Knight of Novus Page 2

  The good humor fell from John's face instantly.

  "The what?"

  Lily burst into a fit of giggles and Benson shook his head.

  "Benson's lying," Lily confessed, hiding her face behind her horse.

  "Well, where is the dog, then?" John questioned.

  "He's shut in my room," Benson answered, glancing back down at his comic. John's eyebrows came together.

  "Why?"

  Benson looked up at him.

  "He stepped in paint and walked all over," he explained calmly. "Since the floor in my room is tile, I can clean it up later, but I didn't want him tracking it on the carpet."

  "That was thoughtful of you," John commented as he swiftly headed toward his son's room. He heard his children get up and follow him.

  "Careful—" Benson warned, just as John opened the door.

  Their black dog, Jack, sat in the middle of the room, wagging his tail rapidly, his tongue hanging out. The children had taught Jack early on not to bark, because before, it was not safe to own an animal. John stepped forward with a word of greeting and grabbed the dog's ears, shaking them. The young dog did let out an excited little yip as John straightened and looked around.

  Sheets draped over all the furniture and the floor. Small cans of paint were scattered everywhere, and John saw that Benson had dragged the kitchen table in here. He was about to express some irritation—

  When he looked up.

  "Oh," he breathed.

  A half-finished mural of muscled figures and flowing garments covered the ceiling.

  "It's like the picture in the book you brought me last week," Benson explained, coming up to stand beside him and gaze upward as well. "Something called the Sistine Chapel. I can't do it nearly as well as...whoever, of course," Benson amended. "But I thought it would be...fun?"

  "Benson," John murmured. "This is incredible."

  Benson's face relaxed and he spoke faster.

  "You can see it much better this way. I have to get down from the table sometimes because it hurts my neck, but if you lie on the bed…" He flopped down on his back on the bed and folded his hands on his chest. "Then it looks good." He patted the space next to him.

  John hesitated a moment, then picked his way around the paint cans, sat down on the edge of the bed and laid back.

  "Yes," he whispered, going over every inch of the ceiling. His chest tightened. "Yes, it does."

  "Is someone going to let me in?" The shout came from outside the front door.

  "Tommy!" Lily exclaimed, and bolted out of Benson's room. Benson hopped up and followed her.

  "Lily, don't run!" he commanded. "You'll drop your horse and break it."

  "I'm not gonna break it!" she answered back.

  "Stay," Benson instructed the dog. Obediently, Jack sat down, and Benson left the room. John sighed, got up and trailed after his kids. The dog whined impatiently, but did not move from his spot.

  John entered the sitting room and found Thomas squatting down in front of Lily as she held out her treasure for him to see.

  "You want to take very special care of that," Thomas advised her. "There aren't many of them in the world."

  "I will," she promised.

  "Go put it in your room and then we'll go," John told her. Keeping her eyes on her figurine, she paced back to the hallway. Thomas stood up.

  "Anything good this time?" Benson questioned him. Thomas nodded.

  "Oh, yeah. Lots," Thomas told him. "The things we found last week will be up for grabs, too-and there were a lot of toy models and action-figures that I saw."

  Benson's face lit up.

  "Good," he affirmed.

  "I'm ready!" Lily came trotting out, and Thomas grabbed her, spun her around, and lifted her, shrieking, up to sit on his shoulders.

  "Okay, let's go!" Thomas opened the door, and the four of them left the apartment.

  "I haven't seen Lydia around lately," John commented as they headed down the curving hallway. Thomas cleared his throat and didn't look at him.

  "I'm...not really talking with her right now."

  John frowned.

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not sure she's right for me." Thomas glanced at him around Lily's leg. "Do you know what I mean?"

  "No," John looked straight ahead. His hand was in his pocket again, fingering the yarn.

  "Well, I didn't expect you would," Thomas said lightly. "But someday you'll meet someone, and you'll think you know her, right down to her heart, and she'll think that she knows you too-that you have a connection. But then you don't. And after a while, it goes away. And you look for someone else."

  John shook his head.

  "What?" Thomas demanded.

  "You're right. I have no idea what you're talking about." And John's hand closed around the yarn, as if it was about to slip out of his grasp.

  On their way to descending a long flight of stairs to the market courtyard, the four traipsed along a balcony walkway overlooking a large, white gymnasium. John slowed and approached the railing, surveying the sight below.

  A hundred men sparred in pairs down below, or refined their ground fighting, gun, bow and sword skills. For an instant, it looked exactly like the training sessions of the Novus-until one man unexpectedly flipped his Socius on his back, and both of them burst out laughing. The utterance rang against the hard surfaces, and a few others glanced over and joined in the amusement, throwing out a few good-natured taunts.

  "Sir John!"

  John turned to see a white-haired, stocky, uniformed man approaching them swiftly, holding a clipboard.

  "You are just the man I've been wanting to see," the man told him. John inclined his head.

  "Officer Bran. Good afternoon."

  The man seemed slightly out of breath, but in good humor as he stopped before them and addressed them all.

  "Good day, Cannons! Hello, Thomas." He leaned forward. "How are you liking your assigned position?"

  "What's not to like?" Thomas grinned, lifting Lily off his shoulders and setting her down. "I get to learn from the best."

  "Yes, the president's idea of pairing Knights with Rebels in mentorship was a brilliant idea," Bran turned to observe the sparring on the lower level. "The Rebels are quickly learning how to protect themselves and their families, and the Knights are picking up common necessaries-such as…well, handshakes, jokes and horseplay."

  John chuckled.

  "You can't live without that."

  Bran laughed deeply.

  "No, you certainly can't." He turned to address John. "And I must say that the new training program you developed has been working marvelously."

  John's eyebrows went up.

  "I am glad to hear it."

  "Yes, yes-it is proving much more effective in teaching the simple self-defense maneuvers quickly, rather than spending years of repetition." Branon paused a moment, then frowned. "But I am sorry to say that we do not have the retention we would have liked."

  John's gaze sharpened.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Out of a hundred and fifty, twenty Knights have quit the mentorship, you see," he told him. John looked at him sideways.

  "For what reason?"

  Bran shrugged a trifle stiffly.

  "They told me they wished to pursue other interests." Branson glanced up at him. "They told me they were tired of fighting."

  John scanned the lines of men once more and nodded slowly.

  "I see."

  John leaned against one doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, and Thomas leaned against the opposite as they gazed out over the large courtyard market. The sunlight reached half of it, making a person squint if he glanced into those reaches. All around the perimeter of the courtyard, venders had set up booths, and were selling or trading the Remnants. There was a booth for table-cloths, one for toys, one for chinaware, another for lamps, another for picture frames, and many more. Hundreds of people milled around, talking, laughing, and bartering. John watched them carefully
, and also cast a wary look overhead once in a while. He and Thomas were in charge of keeping this area of the apartment complex secure. He felt the small guns and knives he always wore press against his forearms, and others, which were strapped inside his coat, press against his chest. He also wore a handgun in each boot, and against each hip. He had been wearing these weapons for so many years he barely felt them unless he thought about it. It was all he knew.

  "My son is painting his ceiling," John said, just loud enough for Thomas to hear, while he watched his children run from vender to vender.

  "Really?" Thomas answered, glancing at the second story windows across the way. John nodded.

  "Like the Sistine Chapel."

  Thomas did stare at him this time. John did not meet his gaze.

  "It makes me wonder..." John mused, his voice tightening slightly. "If I...had been given the chance...what could I have done?" He looked at Thomas. "What else could I have learned besides how to fight and kill?"

  Thomas faced him squarely.

  "Listen, you may not be able to hold a paintbrush," Thomas said slowly. "But you mastered your weapons-and because you did, you made it possible for kids to paint on ceilings if they want to." Thomas turned back to the crowd. "That's just as important."

  John nodded wordlessly, then shifted. The gun on his left side lay cold against his ribs.

  Chapter Two

  He sat on a straight-backed chair, his hands folded in his lap, his gaze straight ahead. He cut a sharp figure in the pristinely-white hospital hall, for he was clad all in black. His head turned to the left at the click of an opening door. He rose to his feet, clasped his gloved hands behind his back and faced the white-garbed, elderly doctor that emerged.

  "Is it over?"

  "Yes, Sir John," the doctor acknowledged. "But may I ask what sex of child you were hoping for, sir?"

  John canted his head.

  "My wife and I were hoping for a son. We would be honored to give two of our children to The King as Knights, instead of only one."

  "Then I am sorry sir," the doctor said. "The infant is a female. Shall we dispose of it, sir, to leave you free to try again?"

  John hesitated. He glanced sideways. Then he shook his head and addressed the doctor again.

  "No. She could be useful in other areas."

  "Are you sure, Sir John?"

  John hesitated again.

  John gasped, jerking into a sitting position, cold sweat running down his forehead. He was trembling all over, the bare skin of his arms and chest shivering like a horse's. He covered his face in his hands, breathing irregularly, then swiped the sweat away. His heart still pounded.

  Feeling sick, his throat closing spasmatically, he threw the covers off himself and shuffled into the bathroom.

  He splashed cold, shocking water onto his face and neck, and dried himself with a towel. His muscles still quivered. He headed back to his room, grabbed a shirt out of a drawer and pulled it on, then quietly made his way down the hall toward his daughter's room.

  He peeked inside. She was afraid of the dark, so she left the light on in her closet, the door of which stayed mostly closed, to let only a sliver of light out. Every corner of her room was filled with dolls and toys that John had brought home for her. Her bed was wooden and simple, covered in a fuzzy quilt.

  She lay with her back to him, the closet light illuminating her just enough for him to see her loose tresses spreading out over her pillow. She had kicked off her blankets, and they sat in a pile at the foot of her bed. She was curled up tightly as a result, her nightgown not covering her legs very well. He could hear her steady, sleeping breathing. John's throat closed again, and he stepped inside. Her carpet was soft on is bare feet. He leaned his shins against the side of the bed and bent down, gathering up her blankets and gently draping them over her little body again. He tucked the quilt up around her shoulders, and rested his left hand there. With the other, he stroked her head.

  His legs went weak, and he sank down onto his knees next to the bed. He clasped his hands together, his elbows braced on the mattress, and pressed his lips against his thumbs. Tears burned his eyes and ran down his cheeks. His body bucked control, and a strangled sob escaped. Lily stirred, and drowsily turned over. John quickly lowered his hands and swiped at his face. She squinted at him.

  "What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

  "Nothing, sweetheart," John answered thickly, his trembling lips forcing into a small smile.

  "Sweetheart?" she repeated, looking at him sideways. "What's that?"

  "It's my new name for you," John could not keep from reaching out and stroking her forearm. "Just like you get to call me 'Dad.'"

  "Daddy," she corrected. He took a shaky breath, his chest constricting.

  "Yes. I like that even better."

  She raised her eyebrows and patted the bed next to her.

  "I'll scoot over," she told him, as she did so. Making his legs work, John got up and climbed onto the bed, lying on his side facing her and pillowing his head on his arm. She reached her hand up and patted his chest.

  "Did you have a bad dream?" she asked. John swallowed.

  "Yes," he answered brokenly. "Daddy had a bad dream."

  Her eyes searched his face.

  "Was it scary?" she wanted to know. He nodded.

  "Yes. It was a scary dream."

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. She blinked slowly, and he could tell she was going to fall asleep soon. John leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against hers.

  "You know...how much I need my little girl, don't you?" he whispered haltingly.

  "Yeah," she breathed, her eyes drifting closed.

  "I would be sad without you," he murmured, another hot tear running down his nose.

  "Me too," she answered, and her voice faded away, and she fell asleep. John moved closer to her, wrapping an arm around her, and she instinctively snuggled into his chest. He stayed that way for the rest of the night, staring at her darkened wall, feeling her small heartbeat against his hand.

  "You look tired," Thomas commented, watching as John rubbed his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. John sucked in a breath and straightened.

  "Forgive me," he cleared his throat. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

  The two men sat in the basement security center of the apartment complex-a large, gray, sterile room filled with computers and tactical tables and lit by fluorescent fixtures. John leaned back in his chair and considered the tactical tables in particular. They made this look like a war room, but the tables displayed detailed maps of the city and the Pale, which was proving beneficial to finding Remnants. Thomas bent over a computer, studiously poring over old records, but John remained distracted.

  "How did your kids like the market last week?" Thomas questioned, scanning down a page on the screen.

  "Fine," John answered, propping his elbow on the armrest and draping a finger over his chin. "Lily got another doll, and Benson bought three of those action figures you told him about."

  Thomas grinned. They fell silent again, the only sound being the tapping of Thomas' keyboard. John shifted, and he cleared his throat again, frowning.

  "Something wrong?" Thomas asked.

  John's gaze flicked up to look at him, then assessed the metal counter top.

  "How long were you a rebel during the regime?" he asked quietly.

  Thomas shrugged and typed in another search word.

  "Probably about fifteen years. I was only ten when my mom deactivated my chip and hurried me to the Rebellion before they came and got her and my father." Thomas' eyes narrowed at the screen. "Then I became one of the Art Guardians of the Rebellion and stayed there till the Awakening."

  John took a deep breath, brushing his fingertips on the counter.

  "So...you don't have nightmares?"

  Thomas stopped, and glanced over at the Knight. John kept his eyes down.

  "Is that why you aren't sleeping?" Thomas questioned. John's jaw tightened, and
he nodded once. Thomas opened his mouth to say something else, but a communicator buzzed.

  John got up, his coat rustling around his ankles, picked up the com, pushed the button and put it to his ear.

  "Knight and Squire," he answered.

  "Sir John, this is Restoration Base. We've got a lead on a Remnant in the south Pale. It's an old, Victorian-style house on Ash street, and the Remnant is said to contain a Monet. That's all we know."

  "Thank you," John answered, his heartbeat speeding up. "We will look into it right away."

  He hung up and pocketed the comm.

  "What is it?"

  "Another one," John told him, heading toward the nearest map table. Thomas got up and stood beside him.

  "Where is it?" Thomas questioned.

  "In the south end of the Pale, in a Victorian house," John informed him, leaning over the tactical and pressing a few buttons. The board lit up, and as he carefully twisted two knobs, the view swung to the right and down, and he focused the picture more closely. "On Ash street..." he murmured.

  "There," Thomas pointed, spotting it. "Just three blocks off the main highway."

  "The highway is blocked near Twin Hills," John reminded him. "An old defense tower fell across it. We'll have to detour, but I think I can get us there." He turned off the tactical, spun around and headed toward the other end of the room. Straightening his coat, he stepped past a guard and into a steel-walled elevator. Thomas entered also, and the doors shut behind him. The elevator began to hum as it ascended.

  "Anything special we need to know about?" Thomas pressed.

  "Yes," John said crisply. "The report says that it contains a Monet."

  Thomas' eyes widened.

  "A real Monet?" he cried. "I've never seen one."

  "I have," John admitted. Thomas glanced at him sharply.

  "You have? Do you know which one?"

  John's brow furrowed.

  "I believe it was called Water Lilies." John shrugged slightly. "I only remembered it because part of it is my daughter's name."

  Thomas fell silent a moment.

  "Was this...during the regime?" he asked cautiously. John paused, then nodded. Thomas' gaze drifted to the floor.