Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

“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 ultimate 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.