A young man with dark hair in a brown winter coat over a white dress shirt and a black vest stood up, drink in hand and a smile to match.
The author frowned, recognizing who his drunk heckler was. “Umm, heh, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I thought I told the staff to keep uninvited company out of the restaurant.”
His patrons watched as he went around the corner, passing by some of their tables as he approached the lone man sitting at a table for four.
“Gary Frost.” said the author, accusingly.
“Arthur Billings.” Gary frowned, took a sip of his whisky.
The author winced at the alcohol on his fellow alumnuss breath. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I sort of live here now.” He shrugged. “You know, I’ve been living everywhere for a bit lately. What’s it to you?”
Arthur sighed. He could feel the eyes of all his fans watching him. “Yes, I see you’re spending your time relishing your government subsidized alcoholism.”
“You jealous that I didn’t have to pay for my education after what me and my friends did?”
“Hardly… if you saw the house I grew up in, you would know that money is no problem for me.”
“So insecure,” Gary teased, taking another sip. “but to answer your question, I’m here to be a critic. I can’t say I’m a fan of your work.”
Arthur paused, then decided it would be to his advantage to laugh. He turned around back to his company, pointing at his drunk classmate. “Everyone, I’ve got a relic here. Yes, I am just dying to know what you thought of my work.”
“It was a regular piece of garbage.” Gary growled. “And you’ve become a regular villain here. You use what happened in New York with the Serpent League poorly. You use it as if to say it was vital to your protagonist’s comeuppance. It was the protagonist’s hiding in a hospital basement during the League’s invasion that ended up making him a better person. Well, if you were there, Arthur Billings, you would know that it wasn’t something to build people up. It breaks you down, and everyone lost a piece of themselves that night. Nothing was gained.”
“You’re an embarrassment, Gary Frost.” Arthur replied, without skipping a beat. “You were the pride of Weller. A miserable and criminal backstory, but a smart, smart young man. And you chose to drink away the last three years, living your life living off taxpayer dollars as a thank you for your service, and you’re never going to do anything again, all because you can’t get over the death of a rodent.”
Gary leered at him, downing the rest of his alcohol. “Bats aren’t rodents, you fucking invalid.”
“What do you want from me? You want to sell me a biography or a science textbook?”
“No,” he stood up, grinding his teeth as he clenched his empty glass. “I want you to never write another pasty, privileged word again in your pseudo-literary life. Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t fought against the Serpent League. Your unworthy ass would surely be dead!”
The glass came down on Arthur’s hand. The author released a shout as Gary’s free fist collided with his jaw.
Several patrons gasped, watching the tussle. A couple men rushed forward to restrain Gary, but he was done fighting as Arthur fell to the ground, clutching his jaw in pain.
“Gee, I hope he’ll be able to speak tomorrow.” Gary laughed.
The two men who had come to restrain him could only stand in awe as Gary rolled up his coat sleeves and rushed out of the hotel, into the night streets of Paris.
It was a cold night, as the winds of Paris were on Christmas Eve.
Three years. Gary told himself. This is the three-year anniversary of the end of the League… and the end of Edgar.
A sudden chest pain overcame him, and his eyes grew heavy. He wasn’t even surprised as he felt the first tear roll down his cheek. It instantly became cold from the cool wind.
Snow had a way of doing that to him. He wished he loved it, but he couldn’t help but associate it with that night. There was no way around it, and now something that he wanted to give him joy made him a depressed wreck.
He couldn’t calm himself. Usually going on a walk helped, but with the cold environment, it was doing nothing for him.
Gary passed a bridge over the Seine. It wasn’t frozen, but the water was definitely deathly cold.
He looked out across the river. Thousands and thousands of lights lit up the city. Images of people out celebrating Christmas or staying inside drinking egg nog or coffee and opening up presents with loved ones filled his head. There was no room for him in that picture. If he put himself in there, he would only taint it. He’d present a burden on all those good people that they didn’t deserve.
He stood up on the edge of the bridge, feeling the cool air against his face one last time. He expected it would be the last thing he ever felt before the cold water claimed him, filling his lungs until his body sunk to the bottom.
He knew tonight was going to be the night. He’d known it before he had started drinking.
But something stopped him.
He let out a choked breath as several more tears washed down his face, quicker from his already wet face.
“Not today.” he sniffled, giving himself a few deep breaths before stepping back from the ledge. “Not today.”
Back on his feet, Gary continued his walk down the street. On his way he passed a young man in a grey shirt with a familiar figure on him. Edgar the bat had become a legendary figure among the population, and he had a strong resonance with the younger generation. The image on the kid’s shirt was the most popular. It was an illustrated frame of Edgar leaping into the air, wings stretched, and teeth bared.
Gary winced, blocking his face from the kid’s recognition as he turned the other way.
Edgar would not want to be remembered like that. He would have preferred a picture of him playing with us.
Shaking his head, he went down the street, heading towards the Bastille monument and then down Richard Lenoir to his apartment.
I’m already tired of this city. I should pack my things and get out of here. Just keep moving. Just keep moving. Any new scene is going to be better than this. It has to be.
Acknowledgments
I started this sequel more than two and a half years ago, and I'm still surprised that I managed to finish it. I'm so pleased with my work on it. The Raven Gang was my first novel, and, looking back, I think it's clear that I still had some developing to do as a writer.
I love The Serpent League because I believe in many ways it's the most intelligent novel I've written, and it is my darkest one. But that isn't to say that I was in a dark place while writing it. I've been down much of the time, but the support of my two wonderful parents, as well as the continuing commitment to my work from my brother, Robert, has made the journey much easier.
Robert, thank you for always reading my words, and giving me such positive notes even if my work isn't always at its best. You are a wonderful talent in everything you do. There is no way I would be the writer I am today without you. You don't realize how many ideas I get from our long debates on ethics and other philosophy. But most importantly, without your interest in my work with every scene and chapter I write, I would never have realized I have something worth sharing.
And to my fantastic friend, Scott Wagner, I have no more words to say that I haven't said already. I am still baffled by your kindness in wishing to read my work those years ago before we were even good friends. Even though you've been in London so much of the time we've known each other, I have never felt that you were more than a few flips of a page away. You are incredibly sweet, and the three months you spent in LA in the summer were three of the happiest of my life.
Lastly, my editors and publisher at City Lights Press. Who knows when I would have finished this novel if you didn't take The Raven Gang along with Immortale. At the time, my interest in the Noble Animals series was on the decline, and I couldn't be happier that I am still in love with it and the characters. They have been a
crucial part of my life for five years, and I can't imagine Patrick, Gary, and Edgar fading from my heart. I hope you are happy to have looked at this novel, because I am sure as hell happy that Noble Animals has found a home with you.
A Look at Immortale
by Brendan Walsh
Twenty-six-year-old Pierce King has just been given his dream job at a publishing company, but his luck is twisted when an old, disheveled vagrant clobbers him in the nose with a fat book, and the world is suddenly drowning in magic.
In his journey to restore reality, he learns that various supernatural gangs have a stake in the outcome. Among Rex, a dragon he once unknowingly kept as a pet, the old vagrant, who is more than he seems, and Hell itself, Pierce knows he has to find someone to trust if he’s going to stop the wrong team from creating a magical dystopia.
Sadly, his best options are a magical uptight rabbit and a demon who was an orca in his mortal life. And if that's not bad enough, the woman he's about to marry has been turned into a troll.
AVAILABLE NOW FROM BRENDAN WALSH AND CITY LIGHTS PRESS
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Brendan Walsh
About the Author
Brendan Walsh was born with his twin brother in 1995 and raised in Glendale, California by two wonderful parents. He knew he wanted to be a storyteller at 12 years old, but finally started reading voraciously at 16. When he isn’t writing or reading you can find him drinking coffee or hanging out with friends. His other interests are comic books, philosophy, movies, and going on meditative walks while listening to a wide variety of music and interesting podcasts. He considers Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Kurt Vonnegut and Gerard Way to be his greatest creative influences.
Find him online:
https://citylightspress.com/authors/brendan-walsh/
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