Read Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) for Free Online Page B

balls!” Peter argued.
    “Easy, Thrasymychus. Might is not right.” I said softly.
    Peter slumped in defeat. “Listen, if you two are going to talk philosophy again, I’m out. No more circle-jerking Plato for me, thank you very much. I’ve got work in a few hours.” He stood to leave, downing his drink with a contented sigh. Setting it on a side table, he paused as if remembering something. “Hey, did you happen to find that book I requested a couple days ago?”
    I frowned. For the first time my eidetic memory failed me. “What book?”
    Peter turned to face me. “I left a note with Jessie. He’s a new employee. Not one of your veterans.”
    “He never mentioned anything to me.” I answered honestly. I had only spoken to the kid once. My store manager, Indie, had hired him. “Why the sudden interest in a book? I didn’t even know you could read.” I teased.
    Peter looked hurt. “What, I’m not allowed to read every now and then?” He grouched. “I left him a note with the title. He said he would leave it on your desk.” I glanced back to see a crumpled piece of parchment on my ornate oak desk.
    “I haven’t been in the office for a few days. Just coming here to sleep. I’ve had… a lot on my plate.”
    Peter and Gunnar both nodded, faces grim. “It’s no big deal. Just a book a client asked me to find. The rich one I was talking about earlier.”
    I nodded, suddenly distracted by an odd sensation on my arms. “I’ll take a look around tomorrow.” I mumbled, rubbing my forearm curiously as I stretched my mind out like a web, searching for the cause of the distracting warmth. It felt like a wave of steam.
    Peter nodded, pocketing his cell. “Alright, gentlemen. I bid you-”
    His mouth closed with an audible click of smacking teeth as I suddenly leapt to my feet without a word of warning. The sensation had cranked up a dozen notches, as if I was now standing before an open oven. I darted to the wall of windows that overlooked my shop, and then looked further out to the street. I had left two of the loft windows wide open for air circulation from the store below. The ice cubes clinked together in my glass as I stared hard, my skin pebbling with sudden anxiety. I felt my friend’s eyes on me, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the street. It had begun to storm outside, heavy snowflakes beginning to cover the cars outside.
    I heard my voice before I consciously chose to speak. “ Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary… Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door …” The world slowed as I abruptly sensed the presence that stood just outside the front door to my shop. Something powerful was waiting for me. The waves of heat intensified, contrasting my suddenly icy forearms.
    Long ago, with my mother’s help, I had created what some Tibetan monks coined a memory palace , a vast mental library where each item — whether a statue, painting, cabinet, plant or even a book — held a specific piece of knowledge or past memory. My mouth moved in pace with my racing thoughts as they wandered through the dusty library, the imaginary walls of bookshelves racing into existence all around me. I held a book in my palms, but I didn’t need to read it. Merely holding the construct transferred whatever memories or knowledge it contained into my subconscious.
    Gunnar grumbled. “Eidetic showoff. What-” The bell from the front door chimed and a shadow slipped inside, interrupting Gunnar. I heard him draw his SIG Sauer 9mm pistol in a swift motion, but it was a distant, sensory feeling, my mind still focused entirely on Edgar Allen Poe. An appropriate black cloak was folded around a woman’s shoulders like obsidian wings, the whites of her teeth seeming to glow as she stared up at me from the floor below. Her eyes were black coals, but a glint of yellow reflected off them from the light behind me. My voice was faint even to me as I