Male witches of many cultures are known collectively as the Lost. Aaron Walker founded a charity to help them, and now international corporations are trying to kill him.This urban fantasy starts like a hardboiled detective novel and continues with non-stop action where each character has a unique voice. Fans of the Amber series and X-Men will enjoy this adventure.
With a handful of former students, Aaron hops from one hidden enclave of cultural magic to another, hoping to survive long enough to contact the witches of New Salem. But the assassins don't scare Aaron as much as the price the witch Rose demands for her aid--to father a child. Merodak, the demon, offers him a way out but he’s a pathological liar with a twisted sense of humor.
SAMPLE of Foundation for the Lost
Copyright 2011 Scott Rhine
Chapter 1
– A Day in the Life
Aaron Walker searched the casino for signs of magic.
Appearing to be in his thirties, Aaron could have passed as a member of an
Amish church or a haggler at a Hasidic diamond exchange. He dressed in the same
style of plain black suit and boots that he’d owned since Grover Cleveland was
president. Unimpressive physically, he wore no ornamentation except the chain
attached to his antique pocket watch.
Excited shouts came from the
roulette tables. The ocean of humanity and cigarette stench washed past him as
he went to investigate. A rotund Hispanic man beside the table placed a large
bet on black. Four other gamblers followed his lead. Soon, the ball wound down
and began chattering across the slots. While everyone else watched the ball, Aaron
watched the obese man. At the critical moment, the man screwed up his face with
effort and made a clutching gesture with his hand.
“Black seventeen,” the croupier
announced. The crowd roared with excitement as they collected their money.
A silent watcher against the wall
drew Aaron in like gravity. With the stark beauty of an obsidian gravestone, he
looked like an Arab sheik without the headdress. Instead, he wore regulation
curved horns. The demon in a three-piece suit greeted Aaron with the obligatory
warning script, “I am a liar…”
Aaron waved his hand. “You have
permission to skip my warnings. I know what you are and proceed at my own risk
under the Articles of Free Will, paragraph seven. What’s your name?”
The demon struggled with this but
eventually whispered, “Merodak.” Smoke hung in the air in front of the demon’s
lips. “I usually go by Murray
these days.”
The name sounded more Babylonian
than the traditional Hebrew, but he wasn’t here to discuss ancient history or
etymology. “Have you given the victim the required three warnings?”
The demon looked offended. “We
prefer the term client. I run a respectable business, sir, in which you meddle.
I claim my rights to pursue the wicked under section two…”
Aaron waved off the citations
again. “Stipulated. I have no objections. I am required as a deputized Tsaphah to check.”
The demon, mollified, adjusted his
red power tie. “It’s a good thing there are only a handful of your kind left.
Even your clothes are constrained to rigid black and white.”
He glanced down. “My shirt’s ecru,
not white.” This change to his wardrobe, however, was recent and had taken
considerable effort. In Hebrew, he whispered, “Don’t try to change the subject.
Was the power used to stop the ball his or yours?”
“His, but you’re not allowed to
tell him that. His telekinesis is so low-grade that he can’t lift anything
heavier than a marble.”
The young Hispanic man placed half
of his chips on red this time. When the wheel came up double zero, the crowd
moaned and the croupier raked in the winnings. Aaron said, “His gift isn’t very
reliable.”
The demon smiled. “Eventually, the
house always wins.”
The young man scooped up his
remaining chips and walked toward them. When he noticed them talking, he said
in a high, Spanish accent, “Hey, mister. You can see this guy, too?”
“Let’s talk outside.” Las Vegas always left a
patina of grime no amount of cleaning could remove. Aaron detoured past the
brilliantly lit Bellagio fountains, hoping to lift his spirits a little.
When they were out of earshot of
the crowds, Aaron spoke to the demon. “Would you allow me a small indulgence, a
brief conversation with your victim?”
“Proceed, lawman, as long as this
counts as my hourly verbal reminder.”
Aaron sighed. His voice sounded
flat as he said, “Be thou warned, victim, that I have never seen one of these
creatures grant a wish that you could not achieve on your own with seven to ten
years of hard work. Do you still believe this worth the peril to your soul?”
The man between them snorted. “Ten
years of effort in one wish? Por supuesto.
Hell, yeah!”
Merodak spread his hands in mock
apology.
“What’s your name, son?” asked
Aaron.
“Umberto.”
“You may not realize this yet,
Umberto, but they’re going to beat you so badly you won’t be able to chew your
own food. This demon is going to laugh while they’re pounding you, and I won’t
be able to lift a finger to prevent it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Jefe. I got me a system. Every night, I
switch the game. Last night, it was craps. They’ll never catch on. What do you
care?”
“I keep the Balance. Among other
things, I help regulate the flagrant use of magic to make sure the Adams are neither aware of nor victimized by the
supernatural.”
The demon raised a finger. “Stealing
from casinos technically falls under the category of punishing the wicked, and
I’ve coached him in discretion.”
“I also shepherd Lost people such
as yourself. If you give back everything you have stolen…”
The young man only laughed, like a
horse whinnying.
“Murray, old boy, you’ve been more
than fair. I’ll leave you to your client.” As Aaron left, he tossed a business
card to the gambler. “If you happen to come to your senses before the fires of
Gehenna consume you, call the Walker Foundation for the Lost, day or night.”
The demon made a gesture with his
thumb and forefinger like someone smoking a joint.
Aaron gave a wry smile. He knew
that the warnings would make no difference.
****
Aaron’s next lead took him to the
studio of a popular wedding photographer. Mr. Fox was skinny, with a single
diamond stud in his ear and long, graying hair pulled back into a ponytail.
The photographer retained
copyrights to all images taken, and fees for reprints tended to vary with the
model of car the customer drove. The sight of Aaron’s well-tailored, silk-lined
jacket made Fox salivate. “Sir, please sit! May we offer you some wine?”
Softly, Aaron replied, “No. I need
access to your archives from about thirty years ago, from your earlier career.”
“You’ll have to be a little more
specific, sir.”
“The month before you went to prison
for making fake driver’s licenses in New
York .”
The photographer’s face went rigid,
but Aaron continued calmly. “It took me a long time to track you down. You use
high-quality paper for a forger, which was how I was able to identify you as
the man who made this passport.” He passed over a photocopy of a woman’s
falsified Canadian papers.
“You’re mistaken,” Fox said.
“I’m not from the police. In fact,
I’ve used services like yours before. All I need is information on this woman
and her child.”
The lure of money eventually
overcame the sting Fox felt. “Even if you were right, and I’m not saying you
are, why would I help you? You could be a detective hired by an abusive husband
to steal the child.”
Aaron shook his head. “The woman is
already dead. Her child is a friend, and I am searching for information that
may help her.”
“Convince me.”
Aaron had originally encountered
the case as a suspicious fire. Many untrained witches burned their own homes
down by mistake. Workers at the shelter where the woman had stayed had identified
other telltale symptoms of paranoia, compulsive behavior, and speaking in
strange languages. “Do you remember a news story that all the tabloids picked
up that winter, called ‘Dumpster Baby?’”
Fox nodded. It had been a
particularly gut-wrenching tale even for the Big Apple. “Yeah. Some two year
old got tossed in a huge, empty dumpster and couldn’t climb out. If that lady
from the diner hadn’t found her, the kid may have frozen. The cops never found
the parents.”
“I did.” Aaron said. “The mother was
considered clinically insane. They found her in the burned-out ruins of a
warehouse two blocks from that diner, surrounded by the homeless and drug users.”
He tapped the passport. “You forged papers for the mother.”
“What do you expect to get from me?”
“The originals for this passport
photo, other photos, notes, customer paperwork, or some clue as to her real
identity. No one wants to be remembered as Dumpster Baby for the rest of their
lives.”
“Can you prove she’s your friend?”
Once again, Aaron glanced down. “She
got me this shirt. It’s the only reason I wear it. It’s a bit loud for my
taste.”
The photographer looked at his own
lime-green, paisley tie and chuckled. “I’ll be right back.”
After sifting through his old
records, he came back with a single album. “I remember it now. The lady had no
cash, so she paid with a ruby ring. I made a passport for her kid as well.
Since the little girl knew her own name and might give the game away, I used
her real first name on the paperwork, Flora. But this mother didn’t seem crazy
to me.”
“On what basis?” Aaron asked.
The photographer flipped open the
book to a heartbreakingly beautiful scene of a redheaded mother kissing the
forehead of her little girl. “I threw in a wallet-sized of this candid shot that
I captured while we were setting up the ID photos. I used this eight by ten as
a sample on my wall for years. It brought me a lot of business.”
Aaron stared. “I want this.”
Fox smiled, “Originals cost a
thousand dollars … cash.”
“I only have five hundred on me.
Would you take a check?”
“Nothing traceable.”
“I wonder if you’ve ever told your
partner about your criminal past or your little side business.”
The photographer tightened his
lips. “Okay, I’ll take the five hundred and that gold watch of yours.”
Aaron gazed at the angelic beauty
of the photo. The watch had been given to him by a banker over a century ago.
Possessions couldn’t compare to her smile. “Done.”
By the time he reached his hotel,
Aaron could no longer remember the face of the gambler Murray was trying to cheat. That fact caused
him pain, but he couldn’t give up hope. He propped the picture of mother and
child on his bed stand and stared at it until he turned out the light.
Only in the darkness did the
meaning of the demon’s words sink in. If the fiend could be trusted, there were
other members of his village still alive—he wasn’t the only Tsaphah left.
Chapter 2 – A Demon Walks into a Bar
Using the title of Tsaphah,
or Watchman, again after so many years had jolted Aaron out of his usual orbit.
He began to think more about his former clan’s village in Poland . Aaron knew that his people
had been treated like every other Jew in Nazi-occupied Europe ,
but he had always hoped for survivors. Every time he heard a tale of a nurse or
priest who hid Jewish children among the Gentiles, fantasies stirred in his
mind. So he did what he had been avoiding since his banishment. Over the next
three months, Aaron’s real estate holding corporation acquired all the farms
touching his old village.
Approaching his chief financial
officer and longtime assistant, Aaron made a confession. “Muriel, I need
something from Poland ,
but I can’t go there.”
Aaron had hired her nearly
twenty-five years ago when women had fewer business opportunities. She handled
the day-to-day operations of his growing hotel chain and a few small savings
and loans that dealt primarily with cultural minorities and immigrants. On
paper, Aaron’s job was to scout new land investment opportunities and oversee
the philanthropic arm of the business. However, real estate was a cover for his
frequent and mysterious travel. He had a seat on the board with 30 percent of
the stock. Together, Muriel and his longtime lawyer voted 21 percent of the
stock.
Extremely loyal and competent,
Muriel had never asked why her employer aged more slowly than most men nor why
he disappeared for seven years at a time. Whenever he needed new identification
documents or help getting out of a tricky government probe, Aaron would drop a
discrete word, and the problem would vanish. He suspected her of being an
Israeli spy but never broached the subject. After her discretion, it would have
been rude.
Her hair graying now, Muriel was
still as full of fire as the first day, though her accent had softened. “Do you
need an emergency visa?”
“Not exactly. Do you remember that
special acquisition in the eastern bloc?” The amount had not been huge, but it
clearly had not been a for-profit venture, and there was no plan yet on the
books. Aaron had till December to explain or obscure the transaction. “I need
to retrieve a historical artifact. It technically belongs to me, but due to
certain promises I’ve made, I cannot go to this place to retrieve it.”
Muriel removed and folded her
reading glasses. “What sort of artifact?”
“Birth and death records of a town
erased by genocide,” he said, his voice getting softer with each word.
“In that case, write detailed
instructions on how this find could best be made, and I’ll arrange for the
Holocaust Museum’s help.”
Aaron seemed uncertain. “They would
do this for me?”
“Your ‘father’ was very generous to them in his will,” Muriel said, using
air quotes to remind him of his last identity change. She knew her boss wasn’t
an idiot. He spoke at least nine languages and had piloted this company through
the Great Depression. “When I’m done, it will be their idea.”
****
So it was that in another couple
months, Aaron found himself at a meeting in the office of the chief archivist
for the Holocaust
Museum
“A problem, sir?” she asked,
compassionate but too young to understand. She had a tweed jacket with patches
on the elbows. It was all academic to her. She had never been thrown in a jail
cell or kicked into near unconsciousness for being Auslander.
“Bad memories,” he replied, drawing
in a cleansing breath and focusing her desk. The desk held a scroll in a
hermetically sealed glass case. “You have the
Book of Life.”
The archivist blinked. “Yes. How
did you know that’s what the genealogical record was called?”
“It’s written on the bronze seal
across the top.”
“Exactly. This particular record
goes back fourteen generations and is a priceless archeological and cultural
find. We can’t thank you enough for donating it to our organization.”
“There’s an expression in Europe : Never listen to an American until he says ‘but.’
What is your ‘but’ going to be, madam?”
The archivist blushed slightly. “The
documents are too fragile to let you handle them. However, we’ve made copies
for your people to analyze.” She pulled a phone book-sized, sealed folder out
of her desk and handed it over to him.
He broke the seal immediately and
began flipping the pages to the most recent generations. The archivist
continued apologizing. “It doesn’t make too much sense to the layman. The dates
all use the old lunar calendar. It’s also written in an obscure dialect known
as Temple
argot. We’ll have to send to England for an expert on some of the text.”
Aaron paused briefly near the 1860s
in the record. There, one name had been drawn through. From the letter
fragments still visible above and below the line, he could see that the
redacted name was Aaron. His very birth had been removed from the people’s
history, the Book of Life.
“What of the survivors?” Aaron said
to cover his emotions.
The curator became more formal. “At
your request, we took the set of all children who were twelve or younger at the
time of the war. We removed names appearing in death camp records or police and
hospital records in the region.” During the dramatic pause, he exerted extreme
self-control. “There are three possible survivors, all noted on the cover page.”
He flipped back immediately, and stared.
There were three Tsaphah names, their
Polish adopted names, and the villages they grew up in. This was the best lead
he’d had in seventy years, but he had to get out of this smothering vault.
A nervous assistant came to the
door. “Doctor Cohen, there’s an emergency call on line one.”
While the curator answered her
phone, Aaron took the cover page and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket,
leaving the rest. After a few seconds, she handed the phone to him.
“Why can’t I get you to carry a
blasted cell phone?” asked Joseph Redwing, the director of his consumer
satisfaction call center. Aaron had obtained permission from the board to staff
the center with Indians but used American Indians instead. It was a small
effort to keep the reservation economy afloat.
Aaron shrugged. “They always stop
working after a day.”
Redwing didn’t explain about
recharging. It was futile. A lot of technology stopped working if it stayed
around Aaron Walker too long. “We got a hotline call on your personal number
from a Las Vegas
bar. Subject is incapacitated, but the caller says it’s life-or-death. I’ll
send details to the Nevada
site.”
Aaron hung up and turned to the
curator. “A friend is in need of emergency medical service. I am … a donor. Can
someone in a fast car drive me?”
In minutes, tires were screeching
to a halt in front of a busy hospital. Aaron waved to the driver, made his way
in one door of the hospital and out the rear. Racing up the steps of his
brownstone, he unlocked the door. Once inside, he relocked the deadbolts and
made sure the blinds were drawn before he opened the seamless secret panel off
the kitchen. There was no time for an airplane. He had to use emergency
transportation. He closed the hidden door behind him. This room had very
particular proportions and special properties. From it, at great personal cost,
he could walk.
Aaron stared at the handmade
mandala on the floor. A medicine man friend had taken almost a year to get the
sand painting just right. There was a lot of yellow in the diagram of the universe,
which used uranium compounds found on the reservation.
Sitting on the cushion, he slowed
his breathing and heart rate. He repeated the words his father taught him long
ago and rose into the Above, transcending the everyday. He could see a ball of
golden light floating over his head, revolving like a sun, complete with the
spots. Concentrating on the imperfections on the sun’s surface, he searched for
a pattern. He wasn’t good at this like Papa, but Aaron had left beacons around
the world. He built specifically proportioned rooms in each hotel he owned with
signatures that were visible from Above. Concentrating, he could see a room
identical in shape to the secret chamber in his home.
The higher-dimensional math was
difficult, and he had never mastered the transition from many to just three.
After making sure there were no witnesses at the destination, Aaron shot into
the Las Vegas
hotel room like an acrobat leaping from a trampoline. He always closed his eyes
for this part. His feet hit the far wall hard enough to twist his left ankle.
Fortunately, the floor was strewn with cushions. He lay on them for a few
moments, recovering.
In the lobby, he noted the time.
The entire trip since his phone call had taken less than twenty minutes. A cab
waited for him out front, courtesy of Redwing. He tipped the driver to go as
fast as possible.
Soon Aaron limped into the bar with
the unlikely name of The Filthy Ducat. He rushed to the door of the manager’s
office, and the owner opened it a crack. Wails of pain could be heard as
someone rolled on the floor. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I’m from the Foundation.”
The long-haired, stubble-faced man
furrowed his brow for a moment, and then the penny dropped. “The name on the
card.” He looked both ways and then dragged the Aaron into the cramped room as
quickly as possible. He shook hands and said, “I’m Donovan.” There was
paraphernalia from a career in rock music on the walls: a single that made
number ten on the charts, an electric guitar, and several newspaper clippings
from all over the country featuring the owner’s photograph. On the floor,
someone was curled in a ball.
Aaron’s sympathy evaporated when he
noticed the familiar suit and the horns. “Murray, you blasphemous toad.”
Donovan smiled and said with a
slight Irish lilt. “Ah, you do know him, then.”
Ignoring the human, Aaron asked, “What
have you done with the man who called me?”
Donovan held his hands up. “That
was me. I called you. I needed someone to help poor Murray here. One minute, he was just sitting
there with his fruit-flavored vodka telling this story about three crusaders in
a nunnery when bam, flames shoot up from his drink, and he screams like he’s
pissing holy water.”
Aaron seethed. “You know what he
is?”
Donovan laughed. “Yeah, but he’s
not all bad. He got me this bar. We won the money together in this dirty
limerick contest. We named the bar after the poem.”
Aaron raised a hand to stop him. “I’ve
just burned a great deal of my power reserves to get here in a hurry. Why
should I waste more to help a soul-sucking demon?”
“If you substituted the word ‘black’
for demon, you’d be called a racist,” said Donovan.
“I do everything in my power to
preserve our race from him and his kind. By what stretch of the imagination
would I ever lift a finger to prevent his utter annihilation?”
“Well, your card did say you help
the Lost. He is, by very definition, about as forsaken as a body can be.”
Aaron gaped at the logic but could
say nothing to counter it. The only thing he could manage was, “How can I
justify taking food from the homeless, widows, and orphans to give to this
creature?”
Donovan seized the word. “Creature
means created, by the same hand that made thee. Sir, you wouldn’t let a dog
suffer the way poor Murray is.”
Aaron wrestled with the point of
dogma. Do we show kindness even to the unworthy?
“How can he talk without the
warnings?” asked Aaron.
“Can asking a question ever be
considered a lie?” countered Donovan, grinning.
“Did you find some kind of loophole
in the rules?”
Donovan warmed to the sport. “Have
you seen Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are
Dead?” He could play the question game for hours.
“What happened to the client he was with
earlier, the one he stole the card from?” demanded Aaron, tiring of the evasion.
“Do you really want guys like that
pissing in the gene pool?” laughed Donovan.
Mewling sounds interrupted their
exchange, and Aaron bent down to examine the suffering fiend. Aaron sighed. “Can
you play that guitar, or is it just for show from your second wish?”
Donovan snorted. “Does the pope
shit in the woods? Demons can’t give you talent or calluses. My success was my
own.”
“Declarative, you lose,” Aaron
announced. “Now get that guitar and play something soothing for him, a Celtic
lullaby or something.”
Donovan blinked. “Wow, you’re good.
The whole David and King Saul angle never occurred to me.” He pulled the
electric guitar down and hooked it to a small amplifier that he kept behind his
desk. Murray’s twitching became less intense as the musician strummed. Donovan
switched songs and softly crooned a song from Nine Inch Nails. A smile spread
across the demon’s face.
“You’re pretty good yourself,”
admitted Aaron. “This won’t be permanent, but the fit has passed for now.”
Donovan put his guitar back. “You
want a pint of something, sir? On the house.”
“No, thank you. Murray and I need
some time alone to talk.”
“I am a liar,” began Murray when the bartender
left.
“Skip it,” said Aaron. “Tell me why
I’m here.”
“Be patient, as I must speak in
metaphor,” said Merodak, implying he had been forbidden to share the reason. “When
the Flood ended, what changed in the world?”
Aaron said, “The rainbow.”
“White light was split into its
components.” The demon approached the next topic with care. “What happened
during the Babel
sanction?”
“God fragmented the one language
into many to prevent rebellion.”
“How did God ensure it wouldn’t
happen again?”
Aaron thought about this. “There
weren’t any new strictures placed on men. Were there new rules placed on your
kind?”
“What would give demons a vested
interest in preventing a repeat of the Tower insurrection?”
Aaron shrugged. “Make each of your
kind responsible for keeping some set of languages alive? I suppose this wouldn’t
be difficult. Language is an informational construct carried by regional human
beings.”
“What happens when certain tribes
die out or the last person who speaks a language passes?”
Aaron guessed, “You are punished
all over again for the rebellion. Why should this bother me?”
Aaron sighed, trying to find a way
out of this trap. “Okay, I can investigate and maybe stop the loss; however,
this goes beyond the mandate. You’ve already cost me, Fallen. What will you
give me to repay my expenditures?”
“I asked you what you thought was
fair, what you voluntarily offer to the one who dragged your writhing form off
the floor. I came in minutes to rescue you. How long did your last fit last?”
The smile vanished. “Two favors.
Timely aid for the aid you gave me. Call my name, and I will appear as you did.
For the second, I give you counsel for as long as I stay seizure-free.”
“Whenever I want?”
“Sometimes when you don’t want,”
the demon said with a chuckle.
“But you’re a liar,” reasoned
Aaron.
The demon clapped his hands. “Yes.
That’s what makes it so interesting. The voice of God can come through a
donkey, and every good lie has the kernel of truth.”
“What about the soothing technique
I taught your Renfield, here? That ought to be worth something.”
The demon pursed his lips. “What
did you have in mind?”
“I want immunity for Donovan. He
doesn’t get harvested.”
The demon was taken aback. “I never
had any intention of harming him. This world has a shortage of interesting
people. Agreed. I’m surprised you’re not going to ask immunity for yourself.”
“Wouldn’t that be like wishing that
wishes couldn’t affect me?”
“A fair point. Is it a covenant?”
Aaron rubbed his own forehead. “I
can’t believe I’m saying this, but swear it. I figure if you’re with me, you
won’t be corrupting someone else.”
The demon gave his word and smoke
appeared over his lips.
Aaron took his waiting taxi to the
airport to return by the slow route.
****
The search took weeks. Aaron put up
a new corkboard in his customer service office on the reservation to collect
the data. He started the search with the Foundation for Endangered Languages,
the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and with the help of friends from several countries.
The Internet searches yielded so many possibilities he had to get help from
Merodak to winnow the list.
Aaron constantly struggled with his
corporate duties, which took at least twenty hours a week to complete. Unfortunately,
he couldn’t shed the mundane tasks entirely; they made the bulk of his search
apparatus possible and helped fulfill his duties of charity and aid to
foreigner, orphan, and widow. For the near term, he began delegating as many of
these tasks as possible to young people he could trust, or those proposed by
his lawyer and Muriel. She recognized the fervor that came with new projects
and gave him some leeway. Such projects often ended up becoming new divisions
of the company.
When the list was done, there were
somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-six tribes in imminent danger of
extinction, and their languages with them. A couple of tribes were in active
war zones. Those pictures were the easiest to find. However, most of the dying
languages were in developed nations that were slowly squeezing out a losing
culture. Children stopped learning the language of ancestors and history.
Aaron was staring at the board when
Redwing came in with a sheaf of papers for him to sign. “You need sleep,
teacher.”
“I survive.”
“You look like a street person,
boss. Eat something. The shareholder’s meeting is coming up. If they see you
looking like this, they’re going to sell, or have you committed.”
Aaron continued to stare holes in
the board containing his problem.
Redwing leaned over him and
whispered in his ear. “You can’t save all of them.”
“I had come to that conclusion
myself, but I would settle for delaying the inevitable for some of them, or at least preserving the culture of a few of the
closest. That one over there we can help by putting pressure on a mining
corporation to pay their royalties and stop poisoning the river. As for the
rest, there are only so many interested and qualified academics.”
“Aren’t the Yana
already gone?” Redwing asked, pointing to a separate printout taped to the
upper right corner.
“I tried to cut that language, too,
but Merodak says there are still three scholars that speak it … no, two. One
just had a heart attack last week. We should probably do background checks on
those two and consider paying people to study under them.”
Redwing said, “I’ll keep
researching and put the pressure on the corporate bastards. You need to get
your butt to bed now, or I’m going to carry you there myself.”
Aaron surrendered, shuffling off to
Kickaha the shaman’s home and the spare bed that awaited him. Only when he had
hung up his suit and brushed his teeth did he notice the golden ceremonial
dagger stuck through his pillow. The dagger pinned a note where it could not be
missed. In handwritten calligraphy, it warned, “An early retirement or this,
your choice.”
Sighing, he tossed the note and the
weapon into a box with the other threats and offers for his company. He ignored
the feathers that flew out of the new holes and fell asleep in minutes.
