Night Covenants Read online

  Night Covenants

  The Night Quartet Book 4

  Jeremy Flagg

  Cover Art by

  Sean Carlson

  Contents

  Children of Nostradamus Universe

  Join the Adventure

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Continue the Adventure

  For Henry

  Children of Nostradamus Universe

  The Night Quartet

  Nighthawks

  Night Shadows

  Night Legions

  Night Covenants

  The Night Quartet Prequel

  Morning Sun

  Join the Adventure

  For More Children of Nostradamus Visit

  www.childrenofnostradamus.com

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  Prologue

  2033

  Chicago wept for fallen gods.

  Rain pelted the pavement along the pier. Quarter-sized orbs of water struck hard enough to make Conthan wince. He refused to look away from the six-foot-high stack of reclaimed lumber. It had taken them nearly three hours to find enough wood to create the funeral pyre. At the top of the mangled wooden planks lay a figure tightly shrouded in white.

  Closest to the pyre, Twenty-Seven stood with her back to them. After the death of so many comrades, she demanded they have a proper send-off at least for Ariel.

  The storm struck Conthan as fitting, a literal representation of the swirling emotions just beneath the surface of every person in attendance. Nighthawks, Church of Nostradamus, even the Paladins—they made a motley crew of heroes. His bruised ribs and black and blue skin were reminders that no hero was immortal.

  Conthan awoke this morning in a makeshift hospital, a white-walled tent filled with a mix of civilians and military personnel. They each moved with purpose, carrying gauze, bags of saline or blood, and dragging more than one crash cart through the grass.

  “Kid, how are we doing?” the doctor had asked.

  She picked up the chart resting by his feet and dropped the glasses from her forehead to her nose. A quick scan told her everything she needed.

  “Busted ribs, severe bruising, a concussion. How are you feeling?”

  “I hurt.”

  Two men carried a cot covered in a white sheet. Conthan watched as an arm dangled from the side. It didn’t take a medical degree to know the man hadn’t survived his wounds. “It’s not bad.” He lied, but in comparison, he couldn’t complain.

  The moment he answered, she asked to free the bed for somebody else. His butt had barely left when a man with a missing leg was dropped onto the mattress and a doctor and nurse began their work.

  The injured on cots outnumbered the volunteers at least two to one. As a doctor yelled for assistance, Conthan watched Errick, a former Bostonian spring into service. Resting his hands over the injured Marine’s abdomen, he performed whatever his powers allowed him to do and stumbled as the power drained from him. The Corps relying on a Child of Nostradamus to help save their soldiers.

  The pessimist in Conthan subsided as he started teleporting doctors from one tent to the next. He wouldn’t save them all, but one, he could help save at least one.

  Dwayne’s hand brushed against his. His mind left one hell to return to another. As their fingers snaked together, he had a moment of reprieve, a shining moment in a world filled with hurt and death. He had to fight away the pressing thoughts of gloom, the worry that someday it might be the man he loved tucked inside that white shroud.

  The big lug squeezed his fingers. They weren’t the only ones finding comfort in one another. Jasmine’s beau had his hand resting comfortably in the middle of her back, and Skits, Alyssa, and Gretchen shared an embrace. Even Needles stood in close proximity to Soo Jung and Adelaide. Conthan didn’t need to be an empath to know they were hurting. But unlike the rest, Twenty-Seven stood alone.

  They waited for minutes, nobody willing to break the rhythm of the rain to begin the last rites for their fallen comrade. In the distance, guns fired— an organized burst, a pause, then another. While the Children mourned for the loss of their companion, the military held a similar farewell for their fallen General.

  “Should we say something?” asked Dwayne.

  Twenty-Seven slowly turned, her hair matted to the side of her face. Despite the onslaught of rain, the red of her eyes gave away crying. Conthan recalled how he had wept after Sarah died. He’d reached a point where his eyes ran dry, but he couldn’t stop sobbing. He suspected Twenty-Seven would experience the same thing he had: once the tears faded, the anger raging beneath the surface would spill over.

  “Ariel Davis…” Twenty-Seven paused, choking on the woman’s name. “Ariel Davis may have died, but her legacy lives on. From before the moment Eleanor intervened, Ariel has done everything in her power to make the world a better place. And powerful she was. The only thing stronger than her mind was her drive to protect those who could not protect themselves. That is the legacy she leaves behind.”

  Twenty-Seven wiped the hair from her face. Not a spot on her remained dry, but despite the downpour, she spoke with a fire. After Sarah’s death, Conthan had murdered a man to retaliate against an unjust God. Twenty-Seven maintained an iron composure, her words forged from longing, not anger.

  “We are her legacy.” Less a statement and more of a plea.

  “Ariel, I|we see you,” yelled Adelaide.

  That phrase. Conthan winced. He wasn’t sure what to think when it came to the cult-like organization. Their belief system was found on worshipping Children like gods, and right now, he felt anything but godly. Eleanor Valentine served as their Mother Mary, bestowing the world with powered beings. While he appreciated Adelaide and her brethren for giving people hope, the idea continued to make him feel uneasy.

  “We fight for Ariel.”

  It dawned on Conthan: each of the Nighthawks had lost somebody to this senseless power struggle. They lied to themselves, claiming to be fighting for a better tomorrow. Tomorrow was a byproduct, but only that. They each fought for those they loved, and those they lost along the way. Conthan feared that death’s list contained more unclaimed names.

  “For Michael,” he yelled.

  Dwayne clenched his fist tightly enough it hurt. From just within his peripheral vision, the man smiled at him. “For Sarah,” he added.

  “For Jonah.” Conthan nearly choked as Jasmine honored her one-time archnemesis. If she could forgive a man for stealing her free will, perhaps the flame of hope pers
isted.

  “For Jed,” added Gretchen.

  “For Dav5d,” yelled Needles.

  Conthan watched as Twenty-Seven’s jaw hardened. Remorse and regret washed away with the rain. Reaching into a pants pocket, she produced a thin red object with a white cap. Flipping the end off, she struck it against her jeans, causing it to shower red sparks. She raised her hand, dragging out the action for dramatic effect.

  “For Vanessa!” the woman yelled toward the sky.

  Her fingers loosened and the flare rushed to the soggy pieces torn from the boardwalk. Flames erupted from the wooden planks and the fire zigged and zagged, following a path of invisible gasoline. For a moment, it seemed to rush under the pyre and vanish. A blast of heat exploded outward as the interior ignited, sending chemically induced flames into the air. The fire pushed away the rain, sending steam into the air with a loud hiss.

  Currently the military were scattered across the parks of Chicago, as search and destroy crews terminating the last of the synthetics. Somewhere in New York City a madman wore Vanessa’s skin and if they were lucky, the crews would find him.

  Twenty-Seven started walking toward them. The fire at her back was the perfect summary of the burning housed within their newfound leader.

  Conthan dared to ask the question they were all thinking. “What next?”

  When it had just been a handful of them, it had been about snap decisions and precision attacks. Now, with a literal army at their back, he had no idea what step came next.

  “We’re going to war.”

  It wasn’t her statement that made the hair on his neck stand on end. The cold and distant look on Twenty-Seven’s face nearly froze his heart. They might be preparing for a war, but in her head, he knew she was already dissecting methods of killing her own nemesis. “The Warden is going to die.”

  The anger had spilled over.

  Chapter One

  2033

  “Needles, where are my screens?” Twenty-Seven stared at a smooth, blank wall. The night before, the military command had been wiped clean by a possessed socialite. The dead had been removed, but the shattered window where Lillian hurled Ivan’s puppet through the glass remained empty, wind whipping through the space.

  “I’m using outdated computers, crappy hardware, and little access to my software,” he said. Word had gone out to the soldiers for anybody with computer training to report to the tower, but only Needles and a handful of his underground team punched at buttons. “You seem to think it takes a few taps on the screen. Sure, I’ll just hack into a series of private foreign satellites so you can make a phone call. I’m not a miracle worker.”

  Twenty-Seven wasn’t a fan of the man. His ego wounded far too easily and the bragging about his uncanny abilities put her in mind of an obnoxious lover who relied on the size of his manhood to get the job done.

  The screens flashed on, displaying six very large rectangles. She tucked her emotions away in a tightly sealed box. If she stopped acting, she’d have time to dwell. She wasn’t sure if, once she started unpacking those compartments, she’d be able to rebound. The Warden was free, and it had become her responsibility to continue pushing forward.

  “Are you ready for this?” Jasmine wore the infamous red jumper assigned to her by the General. Behind her, the members of her squad stood at attention, ready to make a display of confidence.

  “No.”

  She had difficulty remembering the winding path that brought her here. The woman that murdered her husband in self-defense had died and been reborn into the protector, Twenty-Seven. Last night, once again, she perished, a part of her identity vanishing as she clung to Ariel’s broken body. As she barked orders to Azacca, commanding the efforts of the military below, a new stage of her identity formed. This would be the first moment she tested her position.

  Each of the screens flickered and six people filled the screens. They lacked most commonalities, including in gender and race, but the high-definition screens revealed the same hand stitching and finely woven silk ties on each one. Diverse, except for the fact they were all upper class.

  “Who are you? Where is the General?”

  Jasmine had briefed Twenty-Seven on each of the members. The black woman who asked the question was Leslie Dubois, a Silicon Valley executive with a vested interest in global communication networks. She spoke for the committee, the group of individuals who oversaw the segregation of the country. Six people controlling one of the largest fighting forces in the world.

  “I…” Twenty-Seven froze.

  “How did you access our network? I demand answers.”

  “I am Twenty-Seven. Jonah, the General, was murdered last night in a confrontation with Jacob Griffin, a puppet of Ivan Valkov, a mentalist.”

  Leslie wasted no time asserting her control of the situation. “We will dispatch command to oversee the reacquisition of assets and return them to California before we assess our next plan of action.”

  The woman, a civilian, one who had never experienced a day of battle, had the audacity to claim a position of power over the military. Twenty-Seven didn’t want to make assumptions, but she questioned if the woman had ever experienced a day of hardship in her life. Did this war impact her in any place other than the wallet?

  “I have assumed command over the remaining military residing in Chicago,” Twenty-Seven said. “We are currently seeing to the wounded while teams are on search and destroy missions for the remaining synthetics. A recon team has been assigned to gather intel on Volkov.”

  “We appreciate your field command; we will be taking control of this situation.”

  “Jasmine Gentile reporting, ma’am. As the ranking officer, Twenty-Seven has been given a field promotion. She will be overseeing this operation until our efforts have concluded.”

  One of the men on the screen gave a slight chuckle. “I see the barcode. Do you honestly think we’ll allow a criminal to oversee our forces?”

  The council’s faces turned to condescending smirks. With a field filled with the dying and dead, these six individuals thought they could run a war like a corporation. How had the General navigated their naivete?

  “I’m giving you one chance to—”

  “Are you threatening us?” A woman wearing a pearl necklace spoke. “You commit treason; for that alone we could have you put to death.”

  “Conthan.” Twenty-Seven didn’t let the irritation cross her face. She would not let them have even the smallest of victories. Twenty-Seven understood the power at her beck and call, partnering that understanding with a humble acceptance that she was nothing without those around her. These rich untouchables believed their wealth awarded them security. In a world burning to the ground, security was an illusion, and she’d gladly teach them this lesson.

  Leslie leaned toward the camera, attempting to intimidate. “Jasmine Gentile, you will be tried for your crimes against the Republic. Twenty-Seven, you will be tried for your crimes against the Republic. Any military siding with you will be dealt with as—”

  A hand came into view, resting on Leslie’s shoulder. The woman shrieked as she spun about. Skits waved at the camera. “Hi, boss.”

  “Resist and you will be found guilty of treason.” Twenty-Seven’s tone left no room for negotiation.

  “How dare—” the sneering gentleman turned, and Dwayne stood in the frame of the camera. Behind him, a black disc hung in the air. Similar scenes filled each of the cameras. Alyssa, Adelaide, Brass and Cooper stood as guardians, not threatening the committee, but reminding them of the adversary they stood against.

  “The Children of Nostradamus are to be feared, but they are not our enemies,” Twenty-Seven said. “Without them, the Republic will fall.”

  Leslie’s resolve faded the moment she realized her secluded Californian mansion had been compromised. “What do you want from us?”

  “This is not a coup.” Twenty-Seven folded her arms behind her back, standing exactly how the General had. “This partnership remains as
long as we establish a chain of command. We are not the enemy. Cecelia Joyce, Jacob Griffin, and Ivan Volkov are the enemy. I need the military to continue its efforts against the synthetic armies. But our target is a single individual with more power than a hoard of machines.”

  She continued speaking as Gretchen blinked into sight next to her. “You may have gathered that I have weapons at my disposal the military could never anticipate. I am offering you an opportunity to lend your resources and be on the correct side of history. Do you agree with this partnership, or do we have to discuss alternative options?”

  The privilege washed away from each of their faces. The threat was subtle, but she was more than prepared to command Skits to take the woman prisoner. Pleasantries had no place in war, and the woman’s next words were going to set the tone for Twenty-Seven’s command.

  “Partnership.”

  “Good. Now let’s get to work. Conthan, we need eyes in New York.”

  The black disc opened behind Jasmine’s men. Vazquez and Murdock, their most skilled snipers, hugged their rifles as they stepped through the portal. Twenty-Seven feared their blind obedience would lead to catastrophe, another massacre like Troy. She could only hope that in the months since she oversaw the small town, she had grown enough to stand up to the hardships that were about to land at her feet.