegally obtaining and distributing Emovere and Eupho. Porter, missing since November, is believed to be responsible for burglarizing several Zenigenic storage facilities, using his public office to traffic EAMs, and introducing Onyx to the streets of Oakland. In other news, workers are finishing repairs on the Bay Bridge, set to reopen—”
Another click sent Barbara back into a dark and soundless oblivion. I headed for my room.
“C’mon, Artos.” He galloped ahead of me and onto the bed, where he circled his favorite spot and nested inside it. With my head overfull of secrets that needed spilling, I opened my journal.
January 14, 2043,
It’s been 75 days since Quin left for L.A., but who’s counting? And 61 since I made a deal with the devil. I’m not sure which is worse.
Speak of that devil, I saw him again today. He’s not himself—a good thing, right? But he’s no good to me like this. Do psychopaths get depressed? Because that’s what it seems like. Maybe he’s just hoping I’ll feel sorry for him, which I do … a little. I haven’t even really pushed him about telling me what he knows—yet.
Suffered through another Elana/Edison-arranged date tonight. Epic failure. I try to stop thinking about Quin—I really do—but this not-thinking-about-him thing makes me think about him even more. Pathetic, I know, since I practically sent him away. The worst is the not knowing. What is he doing, thinking, feeling? I guess I gave up my right to know, but I never expected this—not one word from him.
Lifting pen from paper, I sighed. Quin’s complete silence rubbed my heart raw. For the past month, he’d been ignoring Mr. Van Sant’s calls.
I tucked my journal into the nightstand drawer alongside my mother’s poetry book, unopened for weeks now. Feeling the pit in my stomach, I took it out and turned to the dog-eared page. Closing my eyes—I couldn’t look—I snatched Quin’s old notes, a fistful. I balled them in my hand, squeezing so tight my fingers hurt. Part of me wished for the magic to make them disappear. I imagined opening my hand and watching tiny, white doves take flight from my palm. Instead there was only a crumpled wad of paper.
CHAPTER FOUR
UNLIKELY HERO
I OPENED MY EYES to terror. A man sat at the foot of my bed. He faced the wall, unmoving. His shoulders were broad, his posture rigid and nearly transfixed. I know him. I said his name aloud—Augustus—but he didn’t answer. An awful sound slithered out of him—a hiss. His golden-brown skin began to pulse as his long, soft-bellied body stretched slowly to the floor. His unnatural curve slowly disappeared inch by inch from view. Then suddenly, like the strike of a whip, his tail writhed and he was gone. A silent scream rattled in my throat.
I woke to the electronic hiss of my cell phone vibrating against the nightstand. Still suspended in nightmare, my heart was beating fast. Artos was curled near my
feet, nose buried in his tail, completely unaware. I reached for my phone with lightning speed, pulling my hand back to safety under the covers. My father had texted me.
2:34 a.m. Are you awake?
2:35 a.m. Turn on the news.
2:36 a.m. Call me.
A cold dread crept through me. Beneath the blanket, I shivered. It was 2:40 a.m. As I padded barefoot to the living room, I dialed my father’s number.
“Lex.” He sounded relieved. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” I clicked on the television while I paced in front of the sofa. Artos watched me with curiosity from the bedroom door.
“What happened?” I stared at the screen with anticipation.
“Are you watching?” I couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move. Quin. The sight of his face knocked the wind from me. Through the camera’s eye, he looked older, harder somehow. Stubble shadowed his jaw. His mouth was set—firm, fierce. His hair was mussed from the wind. Behind him, Zenigenic’s headquarters towered like a beacon into the sky, so tall that the top of the building was hidden from view. An oversized metal Z was anchored into the concrete at its entrance, replacing the statue of Jackson Steele, Xander’s father, which was vandalized in the riots after the McAllister verdict. Police officers traveled in packs around it, herding bystanders to the periphery. Barbara Blake, microphone at the ready, was watching it all unfold.
“Lex?”
“I’m here.”
ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON ZENIGENIC CEO THWARTED BY UNLIKELY HERO scrolled at the bottom of the screen. “Did Quin … ?” The words got lost on their way to my mouth. “Try to kill … Xander?” He wasn’t in handcuffs, but I still felt the heat from his words when I told him and Mr. Van Sant about my encounter with the tattooed man just before the verdict. “I knew it,” he’d said. His voice simmered, only part of its steam meant for me.