Read Online Elvendude by Mark Shepherd - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Shepherd
Tags: Fantasy
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found he could not focus long enough to do so. While the atmosphere felt safe and protective, he found that his mind was muddled beyond use. On a deeper level, the inability to use his mind disturbed him, but the reassuring inner voice calmed him, explained to him that it wasn't necessary to think right now.
He heard the thought, I will understand when I need to, and allowed it to become his own.
Adam closed his eyes, because that was what his thoughts told him to do. He was no longer in control, and nothing in him suggested he do anything but surrender. He found sanctuary in this sudden loss of control, knowing that whatever this power was, it would not harm him. With his eyes closed against the fog and the candlelight, he felt time drift, like a light breeze brushing against his skin.
He did not know how much time had actually passed. Staring at the empty room, Adam wondered if he imagined the entire psychotic episode.
Time to get back to work, he thought. Weird doesn't even begin to describe what just happened.
Chapter Four
To distract himself from the itchy rash which etched itself on his upper body, Daryl scribbled random words on a paper napkin with a number two pencil.
Detectives are pricks.
He erased the "pr" of pricks and was about to replace it with another consonant when one of the detectives came back into the dining room, holding a pen and notepad. Daryl had been sitting in the hard oak chair for hours while cops went over the Winton mansion, trying to amuse himself while praying to the gods they didn't find anything.
The several ambulances and fire department paramedics had left an hour earlier, after managing to load all the victims in the trucks; some openly wondered if they would have to make two trips. One boy wasn't quite dead, or so the medical examiner said, though he sure could have fooled Daryl. The CareFlight helicopter came and left with the one survivor, the fifteen-year-old kid named Colm. Everyone alive, or dead, was en route to the morgue or the trauma ward at Parkland.
Except, of course, Daryl. The police had many things they wanted to ask him.
From the kitchen he heard a cop retching his guts out, perhaps in the sink. Daryl frowned, annoyed.
They never seen dead bodies before? What gives? He yawned, and tried to get comfortable in the heavy dining room chair. No easy task, particularly when dealing with the early stages of a class-A hangover.
The detective calmly took a seat next to him, turning the chair out to face him. The man feigned patience, but Daryl saw the mask for what it was. For some reason the air-conditioning had quit working in the house around six that afternoon, and everyone inside had started to melt. Odors Daryl had never smelled before greeted his nostrils, antagonizing his already unhappy stomach. The detective wore a pinstripe business suit, but had shed the coat and vest soon after arriving, having apparently seen it would be a long ordeal. In his crossdraw shoulder harness Daryl saw an angry looking .45 automatic. Huge wet stains appeared under his arms, and while he could have been no older than thirty-five, he bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Daryl's father.
And his father had no patience, and would have resorted to knocking the crap out of him long ago to obtain the answers this detective now seemed to want.
The detective looked up, wearily, with perspiration pouring off his forehead. He glanced once at the paper napkin, wadded it up, and with no expression whatsoever, bounced it off Daryl's forehead.
The casual gesture frightened Daryl more than it should have. Is this guy getting ready to beat me up after all? he wondered. Or is he just trying to psych me out?
With a neutral, bored tone, the detective asked, "So tell me, Daryl, where's all the cocaine all you bad boys and girls were smoking and snorting last night?"
Daryl shrugged. "Beats me. We just had some wine coolers. I got drunk and passed out in the backyard. When I woke
He heard the thought, I will understand when I need to, and allowed it to become his own.
Adam closed his eyes, because that was what his thoughts told him to do. He was no longer in control, and nothing in him suggested he do anything but surrender. He found sanctuary in this sudden loss of control, knowing that whatever this power was, it would not harm him. With his eyes closed against the fog and the candlelight, he felt time drift, like a light breeze brushing against his skin.
He did not know how much time had actually passed. Staring at the empty room, Adam wondered if he imagined the entire psychotic episode.
Time to get back to work, he thought. Weird doesn't even begin to describe what just happened.
Chapter Four
To distract himself from the itchy rash which etched itself on his upper body, Daryl scribbled random words on a paper napkin with a number two pencil.
Detectives are pricks.
He erased the "pr" of pricks and was about to replace it with another consonant when one of the detectives came back into the dining room, holding a pen and notepad. Daryl had been sitting in the hard oak chair for hours while cops went over the Winton mansion, trying to amuse himself while praying to the gods they didn't find anything.
The several ambulances and fire department paramedics had left an hour earlier, after managing to load all the victims in the trucks; some openly wondered if they would have to make two trips. One boy wasn't quite dead, or so the medical examiner said, though he sure could have fooled Daryl. The CareFlight helicopter came and left with the one survivor, the fifteen-year-old kid named Colm. Everyone alive, or dead, was en route to the morgue or the trauma ward at Parkland.
Except, of course, Daryl. The police had many things they wanted to ask him.
From the kitchen he heard a cop retching his guts out, perhaps in the sink. Daryl frowned, annoyed.
They never seen dead bodies before? What gives? He yawned, and tried to get comfortable in the heavy dining room chair. No easy task, particularly when dealing with the early stages of a class-A hangover.
The detective calmly took a seat next to him, turning the chair out to face him. The man feigned patience, but Daryl saw the mask for what it was. For some reason the air-conditioning had quit working in the house around six that afternoon, and everyone inside had started to melt. Odors Daryl had never smelled before greeted his nostrils, antagonizing his already unhappy stomach. The detective wore a pinstripe business suit, but had shed the coat and vest soon after arriving, having apparently seen it would be a long ordeal. In his crossdraw shoulder harness Daryl saw an angry looking .45 automatic. Huge wet stains appeared under his arms, and while he could have been no older than thirty-five, he bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Daryl's father.
And his father had no patience, and would have resorted to knocking the crap out of him long ago to obtain the answers this detective now seemed to want.
The detective looked up, wearily, with perspiration pouring off his forehead. He glanced once at the paper napkin, wadded it up, and with no expression whatsoever, bounced it off Daryl's forehead.
The casual gesture frightened Daryl more than it should have. Is this guy getting ready to beat me up after all? he wondered. Or is he just trying to psych me out?
With a neutral, bored tone, the detective asked, "So tell me, Daryl, where's all the cocaine all you bad boys and girls were smoking and snorting last night?"
Daryl shrugged. "Beats me. We just had some wine coolers. I got drunk and passed out in the backyard. When I woke
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