Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) by Brad Magnarella (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

“It might have been for the best,” I said. “My magic suggested Arnaud had something to say worth hearing.”

“Did he?”

“Well, he claims he was enslaved to Malphas and that he wants to see him destroyed as much as we do.”

“Should we believe him?”

“A dangerous proposition, but the brand on Arnaud’s neck lends credibility to the enslavement part. I don’t doubt he was mistreated, either. That’s consistent with what I know about demons. So if a and b are true, I’m also inclined to believe c, him wanting Malphas destroyed. Arnaud’s nothing if not vengeful.”

“What’s he offering?”

“At this point only theories,” I said, not ready to go into them.

She peered past me at where he was standing with the others. “He must have an angle.”

“Oh, Arnaud always does. We’ll need to keep eagle eyes on him.”

“So are we good?” she asked.

When I looked back, Caroline was watching me carefully. We were at a juncture where I had to decide whether I was going to trust her or not, and then stick with that decision. Waffling would only undermine our chances of success.

I pulled her into a hug. “We’re good.”

The strength of her return embrace told me just how much she’d needed that.

“Thanks for looking out for me and Vega,” I said.

“Of course.” When we separated, her nose was ruddy and she sniffled once. “Belvedere Castle?”

“Let’s go.”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere.”

I turned to find a group of hoodlums climbing the steps from a lower tier of the park. The six of them barely looked teenaged, but that could have been an illusion created by their baggy pants and oversized jerseys. Judging by the brands and styles, Caroline had the period right.

“This is our turf,” the lead one said. “And you’re trespassing.”

I searched his and the others’ hands, but none were wielding weapons.

“C’mon,” I whispered to Caroline, a shield already hardening the air around us.

I’d blast them if they came closer, but I doubted they would. This was a territorial display. A good thirty yards separated us, and running wasn’t considered cool. We’d reach the street before they reached us.

“You owe a tribute,” the leader called. “To the Raven Circle.”

I’d been turning with Caroline, but I stopped now and squinted back at them.

The Raven Circle was the name of Jordan’s druid group.

36

None of the hoodlums gave off druidic energy, but before I could ply them for info about this Raven Circle, Bree-yark shouted from behind me.

“You want a tribute?!”

A fist-sized rock shot past me and nailed the leader in the forehead. His sunglasses fell from his head in two pieces, revealing a pair of upturned eyes. He toppled straight back. Stunned by the sudden attack, the remaining hoodlums stood there instead of catching him. His body tumbled down the stone staircase.

“Anyone else?” Bree-yark barked, loading another rock into his sling.

A gunshot cracked in answer. Someone in the back of their pack had pulled a snub nose revolver from his pants. Before things could get out of hand, I swung my sword toward them and shouted, “Vigore!”

An arcing force discharged from the blade. Hoodlums went airborne, raining hats and shoes as they flipped over one another and disappeared down the hill they’d just climbed. Judging by the thudding bodies and wailing that followed, they were in no shape to pursue us. The Raven Circle name-drop was still bugging me, but if this was post-crash New York City, we’d already been in the park too long.

“Everyone all right?” I asked as I returned with Caroline toward the others.

Gorgantha relaxed her bowed arms. “Yeah, but I wasn’t gonna feel right about smacking down a bunch of babies. Glad I didn’t have to.”

“Punks,” Bree-yark muttered, letting the rock drop from his sling.

I took back ownership of Arnaud as fae magic stirred the air, glamouring Bree-yark, Gorgantha, and Arnaud into modern-day New Yorkers. Bree-yark was a neckless bruiser in a red track suit, his pouch now a gym bag. Gorgantha had become a large man, arms hulking from a sleeveless shirt while a Scottish kilt concealed her tail. And even though it had to be over ninety degrees out, Arnaud had reprised his role as a frail old timer bundled in winterwear, a scarf over his mouth.

Fanning my sweaty neck with my collar, I waved to the others and led the way toward the street. Still in my trench coat, I’d gone from hypothermic to borderline heat-stroking in the space of five minutes.

When a cab pulled over, Gorgantha hunched into the front seat, while Caroline, Bree-yark, and I sat three across in back. Arnaud went on my lap, eyes glaring at me above his scarf.

“Would you rather go in the trunk?” I whispered.

The cabbie looked us over with a sober face. “Usually I can guess where I’m taking someone,” he said in a thick New York accent. “You five? No idea.”

“Belvedere Castle,” I told him.

“You some kinda wise guy?”

I caught my slip-up too late. Post-crash, the park had become a mecca for the city’s nastiest creatures, both human and supernatural. Homicides through the roof. Which made me wonder how Jordan and the druids had ended up there.

“Sorry, bad joke,” I said, releasing an awkward laugh. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art.” That would put us close to where Seventy-ninth cut through the park, winding right past Belvedere Castle.

The cabbie muttered something about everyone being a comedian as he pulled from the curb. Caroline got my attention and drew out a newspaper someone had shoved into the slot in her door. I angled my head to read the date. Early September—no surprise there—but we were deeper into the Crash than I’d thought.

I glanced over the headlines. They all had to do with the city’s budget problems and ballooning crime. There was even a column about the rapacious terms Arnaud’s investment firm had set to manage the city’s debt.

“Is this today’s paper?” I asked the driver.

“Sure is,” he responded without even looking.

He turned onto Eighty-third Street: a shallow canyon of apartment buildings and