Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1)

by Shayne Silvers

  Silver streaks started at the man’s temples to merge with his wavy black hair, and he was comically short — scrawny even — but he somehow still managed to compose an aura of authority. A modern Napoleon. He hesitated at my knowledge of his name, but then glanced down at his badge and simply nodded. Then he proceeded to sit down, setting a Styrofoam cup of burnt-tar coffee onto the table beside a manila folder.

  It was a few hours until midnight, and my palate was not that of a refined Starbucks Barista. Coffee was coffee. I eyed it longingly.

  “Mr. Temple,” He began in a nasally voice.

  “Master Temple.” I corrected him with an icy tone of warning. The patriarch of our family had always been referred to as the Master Temple as far back as anyone could remember. In today’s society it sounded out of place, but it was a formality I was insistent upon pressing here. And the media ate it up since it sold headlines, so everyone knew of it.

  He nodded. “Of course. Master Temple.” There was no mockery in his whiny voice, just emphasis, as if he appreciated the concept of respect. “First things first.” His badge glittered in the fluorescent lighting. “Trespassing is illegal. You managed to pass the sobriety test, ruling out mushrooms, so what were you really doing out there? Could our city’s youngest billionaire really find nothing else to amuse him?” He looked genuinely puzzled, glancing pointedly at the putrid stain on my chest. “We could hold you for 24 hours, Master Temple. After all, I’m sure Mr.…” he shuffled some papers from his file. “Kingston would not be pleased with your uninvited exploration of his property.”

  “Are these really necessary?” I jangled my hands behind my back.

  Detective Kosage’s eyes squinted thoughtfully before nodding. “For now, yes.”

  I scowled into his eyes, waiting a full ten seconds to see if he would change his mind. He didn’t blink. I decided right then that I was going to have some fun with my situation. Regulars — as we named non-magical beings — were terrified of the concept of magic being real. Especially since the media had recently started fueling the fires with stories of magic happening all over America. The debate was on everyone’s lips. Was it real? Was it a hoax? Regardless, most regulars were unable to comprehend the possibilities of things they didn’t personally understand, and it was so much fun to capitalize on that anxiety. It was who I was. My charm.

  “Alright, boys. Have it your way.” I lifted my hands above my head in a languorous stretch, my wrists already free of the cuffs, as they had been for the last nineteen minutes. I set the cuffs on the table, sliding them over to the other cop, Detective Allison. “Here you go, Ali.” I tried to mimic the smile he had given me earlier, waggling a small bobby pin between my fingers. “It’s amazing what one can learn on the web. Now, I’m not sure how you were raised, but it is considered the height of impropriety to have a conversation without offering refreshment to your guest. Especially when the host has one. Unforgivably rude, actually.” They blinked back at me in unison, shock apparent on their faces as the cuffs sat on the table like a pink elephant in the room.

  As if on cue, the door opened, and the nervous cop entered with a steaming cup of coffee. He set it in front of me, and then nervously backed away from the room. I deduced that we were being recorded since my two jailers hadn’t moved or spoken since my display. I had an audience. My smile stretched wider. Even better. Steam curled up from my cup. I invisibly casted a bit of magic into the coffee, dropping the temperature enough for me to down it in one gulp, which I promptly did. Again, both the cops eyebrows raised in unison, amazed that the drink hadn’t scalded my throat. I let them wonder at that. “Much better, gentlemen. Now, what do you two want to chat about next? Your future careers? Politicians and the media can be bought, and I have a few extra bucks to grease some palms. Elections are coming up.” I waited.

  The detectives stared from my hands to the cuffs again in disbelief. Detective Allison responded first, rising from his chair with a furious growl, but Kosage slapped a dainty palm on his forearm, the authority plain. “Let’s continue this discussion… professionally.” He glanced back to the folder as Allison glared hatred at me for a moment longer. He finally sat down, the chair protesting his bulk with a loud squeak. I arched an eyebrow at the noise, my thoughts plain. His eyes hardened, but he leaned back as Kosage read from a paper. “Let’s talk about Temple Industries for a moment.”

  Temple Industries. The technology company my parents had started twenty years ago, headquartered in the thriving metropolis of St. Louis, Missouri. The company’s fingers stretched wide, claiming over 3,000 patents (more than Microsoft) that ranged from software, to computer chips, and even to defense technology for the U.S. military. No one truly knew everything that the company concerned themselves with, just that they always seemed to produce the most cutting-edge technology. The company was vast, falling into the reputable Fortune 500. But I wanted nothing to do with it. “It might be a very, very brief moment, as I have nothing to do with my parents’ company. Other than owning a hefty amount of shares.” I added honestly.

  Kosage stared back, eyes sharp. I kept my face blank. “Yes, well, the Interim President of the company, Ashley Belmont, is less than forthcoming about details of ownership. You’re saying that you have no intentions of taking over the company?”

  “Why would I?” I answered questions with questions when pissy.

  Detective Ali leaned forward. “Money.” He growled hungrily.

  I glanced from face to face before leaning back in the steel torture device that doubled as a chair. “I assume that being clever and thorough policemen you have already combed over my finances?” Kosage waited a moment, and then gave a brief nod. “Then you have no doubt noticed that I am already fairly wealthy from previous investments not limited to my shares in Temple Industries.” Another nod. “Furthermore, that I run my own arcane little bookstore which brings me a sufficient amount of annual income.”

  “Plato’s Cave.” Kosage answered with a wry grin at my financial modesty.

  I nodded proudly. “Have you also noticed that the stock in Temple Industries has dropped significantly since my parents’ untimely… death?” The last word was hard for me to voice. Kosage blinked, reaching down for the coffee to cover his tell. “Ah, perhaps my previous assumption was too flattering. Not as thorough as you should have been. I have made no move to assume leadership of their company, and the value of that company has only dropped since the unfortunate death of the owners.” I dramatically dimmed the lights with magic as I stood from my chair. Kosage’s chair slid back as he hurriedly set the coffee back down to the table, glancing up at the lights with a frown. Regulars. They were still scared of the dark, refusing to believe that magic existed, even when it happened right in front of their faces. They didn’t know whom they were toying with. No one knew I was a wizard. They probably just thought the lighting system was faulty, but it had the desired effect. “You better not be implying that I had anything to do with their deaths.” I hissed.

  As I allowed the lights to brighten back to normal, Kosage swiveled his nervous brown-eyed gaze back to me, no doubt wondering if he had imagined the lights dimming. “Of course not. Please sit, Master Temple.” I didn’t. He shrugged, regaining his composure, but Detective Allison remained on edge. Steel scraped the concrete floor as he scooted back to the table. “As I was saying, Miss Belmont says she will not speak to us until she has had a chance to speak with you. But you do not answer her calls. Then we get a pack of lawyers on our backs for questioning her. You can see our predicament. Things would be easier if we could simply talk to her. But why would she need to speak to you first unless you are indeed planning on taking over the company?” He was whining again.

  I had no idea why she would want to talk to me, but I had been screening my calls lately. They were coming in from all over. CNN, St. Louis Post Dispatch, and every news channel within a hundred miles had somehow found my personal cell phone number. I shrugged in answer. “Are yo
u arresting me?”

  “There is no need for such words. We’re merely trying to get to the bottom of this. We share the same goals, Master Temple. Finding the cause of their… death.” He hesitated on the last word, but it was obvious that he had intended to say murder. “If you could please sit and answer a few more questions, we can get this over with in short order.”

  The Minotaur’s words came back to mind. The St. Louis Police Department had been the ones to tell me that the evidence of their deaths was inconclusive. They had been found dead in one of their laboratories with no signs of struggle, drugs, poison, or any of the usual clues that whispered murder. They had simply died within moments of each other. My father had been found with a minor but precise, almost surgical, perimortem gash on his wrist, but not deep enough to be fatal, and no blade in sight. The detectives had even declared it as self-inflicted around the time of death.

  Temple Industries had been their life, and ultimately, their death.

  I felt the barriers of my will weakening, the brick wall of restraint crumbling against the tides of power and magic inside me. “I do not have the answers you seek, gentlemen.” I dramatically flicked a finger as if to shake off a drop of water, and a blast of frigid air beckoned to my command. The sole door to the room flew inward as if hit by a battering ram from the hall, the lock skittering across the floor to rest at my feet, and the temperature in the room dropped significantly. Detective Kosage’s cup of coffee tipped over, splashing the steaming liquid towards his face.

  I snapped my finger as the door rebounded off the inside wall, revealing the startled guard outside now gripping the pistol at his belt in shaky fingers, the button latch safety rattling in the sudden wind. The steaming mass of coffee froze into a chunk of brown ice an inch away from Detective Kosage’s bloodless nose. Several frozen coffee-cubed drops fell into his lap.

  His chair slid back as his reflexes finally kicked in. Both of their eyes were wide now as they flinched from the door to me, panicked. I walked around him and Detective Allison on my way to the door. “I’ll talk to Miss Belmont for you. Next time, don’t bother with the cuffs. Just say pretty-please.”

  “What the fuck?” Detective Allison roared in shock. “How did he-” His face was pale with fear. “Was that…” he glanced from face to face, and then to the camera in the corner of the room, his eyes wide, “Magic?” He whispered low enough for only our ears.

  I smiled, dimming the lights more dramatically this time as I leaned closer, whispering back conspiratorially. “Come now, officers. Don’t tell me you still believe in fairy tales…” My grin stretched further, menacing, and they each leaned away. “Answers can be dangerous… All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.” I quoted. “Seems like you have faulty lighting here.” I added.

  Then I strode out of the room, leaving the words hanging like an axe over their throats. I had a client to meet. Then a well deserved drink with some friends. I wasn’t about to waste my time babysitting the city’s men-in-blue.

  Chapter 4

  I leaned against the cold brick wall of the diner, glancing at the sign hanging above my bookstore across the street through the light flurry of snow falling down to the ground in fat, heavy flakes. Plato’s Cave was artfully painted onto the aged wood. I contemplated the events of the night as I waited for my client to arrive, trying to keep the wind at my back in order to avoid the sickly aroma of shit still painting my upper body.

  The cops now thought my parents had been murdered. A week had passed me by since hearing the dire news. No prior health issues could have caused it. Age had been the predominant concrete answer.

  But now I wasn’t so sure.

  First the Minotaur, and now the cops. I wondered what had made them change their minds. Means, motive, and opportunity were the three things cops looked for in murder cases, as my childhood friend — now an FBI Agent — Gunnar Randulf had told me.

  The news of their death had wrecked me, but as an old Japanese friend from college had taught me long ago, grieve fiercely for one day and then move on. His ancestors had been Samurai, a hard-ass culture. So that’s what I did. The first day I had been a mess, sticking to my store, needlessly stocking shelves, and staying busy without thinking.

  The next day I had sealed the coffin on those emotions, following the evidence clinically, detached after my allotted one day of grief. Then my present client had called on me, giving me something new to focus on. I had devoted myself to his request, ultimately leading to tonight’s meeting with the Minotaur.

  From time to time I obtained rare books for — as was most often the case — less than reputable clients with large bank accounts. I had a reputation for being able to find goods where others couldn’t, and it had landed me a decent income. I had clung to my new client’s request like a bloodhound — anything to ignore the pain inside me. But now the grief was threatening to come back as I discovered that the cops apparently hadn’t closed the high-profile case. It wasn’t their fault that their prime suspect was a rich heir. How many times had I seen a similar case go through the media?

  And prove correct.

  It made sense, but it was wrong. And infuriating. If I had learned of even one shred of evidence proving murder, I would have most likely gone vigilante, Batman style.

  I hadn’t been that close to my parents the last few years, but that was mainly out of stubbornness. As encouraged, I had double-majored in Physics and Philosophy at the age of twenty. But I had encountered an enchanting mistress while at college. Books. More accurately, the Classics: Milton, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dostoevsky, Dante Alighieri, and a vast slew of philosophers. Not wanting to stand in my parents’ shadow, I had started my own business, something more in line with both my talents and my interests.

  Plato’s Cave, my own Atlantis.

  And I had been damn successful against the modern world of digital formatting, Kindles, iPads, and Nooks. It seemed that ancient books and classic volumes only increased in worth, and I had contacts that the rest of the world didn’t.

  Legends.

  Many people think of Myth and Folklore as either the very first fictional writings, or the incessant ramblings of inebriated authors. Nothing more. But my family and I knew better. We were wizards, and being such, were deeply entwined with those mythical races. For better or worse, the myths were all very, very real: Hermes, the Minotaur, Hercules, wizards — and as I had just been informed — dragons. The trouble was finding them. They didn’t want to be found. They had lived their glory days long ago, and for the most part, remained reclusive.

  But sometimes they decided to socialize again, causing the occasional sighting or other unexplainable carnage, and that was usually where wizards came in. We were the unofficial police of the magical community, or at least the wizards I had met seemed to lean in that direction.

  But I had ways of finding those recluses, and a significant amount of charm that helped me win them over to help me find those old, withered, and forgotten tomes. Like I had with the Minotaur. Thinking of that encounter, I couldn’t help but wonder why the hint of dragons had set him so on edge. I was pretty sure I would know if dragons were in my city: big, scaly, hungry, flying lizards, stealing gold and virgins? Didn’t ring any bells.

  I briefly wondered why the Minotaur had been prepared for my request thousands of year’s prior, and what Hermes had to do with it all. I idly fingered the coin in my pocket. Old books were like that, most often entrusted to an individual for life, and then passed down to a loved one upon their death.

  On the upside, the original might be able to fetch more money from my client. If I could prove it was authentic. It wasn’t like I could tell him ‘Well, the Minotaur told me it was the real deal, and he just wouldn’t lie about something like that. He’s a Buddhist now. They frown on lying.’

  Impatient for my unpunctual client, I thumbed open my pack of cigarettes, placed one between my lips, glanced aroun
d to make sure I was alone, and lit the tip of the cigarette with only a thought. No fancy hand motions, words, or lengthy process used at all. It had taken a while to hone my focus enough not to light my face on fire. The first few times hadn’t been as successful.

  My magic was an ever-present companion of mine. I had been told that I was more powerful than most — things that were quite difficult for other wizards came easily to me. I saw the world through tinted glasses. A whole world of colors, vibrations, waves, and particles danced around me, and I knew how to tap into them; manipulate them to my desire with a thought. It was simply a part of me. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. But I definitely knew I was a minority.

  Content, I nestled my shoulders against the cold wall, bent my knee to rest my boot against the brick in an impromptu lean, and took a sweet, heavenly inhale.

  Simply marvelous.

  For those of you lesser beings that haven’t partaken of this man-made Manna, you are missing out. I inhaled the menthol smoke, thinking of a favorite quote I had read long ago. Man, controlling Prometheus’ gift of fire between two fingers… Relishing the cool smoke searing my lungs, I was startled by a sudden voice from the alley beside me.

  “Those things are bad for you. Cancerous, even.”

  Recognizing the voice, my pulse slowly returned to normal as I turned to face my client. People were rarely able to sneak up on me. “My body is a temple, and every good temple needs some incense now and again. Something you should learn. Like punctuality, kid.”

  My client grunted as he stepped out into view, lighting his own clove cigarette by the smell of it. The fragrance surrounded us like a soothing blanket as he puffed it to life. “The brightest candle burns half as long, right?” He exhaled another cloud of the pleasant-smelling smoke from his nostrils. He somehow made it look dangerous, like a bouncer flexing his muscles, or a cop cocking his pistol.