Piercing the Veil (Harbingers Book 13)

by Bill Myers

  Piercing the Veil

  Bill Myers

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Afterword

  Other Books By Bill Myers

  Published by Amaris Media International.

  Copyright © 2016 Bill Myers

  Cover Design: Angela Hunt

  Photo credits: ©Michael Pettigrew and ©xixinxing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission from the publisher.

  For more information, visit us on Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Harbingers/705107309586877

  or www.harbingersseries.com.

  Introduction

  HARBINGERS

  A novella series by

  Bill Myers, Frank Peretti, Angela Hunt,

  and Alton Gansky

  In this fast-paced world with all its demands, the four of us wanted to try something new. Instead of the longer novel format, we wanted to write something equally as engaging but that could be read in one or two sittings—on the plane, waiting to pick up the kids from soccer, or as an evening’s read.

  We also wanted to play. As friends and seasoned novelists, we thought it would be fun to create a game we could participate in together. The rules were simple:

  Rule #1

  Each of us will write as if we were one of the characters in the series:

  Bill Myers will write as Brenda, the street-hustling tattoo artist who sees images of the future.

  Frank Peretti will write as the professor, the atheist ex-priest ruled by logic.

  Angela Hunt will write as Andi, the professor’s brilliant-but-geeky assistant who sees inexplicable patterns.

  Alton Gansky will write as Tank, the naïve, big-hearted jock with a surprising connection to a healing power.

  Rule #2

  Instead of the four of us writing one novella together (we’re friends but not crazy), we would write it like a TV series. There would be an overarching storyline into which we’d plug our individual novellas, with each story written from our character’s point of view.

  If you’re keeping track, this is the order:

  Harbingers #1—The Call—Bill Myers

  Harbingers #2—The Haunted—Frank Peretti

  Harbingers #3—The Sentinels—Angela Hunt

  Harbingers #4—The Girl—Alton Gansky

  Volumes #1-4 omnibus: Cycle One: Invitation

  Harbingers #5—The Revealing—Bill Myers

  Harbingers #6—Infestation—Frank Peretti

  Harbingers #7—Infiltration—Angela Hunt

  Harbingers #8—The Fog—Alton Gansky

  Volumes #5-8 omnibus: Cycle Two: Mosaic

  Harbingers #9—Leviathan—Bill Myers

  Harbingers #10—The Mind Pirates—Frank Peretti

  Harbingers #11—Hybrids—Angela Hunt

  Harbingers #12—The Village—Alton Gansky

  Volumes 9-12 omnibus: Cycle Three: The Probing

  There you have it, at least for now. We hope you’ll find these as entertaining in the reading as we are in the writing.

  Bill, Frank, Angie, Al

  Chapter 1

  I hate Vegas.

  Sorry if that messes with your white, middle class dreams for a vacation. Sorrier still if you’re some city councilman that wants to sue my butt for talking trash. (Good luck with that—you can have the trailer—my shop, too, the way all this traveling messes with my business).

  Anyway, that’s why I didn’t take Daniel, why I swung over and dropped him off at my mom’s in Arizona before driving over here. I don’t care how much he begs, Vegas ain’t no place for a kid, ’specially one with his unique sensitivities. I know I said that before, ’specially during our little visit to North Carolina. But there’s way too much trash goin’ on here that folks don’t see (or don’t want to). Lucky for me, I was one of the smart ones. Got out before too much damage was done. But there’s plenty of other sisters, brothers too, who weren’t so lucky.

  I’d been on the 93 almost three hours now—the afternoon sun hitting my eyes, and the oven-hot wind roaring through the open windows of my beater Toyota. Not to cool things down, but to dry up sweat so I ain’t swimming in it.

  Last week I got another one of those texts from “Unknown Caller.” It was tellin’ me to pick up Andi and Tank, aka Cowboy, at the airport, 3:15 today. It’s almost 5:00, courtesy of my overheating radiator. But they know I’ll be there. We’re always there for each other. Like a bad habit.

  Still, these little outings, they’re taking their toll. You’d think it would be easier without the professor and his attitude. But no. Not by a long shot. Truth is, I miss him almost as much as Andi does. We were entirely different, fought like cats and dogs, but somehow he got me. And I got him. And now . . . I don’t know.

  I arrived at the airport and pulled into Terminal One. Sure enough, there was Andi in her flaming red hair. She was melting in the heat and having her ears talked off by Cowboy.

  I gave a honk and pulled up.

  “There she is!” Cowboy grabbed his duffle bag and, despite Andi’s protests, her backpack, too. “Boy, it’s good to see you,” he said as he opened the door and tossed their stuff in the back.

  “It sure is,” Andi said.

  I could tell by the look of relief she wasn’t lying. Cowboy’s a great guy, all 6’ 4”, 275 pounds of him. But he likes to talk. ’Specially when it’s to someone he’s trying to impress. Course she’s told him a dozen times she’s not interested, but the loveable lug is as persistent as he is loyal.

  He opened the front door, motioning for Andi to take the seat. “Whew,” he laughed. “It’s so hot here I bet hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.”

  Andi cut me a look of desperation. She’s a sweet kid and doesn’t know how to be rude. Come to think of it, Cowboy’s the same. But that’s where the similarities stop.

  As Cowboy shut her door and headed for the back, I asked him, “Sure you don’t want the front seat?”

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” he said. Course he wasn’t. You could tell by the way he gasped and grunted, trying to pull in his legs.

  “Where’s Daniel?” Andi asked as she looked for the seat belt.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “It hasn’t worked for years.”

  “And Daniel?”

  “Not this time.”

  She gave me a look. “Are you seeing something dangerous?”

  “No more than usual. But me and Vegas, we got a history he don’t need to be exposed to.”

  After the usual grinding of gears, I found first and we pulled out.

  Cowboy leaned forward to join us. “But you are seeing stuff, right?”

  I nodded to the sketchpad on the dashboard.

  Andi grabbed it and started flipping pages. There was plenty of drawings from our past encounters—that empty chair in the Vatican, Littlefoot from whatever reality she was in, even the sketch of ourselves (which was also tatted on Cowboy’s arm). But it wasn’t until she came to the picture of the flying dragon that she
came to a stop. It was pretty detailed—red and purple with shiny scales, and little arms and hands under its wings.

  “This?” she asked.

  “For starters.”

  She flipped through the other sketches I’d been seeing in my head the past week or so . . . like the green recliner with all sorts of electrical junk around it, or the snowflakes, lots and lots of snowflakes, or the creepy, frog-faced gargoyles. Lots of them, too.

  “I sure don’t like them things,” Cowboy said, referring to the gargoyles.

  “Why not?” Andi asked.

  “I don’t want to get weird on you . . .”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “It’s just . . . that’s how some folks describe demons.”

  Andi took a breath and closed the pad. “Well, it looks like we might be in for a wild ride this time.”

  I flipped the dreads out of my face. “So what else is new?”

  She nodded and we all got kind of quiet. ’Cause there’s one thing you can say about my sketches: They’re never wrong.

  Chapter 2

  No problem finding our hotel. Besides the name, Preston Towers, there were two twelve-foot high, hitching posts out front. The internet said it was one of the city’s finest, right on the Strip. No surprise there. Our employers, they may be all secretive and stuff, never letting us know who they are . . . but they sure know how to treat us.

  The car jockeys, faces leathery from the sun, were all over us—opening doors, grabbing luggage, anything for a tip.

  “Nah, fellas, we’re good,” Cowboy said. “We got it.” But they were pretty pushy so our good ol’ boy let ’em have their way.

  Not me. When they asked for the keys I said I’d park it.

  “Actually,” a tall brother said. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Actually, I’ll make it possible.”

  “We’re the only ones with access to the garage.”

  “Then I’ll park outside the garage.”

  “There’s nothing close. The nearest—”

  “We good?” I called to Cowboy as he finished loading up the cart.

  He nodded.

  “Ma’am, if you’ll just give me the keys.”

  “I said I’ll park it.”

  “The nearest spot is four blocks away and even at that—”

  “I can use the exercise.”

  I wasn’t being a jerk. As a single mom with Daniel and all, I got no need to line someone else’s pocket. So after some gear grinding, I pulled onto the Strip leaving behind my customary cloud of blue smoke.

  I eventually took a left on Stan Mallin Drive. I’d gone a couple more blocks when this kid, I don’t know where he came from, is suddenly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes, but my bumper caught him and, ’fore I knew it, he’s sailing onto my hood, then rolling off and onto the road.

  I leaped out and ran toward him. “You all right? You okay?”

  He lay there, not moving. I dropped to my knees, swearing and praying at the same time, when he suddenly jumps up, pushes me out of the way and runs for my car.

  “Hey!” I scrambled to my feet. “Hey!” I took off after him. He was already inside, slamming the door, but no way was I going to let him jack my car. Once I got there, I reached through the window and grabbed his shirt. He tried pushing me away, at the same time fighting with the gearshift. But neither of us was goin’ anywhere.

  I leaned back and punched him in the face. Not hard, but when you aim for the nose it don’t take much. He yelped in surprise and I hit him again. This time there was blood. A real gusher. He swore, hands shooting to his face, which gave me plenty of time to grab the door and throw it open.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled.

  “What am I doing?”

  “I don’t have time for this!”

  I tried dragging him out but he wasn’t so cooperative, so I began rabbit-punching him. He got the message.

  “All right!” he cried, “All right!”

  “This is my car!” I threw in some R rated language. “Mine!”

  “I get it, I get it!” He held up hands, protecting his face like a little girl. “You made your point!”

  I paused as he climbed out of the car, then hit him one more time just ’cause he pissed me off.

  “Alright!”

  He was a good looking kid, early twenties and from what I could tell, pretty ripped. Even with his hands over his face there was no doubt he was a babe magnet. But it wasn’t his looks that got me. It was the dragon tattoo on his right arm. Exactly like the one I’d sketched. Down to the little hands under its wings.

  “Who are you?” I yelled.

  He spotted something behind me. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  He motioned down the street. “They’re the ones to worry about.”

  I turned and saw two casino thugs in suits racing towards us. “What do they want?”

  “Me,” he said. “And now you.”

  They were big guys and no doubt carrying. And by the look on their faces, they weren’t from any hospitality center.

  “You running from them?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. I turned back to look at him. Actually his tattoo. Then I turned to the thugs. They were thirty feet away.

  “All right, get in!” I ordered.

  He didn’t need a second invite. As he ran to the passenger side, I slid behind the wheel. I didn’t know who he was or what they wanted, but I did know that tattoo. And, like I said, the boys didn’t look like they wanted to chit-chat. I found first, stepped on the gas, and left behind my trademark cloud of choking blue smoke.

  Chapter 3

  “Nice friends you got,” I said.

  He checked his nose for the third or fourth time. “You’re not exactly Miss Congeniality.”

  I motioned to the blood on his hands. “Don’t get any of that on my seat.”

  “I think you broke it.”

  “Next time try askin’ politely. There’s napkins in the glove compartment.”

  He tried opening it. I reached over and slammed it with my fist a couple times before it popped open.

  “What they got against you, anyways?” I asked.

  He grabbed a couple of the napkins, courtesy of Burger King, and dabbed at the blood. “I come into town every few weeks, do some playing and pick up some cash.”

  “You that good?”

  “I’m better than good, lady.”

  “You a card counter?”

  “Please, even with your limited skills you should know better than that.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about but I was disliking him already. And since I’d done my community service for the night, I began to pull over.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Dropping you off.”

  “Uh, I don’t think so. Not me.” The kid was as arrogant as he was good looking. “I live over forty miles from here.”

  “Nice night for a walk,” I said.

  “But . . . you will take me home.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Actually, it would be in your dreams.”

  I shot him a withering look.

  He shrugged. “But don’t take it personally. I’m not into older chicks.”

  I brought the car to a stop, reached past him and opened the door. “Goodnight.”

  “But . . . you saw the tattoo, right? The dragon? The one you’ve been drawing for the last two weeks?”

  “How did—”

  He grinned. “And that image will haunt you, unless you drive me back to my lab.”

  “Your lab?”

  “You didn’t see that? You didn’t draw it? Man you are an amateur.” He sighed. “Another reason I’m not interested in joining your team.”

  “My . . .?”

  “Come on, I’m not an idiot, Belinda.”

  “Belinda?”

  “Your name.”

  “Try Brenda.”

  “Close enough.”
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  “Who are you?”

  He gave another sigh. “My name is Chad Thorton. And you and your little band of wannabe warriors have come to recruit me.”

  “Recruit you?”

  “To replace that old fart who disappeared.”

  He definitely had my attention. “Are you talking about—”

  “And I’ll tell you just like I told your handlers, I’m not interested in working with rookies.” Before I could respond, he explained, “The football jock, the red-headed babe, and your kid—though he’s probably got more potential than the rest of you combined—at least that’s what you think.”

  “What do you know what I think?”

  “Come on, lady. That’s what I do.” He tapped his temple. “That’s my specialty.” He glanced out the back window. “Now can we please get going?”

  I stared at him.

  He turned and grinned.

  I swore, found first, and pulled back into traffic.

  He settled back into the seat.

  I found Chad Thorton to be almost as informative as he was obnoxious. Almost. As his own biggest fan, he spent the entire drive talking about himself . . .

  His childhood:

  “As far back as I can remember, people, real important people have wanted to study and capitalize on my extraordinary abilities.”

  I cut him another look.

  He gave me another shrug. “What can I say, it’s a gift. Similar to yours, but obviously far more developed. No offense.”

  Offense was taken.

  After that, he started going on about our organization:

  “Oh, yeah, you guys have been trying to recruit me for months. You know, to help you fight the, what do you call it . . . the Gate?”

  I gripped the wheel a little tighter.

  He saw it and laughed. “Sure, I know about the Gate. Not everything, just what I’ve read off your handlers. The Gate, they’re some uber-secret organization working side by side with extra-dimensionals to take over the world.” He chuckled. “And your little group is supposed to help stop them.”