Edge of Desperation

by Nat Kennedy

  Edge of Desperation

  Wielder World One

  by

  Nat Kennedy

  Copyright © 2016 by Nat Kennedy

  Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner

  whatsoever without the express written

  permission of the publisher except for the use

  of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters,

  places and incidents are fiction and any

  resemblance to actual events, locals or persons

  is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  www.natkennedy.com

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Prologue

  The scout slid from the alley between a restaurant, which sold grass and twigs, and a tattoo parlor with tribal art papering the windows. Long past twilight, darkness took hold of the landscape. The scout did not draw any attention from the people he watched as they laughed and walked down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, huddled in too light jackets for the cold November evening, aiming towards a local beatnik bar.

  The somberly dressed gathering, six in all, were all in their early twenties, probably university students and barely legal to go to such places. The scout imagined one or two wielded fake IDs to join their friends on these expeditions to drunken debauchery. Lord knew such identification was easy enough to come by.

  The scout slipped a photo from his jeans pocket, examining it with the light of his phone, then studied the crowd of barely-legals. Yep, there he was. Dark hair—short in the back, longish fringe—and piercings. Sharp chin and cheek bones. Same guy as in the photo. Lanky kid, not that tall but thin and confident in his movements. That physique practically flashed a billboard over his head announcing: Force Wielder Here.

  Computer science student Kyle Landon, twenty-one, bender.

  The scout darted across the empty street, nosing into the slipstream behind the group. “Hey, Kyle,” he said, low, so his target would hear him but the others might not.

  The bender turned, looked him up and down with open curiosity and a half-there smile. The scout was taken by his blue eyes, lined with black eyeliner. Young and handsome with the world before him. Years ago the scout would have been jealous, but he'd seen too many tragedies not to want to help.

  Kyle asked, “Yeah. Who're you?”

  The scout leaned forward just an inch. Dropping his voice to an even lower hush, he said, “We should talk. I've some information for you.”

  The student shrugged and made to turn away. “Whatever.”

  “I'd listen,” the scout said, “because I know the path you're heading and it isn't going to end pretty.”

  Kyle spun around, aiming a glare that could catch fire to cement. “Fuck off.”

  “How eventually you'll go skell,” the scout added before continuing with only his mouth moving, “because you are a Wielder.”

  The man's eyes widened. Fear and guilt scrawled across his face, confessing everything, a rap sheet of his forbidden abilities. The scout dressed his expression up with contrite compassion. “Let's have a talk.” Then he steered the man with his second attack. “There are ways to ward off the madness.”

  Kyle glanced from the scout to his blissfully ignorant friends a block away and back to the scout. He practically vibrated with indecision. The scout hoped the carrot worked, because he didn't enjoy pulling out the threats. Someone had to save these kids from the system, and Mara Murda was getting old, the members going mad themselves. They needed new blood.

  “Let's go talk in the park. I'll only take a minute of your time.” The scout smiled, shrugged his shoulders in his winter coat. Kyle shifted his weight onto one leg. A mark ready to bolt. “I wouldn't run. Just hear me out.” Then, because the Wielder's body was still shifting away: “You don't want your buddies to know, do you?”

  A woman in a newsboy cap called out, “Kyle, you coming?”

  Kyle leaned towards the scout and bared his teeth. The street lamp sparkled on the gold hoop in his right ear. “What do you want from me?”

  The scout held his hands up, a gesture of harmless intentions. “Just a chat. Follow me.”

  He turned and walked back down the street toward Calvino Park. Breath held with anticipation, he wondered if his target was going to follow, or if he'd have to ruin his life. That wasn't the plan, the plan was recruitment, not outing male Wielders to the public in a world where male Wielders were scorned. But he couldn't go back on his threat, then it would get around that he was all bark.

  Behind him he heard, “I'll meet you guys there. I gotta go do something,” and then footsteps following him down the street.

  Calvino Park cradled a small creek some folks liked to call a river. It flooded in the spring and nearly dried up in August. Now, in mid-November, red and golden leaves from the sweet gum, maples and alder floated on the surface of the water and painted the pavement of the trail. The path down into Calvino was lit by stylized lamps made to look like something old and quaint, to give the place some charm. Only the path was lit, the rest of the park as dark as the back alley he'd been waiting in. A rustling in the brush nearly made the scout jump from his skin, but it was only an animal. A cat maybe, or a raccoon. He took in a deep breath, steeling himself.

  Kyle trailed him. The scout left the paved pathway for the dark embrace of the overgrown edges. Rounding a thatch of bushes, he effectively blocked their meeting from anyone out for a late night stroll. It felt colder in the depths, away from the light.

  The scout turned and offered a friendly smile. “Kyle Landon,” he started, which only earned him a scowl from that pale face, “I would like to offer you an exclusive invitation to join with me and a few other choice Wielders.”

  Kyle stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I'm not interested in being a part of your cult.”

  “You should be interested. The world is against us. We're ostracized and feared. We're punished for doing nothing but existing. We need to band together. Protect each other.”

  Kyle stepped away, made as if to go. “No thanks.”

  “Even if we can end the madness?”

  “Ain't no cure, or it'd be plastered all over the news. I'm not an idiot.”

  The scout reached out for the Nerve, his power already at his mental fingertips. The scout, like Kyle Landon, could bend the forces of physics. They were called benders for a reason. He would bring this male Wielder back to Mara Murda, even if he brought him back in ropes. After some time at the lodge, he would come around.

  “You'll thank me for this later—” He poised his hold on the Nerve of the World, and then he plucked it.

  The vibration thrummed down the Nerve, sending forth a wave of force that pounded Kyle Landon in the back. Kyle stumbled to the ground. “Shit,” he called out as the air filled with the scent of popcorn. The scout inhaled his Tracer deeply. Ah, nothing like popcorn. It always took him back to that cheap cinema on Alaska Street and warm summer nights. The odor zinged along his nerves, and he plucked again, pushing another wave of f
orce at the struggling man.

  Kyle cursed. “Asshole, fuck off!” The scout felt his stomach tumble when the younger man focused on him. The scout screamed as his arm snapped, the sound ricocheting through the bushes and trees, followed by the scent of acrid chemicals.

  Stupid fucker. Broke his arm! The scout plucked again, sending Kyle into the bushes.

  “Hey, you okay in there?” came a man's voice from back towards the trail.

  The scout twisted around, cradling his arm. “Crap, shit, fuck.” Earth-muffled footfalls marched towards their niche in the bushes. The scout looked over at Kyle, the young man shaking uncontrollably in the dirt. Oh hell. The scout would have held some pity if the bastard hadn't pounded him so harshly. Only one hit and Kyle's Taint already controlled him.

  If he joined Mara Murda, they could take care of that.

  The scout's own Taint niggled at his brain. It crept up on him, hunting him like a hungry tiger. The fear. The thing out there. Things? He was being stalked. Sweat beaded on his neck, his temples and palms. He needed to get away before it overtook him. He sprinted through the bushes, holding onto his busted arm, crashing past trees that lashed out at him.

  “Wait! Do you need help?” the man cried out, but the scout wasn't focused on him. Something else was out there. He heard it. A cat again? But he knew better. He could feel their predator's eyes on him. They had found him.

  He stumbled, down on one knee, then up and racing away. His arm flashed in raw distinction against his senses, which were hyper aware, seeking out the monster hunting him. Movement flickered in the corner of his eyes. Was that the demon? Did he hear a growl? Chest heaving, he squinted into the dark places under bushes, scanned the cold moist ground for prints.

  Rustling in the branches. They had found him. Demons from hell. Thirsting for his soul. Cradling his arm, screaming in fear, the scout fled the park.

  Chapter 1

  The chalk scratched across the blackboard, leaving behind a long explanation and a simple equation. Surprisingly, Engineering Statics ended up being one of Assistant Professor Reggie Wolfe's toughest classes to teach. The quick students, those who excelled in physics, picked up the concepts with the ease he himself had. The struggling students, like many in this class, couldn't wrap their brains around how forces at work on a body affected it. He had to break it down and repeat early concepts. His quicker students' eyes glazed over. The syllabus was a lost cause.

  He turned his back to the chalkboard and returned to his computer. He jotted down some equations in a math program that his computer monitor reflected up on the giant screen pulled down from the ceiling.

  He would explain it from five different angles if he could. He didn't want any of his students to fall behind or drop his class. Reggie wanted them all to succeed.

  He glanced up at the students, gauging their interest and understanding. A surprisingly high number of women attended his class. Last August, when he received his initial list of students before classes started, his sister, Bethany, teased him: “A hottie professor like you is doing more for women in engineering than the Society of Women Engineers has in the last ten years.” He scoffed at her analysis. Sure, there was a little picture by all of the professor's profiles in the college handbook, but he didn't think the increased number of women in the engineering department from his days in college had anything to do with him.

  One of his students, a red head with a serious face, harbored the bored expression of someone doodling on her paper. Another was frantically looking up, typing on his laptop, and looking up again. Reggie struggled with how to balance the students who just got it, and the students who didn't understand the simple difference between a push and a pull. A blond student, who put far more interest in her make-up and trendy clothes than any of his other students, smiled up at him. Reggie looked away.

  She had been smiling at him a lot.

  He finished up class and dashed up his open office hours on the chalkboard. Three hours' worth, more than his contemporaries, but his students seemed to need it more. Was he a terrible teacher? The students filed out, tossing off a variety of “Later, Professor Wolfe” and “Have a good day”.

  Sandra Scott, the done-up blond, took her time packing her laptop away. She lingered as the other students filtered out. Reggie collected his papers, not sure how to deal with the second year student. For the last few months he'd been pretending he didn't notice her interest. He understood that he was young for a professor, and the students might not respect the age difference, but... he was her professor!

  “Professor Wolfe?” Sandra said, her voice a little breathy. “I was wondering, if you could give me some private help. I think I'm getting it, but I'm not quite sure about some of the more difficult steps. I'm just heading out to eat. Do you want to go to the Bull Pen with me? Talk about it over dinner?”

  Reggie tried to put a placid look on his face, but wondered if his disapproval seeped through. “Sandra, you can see,” he jerked his head toward the board, “I've office hours tonight. Why don't you come then for help?”

  Sandra tucked some hair behind her ear and pulled her laptop bag strap up on her arm. “Well, I was hoping we could grab a drink, get to know each other.”

  Reggie snorted. “That's not going to happen, Sandra.”

  His student's eyes narrowed in irritation, and Reggie automatically attended to his Mind Shield. He'd seen that look on women before, especially his sister. It could mean one of two things. She was simply annoyed at him. Or she was reaching out to pluck the Nerve of the World. Was she a mind Wielder? He heard no Tracer in response to possible Wielding and he felt no barrage to his Shield. She must be just irritated. He relaxed. That, he could deal with.

  “I'm sorry, but I am your professor. I cannot be getting familiar with my students in such a manner. If you still want tutoring after you've had dinner, please visit me in my office during office hours.” He gathered his things and walked out, leaving Sandra and her vexation in the classroom.

  “Hey, Reggie, are you going to the Innovations in Engineering Conference next month?” Professor Boltmier asked, joining him as he made his way through the halls. “My husband's sister's in Tallahassee, so he wanted to come.” She beamed at him, showing off a lot of gum in her delight.

  Reggie frowned, earning a worried expression from the other professor. “No, I can't go this year. They only approved two professors and said no to assistants.”

  Sally Boltmier cursed lightly under her breath. “So, that means I'm stuck with Frank.”

  “He's not that bad.” Reggie patted his friend on the shoulder. Sally had only made full professor two years ago, so she understood Reggie's quagmire of Next Years and Not Yous. “And your husband is going with you,” he reminded her, which turned the woman's supportive frown into delight again. Professor Boltmier's natural disposition dial was set on happy.

  The two professors walked down the mostly empty hall, discussing classes and the conference. At the double exit doors Reggie paused, considering bringing up Sandra Scott to his senior professor. Then he clamped his mouth shut. Surely he'd put an end to his student's misplaced interest. Reggie said his good-byes and pushed through the doors of the Slate Building into the cool fall evening.

  The walk from campus to his modest brick one-story house in a nearby but older neighborhood would take him fifteen minutes. He'd toss a quick stir fry and drive back to campus for his office hours. By then, he hoped, there would be a few parking spaces. Though he tried to steer his mind away from the potholes of his perceived problems, he couldn't shake the idea that Sandra Scott was serious. Had he done something to lead her on? He would not be telling Bethany about his student and her crush. She would only laugh in her big sister, I-told-you-so cackle.

  The engineering campus nudged against the border of Albion University's west edge. Continuing west down the hill led to his neighborhood, but tonight Reggie took a detour to the architecture library where a kiosk plastered with fliers and pamphlets stood proudly
under a streetlamp bright enough to kill the nearby shadows.

  Campus Christians for Christ were meeting every Sunday at 9 a.m. There was a flier on the student production of Annie. A Senior Wielder Seminar, for those women who wanted to use their Wielding ability in their career, would take place December 3rd.

  A familiar anger nipped at Reggie's generally easygoing demeanor. His jaw ached before he realized he'd been clenching it. It was so easy for women. Female or male, Wielding was an instinctual mental exercise. Every Wielder of the Nerve of the World could pluck the strings of the Nerve. For the female Wielder, the world was handed to them on a platter. They didn't have to worry about Taint or Corruption, or inevitable madness. Men took the short end of the stick upside the head. Male Wielders always carried some form of obsession or aberration. They couldn't even acknowledge they were Wielders without having distrust and fear break down relationships. It was a life of lies and deception.

  With a shake of his head, he tried to push his frustration away. It wasn't the women's fault. He couldn't look at his sister, a mind Wielder, and curse her for the state of men. It was just... the way it was. Biology. Men couldn't Wield without repercussions. It was said, in men, the Nerve plucked them.

  Reggie's eyes landed on a single white page with black type.

  Need Help?

  Feeling Trapped? Desperate?

  Don't know where to turn?

  Listed below was a phone number, and tiny rip-away-tags scored into the page. Only one was missing. The one he had torn off in hopes it would urge others to follow suit. Reggie's shoulders relaxed. He walked away from the kiosk, digging through his messenger bag, fingers squirming over paperwork, pencils, and a granola bar. Finally, they landed on a small flip phone, a simple pay-as-you-go with no contract. He took it out. No messages.

  He descended Engineering Hill, passing by a line-up of barely used red brick buildings built at the birth of the college's engineering department. The steep hill consisted of 340 stairs. He didn't mind the hike, it helped clear his mind.