Physically, Milo and his father were nothing alike. Milo was short and plain, with his mother’s auburn hair and brown eyes instead of his dad’s blond hair and blue eyes. Emma had inherited those. But at least he, Milo, wasn’t as clumsy as a baby deer.
“All right,” Max said. “First things first. Dribbling.”
He hunched over and dribbled the ball from one hand to the other. Milo didn’t know how he was supposed to react. He lifted his hands, bent his knees, and waited to hear what he should do next. He caught the ball when his father tossed it to him.
Okay. So far, so good.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
“Oh, right,” Milo said, slapping the ball against the pavement a few times.
His first attempts at walking while dribbling were pathetic. If he wasn’t slapping the ball against his own toes, he was flinging it around like a hot potato. His father tried to reassure him.
“It’s okay. It’s all about skill, and that takes time to develop. Just focus on one thing at a time.”
“I’m trying, Dad.”
He passed the ball. Max managed to catch it this time, but his attention had been diverted.
“Holly!” he shouted, waving one arm as if he were trying to flag down a plane. “Hey, Holly!”
Holly Gerald, one of the neighborhood girls, who had a reputation for sleepwalking and had once been caught in a neighbor’s kitchen dreamily scooping peanut butter out of a jar with her fingers, was strolling down Alcott Street by herself. She wore a set of white earbuds connected to a cell phone in her left hand, perfectly oblivious to her surroundings. In her right hand was a cheerleader’s baton, which she kept tossing into the air and catching.
Every few seconds, she would weave toward the middle of the road.
“That girl’s going to get herself killed,” Max said.
“At least she’s awake,” Milo said.
Finally, Holly saw Max waving at her and waved back. When she realized he was motioning for her to get off the road, she gave him a thumbs-up and stepped onto the sidewalk. Max nodded to show he was satisfied, and Milo took the opportunity to slap the ball out of his hands and dribble it across the driveway toward the hoop.
He tossed it up—and watched in disappointment as it slammed into the backboard, bounced off, and hit the garage door.
“We should practice layups,” his father said.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
They practiced for another twenty minutes as Holly Gerald went up and down the road, tossing her baton, probably practicing for cheerleader tryouts. Eventually, Milo’s stomach began to grumble.
“We should go in,” Milo said. “It’s almost dinnertime, isn’t it?”
His father clutched the ball against his chest. “You’re not giving up, are you? Come on. If I win, I get to eat your dessert.”
Milo winced up at his father, whose face looked as hard as granite in the golden, late-afternoon sunlight. “Dad, I would whip out my amazing basketball skills—which, up to now, I’ve been hiding, apparently—and beat you like David dropping Goliath, but if I’m late to dinner again, Mom’s going to make me wash dishes.”
His father snickered at that. “And a pro-athlete like yourself could never be caught washing dishes.”
“Exactly.”
Max ruffled Milo’s hair, smiling at him.
They were both startled by a roar. This time, it wasn’t the garage door opener, but a large engine that made Milo spin around. He and his father looked in the direction of Gosling Road, which ran perpendicular to their street, Alcott.
The noise was coming from a huge, accelerating Ford truck. Sunlight flashed off its broad windshield as it turned onto Alcott. The driver was a thick-shouldered man with a cell phone pressed to one ear. He kept lifting his other hand and waving it around as he shouted into his phone. The windows were wide open, and a rock song by Metallica blasted out of the cab.
Then Milo saw only the back of the truck as it went barreling past his house.
By now, Holly Gerald had turned in the other direction and was heading up Alcott toward her house. There was no way she’d be able to see the truck. With the earbuds stuffed into her ears, there was no way she would hear its engine or the rock music, either.
The baton slipped out of her hand and went tumbling into the middle of the street. Of course, she went for it.
Milo heard his father’s voice—“Holly!”—and felt a gust of air as something large shot past him, powerful enough to send him staggering.
It was his father. Stunned, Milo watched him dash with superhuman speed across the driveway and the front yard, toward the spot where Holly was calmly gathering her baton from the pavement—the spot where she was about to be crushed by the truck. It had stopped accelerating, but it was now swerving, which meant the driver was fully absorbed in his phone conversation.
Regardless, the truck was going fast.
Max was faster.
Milo was certain that all three of them—the truck, his father, and Holly Gerald—were about to collide in a terrible, bloody crash. He was certain his father would die in the process, all to save a clueless girl who’d been too dumb to realize the danger she’d put herself in.
“Dad, no!” he screamed.
He started to run toward him, but then stopped.
What happened next was impossible. Milo had to be hallucinating.
His tipped his head back and watched his father rise through the air, holding Holly in his arms. He hadn’t just jumped. He had grabbed Holly and launched himself, and was now sailing through the air in a wide arc.
When Max reached the peak of his terrific jump—well above the trees and houses in their neighborhood, probably as high as the tip of a radio tower—he executed a forward flip, dove through the air, flipped again, and landed on his feet in Mr. and Mrs. Thompson’s yard, about five houses down.
Milo even heard the thump of his father’s feet hitting the grass.
A sharp whine pierced the air as the driver hit his brakes. He must have seen what had happened. Milo broke into a sprint, more excited now than afraid.
He was out of breath when he arrived. His father, looking refreshed and calm, wore a kindly smile as he gazed down at Holly. As if he considered saving her life no more than a neighborly gesture.
Holly Gerald, on the other hand, released a girlish squeal. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she stood like that, gaping up at Max as if he were a Hollywood movie star.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Did that just happen?”
Max blinked a few times, apparently coming to his senses. He glanced at his surroundings as if he wasn’t sure where he had ended up. “Been a long time since I’ve done that,” he said in a solemn voice.
“Dad?” Milo said. “Dad, what—Dad, you just—Dad…Dad…”
It seemed to be the only word his brain could form. Like a robot with a short circuit, he wanted to say Dad, Dad, Dad, until his father shook him or maybe slapped his face to restore his wits.
Instead, his father flashed him a grave look. “Relax, Milo.”
A car door slammed shut. The driver of the truck came running across the yard. It was Billy Leroux from down the street, still holding his cell phone in his right hand, his stained black T-shirt emblazed with the words Halo Master above a futuristic space helmet. His eyes were red rimmed, and Milo thought he saw bits of Cheetos sprinkled across the man’s unshaved chin.
“What the hell were you two doing in the middle of the road? And—and just what the hell was that move you did with that girl?”
Milo studied his father’s face to see how he would respond. But the only change in Max’s good-natured expression was a slight narrowing of his eyes.
“I know you,” Max said. “You’re Bill, Greg Leroux’s son.”
“Yeah, Greg’s my dad,” Billy said, sounding suspicious. “What of it?”
“Well, Bill, you almost just killed a teenage girl. And judging by the redness in your eyes and the smell
coming from your pores, I’d say you’ve been up all night drinking beer with your friends.”
Holly glanced up at Max, and then stared at Billy, her eyes widening a little in disbelief. Apparently, the thought of a man drinking and driving was more shocking to her than the seventy-foot jump to which the man was referring.
Even more puzzling, in Milo’s mind, was how his father had managed to smell metabolizing alcohol from a man standing at least twenty feet away.
“You’re that guy with the pretty wife,” Billy Leroux said, not meaning it as a compliment. He wore a sleazy expression as he accusingly added, “If I was you, I’d go home to a woman like that and mind my own business, not everyone else’s.”
“You’re right,” Max said, placing a hand on Holly’s shoulder. “She’s very pretty, like this girl right here.” Holly beamed. “And you almost took her life because you thought it would be a good idea to drink twenty or so cans of beer, and then drive home without sleeping it off.”
“Twenty…” Billy said, wonderstruck. “How did you…”
Max approached him, a light bounce in each step. He was almost a foot taller than Billy. But Billy didn’t look intimidated; instead, he squared his shoulders as Max came to a stop directly in front of him. Milo tensed, heart racing.
“You best get out of my face right now,” Billy said.
“I’m not in your face,” Max said. “And I’m not going to threaten you, Bill. But I will tell you this.”
“Oh? And what’s that, chief?”
Billy stared up at Max’s eyes like he wanted to carve them out of their sockets. He was even baring his teeth, which were the yellow of old socks.
“In about three seconds,” Max said, “I’m going to rip that cell phone out of your hand, call the police, and tell them what just happened, so they can come here and breathalyze you. That’s not a threat; it’s a promise.”
Billy went stiff at the thought. His voice shook a little. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would. If that’s what it takes to keep this neighborhood safe. Or you can walk away. Don’t even get in your truck. Go home, sleep it off, and pick up your wheels later.”
Billy chuckled as if this were all just a joke between friends. Milo thought he would back down and leave.
Instead, he threw a punch at Max’s face.
At first, Milo thought his father had been hit, so quickly did Max drop his left shoulder and twist. But Billy’s punch never landed. Max had caught it midair, and now held it in a firm grip.
Stunned, Billy remained frozen in place as Max used his other hand to pry away the cell phone. They all watched in stunned silence as Max crumpled it into several pieces, using only his fingers.
Billy’s mouth fell open. “L-let me go,” he stammered, wincing at the powerful grip around his knuckles.
“Walk away,” Max said, his voice frighteningly soft and steady. “Go home and take a nap. Don’t bother coming back for your truck, because it will have been towed by then. Get a ride to the tow yard, pay the fine, get your truck back, and never make this mistake again. Do you understand me?”
“O-okay,” Billy said, nodding vigorously. “You got it.”
Max released him. Rubbing one hand with the other, looking like a dog that had just been kicked, Billy dug out his keys, pressed a button to lock the truck’s doors, and made his way across the street toward his house. He glanced back only once at Max, Milo, and Holly, a vengeful gleam in his eyes.
“Never drink and drive, kids,” Max said. “It’s just not worth it.”
Milo happened to glance down at the ground. He noticed inch-deep depressions in the grass, shaped like the bottoms of his father’s sneakers.
“No way,” he said.
Holly Gerald followed his gaze. They were standing side by side now. She leaned over and whispered in Milo’s ear. “Your dad’s a superhero.”
Milo had no idea how to respond.
Holly gave Max a wide smile before skipping toward her house. This time, she made sure to look both ways before crossing the street. As soon as she was out of earshot, Max looked down at his son.
He was frowning, and his next words were chilling. “Forget this ever happened, Milo. And let’s not tell Mom or Emma.”
Milo could only stare at him in bafflement. “But you just saved her life. And that jump, I mean, Billy was right. What the hell was that?”
His father looked away, eyes distant. “There are things in this world that can’t be explained. Mothers who can sometimes lift a car to save a child pinned beneath the wheels. Victims of shipwrecks swim entire oceans just to get back home. This was one of those things.”
“But no person can possibly jump—”
“Milo, you’re a smart boy,” his father said, cutting him off. “I’ve seen all those science books you read. I’m sure you’ll come up with your own theories, but just promise me you won’t mention it to anyone else. It’ll scare Mom and Emma. And kids at school will think you’re weird.”
His father was right about that—the school thing, anyway. No one would ever believe him. The other kids would just think he was bragging to overcompensate for being smaller and younger than everyone else.
“Okay, fine,” Milo said. “I promise I won’t bring it up.”
“Thattaboy. Now, let’s go home and get some dinner.”
He put a hand on Milo’s shoulder. Together, they made their way back in silence, Milo feeling the entire time like his secret was a ticking time bomb.
CHAPTER 2
I n a moonlit forest outside the sleepy town of Dearborn, New Jersey, a rift opened between two worlds.
It happened in a small, isolated clearing. Someone standing nearby would have felt a blast of wind and smelled a decaying swamp where, before, there had only been the country scents of grass and dew. The rift itself resembled an ink stain smeared across a pane of glass. It disappeared if it was looked at sideways.
The darkness on the other side shifted. Something large and bulky appeared in the rift, crunching dried leaves as it trotted forward. It neighed like a horse, but its eyes were the bright red slits of a demon. Its black coat blended with the night. As it crept forward, a pair of wings became visible, draped around its sides. The feathers were pure black and shone as if coated with oil.
The horse stuck a knobby leg through the opening. It moved hesitantly, testing the air.
“Onward,” came a raspy voice.
The moonlight revealed a cloaked man seated atop the creature’s spine. His hood was pulled forward, hiding his face, and yet the wind tugged incessantly at the fabric, revealing patches here and there of white, wrinkled flesh, along with a pair of thin lips pursed in indignation.
“I don’t have all night,” he said. “Move it.”
The horse squeezed itself through. The man reached down to touch a bulbous sack hanging from the saddle. He stroked it, pleased that his precious cargo had made the journey. Whatever hung inside the sack was very heavy. The horse hitched to one side as it stepped through, nearly buckling once it landed on the grass. The man urged it along with harsh whispers.
“Pick yourself up. Don’t buckle so much.”
The horse righted itself with a flutter of its wings, which were now free to stretch. A loud crack startled it. The creature jumped away from the rift, almost toppling over. The rider held on for dear life.
“Easy now!”
The noise had come from the rift, which was sewing itself back up. The wind pouring through it rose into a whine as the opening shrank into a pinprick. It disappeared, and the clearing was silent again.
The horse steadied itself. Its rider shook his head and sighed. His name was Querrigan, and he hated interrealm travelling almost as much as he hated human civilization, with its ignorance of sorcery and the true nature of the many worlds around it.
“Next time you tense up on me like that, Formax,” he said, leaning forward to speak into the creature’s ear, “it’s straight to the slaughterhouse you go, unders
tand? Shameful excuse for a levathon.”
Formax responded with a defiant snort. Querrigan straightened again, as much as his crooked spine would allow, and sighed. “Gods curse it all, I’m getting too old for this.”
He reached down, his arthritic fingers searching for the straps supporting his cargo. He untied it and let it fall to the grass with a loud thump. The globe was unbreakable, but he winced anyway. Such a precious artifact had to be treated with respect.
He dismounted with a series of grunts, and then dismissed Formax with a slap. The levathon gave an excited snort and broke into a sprint. Several wingbeats later, the creature was gliding above the trees. Querrigan watched him climb toward the night sky, where he was trained to hide in the clouds until he heard his master’s summoning whistle.
He allowed himself a moment to smell the air of a world few members of his priesthood would ever get to visit. These missions were Querrigan’s domain, and he was damned good at his job. He had spent most of his adult life preparing for this—to serve as a sort of ambassador. But diplomacy and peace were the last things on his mind.
An ambassador of death, he liked to think of himself.
He made the short trip through the forest, toward a bluff that overlooked a steep cliffside. Stretching for miles beyond its base was the town of Dearborn, New Jersey, population 7,506 humans…
And four who were not.
“A proper hiding spot.” His gaze swept across the sleepy lights and empty streets, beyond the quaint houses, to a well-lit highway in the distance. “The most boring human village imaginable.” He smiled. “Though not for much longer.”
The hardest part of the mission was over. All those years of searching had led to a breakthrough, and Querrigan had been the man behind it. But the best was yet to come. He could already hear his brothers’ voices congratulating him.
Querrigan, they would say, it wasn’t enough to make Knight-Captain in the King’s army, High Brother in the church, and Salt-mage of Necromancy, was it? You had to have your name in the history books, too, you old snake…
Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series Page 2