Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1)

by Shayne Silvers

  “Hypocrite.” I muttered.

  He smiled. “You smell… bad.” He finally concluded.

  “I shit myself earlier. Deal with it.”

  He frowned. “Does this happen often?” I glared back, and he chuckled before shrugging it off. “Did you find it?”

  I studied my client, trying to figure him out. Dark, lanky hair hugged his scalp down to his jaw, and his eyes were dark enough for me to have never placed a color to them. I peered closer, but seeming to sense my curiosity, he glanced away. His harsh angular jaw and cheekbones made stark shadows in the dim light. Tight leather pants clung to his legs, and calf-high boots that looked like they belonged on a Pirates of the Caribbean set covered his feet. The leather smelled clean and sharp. His white V-neck Tee contrasted the tight pants, and a thick silver chain hung against his chest, peeking out from underneath the fabric.

  He looked like a modern James Dean. He wasn’t even wearing a coat and it was snowing. Rebel without a cause, all right. I suppose many would have found him roguishly handsome, and I, being comfortable with my masculinity, realized this with a slight twinge of jealousy. “Possibly. I’ll know for sure in two days.” I noticed a new smell for the first time around my client — cold rocks, and… snakes. I know that neither of those things instill a familiar sense of smell to most people, but being a wizard, my senses were enhanced, and I could place associations to such things. I stored it away for later thought.

  The boy — because he was younger than me — nodded. “Two days. That’s perfect.”

  Unsure what that implied, I probed a bit. “Are you sure you want it? My contact seems to think it might be dangerous…” I paused the required amount of time. “Which raises the price.”

  He flashed me an amused smirk, took another inhale of his cigarette, and then dismissively flicked away the ash. “Price is not an issue.” He leveled his dark, black diamond eyes on me. The irises were black. No color whatsoever. “It is vital that you get it. And no later than two days. Sooner is better, but definitely not any later.” He glanced around warily, even up at the nearby buildings. Paranoid much? “Any other inquirers?”

  That stumped me. “No. Why?” I asked.

  “Just curious. I presume that this still remains a secret between us?” I nodded. “I have your word on that?” He pressed.

  I knew that there was more to this than he was letting on, and that he was definitely not your Average Joe. He was wary, but unafraid — anticipatory. I repressed a shudder at exactly who my client might be. Everyone had his or her secrets.

  “I’ve already told you that you have my word, but it’s just a book. Why the secrecy?” The words sounded hollow even to me. Books were not merely books, at least not always. I’ve cracked a deadly spine once or twice in my day.

  Like Twilight. Now that was deadly. The series had managed to turn normal adolescent girls into raving, hormone-filled psychopaths intent on dating vampires, and no one would ever knowingly do something that stupid.

  He ignored my question. “Good… It’s nice to know that some still honor their word.” He rubbed his shoulders, signaling the end of business. “So, I’ll meet you two nights from now? Where is our next cloak and dagger rendezvous?” He grinned. “I recommend somewhere not so near to your place of business, wizard.” He hadn’t known that appellation last time, or at least hadn’t revealed it.

  I told him a place off the top of my head, and he began laughing. “Interesting venue. Ever been there?” I shook my head, and he laughed even harder. “Okay.”

  “I don’t even know your name.” I said, ignoring whatever he found so funny.

  His nose crinkled as he scanned the street, muscles tensing slightly. “It’s better that way. My name is on too many lips already. It seems I have many…” he glanced around again, muscles growing tighter, “Fans. See you in two days, Temple.”

  Then he stepped back into the alley, and… disappeared, even to my senses. He was simply gone. “Whatever.” I muttered to the empty alley. I turned away, taking another puff from my cigarette, and my phone vibrated in my pocket. I glanced down, read the text, and then glanced across the street to my store. I saw my two friends, Gunnar and Peter, leaning against the door, staring at me. They were waiting for our monthly nightcap, as we had done for the last five years in order to maintain our friendship amidst diversifying careers, and, well, just life in general getting in the way. I stepped away from the wall and waved as I headed their way, eager for that drink.

  Chapter 5

  G unnar glanced behind me towards the alley as I approached. “Nate.” I took another drag of the cigarette, and then stomped it out under a heel. Gunnar Randulf was built like a house, tall, strong, and skin as pale as fine alabaster. His face was hard, with a double-cleft chin, and a rough, but neat blonde beard covered his lower face. Blonde hair brushed his jaws, looking expensively well kept — he had been forced to use some bogus religious excuse so that the FBI wouldn’t make him cut it short. Gunnar Randulf was descended from the Norse Vikings, his last name meaning ‘Shield-wolf,’ and he left a trail of broken hearts wherever he walked. But despite all the attention his looks gained him from the fairer sex, he seemed immune to the casual chase, instead searching for that one true love. It was like trying to find the perfect steak without ever eating meat before.

  He was the worst wingman ever.

  Peter on the other hand, was a study in contrasts — handsome, but unremarkable. Tall and wiry, with bright blue eyes, he looked like every other Yuppie in town. They each wore slacks and a shirt, not having changed from their respective jobs before heading over to my digs. I had known them both since childhood, and we had been friends ever since. Peter, being a regular with no unique powers, was definitely the odd ball out, but it hadn’t affected our friendship at all. “Who were you talking to?” Gunnar’s face was curious, glancing into the alley.

  “Whom. Fucking whom! Is everyone illiterate?” I grouched.

  Peter chuckled. We were alone on the street. “I sensed him… sensing me. Then he was gone. And he smells like shit.” Gunnar said.

  “Sorry, but the smell is all me. I had an accident.”

  Gunnar’s baby-blues weighed me, but ignored my hygiene. “What was he?”

  If Gunnar couldn’t even place what the kid was, then I had no idea. I shrugged. “A client. That’s all I know. And they pay my bills. Sort of a don’t ask don’t tell policy. You two ready for our Round Table?” Peter and Gunnar both nodded, but not before both peering over my shoulder again. Peter looked curious, but Gunnar didn’t seem satisfied with my response.

  “Of course we’re ready. It’s our fifth anniversary, after all.”

  “Oh, Darling. You remembered!” I mocked. Gunnar rolled his eyes. I unlocked the heavy oak front door, closing my eyes for a moment as I turned off my secondary alarm system — a fine mist of magic was laced over the entire perimeter of the building. My friends, knowing the routine, waited patiently, although Peter studied me curiously, no doubt trying to see something of my magic. Peter had experienced its effects once, and wasn’t anxious to see it happen again. The feeling of a thousand fire ants swarming your body left an impression, and very real bites. One reason for the secondary protection was the valuable and unique items stored inside, but the other was because I lived in the loft overlooking the front lobby — and what a lobby it was.

  I had purchased the antique 1920’s theater and performed a few minor renovations, redesigning the Grand Lobby into a bookstore with a more modern feel. Several steps led down into the store from the entryway. Six-foot-high, walled-glass dividers were randomly scattered about, effectively sectioning the room into a maze of couches, bookshelves, and even a European coffee bar tucked back against the wall. The convoluted maze was an extensive web of Feng Shui that a team of monks had helped me design. Modern, yet classic. Yin and Yang. Vintage movie posters, steam-punk paraphernalia, and vinyl records decorated the rough brick walls. It was the ultimat
e man cave.

  Even though the place was empty at this time of night, it still felt homey and welcoming. The glass wall dividers were covered with wax penciled graffiti in a variety of different colors — quotes, ancient passages from classic works, names, and brief artwork — a rite of passage granted to my frequent customers.

  I led the way to the back stairs that climbed the old brick wall to my loft.

  Two of the three theaters nestled in the back had also been revamped. One was packed with almost every type of gaming system. I had even acquired a team of beta-testers to try out games in the developmental stages. Hence, installing the coffee shop in the lobby. Nerds needed caffeine to function.

  And my business was the Atlantis for nerds across the land. Nerdlantis.

  The second theater was now a vast library where I conducted my more profitable sales with those premier clients of mine.

  The third theater was on a need-to-know basis, and not many needed to know.

  My glass-windowed loft overlooked the entire store, both front and back, as I had gutted the old projector room to create a home within a home for myself — a Sanctum Sanctorum. The stairs creaked as we ascended my modern castle-tower, reminding me of the Captain’s prow of a ship, overseeing the activity of the crew below. I shouldered the heavy oak door open and headed back to the bar against the far wall. Settling down into a pair of couches inside the large open loft, my friends took off their coats, relaxing as I began to work. I discarded my own ruined coat, tossing it into a nearby laundry basket with optimistic hope that it could be salvaged. I placed three cups before me.

  Absinthe was the chosen poison for this auspicious evening.

  The licorice-fired spirit had been the favorite drink of visionaries throughout history, including Oscar Wilde, Vincent Van Gogh, and Ernest Hemmingway. But I wasn’t about to attempt Hemmingway’s famous Death in the Afternoon cocktail of chilled champagne and Absinthe. I chose the French Method instead.

  I bent to my task, the process of making the perfect drink now a familiar routine for me as I listened to Gunnar and Peter’s soft conversation. Salivating with anticipation as the thick aroma began to fill my nose, I placed several ice cubes into the drinks, set my creations atop a silver tray, and then carried them over to the table in the sitting area. I handed Gunnar and Peter each a glass, bowed my head, and then backed away into my own aged Darlington Chesterfield couch. I snatched up the last glass, and reclined with a pleased sigh.

  “So what’s new with you two?” I asked curiously.

  Gunnar answered first, clearly excited. “I was given authority to put together my own field team. Special Agent in Charge, Roger Reinhardt, is letting me dance the gray area a bit with some of my recent cases since the traditional protocol hasn’t been very successful. My… unique talents will be a benefit. Jurisdiction and red tape hold us back all too often, so he’s turning a blind eye, as long as I produce results.” He winked. “Off the record, of course.”

  I grinned. This was huge. “That’s fantastic! You’re implying that more of the recent crimes have been in our field of expertise? Involving magic?” Gunnar merely nodded, but his lips tightened a bit, apparently closed on any further elaboration of the subject. Perhaps Peter wasn’t supposed to hear details.

  He shrugged. “It will most likely fizzle to nothing, but it was good to hear that some people are wise to the fact that they are helpless to solving some of the newer crimes. It’s only in the preliminary stages right now though. A temporary trial-and-error experiment.”

  Peter, sensing Gunnar clamming up, chimed in. “I’ve gained a bit of respect around the investment firm. They’re letting me work directly with a new client, a new family in town with deep, deep pockets.” To himself, he murmured something lower that I couldn’t quite catch; thumbing a worn leather bracelet I had never seen before on his wrist. Odd. Peter had never worn any accessories. Was he in danger of becoming metro-sexual? Something was different about him, now that I thought about it. But I remained silent, not sensing anything specific. “It might even be my big break.”

  “Then I propose a toast.” I raised my glass. “To women and careers, and the men who ride them!” They grinned, and we each took a deep drink. This was what our round table was for, setting aside a single night to speak of how we were attempting to impact the world. After years of hard work, it seemed my two friends were doing just that.

  Gunnar opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him. “You almost got me killed tonight with your stupid text message.”

  He frowned before answering. “Speaking of that, was that some weird autocorrect mistake in your response? It said you were in a cow pasture.”

  “No. That was what I typed.” I sipped my drink and sighed in appreciation as my taste buds were overloaded with fennel and anise.

  “Okaaay… That’s not mysterious at all.” Peter’s eyes twinkled as he leaned forward.

  Gunnar was still frowning. “So, barring creepy clients and cow pastures, how have you been?” Gunnar asked carefully.

  I grinned over the rim of my aromatic drink. “Both of those negations are actually related. I Just got busted from the police station. Apparently trespassing is frowned upon. As is cow tipping.”

  Peter choked on his drink. “Pardon?”

  Gunnar wasn’t so polite. “What? You know they are looking for any excuse to give you trouble! You even said that you noticed patrol cars hanging around the shop. And why on earth were you cow tipping? Could you find nothing else to entertain you on a Thursday night?”

  “I needed information,” I began, settling deeper into the chair. I spotted my first edition of Paradise Lost on the table beside me, and recalled the last passage I had read before retiring the tome: Do they only stand by ignorance, is that their happy state, the proof of their obedience and faith… It reminded me of the detectives at the police station. It had been close to a week since I had read the passage, but I had an eidetic memory, so it was forever burned into my brain. A gift and a curse. I had never quite gotten used to how others couldn’t do the same thing.

  “How could you get information by cow tipping?” Gunnar pressed, knowing there was more to the story. We had fallen into a strong friendship almost from the very beginning, and then upon discovering our unique similarities, the strands of friendship had only grown stronger. We each had one foot in a whole other world.

  The world of magic.

  Gunnar was a werewolf, able to change at a whim now, thanks to my parents help long ago. As if sensing this, Gunnar idly thumbed the tattoo on his wrist — a gift from my parents. Werewolves normally couldn’t control their change from one form to the other, but the tattoo served as a totem, allowing Gunnar to shift at will, no longer a victim to the cycles of the moon. Merely a thought or a finger on the tattoo would begin the transformation. White, snowy fur slowly began to curl up from Gunnar’s forearm before he realized what he was doing. He removed his finger, closed his eyes, and the fur disappeared.

  Peter watched with a distant, familiar envy. He was a regular, just happening to fall into our lives back in school, and he had been there ever since. Despite having no powers, he was a good friend, and an even better man. He was one of the few people who knew our secrets. Even Gunnar’s boss didn’t know the truth, but he did know that Gunnar had an unusually high success rate for solving cases that other agents had deemed ‘unsolvable.’

  The age of digital media had made the lives of our kind harder to conceal. YouTube had caught more magic on film than any number of cameras in the past. Even dismissed as hoaxes, a growing number of people throughout the world had begun to question this resurgence of magical evidence with some serious scrutiny. Luckily, they were mostly regarded as intoxicated conspiracy theorists. I couldn’t imagine what would happen once the lid finally blew on that subject. It would be the Salem Witch Trials all over again. Blood would flow in the streets, and the government would no doubt pass a litany of regulations and laws withi
n weeks. I shivered at the thought, coming back to the question.

  “I needed to speak with the Minotaur.” I answered simply, taking another sip of the licorice fire.

  Peter leaned even further forward. “The Minotaur? As in the one Theseus killed in Daedalus’ Labyrinth? He’s real?”

  “Come now, Peter. You know better. Of course he’s real. Almost all the myths are real. But the Minotaur wasn’t killed. True, he was defeated by Theseus, but he swore not to eat any more men — the first monster carnivore turned vegetarian — so was allowed to survive. He’s still… kicking around, so to speak. And he’s good at finding things. My kind of things.” I still felt the impression of his boot on my stomach, despite my hastily thrown shield. I was sure it would bruise nicely.

  Gunnar growled unhappily. “So, after cow tipping him, why on earth did he agree to help you? He could have very easily killed you, you know.”

  I let the silence build until they were leaning forward. “He’s Buddhist now.” No reaction. “Or trying to become one. I’m guessing I survived because he struck a deal with Hermes long ago.” I fingered the coin in my pocket, but remained silent on that gift. “It has to do with the client you saw earlier. He’s looking for something, and my other sources turned up nothing. He was my last resource. He said I could duel him in two days for the item. Then the cops arrived. They must have been keeping tabs on my car.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly discreet.” Peter mocked.

  I grinned back, showing my teeth. “Jealousy does not become you, Peter.”

  He grunted indelicately. “Did you find what you were looking for?” I nodded.

  Gunnar looked relieved. “You risk too much, Nate. You have access to an almost limitless fortune, but you still risk everything for these pennies you get from clients.”

  “They aren’t quite pennies,” I murmured, again thumbing the coin in my pocket.