Read The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage for Free Online

and after that, Marc was certain his son would have had a great collegiate career and a record-breaking pro run.
    Football, baseball, basketball—it wouldn’t have mattered. He would have done everything Marc himself had worked to accomplish when he’d been his age, except Marc had never had his son’s agility, his strength, his speed, or his endurance.
    And then, as it turned out, if some people were to be believed, Byron cheated. He wasn’t a superstar athlete worthy of the drooling attention of the scouts.
    He was a fucking Sovereign.
    Or so said the Sovereigns themselves.
    That was like trusting the goddamn fox to guard the henhouse, that’s what that was. Fuck that.
    The lawyers, the Metahuman Affairs people, the turncoat normals from the Donner Institute for Sovereign Studies, they had their reports to point to: Byron Teslowski was a straight-up Standard Class Sovereign with highly developed adaptive capabilities—in layman’s terms, he changed according to what the situation required, which was why he showed off such a wide range of talent when it came to sports.
    Of course, the Sovereigns would make up shit like that, to justify taking him.
    They said his Sovereign ability was what saved him when he was injured in the fight at Charters’ place up at Kirby Lake, too. That a normal human would have died from shock and blood loss. Why wasn’t it good enough to say the kid was talented? That he was healthy, and strong?
    What the hell was wrong with admitting he had damn good genes that he inherited from his old man, and from Marc’s old man, all the way back? Was it so hard to believe?
    It was an insult. An affront. It pissed Marc Teslowski off to no end.
    They had his boy.
    Marc pulled the Dooley into the driveway. As soon as he put on the brake, Jeri got out and went for the mailbox. There wouldn’t be anything there except for bills and junk.
    Not what she was looking for.
    Marc went inside without bothering to wait for his wife. He wanted to get out of his uncomfortable dress clothes, get into jeans and a T-shirt, sit down in his chair, and have a goddamn beer while Jeri threw something together for dinner.
    The house was stuffy; close and silent.
    Marc tossed his slacks and shirt into a pile next to the bed, pulled on an old and worn pair of jeans, and found a nice loose tank top. So. Much. Better.
    On his way to the kitchen, he passed Jeri organizing the mail on the dining room table.
    “Nothing,” she mumbled.
    “Shocker.” Acid reflux tightened his chest. He clenched his teeth, sucked his lips tight against his gums, and focused on the fridge.
    Wherein, he discovered, there was no beer to be found.
    Jesus fuck.
    “Jeri.”
    He could feel her hovering behind him. She was probably waiting to pull the lasagna from the other night out. Microwave leftovers, and no beer.
    “Yes, Marc.”
    “When did you go to the store?”
    “I…I haven’t, yet.”
    “Don’t you go on Thursday?”
    “I—usually, sure, but I needed to find something for the show, and I knew we had enough to get by until Saturday if we needed to, so—"
    Staring at the beer-less inside of the fridge wasn’t helping with anything. Marc turned around and faced Jeri.
    "’Find something for the show.’" His lip curled. “Are you kidding me? So you’d, what, look nice and pretty for the cameras while you sat there and said absolutely not one thing?”
    “It wasn’t…”
    He didn’t want to hear it. “All I ask for—all I ever ask, Jeri—is that this goddamn shitty house is kept up and there’s food in the fucking pantry. Beer in the fridge!”
    His fingers curled into tight hooks. It would serve her right if he finally did just off and belt her one, but she was so damn frail, she’d probably snap in half. Not like his own mother, by God. She could take a punch, and more often than not give as good as she got from Marc’s pop.
    Marc rolled his eyes. “Who the hell do you think gave a shit if you had a new sweater, Jeri?