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

“C’mon, c’mon,” a guard grunted, holding out a hand. He wasn’t your typical paunchy retired cop. With his walnut-knotted frame and shaved head, the man looked like a special ops agent. They all did. And why not? The titans of finance could afford the most lethal.

Almost reflexively, I jerked the NYPD card from my pocket. The guard snapped it from me and held it in front of his shield sunglasses—worn underground as well, apparently. Through the window of a booth to his left, I could see someone inspecting an X-ray scan of my body.

“What’s your business?”

“The, uh, St. Martin’s case.”

“This doesn’t say who you are,” he growled.

I fumbled for my wallet. “Everson Croft, Special Consultant to the NYPD.” I finally managed to free my Midtown College ID, which I held up as well.

The guard wasn’t interested. He slapped the NYPD card against my chest, hard enough to alter my heart rhythm, and shoved me toward the inspection station. I stumbled against the metal table, where I was rudely deprived of my cane. I watched the guard inspect either end and then try to pull it apart. Good luck, buddy. A family charm held it closed. More worrisome, though, were the hands prodding my personal areas and digging into my pockets.

“What’s all this?” the guard asked when he’d finished.

I looked at the items lined up across the table and cleared my throat. “Well, that’s for hydration, of course.” I indicated the Evian bottle of holy water. “This is a mineral supplement,” I said of the vial of copper filings. “Supposed to be good for circulation. My notepad’s there. And that…” My eyes shifted to the small bag of rice. “Well, after I finish up here, I’m going to try to make it to a wedding. You know, shower the happy couple when it’s over.” I gave a small eye roll to suggest I thought the practice as silly as they probably did.

Neither guard cracked a grin. For several troubling seconds, their shielded gazes remained fixed on my face. Then, as though coming to some sort of psychic agreement, they gave a simultaneous nod.

“Get your shit and get out of here,” the nearer one grunted.

I obliged and was soon hurrying up the steps, just as thankful to be past the checkpoint as I was to be above ground. On street level, giant skyscrapers funneled powerful winds down Broadway. My coat flapped like wings. Tilting my head back, I spotted the landmark building that housed Arnaud’s offices. He owned the entire tower, as well as several others in the Financial District.

Five minutes later, a pair of young men in brass-button suits were opening the building’s front doors for me. Vampires didn’t mess with wards. They kept blood slaves instead—as much for a food supply as security. I nodded at their ageless faces and stepped from the batting winds.

The deep lobby felt like a tomb. The young woman at the crescent-shaped reception desk smiled a little too earnestly as the doors closed behind me, sealing out the sun and inducing a bone-deep chill.

“Welcome,” she called in a lilting southern accent. “How may I help you?”

“Good afternoon.” I walked up and stood the NYPD card on her marble desk. “I’d like to have a word with Arnaud, if I may.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“For police business?”

“All meetings require an appointment, sir, official or otherwise.”

I knew Arnaud had leverage in this city, but wow. “All right, let’s make one for say … fifteen minutes from now?”

She tilted her head in a show of forbearing. White-blond hair that had been brushed to a sheen fell over the shoulder of a pale scoop-neck blouse. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t quite right. Too porcelain. I suspected I had only to remove her stylish choker to discover the puckered cause.

“Appointments can only be made by phone,” she said, “and require three to five days for approval.”

“Three to five days?”

I didn’t have three to five days. I had exactly one. I studied the receptionist in thought. It wasn’t hard to imagine the young debutante she had been, stepping from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, suitcase in hand, dizzying dreams of theater in her head. Fury at Arnaud and his fellow parasites burned in my blood. If I’d had the power to restore that young woman, believe me, I would have.

Though the receptionist continued to show her perfect teeth, her smile seemed less inviting now, more menacing. In my peripheral vision, I noticed several young men I hadn’t seen upon entering. They drew nearer, making it so my only move would be toward the door I had entered by.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist said, her voice developing a not-so-subtle edge, “but you’re going to have to leave.”

She seemed to become taller, the bones of her jaw sharper.

I glanced around, tightening my grip on my cane. The young men, who could have been interns with their shiny side-parted hair and Brooks Brothers suits, drew nearer still. I felt Arnaud’s cold eyes watching me from theirs, inducing a weakness in my core. I forced myself to straighten.

I had one more ace.

Splaying my right hand on the desk, I said, “My name is Everson Croft, grandson of Asmus Croft, Grand Mage of the Society of the Dragon. I demand the right to an audience with Arnaud Thorne.”

As the powerful words shook from me and resounded around the marble room, the men stopped. The receptionist’s eyes fell to my ring finger. The winged serpent embossed in thick silver appeared ready to lunge up at her. Inching back, she lifted a phone to her ear.

I’d thought that might get things rolling.

“Um, there’s an Everson Croft to see you, sir.” She listened, her large eyes never leaving my ring, but the phone call was for show. Arnaud had seen and heard all that she had.

After a moment, she hung up and shifted her gaze past me. “Show him up,” she said, no longer smiling.

Without touching me, the group of men enveloped me and