The New Magic - The Revelation of Jonah McAllister - Landon Wark (bill gates best books TXT) 📗

way, but there was something physically wrong with F-man's brain. There had to be. He rarely talked anymore and was prone to staring off into space interspersed with bouts of furious temper. Since they had both left home it had only gotten worse.

Lamonte conceded there was likely something wrong with himself as well. Though on a less physical level than what had happened to F-man, that night had changed him as well. It had... offended him, for want of a better word. He hadn't seen very much, but what had been captured by the hotel cameras and on F-man's face had been enough. It had gnawed on the inside of his mind until there was nothing that the two of them could think to do but try and hunt down that damned kid.

The others on the force had been no help. He had not dared to tell them the reason they were at the hotel after the McAllister kid, let alone what Fenderman had claimed had happened. They had been sympathetic enough at first, for a bunch of macho dumbasses, but after a while the rumours that the two of them had gotten beaten up by some string bean started. Half joking at first, though Lamonte had not seen them that way.

That fucking kid had goddamn opposed them. No, he had insulted them and basically raised his skinny fucking kid middle finger at the law.

The shattering of a headlight and a guttural snarl told him that, regardless of the danger to himself he had best stop the destruction. He thought twice about this upon catching sight of the local cop in his cruiser, head soundly bashed in. Another wheezed, face down, into a pool of his own blood. The two marshals sat in the other car, bullet wounds leaking all over the seats.

Lamonte sat down, flicked off the camera of his phone, pulled the clip out of his weapon and began reloading it. He quickly decided to wait for Fenderman's rage to run its course.

Part Three

Aegera Gets Lucky

It was one of those places.

One of those places that were designed to suppress thought. Any intelligent conversation that was possible in the alcohol soaked air would be instantly drowned out by the throbbing of the speakers and the din of the crowd. There was room for one thing here and one thing alone: Instinct. That part of a person that cares not for why the cover charge was so high, or why the drinks tasted more of water than of alcohol, only a brief aversion and then sudden surrender. Within, there churned dancers and drinkers and bartenders. The first shoved the second and the second screamed at the third and the third scooped money off the bar into gaping registers in the back of the bar.

And, of course there were a couple of the night club philosophers; sitting in booths along the wall, quietly passing judgment on it all, mocking that which they were never meant to be a part of.

One of them, Harold Klum, sat sinking into the leather of the booth, playing with one of the metal straws in the drink glasses that sat uncleared on the table. There was within him a kind of warm despair, the kind that comes only to those who managed to thread the needle of inebriation, the knowledge that his inhibitions were not only still intact, but still dominant and that no amount of alcohol would dislodge them. His eyes were squarely fixed on the blond woman dancing not three meters beyond the edge of the table and the warm despair swelled. They locked eyes for a moment and he turned away.

He was beginning to think it was time to give up his sojourn to the East and head back home to friendlier and more stable climes.

The serving girl walked over in her black denim pants and white shirt and cleared away the dozen or so glasses that sat on the table. A brief smile was exchanged and then Harold went back to playing with the straw that he had cleverly hidden under the table.

His sigh was swallowed up by the relentless assault of music.

There was a compression of the booth cushion to his right and the blond haired girl was sitting next to him.

After his shock died away he tried to move over to allow her some room, but her hand clasped over his and rooted him in place. She leaned over and said something he couldn’t make out in German almost unintelligibly layered with American accents. He would have been filled with revulsion at the sound of the accent if he weren’t already full of everything else. She tugged on his arm, pulling him from the booth. He shot a quick glance over to where Hilde and Roth were dancing. The latter lifted his thumb in approval. Harold stared at the back of the girl’s icy blond hair as she pulled him through the seamless crowd toward the exit.

He nearly forgot to pick up his jacket.

The wind was cool for early September. The heat wave of the previous week had faded and in its place was a chill that filled the air with the feel of approaching mortality.

Outside the disco was a line of people waiting to get in. The women looked with questions and the men with envy as they passed, the girl leading him onto the sidewalk. It was still early and the headlights on the street illuminated them from the waist down as they walked.

Harold’s heart beat madly in his chest. Nothing like this had ever happened before, at least not to him. The inhibitions brought his mind to a screeching stop as she let go of his hand and dropped back a step to walk beside him. They told him to think, to try to get out of this situation. They warned him of all the dangers