Foreboding Skies (The Skybreaker Saga Book 1)
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Authors: Connor Taylor
Foreboding Skies
By Connor Taylor
Copyright © 2015 by Connor M Taylor
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
Thunder Struck Books
Cover Art
The original rights and Copyrights to the Licensor’s image remain with the Licensor, Mathieu Degrotte. Rights and permissions have been granted for the Content to be used in a book cover, with a right to print unlimited copies of the book.
Dedication
I dedicate this book to to all those who gave up the most valuable asset of time to read the work of a novice author.
About the Author
I am a twenty-two year old college grad and I have loved reading more than anything else my entire life. From a young age I have gleefully devoured books of all genres but my favorites are sci-fi and fantasy. Books were and are my escape from the real world where I suffered for many years from major depression. I partially credit literature for keeping me alive.
My first novel began both as a way to combat my depression and as a way to contribute to the wonderful world of literature. I intend to write several series over the coming years from a variety of genres and I hope people of all stripes will be able to find enjoyment in my work.
Contents
The deafening roar, the spray of debris, and the white hot lances of agony, without a doubt getting hurled through a wall is always an unpleasant experience. The thing with unpleasant experiences is that they typically leave you rather angry with the people responsible for putting you in them. Revenge is a natural instinct to any creature capable of feeling pain.
In my personal opinion revenge is a dish best served at such a scolding temperature the bastard’s face melts off like the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Anger and revenge, like peanut butter and jelly. It was in the spirit of revenge that I ventured out to an overwhelmingly decrepit part of Detroit.
The more I looked around the more I realized decrepit didn’t quite cover it. The neighborhood was a special kind of dilapidated. Weeds sprouted from the cracked sidewalks, the street was more pothole than asphalt, trash drifted on the wind and rickety houses lined the block with an odd empty lot thrown in for variety. It was the quintessential dying inner-city neighborhood. The place was…Detroit decrepit. It forced you to question if you were still in America or if you had wondered into a war-torn hellhole, though to be honest many of America’s inner-cities fit the description. It felt toxic, like people didn’t belong. And yet, Jeffrey Downs, the person to whom I would be force feeding a can of premium whoop-ass was somehow more toxic and decrepit than even the city itself.
Mr. Downs was a psychopathic skinhead rapist turned drug dealer who, much like the common dung beetle, had elected to create the biggest ball of dung possible. Unfortunately, a pile of shit doesn't just look ugly, it stinks and the stench draws the flies. Downs had made great headway in building a steaming pile of physical and spiritual shit. A lot of people wanted him to pay for his sins, wanted revenge, and every single day his rampage continued those feelings grew stronger. Those powerful emotions drew the full range of spirits from the negative side of the human emotional spectrum. Those spirits drew me. To lay the foundation for his shit-ball Downs had dedicated the past four months to terrorizing the locals, the women especially, and literally forcing his new brand of hyper addictive methamphetamine into the veins of the already vulnerable residents. The police, far from doing their jobs, had turned a blind eye to what was happening, either because of laziness or greed. Still, I wouldn’t have discovered the situation nearly as quickly without the folks in blue. They frequently shared their information with me, though they were not aware of it. A slanderous person might accuse me of breaking into the police station and leafing through their confidential files.
My name is
D
ragomir and keeping an eye on hot spots was also my business.
I am what people who know of such things would label a Shaman, an intermediary to the realm of spirits. Not souls mind you, and the distinction is an important one. Souls are the domain of priests, necromancers, and gods, whichever you believed in. Spirits are completely different and belong to the Shaman. We weren’t the stuff of nightmares but we were monsters just the same.
At five foot nine inches with wavy brown hair, a clean shaven face, and freckles I was a touch above average looking and didn’t match anyone’s definition of what a monster should looked like. Which just goes to show that the most dangerous monsters are the ones you never suspect. I take strides to be the guy you look at once and forget a few steps later even without my innate ability as a Shaman that makes me utterly unremarkable and entirely forgettable. I was suppressing the unremarkable part because I wanted to be noticed. Otherwise Down’s guys might have missed me despite their watch on the street to spot customers or trouble.
From the looks I was getting they weren’t sure which I was. I could be a customer, though with my steady walk and clean-ish clothes I was an unlikely one. And one white dude can’t be much trouble right? As I got closer to Downs’ place of terror production his men began to move in. It was easy to tell who they were, even as they tried to blend with the decaying background. Spirits of rage, sorrow, and fear swarmed around them. I can sometimes tell what kind of person someone is by the spirits hanging around them and whether or not the spirits were feeding. Spirits typically interact with people in two ways. First, they fed off of the strong emotions produced by a personal. Second, they followed people around because said people induced those feelings in others, like scavengers following a predator looking for scrapes.
Whatever will or drive the residents once possessed had been expertly beaten out of them by the sadist whose life I was going to end. I decided Jeffrey Downs needed to die by my hand the moment I saw the girl slumped against a rusty chain link fence. She should have been happy and vibrant, but none of the glow of life was left in her. A young Hispanic woman of great beauty with mid length black hair that would be silky, if washed, and a face still captivating despite the abounding dark bruises. When I extended my essence to her I could tell she was doing worse than she looked. The sickly spirits of extreme fear and sorrow leeched off of her. Swarms of the predatory spirits passed through her, devouring whatever hope and joy she tried to muster.
A clear indication of how horrific the situation had become, spirits weren’t supposed to assault people. I took my bubbling anger and placed it in my filing cabinet of emotions. The filing cabinet was where I stored my own emotions till I needed their power. At times it felt like my cabinet would burst open and drowned me despite all the locks I put on it. This was one of those times when my rage threatened to take me off my feet. The girl, she called to memories never content to rest for long. Memories of fire, of death, of another girl I couldn’t save.
I stopped in front of what qualified as the nicest home in the area. A solid coat of dark red paint and intact windows made it stand out. The owner stood out as well. He was an elderly black man lounging in a worn rocking chair. He had life left in him. The man glanced up with mild interest, probably not used to people speaking to him, or at all around here. With a sardonic grin he said, “You should leave right now kid, this place ain’t good for anyone, but a rich looking white fella like yourself may find particular misfortune here.” He glanced at the approaching thugs, who were hanging back to see what I would do with… the guy called me a kid. That annoyed me. I know I look young but I am at least a young adult. And rich? I wish, but my superiors didn’t shell out money for anything but the basics.
I returned his grin with a genuine one of my one, this. I liked people who could spit in the face of life. “You seem to be the only real person left here champ, what happened to that girl.” Nodding in her direction, I answered with a conversational tone. The thugs were on top of us before one of them made the tremendous mistake of stepping up to us and saying, “Hey Professor you better be lecturing this Blanco about how to get the fuck out of here, ‘cause he don’t belong here, starting to think you don’t either.”
The whole spiel was said with a grossly arrogant sneer and the last bit with a heavily implied threat. Apparently he also heard my question because he continued by saying, “If you’re wondering what happened to the chica, well she thought she could just leave and go off to college, like she was ever gonna be shit! We taught her where she belongs, down on her knees!” I could hear two distinct laughs follow his truly tasteless remark, one malicious and one nervous. I took my time turning around to see who my first kill of the night would be. He did not disappoint my expectations as to what a premium piece of shit looked. He stood around Six feet tall, was wearing a wife beater, and possessed skin plastered with enough obscene tattoos that it took me a second to identify him as a sneering Hispanic man of about twenty. His pants were on the verge of pooling around his ankles and I sincerely wondered how he managed to walk anywhere. It seemed to me it would be easier on him to take his pants off altogether and carry them around in a little red wagon. Heh, that quip was worth at least half a chuckle, so I shared it with my new friend.
The old man, Professor I suppose, looked at me like I was a man covered in honey jumping into the bear exhibit at the zoo. Mister walking pornography billboard stared at me, unable to comprehend someone actually insulting him. I guessed it didn’t happen too often. While he was busy processing my words I took a brief moment to examine his two cronies.
One was a pale, extremely pale, emaciated looking man eyeing me like he wanted a piece of me. A literal piece, the guy actually looked hungry. Did I spy a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth? He was the owner of the malicious laugh, now he appeared to be readying himself to use the two by four he was carrying. The nervous guy was a surprise. He was also Hispanic but lacked the malicious vibes given off by his companions. He was wearing blue jeans with a plain white tee and out of place next to the other two. The kid was a recent addition to the crew and hadn’t yet been indoctrinated with the culture of violence and cruelty.
As I finished my musings the first thug finally snapped himself out of his shock and decided to take a long swing at me. That alone told me this man couldn’t fight for the shit he was made of. Any competent fighter could have dodged it, and I was a bit more than a competent fighter. I wouldn’t even need the help of any spirits to deal with him. I quickly ducked under the clumsy blow and rammed my fist into his throat, crushing his windpipe and dropping him hard to the ground. He wouldn’t die right away, but he would die. The spirits of anger began to dance around me. His companions were stunned, the boy looked at the gurgling almost corpse in front of him and the pale one’s eyes lit up with rage.
The wisp of a man tried to swing his pipe at me, but come on, the guy looked like he would be bested by a stiff breeze. I simply side stepped the strike and delivered a fist to his temple, putting the poor bastard down for good. The salvageable kid failed to move at all, he stood stock still and stared at his dead and dying companions. Finally he lifted a near hysterical gaze of fear to me and asked, “Are you Insane? There’re going to kill you now!” Not bad, his first reaction was concern for my well-being.
The ‘they'
in question was a group of twenty some of Downs’s shit brigade, all armed and mean looking, swaggering over with murderous intent. They poured out of Down’s headquarters and the surrounding buildings like ants defending the colony. I recommend watching someone try to swagger murderously, it’s hilarious. It’s even funnier when a group tries and half are too drunk or stoned to walk without stumbling.
As the mob drew closer I realized the Professor was smart enough to have fled the moment the now dying punk took a swing at me. The kid however, was still standing there like a teenager who saw his first rack in person. But this was a far more terrifying and far less sexy situation. Not terrifying for me, such rabble weren’t really a threat.
They weren’t, but the three guys in the back with assault rifles would be more of an issue.
They seemed more interested in polishing off their bottle of what smelled like a demon’s ball sack than in the coming slaughter. And it would be a slaughter, just not the one they expected. As an afterthought I punched the kid in the jaw and knocked him to the ground unconscious. It would end badly for him if anyone thought we were working together. Snitches were dealt with harshly under Downs’ reign and even after he was gone the throat slitting culture he brought with him would linger.
I opened myself up to the spirits of rage and fear, letting their collective power flow into me and making me stronger and faster than any human. Shamans aren’t passive intermediaries to the spirit world. We are the physical outlet for spirits to deliver their will in our world. Just as I was about to cut loose I felt something like warm steel wrapped in velvet and silk attempted to settle over me. I knew a spirit of justice when I saw one, or rather felt one despite their being exceedingly rare. The closest of the mob was now running up to swing a jagged two-by-four at my head. Idly I noted several rusting nails protruding in both directions.
I permitted the spirit of justice to lend me its power. Unfortunately its considerable strength also comes with its considerable restraint. The spirits of rage bristled at the interference. A lot of people wanted revenge against Downs and his crew, I was about to deliver it, and Justice was getting in the way. It wanted me to use extreme caution.
“For what purpose? I am here to deliver retribution and restore balance, why do you interfere?”
I practically bit the words off in my mind. The swirling mass of rage in me demanded action now. That was the key difference between Justice and Vengeance in my mind. Rage was the white hot fuel for vengeance and always wanted immediate action and satisfaction, usually of the bloody variety. Justice took a more long term view of things and was steady and methodical. Justice was rarely satisfied by simple slaughter, it was more a labor of love. A stream of mental images flowed through my mind showing the now dead punk, the three gang members hanging back, and ultimately a man who seemed to capture the essence of a hard-core skinhead…Jeffery Downs. How did such a man take control of a predominantly minority neighborhood in Detroit?
Out of the swarm before me Justice chose only five people to get the axe. I was a little disappointed and the volatile mass of rage begged me to ignore the spirit of justice and get to work. I could choose satisfying my rage over pursuing justice. It was the easier thing to do, but justice is stronger than revenge. Besides, doing what Justice wanted usually left me feeling good in a way raw rage didn’t. Mostly because I knew Justice was right. The mob was made of all the people Downs had forced into submission through threats, violence, drugs, or a combination of the three.
