Agonal Breath (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 1)
Read Agonal Breath (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 1) Online
Authors: Richard Estep
Tags: #Paranormal fiction
For Sylvia
CHAPTER ONE
On the night that I was born, the dead came around to call; at least, that’s what I found out years after the fact. Any chance of leading a normal life that I might ever have had, a life full of football and camping and above all, an easy time in school, pretty much disappeared when they showed up.
Would you believe that I consider that little nugget to be only the
third
most significant event that took place on that day?
You’d think that the most important thing by far to happen on May the 19
th
, 1999, would be the fact that it was my birthday, and my first ever birthday at that. Yes, you could absolutely be forgiven for thinking that. But you would be, if you’ll pardon the crappy pun, dead wrong. Marking my delivery directly onto the center stage of this jacked-up melodrama we call life still only rates as the
second
greatest arrival of the day. Important, yeah – but overshadowed by something much more so, an event of such staggering awesomeness that it would burn itself permanently onto the dying days of the Twentieth Century like a – I don’t know, like the sun scorching an afterimage of itself onto the retina of somebody dumb enough to take a good, hard look at it.
Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
was released in movie theaters.
Oh sure, you can laugh – but I’m a total
Star Wars
nut; have been since the day I was born. Do not underestimate how big a deal that is for me. It’s freaking huge.
Star Wars
casts a shadow over my whole life, and without it being there, that safety net in a galaxy far, far, away, I’m pretty sure that I’d have been locked up in a room somewhere out of sight…one that had padded walls and just a little slot in the door for them to look in at you through, or maybe pass you your dinner plate.
Sorry, I’m rambling. Off point again. I tend to do that when I’m stressed, and you’re just going to have to forgive me.
What am I stressed out about? I mean, I realize how I come across — hardly your typical fourteen year-old boy. Pretty damn literate, for sure – the end product of reading science fiction and fantasy novels like they’re going out of style, not to mention genuine works of art like
Sandman
and
Watchmen.
I’m smart, and not humble enough to try and pretend any differently, no matter who’s looking over my shoulder. You should see inside my head, see the things that I see and think the stuff that I think.
On second thoughts; if that actually happened, and you saw the world through
my
eyes…they’d probably put
you
in that padded room and toss the key.
So just take my word for it. I’m smart as all get-out. I won the cerebral lottery, I guess, though that’s not the only reason; it took some of the air out of my tires when I was told by my spirit guide (more on
her
later) that I was an ‘old soul,’ one who had kept some of the intellect and personality from earlier incarnations. It’s why an American kid my age can sometimes sound like Sherlock Holmes or Aragorn, son of Arathorn, I guess.
And in a few years, when I graduate from college with a degree and maybe a Master’s in something (I haven’t figured out exactly
what
just yet) that’ll pay me six figures right out of the gate, I’ll be the guy who’s getting his latte served by gym-rat jerks like Brandon Monroe and his crowd of douchebag sycophants. I can already see it happening, clear as day; me, Danny Chill, sitting down in the java joint to work on writing my script for this month’s issue of
Justice League
in some relative peace and quiet, while El Douchebag (can’t you picture his stained green apron already, and the mandatory seventeen pieces of flair? — oh wait, wrong chain) serves up those refills, working minimum wage in a job he hates, but hey —
how else
is he going to pay for that gym membership, and all the steroids he’s got to be taking? Because no kid even
close
to my age should have arms that size, or a neck that short and thick.
Problem is, that’s a good few years into both of our respective futures. Monroe has a couple of years on me; he turned sixteen back in March, I think, or pretty close. All of which brings us right back to the here and now, where his squat, ape-like frame is lurching towards me down Seventeenth Avenue; it’s almost as if a fire hydrant somehow pulled itself out of the ground and decided to try walking for the first time, and not entirely successfully. Three of his suckups are in tow behind him. I recognize them all…Snyder, Langley, and Foster. Just four knuckledraggers out for a stroll, and who just happen to be bored, mean, and looking to take that out on an easy target.
In other words, somebody like me.
On a good day, brown-haired, brown-eyed me
might
weigh in at around a hundred pounds…
maybe.
Dad used to like to joke that I lost the genetic lottery, or at least got most of my genes from Mom’s side of the family. I don’t think he ever realized how much that used to hurt, not even for a second, and now that he’s gone, I’m glad I never told him.
There’s also the small fact that Brandon Monroe enjoys way more than his fair share of fame around the school for his number one hobby: he’s apparently a Krav Maga champion — you know, that Israeli martial art with the flying fists and feet — and had even won a couple of trophies for it.
“Chill,” he said.
I felt myself blanch. His tone was almost conversational, but the fake smile-slash-sneer wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all me. I don’t think it was ever really intended to. We’ve played this game before, Brandon Monroe and I. It always ends up the same way — one of us humiliated and knocked down on his ass, the other strutting and laughing, having once again established his manliness again in front of the pack. I’ll leave you to guess which one of us is which.
Damn, but I hate him.
I had no choice but to stop. The bullies had fanned out into a half-circle, totally blocking the sidewalk, but without
looking
like they were trying to block the sidewalk. Class was out for the day, they’d been forced to endure the miseries of actually trying to
learn
something, and now they wanted to let off some steam and have a little fun…preferably at my expense.
“So we’ve been wondering…” The smile-sneer had split the difference now, settling into more of a smirk. “Are you still in the closet, or is it too crowded in there with all of those
Batman
comic books and Darth Vader figures?”
A predictable snort came from the pack, who were obviously enjoying watching the skinny young guy start to squirm uncomfortably.
But they were actually wrong for a change. On any other day, the usual way that this would have played out (assuming that I was suitably deferential) was that I might – if I was lucky— have gotten away with just being called a homo, or some other brilliantly witty insult like that; then perhaps I’d have been shoved in the chest by Monroe or one of his goons, maybe jabbed with a couple of fingers, then jostled by the douchebags as they swept past, jostling me from the sidewalk and out into the street.
But on this particular day, for whatever weird reason, that isn’t how it was going to go down. Things were going to be different this time, simply because I just didn’t feel like playing the victim any more.
I’d had it.
The pack were waiting for me to respond, nudging one another and trading snarky comments in low voices. They were probably expecting a politely mumbled laugh from me, with perhaps an embarrassed little smile to go along with it; you know, all of the usual signs of a weaker kid trying to placate the stronger ones that clearly outnumber him and mean to rough him up.
Well, too bad – they weren’t going to get it.
My spine straightened as I stood taller, stiff-backed, squaring off against Brandon Monroe in a way that they had never seen before. The four of them stiffened in response, probably reading my body language as it changed in a new and maybe even slightly challenging way.
And just like that, I dropped the bomb.
“You know that she’s disappointed in you, right?” I asked.
“What are you talking about, moron?” Brandon frowned, clearly puzzled. “
Who’s
disappointed?”
I let the question hang silently in the air between us for a while, watching them get a little antsy and really enjoying the feeling.
“Your grandmother,” I said after what seemed like an age. “Gilda.”
Straight away, Brandon’s fists bunched up, seemingly of their own accord. He took an angry step towards me, and then another. I didn’t so much as flinch, or react to his threat in any way. To show even the slightest hint of weakness in the face of a bully like Brandon Monroe would always end badly. I should know. I’d tried that approach before, and gotten bruises to prove it.
“What…did…you…
say?
” Each word was annunciated slowly, delivered through gritted teeth. He was getting
really
angry now, I could see it. The flushed red skin of his face reminded me of a traffic signal that needed to change to green.
In a calculated display of confidence that I was actually starting to feel now, wonder of wonders, I locked eyes with him and wouldn’t drop my gaze. Mine were gazing calmly and clearly, his were narrowing in anger.
“Gilda never did like bullies, did she, Brandon?” I went on, pushing my luck just a little further. “She couldn’t stand them. At all. That’s why she’s so disappointed with how you’ve turned out. Her own grandson, trying to prove how tough he is by pushing smaller kids around. She’s just glad that Grandpa Norman isn’t here to see it, Brandon. He’d be so angry, it wouldn’t be good for his blood pressure, and he isn’t ready to join her quite yet.”
“You little..
.”
Brandon’s face had turned from red to purple. His balled fists were clenching and unclenching, opening and closing over and over again. He took another step towards me. There couldn’t have been more than three feet between us now, four tops. “Who the
hell
spun you a line of crap like
that?
”
My gaze drifted across to a space just behind Brandon Monroe’s right shoulder.
“She
did,” I shot back. “Just now.”
The bully stopped, slack-jawed. I think he was trying to decide whether to break my jaw or burst into tears. His cronies definitely knew that something wasn’t right, they were starting to look uncomfortable now, beginning to drift away from the scene that was playing out between Brandon and myself.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“I mean,
she’s standing right there.”
I pointed with my chin, nodding towards his right hand side.
“LIAR!”
Brandon knew I was right. Shame was written on every line of his face, from his bulging eyes to his jutting chin, with a lip that was struggling not to quiver — and pretty much failing. It was obvious that he was going to fall back on his default behavior, just as he would in any uncertain situation, choosing violence, the easy out. It was a much more comfortable alternative to actually
thinking.
He took yet another step forward. I tensed, standing my ground despite the stink of his sweat and breath that was now bearing down on me.
Smells like somebody had a burrito for lunch.
