Controlling the Elements (The Manipulator Series Book 1)

by N. R. Spratlin

  I fidget in my seat uncomfortably and sigh loudly. I may not have known him but Zephyr did, and they were close. Zephyr may not have shown he was saddened by it, but we all felt it through our link with him, even as he tried to hide his feelings. Apparently, the guy who was going to become our Manipulator, the sixth and final member wasn’t even raised as a Mikroelementy which blows my mind. All of us grew up as Mikroelementy and knew that eventually, as males, we would be in charge of fulfilling our destiny.

  The Mikroelementy are a small group of men who people first believed to be magic wielding. Many years later and through scientific testing, it was discovered that the Mikroelementy actually just have more access to our brain. It really boils to the combination of the original senses of humans and being sensitive to the everyday elements around us, because they are in every single thing. They are in every molecule, every atom, and every cell. In the very bits and pieces that contribute to our universe. For example, elements found on earth are in everything that helps us live and sustains life, because of this nature was born. Fire is both destructive and used to start anew, to cleanse. Without fire, humans would never have evolved. By relishing its warmth and cooking food, humankind has developed over the Millennia. Without air, without oxygen, fire could not exist and we couldn’t breathe. We even hold an element in our body. The adult body is made up of around sixty percent of water.

  I should know. I can sense it.

  And finally, without spirit we would have no transcendence, sixth sense, enlightenment.

  This shit just blows my mind.

  Then a certain part of the brain allows us to be able to wield the elements to our will. I wish I could remember the part of the brain that was expanded for use, but that is more of an Everett thing. I also wish Einstein was still around to see some of his theories proven right, even if it were only applied to elements. So no magic powers; just humans that have evolved further and are more in tune with the world around them.

  No one really knows how we came to be; only that the evolution manifested within the genes of hominids during a period of the early creation. The gene is hereditary and was passed down until our brains started evolving as well as humans becoming bipedal as well as being bipedal. This came at a crucial point, as nearly four million years ago our ancestors in Africa witnessed natural disasters that seemed to be destroying the Earth. We know this because we have fossils and some other weird documented shit that Everett told me about.

  Over the past hundred and eighty years they learned through much trial and error that they had been gifted with affinities for each of Earth’s elements: Water, Air, Fire, Nature, and Spirit. The sixth and most important of the group was able to wield all of the powers at once to disperse and channel the energy if it was unbalanced; later being dubbed as the Manipulator.

  The happy little novels you read as a child where witches and warlocks are able to conduct magic? All false, but those legends were started by one of the Lords so his daughter would not feel left out after the attention her brother had received. The evolution has only ever appeared through males when they reach age of maturity at around thirteen.

  Why? I have no idea, but I do believe Everett is closer to discovering the answer. He is the brains of our group, and has been obsessed with figuring out the puzzle. His obsession over this actually stems from his mom telling him bed time stories about female Mikroelementy while he was growing up.

  I pull into a rather decent parking spot close to where Professor Childer holds class, thankful for not having to walk too far. I need to swing by the vending machine and pick up a soda to caffeinate me enough so it can get me through this next lecture. I get my drink and enter the classroom with just enough time to get situated in my chair behind my desk at the front of the room and pop the tab on my soda before Childers walks in.

  I hastily take a swig of my drink while I plop the folder of the graded essays on the end of my desk for him to walk by, grab, and hand out. I have been his teacher’s assistant ever since I finished his course about three years ago. Somehow this crazy man has heavy weight in the school, so no one really put up too much of a fight when he requested I become his TA a year earlier than what was acceptable.

  Hey, I couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth; especially since it gets me up at the podium two days a month to give lectures in preparation to eventually teach a college course of my own.

  I will definitely rock this teacher business.

  If I can reach out and inspire one person to appreciate myths and folklore like I do, then that will be worth all the hours I have spent learning to teach or teaching.

  Childer rounds the podium to my desk; I smile at his superb sense of fashion. This man has got it going on; I want to be just him when I grow up!

  Today he is sporting khaki grey pants, with a crease pressed in the front, a pastel blue plaid short-sleeve shirt, and his moth eaten bright ass orange cardigan over it. I have been convinced for a while now that Childer is my spirit animal.

  No, for real; I want to grow up to not give a fuck like he did.

  “Connor my boy, how was your weekend?” He asks as he swipes my file from the desk, opens the cover, and then licks his finger to rummage through the papers I’ve graded. I look to my left and notice a few students enter through the doors just chatting happily away with their friends. One guy in specific is obviously trying to impress his female companions if his animated hand gestures say anything. The girl closest to him giggles, tilts her head down, and brushes her brunette hair behind her ear.

  Huh, well good for him; it looks like he’s succeeding.

  I let my laugh slip through my lips a little louder than intended and startle the incoming group.

  Whoops.

  I turn back to Childer in an attempt to avoid any more attention my way and answer the question he has been obviously waiting for since he has stopped sorting through the papers and was staring expectantly at me.

  Uhh. I scratch my head, trying to remember what he said. Oh, wait; I know!

  “Not too bad Professor. You know, did the usual. Snorted a bunch of coke and partied with hookers.” I quickly reply with my award-winning smile, lowering my voice so that everyone taking their seats can’t hear Childers and I cutting up.

  “I hope you used protection.” He jaunts back to me just as quick. I can’t help the bark of laughter that bursts forth, causing more of the incoming students to turn our way.

  See? This dude is a total rock star.

  “You know me, ever the careful one. How was your weekend, sir?”

  “The same ol’ same. Except this weekend the Missus wanted to spice things up a bit and decided we should go try Indian food. If I had known that was the type of spice she meant, I would have better prepared my stomach instead of my imagination.” He chuckles as he gives me that knowing wink.

  “Oh, ouch. I am sorry about that. But you know how women expect us guys to read their minds and know exactly what they are thinking. End to end, we are caught up in the hurricane of their emotions; trying to straighten the mess. I swear they set us up for it.”

  He laughs heartily as he responds, “You are not wrong about that, my boy. Speaking of hurricanes, did you hear about the one that is predicted to hit the east coast within the next forty-eight hours? It’s supposed to be a doozy. They haven’t seen one this bad in almost a hundred years.”

  “No, I haven’t heard that yet. I will definitely tune in now. Thanks.” I immediately sober at the thought of such a disastrous storm being out in the waters and none of the other water conductors sending word about it. If it is truly that bad, they would have called for reinforcements. I know we aren’t a fully formed group, but I could at least go out and offer my assistance in trying to calm it down.

  “Yeah, I just hope that they are fully prepared over there. The last thing I want to see is devastation like Hurricane Katrina.” His steel grey eyes lose focus as he grows concerned over the upcoming storm. Feeling the unease in my gut at the discovery
of these events, I look out across the auditorium and see most of the students have taken their seats. “Anyways, I better get started with class or otherwise word around campus will be that Old Man Childer is getting soft.”

  “Ah you’re not old, and if anyone calls you that tell them you age like wine. You just get better every year.” I shake my head at his nonsense of getting old and being soft. Honestly, Professor Childer is the biggest teddy bear around campus and with a youthful spirit like his, he will never die. He taps the edge of my desk with the file folder and turns to call attention to the class. As soon as Childer calls the class into order, I zone out.

  Why would no one reach out to me? How exactly did this hurricane get out of control?

  That uneasy feeling I had when dealing with Tucker creeps its way back into the pit of my stomach. The waves of questions that circulate in my brain just build up more turmoil within my nervous stomach. I pull out my cell phone from the front pouch of my bag; unlock the screen in my lap under my desk, hoping no one notices. I open the weather app I have affixed to my main screen and scroll through the daily predictions till I find what I am searching for. I cast my eyes around the classroom again to see everyone is tuned into Childer and not me, and then I begin to read.

  Hurricane Matthew predicted to make landfall in the New England area within forty-eight hours.

  I read further down till a sentence jumps out at me so much I catch my breath.

  ‘Meteorologists are still baffled over the way Hurricane Matthew veered off course since there are no front systems to encourage it.’

  That simple sentence confirms that something isn’t right. Within the time it takes to read those few short sentences all sound has ceased to exist around me. I have a heavy sinking feeling in my stomach like I just swallowed a pound of wet concrete.

  Something isn’t right; I don’t know how to comprehend this alone. I quickly close the app and open up a text message to Everett.

  ME: Hey, have you seen what’s happening with the weather off the east coast?

  Geek Lord: No, I have been too caught up with my latest assignment. This code is one of the hardest codes I have had to crack in a while. Bastards got this guy good. What is going on?

  ME: Do me a favor and do a quick search on Hurricane Matthew. Something doesn’t feel right.

  Geek Lord: Hold, please.

  I set my phone down and run my hands up my face and through my hair.

  Hell, Tucker and I might be the bald buddies if my emotions keep ricocheting like his. Well, at least I could pull it off.

  I notice I’ve captured a couple of student’s attention, so I just smile at them and grab a pen and notebook from my bag and pretend to be working on something till Everett texts me back. I jump for my phone as soon as I see it light up.

  Geek Lord: Yes, I can see where it would be concerning to you. But do not jump to any drastic conclusions yet. I will contact some local groups and see what I can find out.

  ME: I am telling you, something doesn’t feel right. Let me know when you hear something back. I will try and get into contact with Ricky in New Jersey and see if he needs me to come and assist.

  Geek Lord: 10-4.

  One thing in life I am certain of is my gut feelings have never leaded me astray, not since the day I felt them before my parents died, and not now. I shoot off a quick text to Ricky, asking for information and lending my services before putting my phone back in the pouch of my bag and grabbing my drink. I sit back in my chair and try to pay attention to the rest of Childer’s lecture. I know I don’t fool anyone because for my first time since being a TA, I don’t try to inject my humor or random bits of knowledge. Childer looks over to me with a concerned look a few times, and I finally point to my head with his last glance, indicating a headache which I definitely feel building. I think I have him convinced as he doesn’t hold me up after class for our usual talk. I feel bad for leading him astray as I walk back to my car, but too much has happened in a short period of time and I am feeling a bit off kilter. I just need to get home, go to my room to research more of Hurricane Matthew, and see if I can answer any questions the meteorologists missed.

  Shit, please don’t let me have developed a second elemental ability to be able to control Spirit as well as water, because at the rate I’m struggling to gather my thoughts; it is only a matter of time until I join Tucker with his alter ego of emotional pregnant woman.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I mean, who wants to get up at the crack of dawn just to put on make-up anyway?” – Dillon

  Dillon

  Thankfully I’ve been able to take care of the mundane tasks after the brief but embarrassing meeting with Child Protective Services today. I guess I never truly realized how much of my life has been spent doing such mundane things until I have absolutely no time to take care of them. So reluctantly, I went by the grocery store earlier to pick up a few essentials that will get Lyon and me by until the end of the week.

  Let me tell you, Lyon can eat!

  I forgot how much boys could. My heart lurches as I think of Deacon and I growing up, his plate was always double the size of mine. Mom was a fantastic cook and she enjoyed cooking for us. Each meal was made with so much love; I swear it made it taste even better.

  Every day when we would come home from school and the mouth watering smells wafting from the kitchen would assault us; the scents were always so enticing it caused our bellies to rumble and made us practically salivate for a bite. Dad would always make sure he was home in time for dinner, he wouldn’t even dare to be five minutes late. He would say his place is with his family. Deacon’s job was to set the table while mine was to do the dishes afterwards.

  I hated doing them. I often bribed him to do them for me, and in exchange I would cover for him when he snuck out.

  Every Wednesday Mom would cook fried chicken, mashed potatoes, Mac n cheese, and corn. Mine and Deacon’s favorite. There was always plenty left over for seconds and in Deacons case thirds. I now know mom purposely made extra just for us. She was great like that. Then of course, many of our friends would come down especially for her cooking as well. They loved it.

  I take a few deep breaths to prevent the assault of tears, which are always on standby it seems like lately. I close my eyes to try and stop the memory overload but it doesn’t help. They just keep coming to the forefront of my mind no matter how hard I try to push them back.

  One of the sleepovers Deacon had with his friend is the most vivid thing in my head at the moment. He and out best friend Zep complained so loudly one night that they were so full they couldn’t move, having had begged Mom earlier to cook them a beef curry with rice, garlic bread and Indian onion bhajis. A full twenty minutes later when I went to the kitchen to grab a glass water to see they had every single tub of ice cream all in different flavors we owned out, plus everything that could remotely be considered a topping, strewn everywhere upon our counters.

  I smile shakily as I remember the pride on the boy’s faces when they showed me the huge monstrosity of their version of a sundae, and in Moms best serving bowl no less!

  “We’re growing men; we require eating a lot.” Deacon patted down his puffed-out chest in an attempt to prove his manliness and to make his point.

  We were eight.

  One would think it should have been instilled in my brain that growing boys eat a lot, but somehow when I moved away from our hometown to pursue my business internship, I guess I had just blocked everything out.

  My heart lurches again as the reasons why I moved away try to take over the pleasant memories. I swallow down the sick feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I think of it—of him.

  I look down and notice I’ve unconsciously made fists with my hands. Taking a deep breath through my nose and exhaling it out, I unfurl my fingers.

  I don’t want to think of this today or any day. I can’t handle it as well as everything else right now, I just can’t.

  I need to get my thoughts and emoti
ons back in check. I have to continue on for Lyon and stop getting caught up in the past. That means living life to the fullest, because life is too short. I have to stop shoving my head in the sand and start making decisions towards my future; like what to do with Deacon’s company.

  I’m glad at least my current job is allowing me to work from home full time which enables me to be able to go to Deacon’s office and sort things out from there. It was his pride and joy and it still a successful business. Still I shouldn’t be the one only dealing with this and wanting to keep his business and the legacy of his name, but that’s not what I need to be focusing on right now.

  Do I quit my job and work there full time?

  I run my fingers through the tangles of my hair. This was Deacon’s and his best friend’s dream, not mine. I never wanted to be part of their company let alone run it, because I feel like I don’t have the full vision or love for it like they did. This is the one job they made from scratch and knew a lot about.

  They were in the sport professionally. I never went pro; I just enjoy being out on the water and having fun with surfing. I don’t think I could ever function if I had the tense pressure of being paid to perform in such a way every time.

  Since I only know the lax part of surfing, I don’t know fully what’s required of running his business of creating surfboards for professionals. I don’t know how to maintain the successful brand he created when he retired from pro circuit two years ago. I just don’t know about anything.

  I feel like I’m drowning.

  I rub my palms over my face trying to null the memories and the predicaments his best friend has put me in. I shake my head.

  With a sigh, I look around the bathroom. Rissa had modeled it to my tastes a few years ago for when I used to stay over, it’s a beach theme.

  I’m very secure in my decision to move into their house, but I just can’t move into their bedroom. Before them it was our parent’s house and my childhood home. We received it when they passed and made the decision to have Deacon and Rissa to move in since he was the first to marry, and his business is here. Two sets of couples have died; I can’t help but feel like I’d be uncomfortable if I ever slept in their room. But I know that isn’t the true reason I’m hesitant. The true reason is I know it will look as if they never left, maybe even smell of them still.