Read Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel for Free Online Page B

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    Any information leading to the recovery of Civilian ghosts of war can be anonymously delivered to:  

    Guild #5 of the Civic Order, The Guild of Almaut
    Demesne Five, 40.81167, -73.846323
    Phone: +001 718 792 9736

    For leads on Azure ghosts of war, please direct all information to:

    Guild #51 of the Alchemic Order, The Halls of Deis
    Demesne Fifty-Two, 9.436797, 99.957685
    Phone: +66 77 915 888
    Zeika lifted her fingers and touched Johnny Quinn's picture. He had a serious and handsome face in this one, and yet it was only partially reflective of the one she'd seen every day.  
    She forced her eyes away from his face and frowned as she took in the rest of the wall. The ad for the missing Azure child, Sophia Green, had been centered and swollen with a large bold font. Stained with a background of yellow dye, it shone brightly beyond the other missing children ads, which lay scattered around it like graying, dead leaves.  
    Zeika jammed her hand into her pocket, snatched out her waitress' pen, and put it to the ad. With a deadly arc, she sliced ink through the words "Alchemic Order" and wrote capital letters in its place: CABAL. What had happened to Sophia was tragic, but it didn't erase the truth: there was nothing 'ordered' about the Azures or their Alchemists. They were just a bunch of rich thugs.  
    A toilet flushed. It was the one farthest to Zeika's left, and it gurgled loudly, like its throat was clogged with gobs of toilet paper and--  
    "Shit! Damn, girl, you should've told me you were coming early. I would've put on my Sunday's best." A voice as smooth and as slimy as moss rose above the toilet's wet roar, resounding off the walls of the bathroom.
    Here we go. I'll try not to "break" him, Jules.
    Zeika sighed as she walked towards the stall, peeking in just in time to see the large slab of wall tile moving upward. A secret door to an old speakeasy, and through it glided David Kohler, or "Wavy Davy", as some on his circuit now called him. Zeika leaned against the wall outside the stall and crossed her arms, looking at him critically.
    He must have gotten his style from the history books of hustlers because the fool was completely out of context. Shiny finger waves set against pale skin, like a black sea on a white sand beach. Three gold teeth, which often switched places on different days, were set in a mouth that used to kiss all the girls. He always dressed up, and today he sported a dark red shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, tucked into a gaudy, gold-plated belt and black slacks. Polished gators on his feet. But none of the trimmings could hide the deep crags in his face, or his yellowing eyes, or the nervous tics in his fingers, all lingering specters of heavy drug and alcohol use.
    Zeika tried to feel sympathy for him but came up empty. A lot had happened since the economic collapse, and even more had happened last spring, when the Azure raids began in the Protecteds. A lot of people-- friends, neighbors, workers, good Civilians-- had plummeted into some messed up places. Davy hadn't been one of those good people, though. He'd always been a creep and outcast, slinking around the streets of the Fifth. But the man who was once garbage was now godly. The recent darkness that had been cast over the Protecteds allowed vermin like him to thrive, and he did so on the very vices that now gripped the indigent. The streets on which so many had passed him by were now his domain. Poor, desperate girls clung to him for his connections and for work, and he controlled all of them. Julie was one of many in his stable.
    "Hello, David," Zeika said, not bothering to mask her disgust.
    "That's my name, the prettiest and wittiest. But look at you! You looked so tired when you got here. Outta breath. Why don't you come through to the other side and get comfortable?" He stepped closer as he said this, his gaze sliding to places they shouldn't, especially for a man his age.
    She rolled her eyes at his suggestion. "I'm not a