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SHIMMER

  By Matthew Keith

  Copyright © 2015

  Editor: Karen Bauer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  IF YOU ENJOY SHIMMER, YOU’LL LOVE THE WATCHERS SERIES

  WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT

  THE RISE OF INDICIUM

  THE FALL OF ASTRALIS

  DREAMPIRE

  THE LOST COLONY OF ROANOKE

  SHIMMER

  ALSO BY MATTHEW KEITH

  SWAY

  OUTPOST

  FOR ANYONE WHO HAS EVER KNOWN IN THEIR HEART THEY WERE MEANT FOR GREATER THINGS

  Prologue

  August, 1586—Roanoke Island

  “You are fools, every cursed one of you! Weak-minded, pathetic cowards with no vision for what could be!”

  Benjamin Croatoan writhed furiously against the iron chain that bound him to a wooden post in the center of the village square. He could move only scant inches, the thick chain held in place by iron spikes driven into the post, endless loops binding him unyieldingly from ankles to shoulders.

  Directly before him, rough timbers had been stacked and set ablaze. The headless corpses of those who’d fought for him were thrown one after another into the fire, their bodies committed to eternal damnation.

  Benjamin pulled and strained against his bonds, his fury rising with each passing moment. The heat from the fire, the scorching midday sun—these things did not bother him. Watching his loyal followers melt before his eyes was of no consequence. They were gone, of no further use.

  But being held prisoner by those he knew were beneath him—it nearly drove him mad, his egregious hubris preventing him from grasping how this could ever have come to pass. Even now, as he bore witness to the execution of all those who had been loyal to him, still he did not believe he could be beaten.

  “I shall have my vengeance!” Croatoan raged. “Each and every last one of you! One day you shall all suffer!”

  The citizens of the island colony of Roanoke ignored his lunatic ranting and continued their grisly work, feeding body after body to the fire. These dead had been Croatoan’s soldiers, absolutely and completely in thrall to him. They’d fought viciously, with no regard for their own well-being, their decapitated corpses testament to the degree of loyalty they’d shown.

  Croatoan knew that he, too, would already have been fuel for the fire if not for the knowledge he possessed. He sneered. Such naivety. The simple-minded fools! They could never comprehend the height of his genius. They may have bested him today, but there would be infinite tomorrows for him to plot his revenge and one day he would have it. One day, they would all bow before him.

  “Do you truly believe these chains can hold me?” he taunted the exhausted, soot-covered villagers. “I will be free! One day I will conquer every one of you, and on that day you will beg to serve me! You will beg, I say!”

  Croatoan continued to struggle, but even his immense strength was not enough. He bared his teeth, hissing at anyone who came close. These loathsome villagers—peasant farmers who had been his friends and neighbors only a score of days previous—he would punish them all!

  When the last body had been thrown into the raging blaze, the remaining citizens gathered together. The village magistrate, William Baxter, stepped forward, his weary, grief-ravaged face covered in dried blood and black soot. More than half the colony had perished in the battle. There was no one left who had not lost someone they loved.

  “Benjamin Croatoan,” Magistrate Baxter intoned in a raspy voice, “you have been found guilty of murder, treason, and sedition.”

  Croatoan sneered through a venomous smile. He leered at the magistrate, spitting his defiance, and gave a low, throaty chuckle.

  Magistrate Baxter’s hands shook, both from fear and fatigue. He clasped them together tightly. “The punishment for your crimes is death by hanging …” His voice trailed off. He took a deep, tremor-filled breath. Quietly, he looked up into Croatoan’s eyes, “But for you, that will not suffice.”

  Croatoan’s chuckle rose to a laugh, exultant and scornful, but was cut short when the crowd parted and two men stepped forward carrying a round, metal device no larger than a melon.

  The Magnosphere! His Magnosphere, his greatest achievement! How had they found it?

  He fixed blazing eyes on the magistrate, his contempt replaced again by fury.

  “You know not what power you hold,” Croatoan warned in a low voice.

  Magistrate Baxter nodded solemnly. “You are correct, Benjamin. We do not. But we have seen you use this devil’s contraption, and we know it takes you to the source of your power—this ‘Core’ you speak of.”

  Croatoan did not answer. He had been a fool to ever have spoken of the Core, but like those now gathered before him, he had been naïve then. If only he had known what he could accomplish with its power.

  “We cannot, in good conscience,” Magistrate Baxter continued, “allow it or you to continue to plague the world.”

  “So destroy it, then,” Croatoan mocked, tossing his head dismissively to the side. “Another can be built in its place.”

  “And so we shall,” Magistrate Baxter replied evenly, “but first we will use it to destroy that which has made you into the beast you’ve become.” He took a long, shaking breath and squared his shoulders. “Benjamin Croatoan,” he announced, “you are foul, loathsome, nocuous, and we shall not allow any like you to ever come again!”

  Croatoan laughed long and hard. “Oh, you foolish man! You cannot destroy the Core! You would sooner destroy the world!” He laughed again, but a heavy silence had descended upon the gathering. For the first time since he’d stumbled upon the Core, a seed of doubt planted itself in Benjamin’s mind. By the time he forced out his last chuckle it sounded more like a question than scorn.

  “You have heard Benjamin’s words,” Magistrate Baxter’s clear voice broke through the stillness. “It only confirms that which we had already surmised. Our path is clear.” Slowly, deliberately, he met the eyes of each and every man, woman, and child before him. “Any who wish to withdraw may do so now. No judgment shall be passed.”

  As one, without hesitation, the remaining colonists stepped forward, their faces resolute.

  Magistrate Baxter lowered his eyes, pride and sorrow swelling his heart until he felt it might burst.

  And then he turned back to Croatoan, nodding as he did to the men who held the Magnosphere. They stepped forward and raised it within Magistrate Baxter’s reach.

  “You think to destroy the Core?” Croatoan scorned. “You? One man, alone?”

  “No,” Magistrate Baxter replied firmly, his voice now deep and clear. He placed a hand on one of Croatoan’s shoulders and held tight. “Not me.”

  Croatoan looked past Magistrate Baxter into the determined eyes of those assembled.

  “We,” announced Magistrate Baxter in a strong, firm voice, “think to destroy the Magnosphere, entomb you with your precious Core, and guard against the chance that you, or anyone like you, will ever return.”

  Croatoan’s eyes grew wide. He began to thrash anew. What a fool! What a fool he’d been to show anyone how his Magnosphere worked!

  “Benjamin Croatoan,” Magistrate Baxter intoned. Behind him, the rest of the colony reached out and clasped one another’s shoulders, forming a human chain.
“You are forthwith sentenced to exile, imprisoned in the very place where you were changed into the unholy thing you’ve become. There, the remainder of your sentence—death by beheading—will be carried out.”

  Croatoan raged, froth on his lips, as he roared his defiance.

  Magistrate Baxter pressed a copper plate on the Magnosphere and a beam of bright, red light shone forth. Gently pivoting the contraption in the hands of the men who held it, he turned it until its red beam was aimed squarely on an outcrop of rock at the edge of the village, where the shimmer and haze from the sun on the rock made it dance before his eyes.

  Staring unabashed retribution into Croatoan’s eyes, Magistrate Baxter set his mouth in a grim line and pressed a second copper plate onto the Magnosphere.

  Hidden in a copse of trees less than a hundred yards from the edge of the village square, a young, pale-faced boy with jet-black hair gasped as Benjamin Croatoan and every last man, woman and child from the island colony of Roanoke disappeared in a dull flash of light.