He’d taken to it all with ease and with a superior skill that kept Militia recruiters knocking on his parents’ door once a week for the past decade. Now that he was nineteen, they received personal visits even from Colonel Seriffe’s staff, and the colonel at times headed the entire Militia Warrior operation worldwide.
As he stared out into the dark night, as he felt the future looming closer and evil not far distant, he stepped back into the shadows and changed into flight battle gear. He’d gotten really good at making the change and only had to do a minimal adjustment at the waist this time, although one of the two daggers he sported needed to be secured a little deeper into the sternum piece.
Yeah, he was uneasy. He even tied back his long hair with a strip of leather. He might have been teased about pretending to be a Whatbee, the nickname given to the Warriors of the Blood. But when you were six-five, weighed 220, and bore the weight of a man’s muscle even if you still hadn’t reached the legal age to drink, people left you alone.
He flexed his right hand. Even though his sword wasn’t in his hand, it needed to be. He felt it with every breath of his body.
He heard an infant cry, a distant sound. Someone coughed. A couple argued. The village was settling in for the night.
He nodded to one of the villagers, a good man who patrolled at night, a three-hundred-year-old ascender who served as a Militia Warrior for the colony. Much good he could do if something really bad came into the village. He wasn’t military-trained. Maybe he could sound an alarm or maybe he would be dead before a shout of alarm could leave his throat.
He thought about going to Diallo’s house, waking him up, but Diallo’s gifts ran in a different direction.
Diallo was a brilliant administrator, a leader. He had vision, kindness, and empathy. More than anything else, he rehabilitated Seers who had been abused on Second Earth.
The vibrations through Arthur’s body got stronger. He stepped off the porch and once more wanted his sword in his hand, but he waited.
He paced in front of his cabin then began moving in the direction of Diallo’s large house, the biggest house of the settlement, which overlooked the entire valley. He stretched his preternatural vision and slid deep into the surrounding forest.
Something was there.
Something was definitely out there.
Waiting.
For orders, maybe.
He just wished like hell he knew what to do.
Movement to his left dropped him into a crouch, a fighting stance. In the moonlight, he recognized Diallo’s tall, lean shape. The vampire wore an animal-skin vest, his bare arms exposed to the cool March air. He was well muscled but no fighter. His dark skin caught the light as he moved toward Arthur. Diallo lifted a hand to sustain the silence.
Arthur nodded.
Diallo had never worn a more serious expression, his black brows low on his forehead. “Do you feel it, Arthur?” The accent was slightly British.
Arthur nodded. “Yes. What do the future streams say?”
“They are quiet, which I don’t understand at all.” His voice was deep and rich. “Something is wrong. It’s a very powerful force, perhaps powerful enough to shut down the future streams. There is only one I know of with this kind of power: Owen Stannett, who recently fled from the Superstition Seers Fortress.”
“You think he might be here?”
“I think he might have found something in the future streams to draw him here, yes.”
“After our Seers?”
Diallo looked down at him and smiled. “Yes, after our Seers.”
The word had flowed easily from Arthur’s tongue. He was committed to the colony. The Seers were definitely his as much as anyone’s, his to look out for and to guard. Diallo treated the Seer population extremely well, and brought Fortress refugees here anytime he could. He often had his most powerful Seers hunt for refugees whenever they were called to enter the future streams.
“What do you think he wants with them?”
“What they all want: foreknowledge and therefore power. If he succeeds, he will incarcerate them.”
That which waited began to move.
Arthur thought the thought and at last brought his sword into his hand.
That which is hidden,
Will be made known.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 4
Thorne had his arm around Marguerite’s waist, a tight grip, too tight perhaps. The vibration took hold of him, the unique sensation of gliding through nether-space. He could feel Marguerite gliding as well. A brief blanking-out occurred, then awareness as his feet touched down.
As he materialized, he was immediately confronted by the young man from the vision, who crouched, sword in hand, then moved in front of the black man, a protective maneuver that Thorne approved of.
Both the young warrior and the black man spoke at once, but kept their voices low. “Warrior Thorne.”
“My God,” the black man said. “A Warrior of the Blood, here in our colony.”
So they knew who he was. That was a damn good thing.
“And you are?” he asked, his voice perhaps too loud in the sleepy night of the village.
The black man spoke. “Diallo. I preside over this colony.” He gestured to the young warrior. “This is Arthur Robillard.”
Thorne stared at him. “Robillard. Then you’re related to Warrior Jean-Pierre.”
The youth nodded, a slow dip of his chin, his lips a grim line. He didn’t seem happy about it.
Diallo’s gaze shifted to Marguerite, and he sucked in a sudden breath. “You are the one.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Marguerite responded.
Thorne’s hand tightened around her waist. “The one what?” Again, his gravelly voice was a little too loud.
“She’s a Seer of vast power.”
“So?” Marguerite snapped.
“You are the one destined to change everything.”
“Oh, whatever.”
“I don’t like to break this up,” Arthur said, “but there’s something out there.”
“You feel it then?” Thorne asked. He met the young man’s gaze, just a glitter in the dark.
“Like something crawling over my neck.”
Thorne nodded. “And how are you related to Jean-Pierre?”
“I’m his great-grandson but I just found out a week or so ago.”
“You have the look of him. When I saw you crouch, I saw him. Have you had any battle experience?”
“Some.”
Thorne narrowed his eyes. “How much?” He thought War games maybe, the kind done through youth military training exercises.