Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

For hundreds of years, Bale had been content to let the Tribe go about its own business. Then, as some members of the Tribe began embracing the teachings of Christ, Bale’s hatred for them grew. In the fourth century he declared an all-out war on them, leading to bloody attacks that caused more pain than death on both sides. Neither Tribe nor Clan had been able to pursue its own mission, outside of planning against and attacking one another, and recovering from their wounds to start it all over again. They’d finally called a truce. The Tribe kept clear of the Clan, but witnessed their existence in random murders, hospital fires, school shootings… Ben was convinced that Bale and his Clan were instrumental in sowing the seeds of malice and insanity in many mass murderers.

Keepers were mortals entrusted with their secret. Most were the monks and priests who maintained the Havens. Once the elders of their orders believed in the stability and faithfulness of younger acolytes, they’d pass the secret on to them… and so it went, in perpetuity. At any given time, a handful of other people around the world knew immortal beings walked the earth: some had been doctors who’d witnessed their miraculous healing, others had been spouses-the Immortals were not prohibited from marrying, but all of them had tried to abstain from falling in love; watching their loved ones age and die was simply too painful.

That Creed would head to a Haven was all but assured.

“But which one?” Phin said.

“Want to make a wager over it?” Nevaeh asked.

“I told you,” Phin said, “I’m done betting with you.” He rubbed his left pinky finger, which bent unnaturally at the first knuckle-the result of losing his last bet.

Ignoring their banter, Ben said, “We’ll have to surveil all three.”

“I’ll take Trongsa,” Nevaeh said. It was a town in the center of Bhutan. Getting there was time-consuming and treacherous, which made it perfect for Immortals who needed to lie low. A small Christian monastery had operated there, in the shadow of a monstrous Buddhist temple, for nearly a millennium. She headed for the door to get her ready-pack.

“No,” Ben said. “I want you here. You need to be on the recovery team-you, me, and Phin.”

She nodded. She and Phin were the most aggressive. They worked together well and got the job done. Elias was equally effective, but too laid back for a shock-and-awe raid on a monastery.

Ben continued. “Sebastian, you stay here and make the arrangements for the others. We’ll need three charters. We’ll keep our own jet here so the rest of us can go as soon as Creed surfaces.”

“I can watch for him,” Jordan said.

Ben appeared uncertain.

Nevaeh saw the hope on the boy’s face. He was always looking for ways to help, to contribute to the Tribe. And over the years they’d found he made an ideal sentry, thanks to his “youth” and ability to watch without appearing to do so. She told Ben, “It is his job.”

Ben thought about it, then said, “Okay, yes, that works. Jordan, you have London. But if Creed shows up, let us know and do nothing more.”

Jordan was smiling proudly at Toby.

“Boy, you hear me?” Ben snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

“And that goes for you two as well.” He pointed at Toby and Elias. “When we know where he is, we’ll get there as quickly as possible. Elias, you take Trongsa.”

Elias blew out more smoke and nodded.

“Have fun with that,” Toby said and laughed. “That’s a twelve-hour flight, dude. Then another ten on the ground.”

Elias shrugged.

Toby raised his eyebrows. “Hey, does that mean-?”

Ben nodded. “You’re going back to where it all began. Mt. Sinai.”

Jagger was having the same dream he’d had at least once a week for over a year, and he knew it. But knowing he was dreaming did not reduce the sheer terror he felt, or allow him to change anything about it.

As if intentionally designed to compound the horror, the dream forced him to be in two places at once.

Jagger the Observer stood under a starry Virginian sky, feeling the icy breath of approaching winter on his cheeks and hands. He waited in the grassy median between the westbound and eastbound lanes of State Highway 287, watching for the familiar SUV.

Jagger the Participant rode in that SUV with the Bransfords. Beth had stayed home with Tyler, who’d been feverish and vomiting all day. She’d insisted that Jagger go to celebrate Cyndi Bransford’s birthday. After all, saying the Bransfords were like family underrepresented their closeness. Mark had been Jagger’s best friend all through college. They’d joined the army together, managed to transfer into intelligence at the same time, and jointly left military life for gigs in private security. Nothing weird about it: they thought alike, bounced ideas off each other, and what sounded good to one sounded good to the other.

So maybe it wasn’t so strange that when Beth started dating Jagger, her BFF Cyndi fell for Mark. Though a year younger, the Bransfords’ son, Robby, became Tyler’s best friend, naturally. When the Bransfords welcomed baby Brianna three years ago, everyone wondered when the Bairds would hurry up and produce her best friend. If Frank Capra were still around, he would have bought the film rights.

Jagger and the Bransfords were heading home to Sunset Hills from the birthday dinner in Sterling Park. They’d eaten at the family’s favorite haunt, the creative-but uncreatively named-Dinner amp; a Show. The place was a converted theater in which the seats had been replaced by rows of tables, with chairs all facing a huge screen. Dinner was served to everyone at the same time, then the lights dimmed and a movie started-always an older film, available on DVD, but the novelty of the experience kept the restaurant packed. That evening’s entertainment was Return of the King, the extended, four-hour version. Before the show, the waitstaff had delivered a birthday cake and flowers to Cyndi, and all the patrons had sung “Happy Birthday.” Now it was late, they were almost home, and the Bransfords were happy and satisfied that they’d done Mom’s birthday right.

Lights flashed over Jagger the Observer as cars passed, not as many as there would have been a few hours earlier, but in the end that didn’t matter. Goose bumps rose on his arms, a condition that had nothing to do with the temperature. The headlights of Mark’s Highlander had just come into view, less than two minutes from their Reston Parkway exit.

Jagger the Participant rode shotgun beside Mark, who always drove with his hands at ten and two and observed the speed limit with maddening regularity. Jagger twisted around to laugh at Robby in the back, sandwiched between Brianna in a booster seat and Cyndi. The movie had acted like a jolt of cinematic caffeine on the boy, and the entire drive home he’d recited scenes-verbatim, as far as Jagger could tell.

Jagger the Observer ran onto the highway, waving his arms.

Robby was retelling the scene in which Eowyn slays the Witch-king.

You fool. No man can kill me.

I am no man!

Cyndi and Brianna dozed, their heads canting toward the windows, away from Robby, as though avoiding his wildly swinging arms.

Jagger the Observer spun, and his heart constricted. Coming the other direction, a van weaved between lanes. As he watched, it careened onto the right shoulder, skimmed a guardrail, and shot diagonally across the highway. It bounced into the median, churning up sod and dirt. Instead of stopping, it picked up speed and flew out of the median in a roar of revving engine, bottoming-out shocks, and protesting metal. Jagger signaled to the driver, as to a taxiing plane, to simply cross over these lanes as he had the others and sail into the field on the other side. But the van’s tires screeched and smoked and jittered as the driver aligned it with the highway. It zoomed past Jagger, heading the wrong direction, and crashed head-on into the Highlander.