*****
“Matt.”
In the moonlit corridor of Morningstar, Matt turned on his heel. He was about three steps out of the bathroom, a little way from the dinner, away from everyone else. The speaker, Azleena, the Academy’s new genius, stood alone in the dim light a few feet away from him, cutting a diminutive figure, her gangly, child‑like limbs seeming almost out of place amongst Morningstar’s adult-sized hallways. Seeing her there, barely five-two and maybe a hundred pounds, wearing a dark, unremarkable flower‑pattern sheath dress and a pair of flat slip‑ons, Matt felt his stomach churn with a sudden surge of disdain.
He didn’t like Azleena, though she’d done nothing to deserve it. The genius was hardworking, loyal, helpful and sharp. It was just that her being there was a constant reminder that Edward Rakowski wasn’t, and for that it was hard to ever truly forgive her. Matt knew the feeling wasn’t rational. It didn’t stop him feeling it every time she spoke.
“What?”
“You’ve got visitors.”
Matt turned to look at her square on. The girl’s face was nothing but serious. He’d never known her to joke.
“Who?”
“Eastborough Baptists.”
Matt blinked, taken aback. “What? How? Where?”
Taking that as a cue to step forward, Azleena turned her slim frame to show Matt the tablet she was holding. The screen was lit up with a blue and white high-definition night-vision display from a security camera pointing down the hill and across the grounds, where at the edge of the forest a group of worshippers gathered. There were about a dozen or so, a mixture of women and men, all white and all wearing the same brown travellers’ cloak over plain shirts and suspenders for the men or powder blue ankle‑length dresses for the women. Some carried old-fashioned wrought iron lanterns, some held hands. All appeared to be singing. None were making any attempt to hide.
Matt recognised the one at the front, the tall man. He struggled not to groan. “I don’t understand.”
“They’re technically trespassing,” Azleena pointed out.
“How the hell do they keep doing this?” Matt murmured, not really responding to the genius’ comment, just shaking his head.
“How do you want to handle it?” asked Azleena.
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”
“I have a belt-fed 50-calibre anti-personnel cannon mounted on the southwest tower.”
“Jesus Christ Azleena, they look like Christmas carollers.”
The dark-skinned girl shrugged. “It’s September. Besides, this is private property, we don’t know their intentions. Or their powers. In the present climate-”
“We don’t need any more dead people. Get it through your head.”
Matt rubbed his temples, his teeth gritted. Azleena stood in silence, her face blank. A moment later Matt sighed.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s your call.”
“No, I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s just…” He shook his head. “I’m just a bit emotional. It’s not you. Could you please let Giselle know? Discreetly? We can go talk to them together, just the two of us. It’s technically her house.”
“Copy,” Azleena stated. She turned back towards the dining room, then paused, fixing him with an inscrutable expression. Matt rolled his eyes.
“Fine. You can also warm up the anti-personnel cannon. Just in case. But no firing unless I say.”
Stolen novel; please report.
The small girl’s mouth split into a white-toothed and surprisingly gremlin-esque grin. “Copy boss.”
*****
Matt wandered down to the entrance hall and was met a few minutes later by Giselle. Wordlessly, the Legion’s leader took his arm like they were heading to a picnic, and the two stepped out into the waiting night, the cool autumn air whispering in the glow of the mansion.
“What’d you tell Jane?” Matt asked as they walked. Giselle flicked him a small, semi‑sad smile.
“That I was helping you stretch your legs,” she answered, “Giving a tour of the new facilities.”
“Thanks. I know she wants what’s best, but…”
“I get it. These are your people. Weird as that is.”
“Yeah.” They lapsed into silence as their shoes padded atop the damp grass, a steady descent down to meet the procession of faithful coming up. The worshippers’ lanterns bobbed in the night like will‑o‑wisps drifting from the forest, and the two groups met against a line of shadow where the light of Morningstar embraced the dark. They stood some ten feet apart, the cloaked faithful staring up at Matt in awe and reverence. The tall figure in front knelt to the ground.
“Chosen one,” he murmured. Matt recognised his voice.
“Just Matt,” Matt responded, forcing a smile. Fight stupidity with kindness, he told himself. Fight ignorance with patience. “How did you know I was here?”
“We keep a lookout,” said the man who knelt at the head of the worshippers. He looked up from beneath his hood and Matt didn’t need to see the familiar tapering face, proud nose or gently lined skin to know him. Pastor Phillip Fredericks. The cult leader stood slowly and removed his hood, revealing neat, dark-brown hair streaked through with grey, and soft drab eyes behind thin frameless glasses. He was a very tall man, close to six‑five, neither lean nor stocky, and possessed of a quiet, dignified presence in the way he rose, his shoulders gently unfurling and his hands clasping behind his back. Matt could imagine him being intimidating, with his unblinking stare and impressive height, but right now there was no trace of that. Fredericks stood downhill from Matt, keeping the young man physically above him, gazing up as though breathtakingly close to some wonder of the soul. “To watch out for you. To keep you safe.”
“This is technically private property,” advised Giselle, although her tone carried neither impatience nor hostility, “I know you want what’s best for Matt, but when I’m going to have to ask you to leave when he says so.”
The pastor held out his hands. “We’ll go in peace. Nobody here wants violence.”
“Thank you,” Giselle replied. Her eyes flicked to Matt, who drew a deep breath. He stepped forward.
“What can I do?” he asked those who believed in him. His eyes ran past Fredericks over to the assembled crowd, those that stood in his shadow, those to whom he had never spoken. A ripple of murmurs spread. One man – a short-haired, soft-looking man with a face full of dark beard – exchanged glances with his companions and took a step back so as to be flush with the rest of the group. Pastor Fredericks turned to them, his face shifting into a slow, gentle smile.
“Be not afraid,” he told them, “Let him speak to you. He is your saviour as well.”
There was another exchange of glances. Finally, a mousy-haired woman on the left edged forward.
“Please. Chosen one,” she said to Matt, “We seek only to protect you. We seek your guidance. Show us the path. Be our light.”
“Yes,” echoed Fredericks, turning back, “Show us the way.”
This brought murmurs of agreement. Matt shook his head.
“I am thankful for your protection,” he told them, weaving his gaze first to Fredericks then in turn to each of the others, “I’m thankful that you care enough about me that you want to risk your lives. But I’m not who you think I am. Truly. I am not a prophet. I’m not the son of God.”
“It is as you said,” murmured one woman at the back, middle aged and with lines of worry deep across her forehead. She glanced with distress at the Pastor. “He doesn’t believe.”
“It’s true,” said Matt, “I don’t.”
The Pastor shook his head, not in the least bit swayed. “We will believe,” he told them, “Even if he cannot.”
“I know,” Matt replied – and strangely there was no sigh when he said it.
They lapsed into silence. A gentle breeze blew across the fields, carrying with it the green-fresh smell of forest pines.
“May we pray over you, oh holy one?” the mousy-haired woman asked. Matt glanced over at the Pastor, but Fredericks’ face showed nothing but calm.
“You can,” Matt said finally, “If it will make you happy.” He turned back to the crowd, pushing the Pastor from his gaze. “But in return you have to listen. Really listen to what I have to say.”
There was a soft rustling of consent. Pastor Fredericks stepped back, becoming but one of the faithful crowd as Matt moved slowly into their centre, letting them encircle and lay hands upon him, their prayers soft, their heads bowed. A few feet apart, Giselle stood watching, her arms folded, poised but not trepidatious. It was clear to both of them that whatever else these people were, they were not dangerous. This was not a night of violence, where men held evil in their hearts.
“I want you to know,” Matt said as he stood in the centre of the circle, “That I don’t care what you believe in. Whether it’s me, whether it’s God, whether it’s something else. Because it doesn’t matter.” He paused. “What matters is what you do. Be kind. Do good. Help people. Because none of us are here long. And none of us know how long we’ve got left.”
His eyes swept over the believers, encircling him in silent prayer. “Leave this world better than you found it. That’s all I ask. If that’s going to be my only legacy, let it be that.”