Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) (43 page)

I bellowed out a single name into the darkness, never ceasing the lethal swings of my arms as they both physically and magically pounded my enemies. A deafening peal of thunder shook the heavens, followed immediately by a crackling bolt of black lightning. In it’s wake, a lamenting neighing sound filled the air like a physical vibration.
Grimm
, a seemingly demonic black and red horse the size of a Clydesdale, entered the fray. The single pearlescent, gnarled, and thorny horn protruding from his skull instantly impaled one of my attackers. I was glad the Minotaur had introduced me to him. He had helped me battle dragons once before… to their detriment. I hoped he could do it again. Flaming, orange eyes met mine in a brief, respectful greeting before we were both distracted by our enemies. I called out whips of fire and ice, utilizing them like a pair of oversized nunchakus to eliminate the crowd of wizards attacking me. I spun in a circle like a miniature tornado, burning and freezing all those around me until none moved.

“NATE!” The agonized scream tore through the night, shattering my resolve.

My breathing came in ragged grunts as I recognized the voice. They had Indie.

I spotted her standing atop the garage, a giant golden dragon gripping her in his talons.

Alaric Slate, the leader of the dragon nation.

My mind went fuzzy for a moment, my vision rippling again like a desert mirage. But…
wasn’t he dead?
No. He
couldn’t
be dead. He was right in front of me. Holding the woman of my dreams in his razor-sharp golden claws. A swarm of dragons I hadn’t noticed until now unfurled just above our heads, simultaneously striking Grimm from behind. The mythical creature was obliterated in an instant, torn practically in half. I screamed, the sound exploding the ground around me in a fifty-foot radius, crushing the dragons in a cocoon of rock before I froze it back over them like a heavy quilt, burying them alive.

A laugh split the night air amidst Indie’s struggles. I turned slowly to face Alaric Slate, my vision throbbing with rage. Alaric stood like a vengeful god, his claws digging into Indie’s soft skin like a hot knife resting on a plate of butter. “Hand me the box, Temple.”

I blinked up at him, unsure what he was talking about.

Indie screamed. “Don’t do it, Nate!”

He silenced her by shoving his talon straight through her gut, causing her to grunt in surprise. I launched myself toward him, but only made it two steps before he commanded me to halt, golden talon still embedded inside my girlfriend’s stomach. I was stunned. How had it escalated so quickly? He had barely warned me. I couldn’t think straight. I glanced down at my feet, trying to control my rapid breathing while assessing the situation for a way to save Indie’s life. Her wound was fatal, not superficial. Alaric was a hunter. He knew my plight. He knew my skills. He had effectively demanded my obedience. He knew I would do anything to save Indie. Give up anything.

“Please!” I bellowed back. “Whatever you want, just release her!”

“The box. Bring it here. Now. She doesn’t have long without medical attention.” Several dragons surrounded me. I glanced to my side and saw the same box from earlier sitting in the bloody, frosted grass.
Wait… that can’t be right. I saw that near the fountain…

In a confused daze, I reached down, my fingers numb, discarding the single rational thought.

“Easy, Temple. No surprises. Bring it here.” I hesitated and Alaric shook his head with a sad smile, abruptly twisting his talon inside Indie with a violent jerk.

“Nate…” She whispered between tortured gasps.

My senses shut down as my fingers rested on the jeweled box lid. I began to pull it open, knowing Indie was already dead. A part of me was now dead too. Only ashes remained of my heart. The world could burn, and thank me for it.

I no longer cared.

“No!” Alaric’s voice boomed as he tore his claw entirely through the love of my life, effectively slicing her in half. The dragons dove for me as one, and I opened the box to a sound like a wail of despair from the very pits of hell before my vision turned a dark urine-color, tunneling out to a single point. Indie.

The dragons’ claws tore into me, trying to prevent me from opening the box. They were too late. The world ended in a climactic symphony of pain.

Chapter 2

I
jolted awake, shattering the glass clutched in my fist.

The other patrons of the bar sprang back from their stools with a shout. The man beside me was the only one to remain in his seat, sipping his drink without concern. I ignored him, panting heavily as if I had just finished a marathon. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of my new surroundings, desperately searching for Indie and the dragons.
What the hell?

I realized I was back at the bar. It was the night terrors – now turned
day
terrors – again. They were happening more often now, but I was getting used to them. Kind of. I began my mental process of assessing the facts in order to calm down.
The dragons are no longer a threat. Indie is safe. I’m not at Chateau Falco.
I glanced at my watch and scowled.
I’m in a seedy bar waiting for an unpunctual appointment. The man who called with information on my parents’ murderer. I dozed off. Again.
By sluggish increments, my breathing returned to normal.

I had lost track of the numerous variations of my terrors, but the mysterious box was always center-stage, and the vision only ended when it was opened. And while in the dream, I never at first recognized the box. Not until I opened it. Then nothing but pain.

I waved at the bartender. “Next round’s on me. Sorry, ‘gents.” I muttered. The bartender eyed me warily, no doubt wondering what would happen if he told me to leave. I was, after all, the infamous wizard, Nate Temple – the
Archangel
– as some now referred to me. “I’m fine. Really. Let me make it up to everyone.” After a few moments, he finally conceded. Several of the men shook their heads and decided to drink elsewhere. I couldn’t blame them. The calm man next to me still hadn’t moved.

I settled the glass of cheap, gasoline-flavored whisky onto the warped, sticky oak counter with a frown of both anger and disgust, scanning the room. It had been many years since I had been in a
Kill
– a bar where violence was commonplace, even encouraged, and the hygiene equally dangerous – and was eager to pay my tab and get the hell out. If only my fucking appointment wasn’t late.

My notoriety was apparent, judging from the hateful glares cast my way from various patrons of the
Kill
. My reputation had really jumped during the Solar Eclipse Expo a few months back, when a harem of were-dragons had decided St. Louis –
my
city – was the ideal place to host a ritual spell that would ignite the rebirth of the ultimate god of all dragons, as well as being a convenient locale to announce to the world that magic was in fact very real.

I hadn’t agreed.

And they hadn’t survived.

Now, even the
locals
were apparently terrified of me. And when I say
locals
I am, of course, referring to the
magical
locals.
My
people. Where I arrived, death and destruction was now expected to follow. That event was what led me here to
Achilles Heel
– this supernatural
Kill
– waiting on my unpunctual appointment.

I swiveled a bit on the squeaky wooden stool, scouting the seedy bar in a way that I hoped seemed nonchalant, doing my best to look inconspicuously lethal… and knocked the drink plum out of the old gentleman’s hand beside me. I instinctively called to my gift, filling myself with magic in order to defend myself from the Octogenarian.

Sure, he might
look
like a frail old man, but you never knew in a
Kill
. Plus, he hadn’t freaked the fuck out when I had my conniption a few minutes ago. He had steel nerves. Which usually resulted from having a severe case of
badass-itis
.

The man smiled amiably at me, waving a hand. “It happens. No worries.” His eyes twinkled like quicksilver as he smiled. The silence stretched as I waited for him to make his move. “You can release your power now. It was just a drink.” The man’s brow furrowed at my overreaction. I let loose the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, and then, slowly, my magic.

This
was when he would attack. I
knew
it.
Wait for it…
I was ready for anything. I would never let my epitaph say ‘
The dragon slayer that was slain by a nursing home patient
.’

He shook his head as if at a child. I swiveled back, tense as a spring. What the hell?
Courtesy
? “Huh. Paint my lips and call me Suzie. You meant it.”

The man turned his liquid gaze my way. “Why would I call you Suzie? You are Nathaniel Laurent Temple.” He looked genuinely confused. “And why would I say something and act otherwise? Is this a riddle? Or one of those New Age ideas that don’t seem to make a lick of sense? Are you a…
Hipster
?”

The word sounded unfamiliar on his lips, but I could see that he was proud to have used it, as if it was one less thing pulling him from the grave, a last clutch at his youth. “No, never mind. I thought… you know, this
is
a
Kill
.” I grumbled, as if he were the one being strange.

Which was true. See, my reaction was an important stance in a place like this. I compared a
Kill
to an African watering hole – where one went to do his business, grab a piece of water, and then efficiently retreat to ones hidey hole – all the while watching ones back for any threats. The place wasn’t full, big surprise, with it being cold as balls outside and a week night to boot, but enough patrons lingered here and there to justify the sultry guitar player idly strumming cover band music in the corner. And it was vitally important to keep this crowd entertained.

For they were primarily
Freaks
, as the
regular
folk called them – or supernatural beings.

Even though my glass was a few inches from my hand, a distinct chime overrode the guitarist in the corner, as if I had tapped my glass with a fork. “Get him a replacement, please.” I mumbled to the bartender, downing my drink. “Me too. But not this swill. Get me a decent scotch.” The grizzled barkeep grunted, and I received a new glass of Johnnie Walker.

I sipped my drink in an effort to fuel my lidded eyes from drooping further.
Mustn’t fall asleep again
. I shivered to clear my head, noticing a pair down the bar muttering to themselves and glancing pointedly at me. I shrugged to myself. “I have enough friends.” I muttered under my breath. I wasn’t in the market for new ones.

The older gentleman rapped idly on the gnarled wooden counter with a bony hand as he spoke. “You can never have enough friends. Never. Also, this doesn’t seem like an ideal place for sleeping.” He smiled, non-confrontationally. “I’ll take a
Death in the Afternoon
, Barkeep.” He requested from the bartender, who seemed to be respectfully waiting for the man’s order.
Absinthe and champagne
, I mused, immediately interested, and a little alarmed at what quality of champagne they might have behind the bar.

“Nice choice.” I spoke, suddenly wondering if this was my contact. He had been here since before I arrived. Had he been assessing me? For danger?

The man glanced over at me, his odd silver eyes twinkling in amusement. He was gaunt, skeletal even, but wiry with a resilient strength underneath, and he sported long black hair. He was dressed sharply; formal even, and reeked of money, like Don Draper from
Mad Men
. I realized he wasn’t as old as I had originally thought. Just frail. He plucked a cigarette from an ornate silver case, casting me a curious brow as if asking my permission. “Coffin nail?” With a Herculean effort, I managed to decline, waving him to go ahead. He lit up, speaking softly between pulls. “I became infatuated with the drink many years ago. It’s the color, I think. Silly reason, but there it is.”

I nodded distractedly, trying to catch a whiff of the second-hand smoke. I had recently quit, but still craved a drag. “It’s an inspiring drink.” I dredged through my exhausted eidetic memory. “
Anything capable of arousing passion in its favor will surely raise as much passion against it
.”

The man grunted an affirmative. “Hemmingway was a great man, even though bull-fighting is slightly antiquated.” He appraised me with a glance. “Shouldn’t you be attending some high society function or ritzy ball rather than entertaining a barfly in a
Kill
?” He asked with a refined degree of politeness, as if only curious.

“
The public has always expected me to be a playboy, and a decent chap never lets his public down
.” I winked, trying to flummox him with a different quote.

“Not many have read Errol Flynn. Learn that at one of your fancy dinner parties?”

I nodded, impressed at his taste. “Sociability is just a big smile, and a big smile is nothing but teeth. I didn’t feel like entertaining the crowd again tonight.” I decided, for simplicity’s sake, to refer to this stranger as
Hemmingway
.