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

buzzing. “You dare insult a Wasp Demon, mother of the brood, matron of death.” I pressed a forearm to my nose, the cloying smell threatening to choke me.

“Help me, Everson!” James shrieked above the thickening swarm. “For God’s sake, help me!”

He tripped over a section of pillar. As he fell onto his back, the wasps descended over his blondness like a black blanket, muffling his cries. A moment later, his spastic arms collapsed out to his sides, the spent rifle clacking against stone.

With Bertrand’s back to me, I left Flor’s body and edged toward the monastery entrance. The wasps rose from James and returned to Bertrand, funneling into his mouth. There had clearly been another spell book in the collection, a dark one that Bertrand had gotten his hands on. I didn’t know how possessions worked exactly, didn’t know how much of Bertrand remained in his body. But I wasn’t planning on sticking around to find out.

I was almost to the opening when eyes flashed from the darkness beyond, and a thick, snapping snout lunged into the space.

“Damn!” I cried, stumbling backwards.

Front legs squeezed through as the wolf wriggled and pushed his head in. More fanged snouts jabbed into the surrounding gaps. I shot a glance back at Bertrand. He was finger-combing his hair with both hands, as though cleaning a pair of antennas. My gaze flew around the courtyard. All the monastery’s rooms were doorless. No places to shut out the wolves—or Bertrand. And my pepper spray would only keep them at bay for so long.

The Book of Souls, I thought.

I launched into a run toward the room where James had left it.

Behind me, the wolf burst inside with a jagged cry, his thick nails scratching over the stone, gaining speed. But a fresh buzzing was climbing over the sounds of the wolves.

“Fly, my beauties,” Bertrand said. “Kill them.”

Yes, please do.

“The human, too.”

Crap.

I seized the side of the dormitory doorway with one hand and swung myself into Flor’s old room. The wolf overshot the door, skittering as he tried to brake. I kicked past Flor’s bag and titanium case, scooped up the Book of Souls, and pressed my back to the wall. I opened the book and flipped to the rear. Most of the book’s spells required something called a casting prism and Words of Power.

But not summonings.

A wasp landed on my neck, sending a molten barb down to my spine. I crushed it with my shoulder and turned more pages. Out in the courtyard, sharp cries and yelps went up in the thickening swarm. But the swarm hadn’t reached me—or the wolf who had been on my heels. A low growl sounded from the doorway. I glanced up to find the beast stalking toward me, ears twitching in the haze of wasps, impervious to their stings. Something told me this was the Alpha. Raising a leg in preparation to kick, I dropped my gaze to the page before me.

“Thelonious,” I boomed, pushing energy into the word, making each syllable count. I didn’t know who or what I was invoking, but when the alternative was certain death, there was no time to be choosy. “I beseech you for aid,” I said in the old Latin. “I offer myself as a vessel in exchange.”

Creamy white light fluttered on the verge of my vision, then roared in, like a strong surf. I could no longer see the wolf, the wasps, the room, the book in my own hands. Just the frothy light that rolled up in layers, growing thicker. From beneath the roaring light came a slow, throbbing sound, like a bass line. The sound was compelling, arousing. I could have been inside a West Village jazz club, men and women grooving and bumping bodies.

“Yesss?” came a rich voice.

I squinted at where the creamy light seemed to thicken around a large, inchoate form. A Buddha. It was clear, though, that this Buddha was no esthetic. Sensual forms moved around his corpulent body, attending to his needs, which seemed to include food, drink … other things.

“Are you Thelonious?” I asked.

“Indeed,” he replied with a pleasant bass laugh. He seemed benign, at least.

“I need your help.”

Though my heart beat slammed through my words, I sensed Thelonious had drawn me into some sort of parallel plane, outside space and time.

“I’d say so.” Feminine titters accompanied the spirit’s rumbling laughter. “But I’m busy at the moment.”

“Look, I’m only twenty-three,” I babbled. “My life’s not perfect, but I’m not ready for it to end. I live in New York—the greatest city on Earth. I love my chosen field. I’m the youngest PhD candidate in my department and just a thesis away from graduating. I’m a, ah, a lifelong Mets fan—and they’re actually doing well this year.” I was really grasping now, but if he rejected my appeal and cast me back, I was a dead man. Simple as that.

Thelonious chuckled. “Long time since I’ve been in New York. Are there still dance halls?”

“Oh man, a ton.”

“And the women?”

“Millions, and they’re all beautiful.”

He made a noise of interest, then heaved himself up, sending his harem streaming away. “And you say you’re a young man?” He circled me as though in assessment. “Learned … enjoys sport.” He stopped in front of me. “If I help you this once, you’ll give yourself as a vessel for all time?”

I hesitated. “And what does that entail, exactly?”

He rumbled more laughter as something like a hand descended onto my shoulder. “Nothing but good times.”

“So we’ll be running my body like, what, a time share?”

“When the itch for city life needs scratching, Thelonious will come calling.”

“Otherwise, my body’s my own?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And you won’t be doing anything illegal in here, right?”

He released more rich laughter. “Not unless you consider loving and living crimes.”

As the bass line and creamy lights of his world throbbed through me, I found myself nodding. Maybe an occasional visit by Thelonious would do me good, get me out of my studio apartment now and again. Given my sad social