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

was supposed to teach on the bottom rung of my concerns. On the television above me, Budge rattled off more details about his eradication program—dollar amounts, federal funding. Arnaud had forecast the development, sure. But that didn’t mean I had to rush into an alliance with him, did it?

No, I decided. I only need to inform the Order and await instructions. Which I’ll do right after my class.

I stood from my barstool, collected the twenty, and turned, only to be met by a meaty hand against my chest. I fell back onto the stool. The bartender rose over me, two of the patrons from the other end of the bar on either side of him. I looked around for the third guy but couldn’t see him.

“Who was your friend?” the bartender asked.

I glanced toward the door Arnaud’s blood slave had departed through. “Friend? I hardly knew the guy.”

“Well, you came in here with him,” the bartender said.

“Your powers of observation are astounding,” I told him.

“I’ve never seen anyone move that fast,” he said.

“Yeah,” one of the barflies put in, a man with a trucker hat and thick beard.

“Really?” I said. “It probably just seemed that way because the rest of us are moving so slowly.”

The patrons’ brows beetled as they tried to puzzle that out. The bartender’s eyes didn’t shift from mine, though. He loomed nearer.

“The boys and I have been consulting,” he said. “We think he might be one of those supernatural freaks the mayor’s talking about. And you know what? We think you’re one of them too.”

“Me?” The metallic bite of adrenaline filled my mouth as my gaze jumped between them. Who were these losers—one with a head shaped like an eggplant—to call me a freak? Power stormed toward my prism.

But when I caught a whiff of leather and musk, I realized what Arnaud had done. He’d exuded an aerosol that was releasing hormones into our systems: raw fight or flight. It was the same reason he’d manhandled the bartender into changing the channel instead of using his vampiric powers of persuasion. Arnaud wanted to incite a confrontation, to underline his point that the city was aligning against us. Though my heart pounded with an urge to clash, I settled back into my seat. I’d played into Arnaud’s hands once. It wasn’t happening again.

“Look guys,” I said, forcing a calming breath. “I’m flesh and blood, just like you. I didn’t come in here to cause trouble—which would be pretty hard for someone like me anyway.” I held up my cane as proof of disability.

“Hey, Bill!”

I looked over to see the third barfly, the one I’d lost track of, emerging from the back of the bar carrying a shotgun. The stock end of the gun dripped water. “It was sitting in the crapper. That joker must’ve dropped it in there when he came in earlier to use the bathroom.”

Bartender Bill scowled. “Bring it here.”

“This cane belonged to my grandfather, actually,” I said, pushing energy into my wizard’s voice, willing their attention back to me. “Part walking aid, part novelty item. Can you make out that stone?”

The three barflies looked at one another, then at the white opal.

“What about it?” Bill growled. He had seized his gun and begun wiping the stock dry with his towel. I noted the tremor in his hands, the quavering edge to his voice. Arnaud’s toxin was still pumping through him. He wasn’t going to allow me out of his bar without a fight.

“If you look closely enough,” I said, “you can make out Playboy’s Miss June, 1948.” Gathering energy, I watched Bill’s eyes. When at last they squinted toward the opal, I shouted, “Illuminare!”

An intense light flashed against their faces. Shouts went up from the recoiling men. I climbed onto the bar to escape their semicircle. Bartender Bill groped toward me, but I was already into the first steps of flight. Ashtrays and beer bottles flew from my feet. The shotgun went off, and a shelf of liquor bottles erupted. Glass and alcohol rained over my back.

At the far end of the bar, I jumped down. Bill swung his shotgun toward the sound.

“Vigore!” I shouted, using a force invocation to shove two of the stumbling barflies into Bill. The bartender lumbered backwards, the shotgun blowing fire into the ceiling. Chunks of plaster rained over them.

I opened the door onto the bright blur of the West Village and then sealed the door behind me with a locking spell. Hailing a passing taxi, I climbed in, my back wet against the seat.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

“Midtown College,” I panted. “I’m late for a class I’m supposed to teach.”

“Looking like that?”

I followed his squinting gaze to my liquor-soaked shirt. Great. Blood from the exploding glass stippled through the fabric over my left shoulder. My back was probably bleeding too.

“Just drive,” I said. “Fast.”

As the cab pulled away from the curb, I peered around to ensure Bill and the others hadn’t escaped the bar. But more generally, I was looking to ensure the eradication program wasn’t already underway. What that would even look like, I had no idea. An increased police presence? Mystics and diviners rousted from their shops? Magic-users in arm and leg shackles, tape over their mouths?

I scooted to the middle of the backseat, out of view of a city that suddenly felt hostile.

Goddamn you, Arnaud.

4

Following a change of shirt and a quick grooming, I stole from the faculty bathroom and, seeing that the coast was clear, made a run for my classroom, leather satchel slapping my hip.

I turned a corner and nearly plowed into Professor Snodgrass. The diminutive chairman of my department staggered in a circle and would have fallen if I hadn’t caught him. With a huff, he slapped my hands away and straightened his small glasses. He peered up at me, eyes sharpening.

“Professor Croft,” he exclaimed, cheeks reddening in anger.

“Oh, hey, sorry about that,” I said, showing an apologetic hand as I made to scoot past him. Ever since my hearing the