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

“Trust in the one your heart trusts least.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, the words catching in my short breaths.

She sat back, eyes returning to the here and now. She gazed at my mother’s hair again. “With enough time, the reading will be the right one,” she said in response to my earlier question, as though she hadn’t just spaced out or spoken. “But are you certain this is what you want?”

My heart and breaths wound down again. Why do you need to know? she seemed to be asking. Out of simple curiosity or from that age-old lust that has twisted many a man’s heart into darkness: revenge?

“Yes,” I said. “It’s what I want.”

Lady Bastet nodded once. “Then it will be done.”

I squinted into a liquid heat that rose from the West Village sidewalks and wobbled the buildings up and down the block. The mercury was forecast to climb over one hundred again today.

I checked my watch. The time, which had slowed way down in Lady Bastet’s, seemed to have sped back up to the present and then some. If I didn’t hurry, I was going to be late for my summer term class. Cane pinned under an arm, I hustled toward the nearest bus stop.

Within a block, sweat was streaming from my armpits and soaking through the back of my shirt. But I was more bothered by the knowledge someone was keeping pace with me. I peeked over a shoulder to find a young man in a tailored suit gliding around newsstands and oncoming pedestrians. His effortless speed, coupled with his bone-dry face, told me he was an undead.

One of Arnaud’s, no doubt, I thought with a groan.

Up ahead, the city bus slowed toward the stop. I broke into a full run, arriving behind a small knot of people. When I looked back, I could no longer see the blood slave. I’d lucked out. He must’ve been on a different errand. When I straightened, the son of a bitch was in front of me.

“Go ahead,” he was telling the driver of the crowded bus. “We’ll catch the next one.”

“Wait!” I cried, trying to cut past him. The blood slave moved deftly, blocking my attempts until the driver closed the door. With a loud chuff, the bus pulled from the stop and motored away.

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

Like all of Arnaud’s blood slaves, this one was young, his face smooth and handsome. Chilly blue eyes regarded me from beneath waxy eyebrows and a professional cut of brown hair.

“Arnaud Thorne would like you to see something,” he answered.

“Well, tell him too fucking bad. I have a class to teach.”

I hadn’t heard from the vampire Arnaud since he’d held Detective Vega’s son hostage in a game whose ultimate intent was to pit me against City Hall. He had cost me my friendship with Vega not to mention my contract with the NYPD. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted me to see, or more likely get involved in, and I didn’t care. I was done with Arnaud.

I spotted an on-duty taxi coming up Sixth Avenue and waved.

The blood slave gripped my arm and forced it down. “My CEO insists,” he said.

The cab zoomed past.

Okay, that’s it.

Stepping back, I yanked my cane into sword and staff. I angled the blade so sunlight glinted off a line of bright metal. “You see that? It’s a little something called silver, a modification I made to better deal with your kind. Touch me again, and you’re going to lose an arm.”

The blood slave’s lips broke upwards as his eyes sharpened. “Oh, come now, Mr. Croft,” he said in a familiar, taunting voice. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Or amputate him, as the case may be. I rather prefer him with all limbs intact.” Arnaud had taken possession of his minion.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

“Like my associate said, for you to see something. We needn’t go far. Why, that little establishment across the way should do.”

I glanced over at the hole in the wall whose vertical sign read BAR. “Not interested.”

“Oh, but I think you will be, Mr. Croft. I think you’ll be very interested.”

Something in the certainty with which Arnaud spoke made me hesitate. Or was that the vampire’s power insinuating its way into my thoughts. I steeled my mind and cocked my sword arm.

“If you’re not out of my face in the next second, I’ll skip the amputation and go straight to execution.”

“My associate is perfectly within his rights to occupy this public piece of sidewalk, Mr. Croft. And you should know that I will continue to badger you until you acquiesce to my request. Ten minutes of your time is all I ask. I will even pay your cab fare following. You’ll arrive at the college before the bus you’ve just missed.”

I squinted at him. “And you’ll leave me alone?”

“You have my assurances, Mr. Croft.”

Unlike agreements between mortals, a vampire’s word held an innate binding power. Once made, especially by a vampire of Arnaud’s stature, they were hard to break. What in the hell was he up to?

“Leave me alone, as in never seek me out again?” I asked, to be certain we were on the same page.

“Indeed. Should we meet again, it will be because you have come to me.”

I snorted. “Well, that’s not gonna happen.”

“All right.” He clapped once. “It sounds like we have an agreement.”

I sighed and sheathed my sword.

“Let’s get this over with.”

3

The blood slave held the door open for me, and we stepped into the dim bar. An assortment of fans blew around the stink of spilled beer, wet cigarettes, and what smelled like vomit from a back bathroom.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Arnaud said through his slave, then glided toward the long bar. At one end, a trio of barflies sagged on stools, faces transfixed on the glow of a baseball game. The bartender, a hefty man in an undershirt with muddy sweat stains beneath the pits, stared at the game too.

“Ahoy,