by David Meyer
With that said, let’s bring this to a close. And to do that, we’ll circle back to Grandpa. Even now, years after his death, I find myself thinking of him, of his jokes. I’ll laugh, then cry my eyes out. I’ll never get those years back. I’ll never laugh with him again and that just makes me want to cry all over again. And that’s okay, I think. Until the surgery, I’d become pretty much incapable of real grief. So, this is a blessing.
Hyperparathyroidism stole countless laughs and tears from me. Well, no more. I’ve got a second shot at life now. A second shot at creating great stories.
And I plan on making the most of it.
Thank you for reading DESTROYING MAGIC. I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to be the first to know about my upcoming stories, make sure to sign up for my newsletter.
Keep Adventuring!
David Meyer
December 2018
Ready for More?
Then turn the page for a FREE preview of BEHEMOTH , the first book in David Meyer’s wildly popular and highly controversial Apex Predator series. Help Zach Caplan unravel the terrifying truth about the mysterious Vallerio Forest as he battles his way through a web of strange creatures, secret facilities, and horrifying experiments!
After that, you’ll find a FREE preview of CHAOS, the first book in the Cy Reed Adventures. Follow along as treasure hunter / salvage expert Cy Reed crisscrosses the globe, searching for ancient relics, battling mythical monsters, and unraveling mysteries of history!
BEHEMOTH Excerpt
Chapter 1
Date: Unknown; Location: Unknown
This can’t be heaven, Bailey Mills thought as bright rays of waning moonlight filtered through her half-opened eyelids, so it must be hell.
For a moment, she lay still in the swamp, inhaling the odors of clay, rotten oranges, and bird droppings. Tall blades of green grass, partially trampled, surrounded her. Farther back, she saw a layer of orange-barked trees, forty to sixty feet high and dripping with yellow-green fruit. More trees, towering and ancient, lay beyond the fruit trees. The view reminded her a little of that Thomas Cole landscape adorning the bedroom wall of her ex-boyfriend’s Hamptons getaway.
And she hated that painting.
With a soft groan, she lifted her face off of the soggy soil. Clenched her teeth as a searing ache struck the back of her skull. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths and tried to think. Where was she? How had she gotten there?
Gradually, the pain dulled. With some effort, she pried her eyes back open and stared out at the small marshy clearing, the four-foot tall reeds, and the multi-layered forest. Twisting her neck, she looked for a sign, any sign, of civilization. But all she saw was more foliage, more nature.
Her brain clicked into high gear as she tried to remember the sequence of events that had led her to this place. She recalled waking up late on the morning of June 18, 2016. Then a late lunch and three or four cocktails with her besties at Bullish Bistro, Manhattan’s newest hotspot. Afterward, her driver, Gregory What’s-His-Name, had driven her back to her five-story brownstone. She would’ve preferred a night on the town, drinking and dancing herself into oblivion at the invitation-only Carlyle Lounge. But instead, she’d sacrificed her evening to attend the Galeton Charity Ball, a boring annual extravaganza to raise money for conservation projects throughout Africa.
She glanced down at her clothes, confirming they were the same ones she’d worn to the ball. A slinky black dress, stained with grime, covered her carefully sculpted body. Matching high heels, a stylish silver necklace, and a couple of chunky bracelets on her right wrist completed the look. It was an eye-popping outfit, well suited for a charity affair.
But completely useless in her present situation.
Her brain continued to churn, searching for additional memories. But it came up blank. She didn’t remember the party or if she’d even gone to it.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. Queasiness erupted in her stomach, the sort of queasiness one feels after imbibing way too many mojitos and mai tais. The first few pangs of regret rocked her grumbling belly. She must’ve done it again. That was the only explanation. She could already imagine the headlines crisscrossing the New Yorker Chronicles as well as the countless other celebrity sites that loved to hate her. Stuff like Billionaire Bailey Humiliates Herself at Charity Ball! and The Boozing Bad Girl Strikes Again!
She understood the public’s fascination with her. At least to an extent. She possessed fabulous wealth despite never working a day in her life. Plus, she was blessed with supermodel looks. Her eyes were blue like the ocean. Her tanned skin was flawless. Her long blonde hair, perfectly styled at all times, lacked split ends or frizz. And of course, her rail-thin body, ample chest, and long legs were the stuff of fantasies.
Indeed, she was America’s favorite—and sometimes its least-favorite—spoiled little princess. The gorgeous party girl with oodles of inherited money. Desired by men. Despised by their girlfriends.
She enjoyed the attention. But it embarrassed her a bit. It wasn’t like she was curing old age, inventing the next great gadget, or creating art that touched the soul. She was, if all the layers were stripped away, little more than a professional partier.
Gingerly, she touched the top of her head. A slow grimace crossed her face as she felt the grime packed into the layers of carefully pinned locks of hair. It would take her personal hairstylist hours to clean it. Hours!
Her feet screamed in protest. Reaching down, she slipped the heels off her manicured peds. Slowly, she massaged the soles of her feet. Then she rose to a standing position.
Her stomach grumbled, but the only thing resembling food—the yellow-green fruit, much of which lay rotting in the marsh—creeped her out. They might’ve smelled like oranges, but they looked like bumpy tennis balls. Plus, they appeared to emit some kind of milky white sap.
Gross. Just … gross.
A cool breeze chilled her mud-drenched torso. Tiny flies buzzed around her, nipping at her perfect skin, ignoring her repeated attempts to drive them away.
The more she thought about her situation, the more confused and frightened she felt. The Galeton Charity Ball was always held at the historic Quimros Hotel on the Upper West Side, not far from Central Park. But this wasn’t Central Park. Not even close. It was an honest-to-goodness forest with nary a skyscraper to be seen.
Panic engulfed her, stretching through her veins and streaking deep into her heart. Clutching her shivering shoulders, she turned in a circle. There was no way she’d wandered into a forest by herself. Someone had taken her here. But who? And why?
“Ohhhh, my head … hot damn …”
Heart pounding, Mills whirled toward the unfamiliar voice. A grizzled older man stood about ten feet away, wobbling on unsteady legs. He sported thick glasses, a fat face, and a gray beard.
He wasn’t cute or stylish and he didn’t project much in the way of wealth or power. No, he was the sort of hapless loser Mills would’ve ignored as she and her besties swished their way down Madison Avenue. But here, in this strange, ancient forest, she was grateful for his company. “Hey,” she called out. “Over here.”
The man gave her a suspicious glance. “Who the hell are you?”
She blinked. “You don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“I’m Bailey Mills.”
He stared at her.
“You know, the Bailey Mills.”
“Well, I’m the Brian Toland.” He cleaned his glasses on his shirt. Looked around. “Where the hell are we?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Last I recall I was in my office. Hunched over my keyboard, pecking away in the dark.”
Mills frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “You’re a writer?”
“Damn straight.”
“I hate writers.”
A smirk crossed his wrinkled face. “A hatred for the humble scribe, my dear, is clear evidence of a pathetically primitive mind.”
&n
bsp; “I … what?”
“Uhhh …” A new voice, feminine and hard-edged, drifted out of the clearing.
Toland’s head swiveled to his right. “Who’s there?”
After several seconds with no response, he trekked toward the voice, his shoes squelching repeatedly in the marshy soil.
A bit of reflected light caught Mills’ eye. Casting a glance at the ground, she saw her purse, a one-of-a-kind black clutch. Falling to her knees, she popped it open. Her pulse slowed a bit as she caught sight of her satphone.
She pressed a button and the screen came to life. The battery was low, less than ten percent of full power. Wasting no time, she initiated a call to her bestest bestie, Rachel Crossing, and lifted the device to her ear. A slow frown creased her face. She tried another bestie. And then another one.
“Where’d you go?” Toland called out.
Ignoring him, Mills tried to make another call. But the battery died and the screen faded to black. Frustrated, she threw the satphone into the muck and climbed to her feet.
Right away, she spied two women standing with Toland in the deep grass. The first woman, at least from the chest-up, was a hot mess. She wore a baggy green sweatshirt, no accessories, and not even a touch of lipstick. Her hair, clipped close to her scalp, was dyed canary yellow.
The second woman was older, in her mid-forties, and gave off the vibe of an overworked businesswoman. She wore a cheap blue jacket, likely part of a pantsuit, and a bobbed hair cut. Her makeup—pale red lipstick and severe eyeliner—was boresville.
“My phone didn’t work.” Mills felt her jaw begin to quiver. “All I got was static.”
“That’s not surprising.” The businesswoman glanced over both shoulders. “From the looks of it, we’re a long way from the nearest cell tower.”
“This isn’t some cheap smartphone,” Mills retorted. “It’s a satphone. It gets coverage anywhere on Earth.”
The businesswoman arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got a satphone?”
“Of course.”
“That’s interesting.” Toland stroked his jaw. “My phone’s acting funny too.”
Mills cocked her head. “How so?”
“I can’t call anyone. Can’t email or text either. Plus, the date and time are all messed up.” He chuckled half-heartedly. “It thinks we’re in a different century.”
“Which one?”
“One that won’t happen for about 4,000 years.”
Mills didn’t know what to say.
“I know you.” The hot mess’ eyes widened. “You’re Bailey Mills.”
“That’s right.” Mills offered her a sweet smile. “I’m glad at least one of you knows who I am.”
“Yeah, I know you alright. I despise you.”
Mills’ smile faded.
“Enough.” Toland waved at the hot mess and the businesswoman in turn. “This is Tricia Elliott and Randi Skolnick. Ladies, this is Bailey Mills. Apparently, she’s famous if you care about that sort of thing.”
A low growl rang out.
Mills’ spine turned to jelly and she rotated in a quarter-circle. Some dense berry bushes occupied one edge of the clearing. The bushes rustled as if a breeze had caught hold of them.
But there was no breeze.
Another growl filled the still air.
Mills took a step backward.
The bushes rustled again and she saw an animal, shrouded in green leaves, little red berries, and shadows. Its shoulders were roughly four feet off the ground. Its body was five to six feet long. It possessed a stubby tail, high shoulder blades, and short, powerful limbs.
Mills backed up farther, joining the others in a tight group.
“What is that thing?” Elliott whispered.
“I think it’s a cougar,” Toland replied tightly.
“Are cougars dangerous?” Mills asked.
“Of course, they’re dangerous, you dolt. Cougar is another name for a mountain lion.”
The bushes parted before Mills could reply. The creature emerged. Paws stomped on wet leaves, crushing them underfoot. Its body curled and curved, pulsating with life. Its head turned. Its jaw lifted upward. A roar filled the pale night sky.
Mills wanted to rub her eyes, to erase the terrifying vision before her. But she couldn’t even blink.
“That’s no cougar,” Toland whispered as the group ducked their heads beneath the tall grass. “It’s a … hell, I don’t know what it is.”
“I know what it is.”
Mills’ eyes flitted in the direction of this new voice, a low-pitched smooth sort. She saw a man in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven and wore stylish eyeglasses. His outfit, skinny jeans and a t-shirt featuring a cartoon T-Rex complaining about short arms, screamed hipster.
“Well, what is it?” she mouthed.
“I’ve only seen something like it once before.” The hipster stared at the creature’s long, curving teeth. “But not in the wild.”
“Where then?”
“In a museum. Those teeth are a dead giveaway. They could only belong to a Smilodon fatalis.”
Mills shivered at the name.
“In other words, it’s a saber-toothed tiger.” The hipster’s voice rang cold. “And it’s been extinct for more than 10,000 years.”
Chapter 2
Date: June 19, 2016, 4:06 a.m.; Location: Upper East Side, New York, NY
The sudden cry, brimming with terror and anguish, reverberated through the steel and concrete canyon. It was the cry of the helpless, the cry of the pathetic. The cry of a creature who’d nearly run out of options, nearly run out of time.
It was the cry of fleeing prey.
Zach Caplan halted at the corner of 73rd Street and York Avenue. His eyes closed over. His head tilted skyward and he perked his ears. The cry had rung out from half a block away, filling his brain with its strangely pleasing resonance. There was something horribly wonderful about the cry of prey, about the roar of a pursuing predator. Horrible because of death’s finality. Wonderful because death, in so many ways, fostered new life. For the first time in forever, Caplan felt at home.
Another cry—the cry of now-hopelessly cornered prey—rang out. Caplan’s fingers, thick and heavily calloused, curled tightly around the rungs of several cotton tote bags, stuffed with canned goods, peanut butter, apples, and other items from his weekly late-night shopping trip to Jerry’s Emporium. The cry belonged to a man, heavily wounded by time’s arrow. A man who once might’ve bested the predator—most likely a mugger—that now accosted him.
But a man who now stood no chance.
Caplan’s eyelids snapped open. A tall brick building, grayish from years of neglect, filled his line of sight. Five stories up, he saw a familiar window, caked with dirt and dust. A tiny light behind the window called out to him, begging him to ignore the cries. Begging him to do what he always did on nights like this one, namely drag his groceries up several flights of cracked stairs to his sorry excuse for an apartment. To eat a late-night snack in front of his old television. To grab a few restless hours of sleep on his lumpy, threadbare couch. To dream of a do-over, of a chance to get things right this time.
A third cry, far more desperate than the first two, filled the air. Caplan had heard that same cry thousands of times in his life. It was a final grasping of straws, a last-ditch call for help. In less than a minute, it would be over. The mugger, suddenly richer, would flee the scene. At best, the old man would lose his valuables.
At worst, he’d lose his life.
Caplan’s face grew piping hot. Yes, this was how nature worked. The strong and the smart survived, the weak and the stupid died. But it wasn’t right. It hadn’t been right five months ago. It certainly wasn’t right now.
His fingers uncurled. The cotton bags dropped to the sidewalk, crashing against the concrete. Spinning toward 73rd Street, he broke into a mad dash.
His powerful arms pumped like pistons. His breaths came in short, brief bursts as his long legs carried him down the sidewalk.
He didn’t look like a runner. But similar to the antelope, he possessed quiet, deceptive speed.
Caplan didn’t match any of the popular stereotypes for handsome men. He wasn’t, for instance, blonde with blue eyes. Instead, his hair was jet black and curly to the point of untamable. As for his eyes, they were as green as freshly watered grass.
On the other hand, he wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome. He stood an inch shy of six feet. His skin, although darkened from years of sun exposure, wasn’t too many shades removed from that of an albino. And his face, rugged and weathered from the elements, was a far cry from the youthful pretty-boy look so prevalent in modern media.
Halfway down the block, he heard light scuffling and heavy grunts. Turning right, Caplan raced into a dark alley. He ran in near-silence. His breathing was barely audible. His waterproof trail-runners slapped the concrete with the lightest of touches.
Fifty feet away, he saw two shadowy figures struggling behind a couple of metal garbage cans. Light glinted wildly as they fought for control of a large handgun. The predator, outfitted in a black hoodie and dark jeans, was gigantic. Easily six foot four and possessing the powerful neck and shoulders of a linebacker. The other man—the prey—was frail and old. Outfitted in bright-checkered pants and a sleek green polo shirt, he looked like a wealthy golfer far removed from his natural habitat.
Caplan’s senses kicked into overdrive, focusing on the alley as a whole. Spilt trash—pizza boxes, opened envelopes, wadded-up diapers—littered the ground, indicating the trashcans had been recently moved. The air smelled of body odor, but it didn’t seem to come from the struggling combatants. Rather, a curious mixture of expensive colognes surrounded predator and prey. Metal groaned as the western fire escape, one of two abutting either side of the alley, shifted back and forth.
