The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

I was halfway down the block when I heard footsteps. I drew my cane apart and wheeled, but not fast enough. A force rammed me in the jaw. When my knee banged into something hard, I realized I’d dropped to the sidewalk, sword and staff clattering from my grip. A throbbing pain spread from my right cheek, its epicenter the size of a fist.

I blinked up as I pawed the sidewalk for my weapons. A short distance away, three men stood in dark suits. Rising to my feet, I turned and hawked a rag of blood.

“Excuse me,” I said woozily. “Think I just ran into one of your fists.”

“Everson Croft,” the blond-haired one said.

A bone-deep chill radiated from him. Coupled with the hollow voice, I knew why. Arnaud Thorne’s blood slaves. I glanced down at my naked ring finger. Wonderful. This would be the one night I’d remove Grandpa’s ring and leave it on the dresser because it didn’t go with the tuxedo. The same ring that just happened to protect me from Arnaud and his vampire ilk. But maybe that was a good thing.

“Sorry, fellas, but if you’re here for the ring, you’re out of luck.” I held up my fingers. “See?”

In dark slashes of motion, the three surrounded me. “We have a message for you,” Blondie said.

I looked from one circling set of hollow eyes to the next. Eyes at odds with their smooth, youthful faces and tailored suits, but a chilling reminder of their preternatural strength, speed, and blood lust. Silently, I called power to my casting prism, grip tight around my weapons.

“A message?” I said.

Blondie, the designated speaker, pressed closer. “Stay away from Ferguson Towers. It’s not your concern.”

Though my mind was still foggy from the blow, it wasn’t hard to work backwards. If Arnaud had blood slaves watching the crime scene and tailing wizards-for-hire, he had some sort of interest in the crime itself. Which seemed to fit with the theory I’d floated to Vega.

“Aww, what happened?” I asked. “Did one of your pals wander off the reservation?”

A blow collapsed my stomach, the sick pain folding me over.

“Do you understand?” Blondie asked.

I gasped for air. Okay, maybe popping off smart to one of Arnaud’s undead had been a bad idea, but I had this thing about being muscled around—which seemed to happen an awful lot.

“Understood,” I whispered. “Just do me a favor and tell Arnaud…” I gathered my breath as the blood slaves leaned nearer. “…respingere!”

My staff crackled with light and an orb-shaped shield exploded from its white opal. The force blasted the blood slaves up and back a good twenty feet. All three landed on their feet, however, stunned but not hurt. Maintaining my shield, I turned in a slow circle, sword held out.

The slaves started forward. A single blood slave I could probably handle. But three? I swallowed hard, the taste of copper slick on my palate. This could get really ugly really fast.

“Hey!” A sharp whistle. “You the one that called a cab?”

I turned to find a taxi idling at the corner. I started to wave him to safety, but when I peeked back, the sidewalk was empty, shadows of buildings where the blood slaves had once stood. I sheathed my sword and limped toward the cab, jaw aching, a nauseous stone in my stomach. There was a reason I had stayed out of the Financial District for the past six months.

Behind me, a cold voice cut through the wind: “You’ve been warned.”

8

It was after midnight when I stepped over my threshold and into my West Village apartment, locking the door’s three bolts behind me. I stood for a moment in the dark, the tension easing from my neck, my shoulders. It had been a hell of a night, and to be back in a familiar, protected space, remnants of my own magic charging the air, comforted me. Until my cat spoke.

“You look like shit, darling.”

I found Tabitha’s ochre-green eyes hovering above the divan beneath the west-facing window. I sighed and turned on the floodlights. “You know, a simple ‘welcome home’ would be nice now and then.”

“Why does your face look like a catcher’s mitt?”

I touched the hard knot on my jaw where the blood slave had driven his fist. “Here again, starting with ‘Are you all right?’ would be the polite approach. Then you could bring up the mitt.”

I paced over to the kitchen, dug an old bag of peas from the back of the freezer, and pressed it to my throbbing jaw. No sense wasting healing magic on a little swelling.

Tabitha shifted her forty-pound pile of fur so she could watch me without lifting her head. “Any luck with what’s-her-name?”

“Who?” I asked, knowing full well she meant Caroline. I did my best to keep Tabitha out of my personal life. She approved of roughly zero of the women I had dated, and wasn’t shy about telling me. I suspected at least some jealousy at play, not to mention frustration. Tabitha was a succubus spirit trapped in a cat’s body. Her days of seducing and consuming men were long past.

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” she said. “I heard you on the phone earlier.”

I eyed the rotary behemoth on the kitchen counter, the need to call Caroline burning inside me. But I wasn’t going to call her in front of Tabitha.

“Have you done your tours tonight?”

“Oh, not this again,” she moaned.

“A deal’s a deal. Food and five-star accommodations in exchange for a tour of the ledge every two hours.”

“Five-star? This place?” She snorted and closed her eyes. “No one’s interested enough in your dump—or you—to be watching.”

“Excuse me. Were you not here this past fall? What were those creatures called that came and attacked us? Oh, right—demons.”

“Old news.” She paused to stretch, while a yawn showcased her impressive teeth. “The six months since have been an absolute bore.”

“Well, cheer up. That’s probably about to change,” I said, thinking of Arnaud’s warning. “Out. Now.” When she didn’t move, I exercised