Chapter 21

 

“… it is not known at this time if the newly appointed Executor of the Empire, Calvin Cross, was slain in the attack. What we do know is that at least twelve people have been confirmed killed, and that number seems to be growing as new reports come in.” A news anchor’s voice could be heard while the Special Report showed video footage of the assault on the Executor’s motorcade. It had been recorded by a witness and was only a few seconds long. On the bottom of the screen flashed the words, Warning: Violent Images. May be Upsetting to Some Viewers.

In trembling hands, the camera recorded the sight of several men pouring out of a car and exchanging gunfire with assailants who were out of frame. As they started dropping, a rocket soared down and crashed into the lead car. There was a distorted sound from a loud explosion and then the camera about-faced as its owner raced for safety. The clip looped repeatedly, once in normal time and once in slow-motion, as the news anchor spoke. Zane sat on the edge of his seat and listened.

“Witnesses say the attack began at exactly three o’clock local time and lasted for only a few minutes. Police have since shut down the Riverside District, as well as the Capitol District, and are out in force. When asked if the attackers were still at large, they refused to comment. This reporter’s advice is to stay inside tonight, and keep your doors and windows locked.”

Zane was mesmerized by the violent images and tuned out the reporter as he watched the bodyguards drop and the car explode over and over. Brutal but effective, he supposed. It wasn’t his style to be so ostentatious and… obvious, but at least they’d gotten the job done.

“This just in,” the reporter said, the energy in his voice caught Zane’s attention again. “The Executor has survived the attack. I repeat, the Executor has survived the attack. The Akira House confirms Mister Cross is safe in an undisclosed location. His condition is listed as good but there has yet to be word on possible injuries. Authorities still believe Executor Cross was the intended target of the attack, and that his escape is largely thanks to the use of a decoy riding in the main car of the convoy. This man,” the image of a young man who bore a striking resemblance to Calvin Cross appeared in the corner of the screen, “Ollie Jenson, aged twenty-six, was hired by the Akira House only days ago. Tragically, he was one of the many killed in the attack today. He is survived by a wife and two daughters. A spokesman for the King has said the Akira House will make certain—”

Zane switched off the display. After all that expense and effort, Calvin had survived? Those dumbasses had reported a successful mission. Zane felt his blood boil. But, unlike his brother Caerwyn who was hot-tempered, Zane’s blood boiled ice-cold. And his expression showed none of the anger he felt. Nor was it detectible in the tone of his voice as he called his people and told them to cut the Khan soldiers loose. Let them fend for themselves in the streets. They were inept. There was nothing connecting them to Zane, nothing the police or the Office of the Executor would uncover—even the Khans themselves didn’t know who they were working for—so there was no danger in letting them take the fall for their own mistakes. Zane would not protect people who didn’t deserve protecting.

He cursed inwardly and tried to decide what to do next. If only Blackmoth could have been persuaded to take the job. He certainly wouldn’t have been fooled by a decoy. And Calvin would now be dead and no longer a problem. Oh well… at least Blackmoth had taken the other job. A lot of people on that list. But what were numbers to Blackmoth? He could kill everyone on the planet if his “god” commanded him to. There had never been a more efficient killer in the history of the universe. If only Blackmoth believed Zane to be his god, things would be so much easier.

 

***

 

“Are you all right?” Kalila burst into the room, flanked by two of her bodyguards. Calvin looked up from where he sat on the floor. He’d been staring at nothing trying to blank out the images of the attack from his mind. Two of his bodyguards were at his sides but not Nikolai, he’d been taken to the hospital and it felt strange not to have him near.

“Yes,” said Calvin automatically. The screams, and the popping gunfire, and the glowing-red rockets preceding the terrible explosions… it wasn’t the first time that somebody had tried to kill him. But it was the first time that so many others had died in his place, including a man whose only job was to look like him.

Kalila approached him and, when she was only inches away, took his hands in hers. He looked down into her vibrant, searching eyes. Probably wanting to see for herself that he was telling the truth—that he was, in fact, okay. Unfortunately he wasn’t, not really.

“Listen to me,” she said. “We can’t stop now.”

Calvin didn’t say anything.

“I need you to be strong. We’re close. I can feel it. But time is running out. We have to soldier on. Can you do that?” she tested him.

“Yes,” he said evenly. He wasn’t about to abandon his efforts to unravel the conspiracy and save the Empire, but he would be lying if he pretended the attempt on his life hadn’t rattled him. Such a high-profile attack on Capital World was unheard of, and he’d been the target. Not the King. Not a Member of the Assembly. Him. And now that so many people had died for him—racing into the afterlife, or oblivion, or whatever-the-hell awaited the dead—so that he could persevere, it would dishonor their sacrifice to do any less than triple his efforts to uncover the Phoenix Ring. Though Calvin doubted his meager life was worth the price that’d been paid. Why me? He wondered. Why me? Suddenly he felt so inadequate; the burden that rested on him was far heavier than his meager arms could carry. Of all the people in the galaxy that could be here, it had to be him. Surely that was some kind of proof that there was no benevolent design to the universe…

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” said Kalila. Calvin felt her warm hands, still not letting go of her, and resisted the urge to pull her into a tight embrace. He knew it would not be appropriate, so he fought the instinct. Eventually she let go. “If you need anything, tell me. I’ll see that you have it immediately.”

Calvin nodded. His mind was still reeling from the shock of what he’d just experienced, but another part of him was already trying to disseminate all he could about the attack and fit this new development into his growing investigation. It gave him a headache and he wanted nothing more than to lie down somewhere quiet for a while. A year or two would be sufficient…

“I’m going to triple your security,” said Kalila with fire in her voice. But Calvin didn’t care about his safety and security, not at the moment. If he’d had triple the security today then maybe there would have been three times as many deaths. And for what?

“I need to lie down,” said Calvin. “Somewhere quiet.”

“Of course,” said Kalila. “My personal escort will see you safely back to the estate.”

 

***

 

She whispered in his ear. It sounded like the wind. He couldn’t make out the words. Her breath tickled him and he smiled. He turned over, reaching for her. Wanting to embrace her warmth.

His hands found something cold and he opened his eyes. A ghoulish face looked back at him: cold, blue, and dead. The sunken eyes stared through him and the mouth—a mouth that had once been so beautiful and inviting—was rotten and decayed. He lurched back in a start, letting go of the corpse lying beside him.

“Why?” the corpse asked him. It sounded like two voices were speaking. Christine’s and one that was deeper and darker. “Why did you let this happen to me? Why do you make me suffer?”

Panic seized him and he rolled backward, trying to get away. As he fell off the bed, he plunged face-forward into a swirling abyss. Images flashed by, haunting pictures of men being shredded by gunfire. Cars exploding. Rockets soaring, swirling all around him, dozens of rockets. Hundreds of them. All circling him, in faster and faster orbits, growing in number.

As the tornado of red rockets spinning swiftly around him became so numerous that he could see nothing beyond them, they transformed into the glowing red eyes of Remorii. A haunted horde of them, staring at him, reaching for him, ready to send him to Christine.

He embraced them. “Do it!” he yelled into the abyss. “I’m ready!”

A hand parted the sea of Remorii and reached out for him. He took it, not knowing to whom it belonged, but it was warm and alive and human and welcoming to the touch.

The instant he did, everything changed. The chaos dissipated and he felt solid ground beneath his feet. He was now in a bright, almost blindingly white room. It felt clean and… safe. He looked at the stranger whose hand he held and saw pale blue eyes and fiery, untamed red hair. She smiled at him. And he felt peace.

 

***

 

Calvin awoke from the dream to find that an icy sweat had glazed his chest, and his sheets were tangled tightly all around him, like he was in a spider’s web. He blinked several times, trying to get his bearings, and then freed himself from the confining linens. He climbed out of bed and stood. It felt good to feel solid ground beneath him, the dizzying feeling of free-fall had subsided but he still felt light-headed and weak.

His heart beat erratically and waves of anxiety coursed through him. He stumbled to the far side of the room and found a water bottle. He wrenched free the cap and drank, drank like he’d never tasted water before. It eased his parched throat but did nothing to sooth his upset nerves. He shivered. And then his eyes spotted the translucent orange bottle sitting on the nightstand.

There was one way he knew he could forget the nightmare of the attack on his motorcade, and silence all the sounds, images, and terrified feelings that swirled within his mind. He went to the bottle and picked it up, staring at the white pills inside it. They were of varying sizes, meant to be taken in a sequence to eliminate his dependence on the chemical, but he knew two or three of the smaller ones were roughly the right mass for the dose he craved.

With the bottle of pills in one hand and the nearly-empty water bottle in the other, he went to the adjoining bathroom and locked the door. Only then did he feel safe. Certain no one was watching him. Of course, he knew, he’d been just as secure in his private bedroom, but somehow this additional layer of security made him feel even safer.

He set the water bottle on the sink and opened the pill-bottle. With trembling hands he dumped out several of the pills and held them up in the light. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, bloodshot eyes and stubble on his face, but he didn’t care. For an instant he saw a glimmer of his father’s face in his own. But he blinked it away with a shudder. He wasn’t Samil. And how he looked wasn’t important. He needed to feel better. At whatever cost.

He opened his mouth and raised the pills, reaching for the water bottle with his free hand to chase them down once he swallowed. A part of him hungered for this—had never stopped wanting this. And sure this time—this one time—was justified. He deserved his peace—he needed it—too much depended on him… He shook his head and glanced at himself one more time in the mirror, staring deeply.

What he saw startled him. Standing behind him, he thought he glimpsed a flowing lock of red hair. He blinked and it was gone. He even spun to look behind him, just to be sure no one was there. It had been a trick of the brain, he knew. His delirious and tired mind seeing things that weren’t there.

He made a second effort to raise the pills to his lips but stopped, just shy of dumping them into his mouth. He wondered what it meant, what he was doing. Yes he’d feel quick relief, and for a little while he’d feel much better, but for how long? And at what cost?

He thought of everything equarius had done to him. How it had made him its slave since the Trinity Incident. How it had affected his health, worsened his sleep, given him horrible night terrors, and—most of all—how it’d nearly lost him the Nighthawk. And for what?

He shook away those thoughts, trying to think of the times when equarius had helped him. How it’d eased his pains, and lessened his burdens, and put him into a state of mind where he could embrace the inevitable—the sheer pointlessness of life and everything in it—and find serenity. He knew he wanted to take it. He burned to take it.

Calvin pressed the white pills up against his lips. And then thought of Rain. He thought of what he’d say to her when he admitted that he’d strayed from her treatment. He thought of her shame, and the guilt she would feel for trusting him with the drug. When, in all honesty, she probably shouldn’t have, Calvin knew.

He closed his eyes and shut everything out of his mind. Needing to decide what he wanted. What was best for him, no one else. No one else had to deal with his burdens and so no one else got a vote on whether or not he took equarius.

In an instant he made up his mind. It was something he should have done a long time ago. He dumped the pills into the toilet, watching them slowly float their way down to the bottom of the bowl, and then he poured out the rest. Emptying the entire orange bottle over the toilet. Without a second thought he flushed it. Flushed the quickly-dissolving white powder away. Flushed equarius out of his life forever.