The Prophet Read online

  The Prophet

  The Kota Series

  Companion Story

  by

  Sunshine Somerville

  Copyright © 2017 Sunshine Somerville

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Sunshine Somerville.

  www.SunshineSomerville.com

  1st Edition

  Books by Sunshine Somerville

  The Kota Series

  The Kota

  The Ebonite and Her Earthling

  Pharmakon

  Zenith Prophecies

  The Kota Series Companion Stories

  The Woman of the Void

  The Poet Heroic

  The Prophet

  Ebon (coming Summer 2017)

  A Fairly Fairy Tale

  Chapter Guide

  1 The Tattooist

  2 The Blind Date

  3 The Trapezist

  4 The Infected

  5 The Program Director

  6 The WSP Ship

  7 The False Prophet

  8 The…

  9 The Interceder

  10 The Bearer

  Excerpt: The Kota (The Kota Series Book 1)

  About the Author

  1

  The Tattooist

  “Where’d you get this design?” It seemed a casual question from the middle-aged tattoo artist, one he’d asked many times.

  Hazen held his arm still, but the rest of him squirmed. “It’s from a dream I had.”

  The needle lifted from his skin, and the tattooist raised a curious eyebrow. “A dream? That’s it? And you’re getting a tattoo of it?”

  Hazen tried to chuckle and looked around the parlor at the handful of other workers and patrons. “That can’t be the weirdest answer you’ve heard.”

  The tattooist shrugged in agreement and went back to work. Hazen toughed it out as the needle slid over and over the inside of his forearm. The ‘+’ section complete, the artist got to work on the outer circle which would connect the points.

  This was not Hazen’s first tattoo. It wasn’t his first from his dreams – well, nightmares, if he was being honest. But this Mark tattoo was the most important. He couldn’t even explain why.

  This Mark means something, he thought. I’ve envisioned it hundreds of times… On that little girl’s shoulder when she’s pulled across a burning camp. On that boy’s as he fights soldiers. But those nightmares aren’t at all like my normal visions. They’re far in the future… Am I nuts? Well, no. I had my sanity confirmed a long time ago…

  The tattooist’s phone buzzed on the shelf behind his work station. He lifted the needle and looked at his phone, then made a face. “Sorry. It’s my wife. Our kid’s been home sick. Mind if I take this quick?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The man turned away and answered his phone. “Hey, Rach. How’s the kiddo?”

  Hazen swallowed.

  This, he thought, could be the last time he talks to his wife, if I’m wrong about this vision. If I screw this up… But I had to come. I have to try.

  Hazen would never not try everything in his power ever again. Not after what happened with his brother.

  But I wish there was a way to know, he thought. Some of my nightmares show things that are going to happen no matter what. Others show things that can be changed. It’s maddening!

  “I love you too. I’m just finishing up this last guy and then I’ll hurry home. Bye.” The tattooist hung up and returned his full focus to Hazen. “Sorry about that. Not super-professional, I know.”

  “No problem.” Hazen smiled and tried not to look worried.

  The needle buzzed again, followed by the piercing, scratching pain in Hazen’s arm.

  When the artist finished and wrapped Hazen’s arm in plastic wrap like a leftover meal, Hazen pulled the sleeve of his hoodie back down. He paid at the parlor’s front desk, leaving his tattooist a generous tip, and exited the shop. The door’s bell jingled to announce his departure.

  Hazen stepped out onto a cool, windy sidewalk. All the normal sounds of Toronto filled the air. He used his good arm to pull the hood of his sweatshirt over his buzzed hair, blocking the wind. Then he leaned against the side of the building, pretending to be busy on his phone. But he was starting to sweat, and his stomach tightened as he looked at the street and recognized it from his nightmare. It was almost time.

  Soon, the door’s bell jingled and his tattoo artist stepped onto the sidewalk. The man looked both ways along the street, pulled his collar over his ears, and looked down at his phone to check something. He stepped between two parked cars and looked both ways again before stepping out to cross the street.

  Now, thought Hazen.

  He darted after the man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the delivery truck rounding the corner. Just as the tattooist stepped into the truck’s lane, Hazen caught up and grabbed the man’s jacket. He heard the truck’s brakes squeal, but he didn’t look as he pushed the man forward and stumbled the last few steps to the far curb.

  “What-” The man tripped over the curb but recovered. His eyes went from Hazen to the truck and back to Hazen.

  The driver yelled, “Careful, buddy!” and drove on up the road.

  Hazen, panting a bit, had to smile.

  “Holy…” The tattooist looked around and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks, man. I did not see that guy. I’m lucky you were here.”

  Hazen chuckled at this. “No worries. Have a nice day. Hope your kid gets better soon.”

  “Thanks.” The man smiled, clapped Hazen’s shoulder, and turned to walk up the sidewalk.

  Hazen, incredibly relieved, let out a breath and turned to walk to his car. He looked at his watch, a college graduation gift from his father six years ago.

  I still have half an hour, he thought. Should be enough time to reach the restaurant.

  With a sigh, Hazen approached his parked Maserati Quattroporte. The beep to unlock the vehicle always sounded pretentious to Hazen, but damn it was a fun car to drive. The Maserati had been a competing graduation gift from his mother. Hazen had to admit she’d won that round.

  When he sat behind the wheel, he pulled up his sleeve and examined the fresh tattoo. These always felt good. The pain helped glue him to this reality more than anything he’d tried. Certainly more than drugs – that’d been a whopper of a mistake. While in college, he’d experimented with anything that kept him awake, but certainly not for the purpose of pulling an all-nighter. He’d wanted to avoid sleep in order to avoid nightmares. The Dexedrine worked at first, but when he’d finally come down he’d slept deeper than ever. And his nightmares… Let’s just say he didn’t want any that vivid ever again. Nowadays, he was smarter about how to avoid the truly frightening visions, only sleeping four hours at a time. And he definitely avoided hallucinogenics. Hell, even Motrin activated nightmares about people infected with a disease that turned them into-

  His phone rang. L.A. area code.

  With a sigh, Hazen answered. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hazen Randall Stephenson, please, tell me you’re still going.”

  All three names, he thought. Yep, I’m in trouble.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Don’t keep Maghen waiting. I told her mother you were excited to meet her, so at least try to smile, will you?”

  “I’
ll be as charming as possible. I Promise. Okay? Chill, Mackenzie Schultz-Stephenson-Whyte.”

  “Very funny. Call me when you’re back at your hotel. Unless it’s after ten. I have an early brunch with the girls.”

  His mother’s demands were oddly selective.

  “Okay. Bye.”

  He ended the call, then adjusted the mirror for a quick inspection. His blue eyes weren’t too bloodshot. His skin was clean, though he hadn’t shaved in a week. The circles under his eyes weren’t too noticeable. He brushed a hand over his buzzed, blond hair, but there wasn’t much to be done there.

  Hazen started the Maserati, turned up the radio, and sped down the street.

  How does Mom have friends in every city I visit? he thought. And I remember Mrs. Cannon – Maghen better not be anything like her mother.

  2

  The Blind Date

  Maghen was exactly like her mother. Right down to the white tips at the ends of her nails, which she tapped on the table as they finished dessert. Dressed in a fashionable black dress, she’d expressed disapproval of his jeans and hoodie. It was true he might be a little underdressed for the restaurant, but she was certainly overdressed. Then again, Maghen didn’t seem to mind standing out. Their table was in the middle of the long, busy, candlelit restaurant, and Hazen had lost track of how many men glanced Maghen’s way.

  She’d spent dinner talking about the boutique where she’d spent two grand before coming to dinner. Hazen had zoned out but tried to recover by mentioning a brand of shirts he liked. He’d apparently mispronounced the name, and Maghen’s expression suggested she thought he was an idiot. That had led to their lengthy silence now.

  “So,” Hazen tried, “do you read much?”

  She perked up. “Yeah, lots. I love Fantasy. Anything with magic, hunky heroes, love triangles, that kind of thing.” She took a drink of her wine and tried to look smart. “But I’m so sick of clichés in books these days.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know. Magicians, elves, loyal sidekicks, prophecies of the future.”

  Hazen flinched. He covered with a chuckle. “Think predicting the future’s nonsense, huh?”

  Maghen rolled her eye. “It’s so overdone.”

  He reached for his water. “It is annoying when you see them everywhere. But-”

  “Right? If a book has a prophecy in it, I stop reading. Or, like if there’s a quest or an evil lord or-”

  With an exaggerated groan, a dark-skinned, young woman seated behind Maghen turned to face them. “Those aren’t necessarily clichés! Those are just things in Fantasy stories! They’re tropes. They only become clichés when they’re used the same way they’ve been used hundreds of times. If a writer puts a twist on the trope, the magicians or prophecies or quests or whatever aren’t clichés. If you see a trope and automatically stop reading, how will you know if things get more interesting? That’s pretty shallow reading, Miss Chick-Lit Critic. It’s all subjective, anyway. Some people love tropes that other people think are cliché – you said you like love triangles, which in my opinion-”

  “Who asked you?” Maghen made a face at the woman. Then her gaze moved to a notebook beside the woman’s wineglass. “Oh. You’re a writer, aren’t you? You all act like it’s so hard.” She made an exaggerated eye roll.

  Hazen inspected the lone woman. She was his age, around thirty. Her dark hair was buzzed almost as short as his. Her eyes were beautiful. She wore retro gold earrings, which stood out because of her short hair. Her nose held a small gold stud. Her blue, satin shirt and black pants hugged her lean frame.

  The woman inhaled to calm herself. “Sorry, but I couldn’t sit by and listen anymore. First you order the most expensive thing on the menu – I saw you checking before your date got here. Who does that? Then you go on and on about shopping. Then you judge this poor guy for not being as shallow. And now you act like you’re a literary expert. You’re entitled to like what you like, but you were hurting my Creative Writing degree’s heart when you got all uppity about it. And if you hate clichés so much, you could try to be less of a stereotypical rich girl.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this!” Maghen looked around for the maitre d’. Then she caught Hazen trying not to laugh. “You think this harassment is funny?”

  He held up his hands. “I didn’t know you’d get so riled up.”

  “You’re not going to defend me?”

  “Well, you’re being kind of mean. And you didn’t seem to need assistance.”

  Maghen’s phone went off where she’d left it face-up on the table. She looked at the screen and forgot everything else. “Oh, awesome! Kip is free!”

  Hazen blinked. “Who?”

  “My boyfriend.” Maghen scooched her chair back and grabbed her purse under her seat.

  “Your…” Hazen made a face.

  Maghen stood and smoothed out her dress, then smiled at him like nothing was wrong with this development. “Thanks for dinner. I gotta go.” And with that, she walked off through the restaurant toward the exit.

  Hazen sighed and rested his head in his hands, elbows on the table. A glass being set on the table drew his attention back to the chair across from him. He looked up to see the Creative Writing defender taking Maghen’s seat. She set her notebook and clutch purse on the table and smiled at him.

  “Uh. Hi?”

  She smiled. “Hi. Hazen, right?”

  “Yeah. And you are?”

  “Renny Nado. Nice to meet you.” She reached across the table to shake his hand, then leaned back in her chair to inspect him.

  He blinked at her. “Thanks for saving me from Maghen, but…”

  “Sorry if I was bitchy to your date, but she really bugged me.” Renny motioned behind her to where she’d been sitting. “I was minding my own business until I heard her talking on the phone before you got here. Kip sounds fascinating, by the way.” She rolled her eyes, grinned, and took a drink from her wineglass. “Anyway…”

  They entered a weird pause, and Hazen wondered if he should follow through on Maghen’s attempt to flag down the maitre d’.

  “There’s no easy way into this, Hazen.” Renny glanced at their nearby diners and lowered her voice. “Unlike Maghen, I don’t think predicting the future is nonsense.”

  Any amusement Hazen felt over this situation was immediately gone. He swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re-”

  “I had a dream about this restaurant. About sitting at that table, by myself, eavesdropping on your blind date.”

  He paused, unsure what to do with this. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because you see things too.” She met his eyes, then smirked. “You’re the man of my dreams, and I’m your better half.”

  He snorted a laugh, but he shook his head.

  Okay, he thought, maybe she is crazy.

  “When you have nightmares,” she said with a point over her glass, “I have dreams. You foresee events that would happen if you didn’t prevent them. I see the same events, but the alternative, better path you create. Or, if you like, I see the happy version that becomes reality after you change them from being nightmares.”

  Hazen took a breath. “Listen, I don’t know who you are-”

  “Like with the tattoo artist earlier today.”

  Hazen froze.

  She lifted an eyebrow, seeing his reaction. “I dreamed of you saving him. Between these two dreams I’ve had of you in the same city, that’s how I finally tracked you down.” She made a disturbed face. “I’m guessing you saw the tattooist get smacked by the delivery truck?”

  He paused again. “Yes.”

  Could this be real? he thought. I’ve never met anyone else who…

  After a look around at the other diners, he leaned forward. “You had a dream about what I did with the tattoo artist? Do you mean you’ve seen other things I’ve changed?”

  “Yeah. I’ve lost count how many. Your visions started whe
n you were a teenager, right?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s when mine started too. It was so weird to see you over and over again in my dreams, and I didn’t know why it was happening. But then, one day back home in L.A., I saw a news story about cops who’d apprehended a teenage shoplifter. The cops took the boy back to the store right as two men tried to rob the place. I’d dreamed that exact thing, and I realized I was somehow dreaming of real things that happened in the future.”

  Hazen smiled. “I remember that one. The cops didn’t exactly believe I’d know the robbers were coming, but they didn’t know what else to do with me, so they let me go. ‘Bigger fish to fry,’ they said.”

  Renny returned his smile. “After that, I started looking up news stories about my dreams. Of course, you never stuck around to take credit for your heroics, so I never actually learned your name. But with every dream and every news story, you’d done exactly what I’d seen. I saw you tell the police in time to stop the terrorist attack in Chicago. I saw you beg a family to leave their house before the flood swept it away in New Orleans. You reported the fire before it happened in Tokyo.”

  He grinned in memory.

  She hesitated. “But since I always envision the happy endings of things, I never worried about any of this. It was cool to track your heroics, but I never thought you needed my help for anything. I assumed your visions were like mine, and I thought you knew what to do because you saw yourself doing it.”

  Hazen nodded. It made sense. He couldn’t blame her.

  “Eventually a few news stories did get your name. Then I set up alerts on my computer to collect any story mentioning Hazen Stephenson.” She looked at him with sympathy. “That’s when I heard the news story about your brother. I’m sorry to bring it up.”

  Oh, God, he thought.

  He almost couldn’t get out his question. “What did you see? Could I have stopped-”