Epilogue
Mike tosses the pager into the trash bin on his custodial cart before proceeding into Mr. Taylor’s office. The thing hasn’t stopped jumping since he strapped it to his belt earlier this morning. What an annoying little contraption, he thinks to himself.
Mr. Taylor looks up when he hears the opening of his office doors. “Where have you been exactly?”
“Taking care of things,” Mike replies casually. Beyond exasperated, Mike’s nonchalance eats away at Mr. Taylor who has been in a bad mood since he walked in to work this morning. Someone had ransacked the lab of one of his brightest research teams last week while he was out of town. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d walked in today, his first day back, to discover his little side project in shambles. Not only had the lab dedicated to his newest gamble been destroyed, but his own files on the project had been erased.
Walking over to the wall safe hidden behind one of his favorite paintings Taylor flings open the metal door before thrusting an accusatory finger at Mike.
“Where were you when all this—” Mr. Taylor waves his arms around wildly “—was going on?”
Mike maintains a calm façade but on the inside his loathing for his boss writhes like a living thing.
“There were complications,” he tells Taylor very matter of fact. Stomping back to his desk, Taylor continues to glower at Mike.
“Complications!” he shrieks heatedly. “I assume they stole the project files off of my computer too, before they erased everything. How did they know what we were doing?”
Arms outstretched he leans forward on the desk, resting on his knuckles, a posture Mr. Taylor believes makes him appear formidable. Holding the intimidating pose he waits impatiently for Mike to respond.
“The Wanderer incursion was a minor setback,” Mike admits, not fooled by Taylor’s false bravado. After all, Mike is well acquainted with the old windbag’s parlor tricks. Deflated but not done playing big man on campus, Taylor continues to rant.
“You led me to believe this would work! And it was, we were close, close to succeeding, I tell you.” Taylor pauses a moment. “Wait, what the hell is a Wanderer?”
Grimacing Mike grips the back of the chair in front of him. Lord he is sick of this man and his deplorable self-interests. “Abominations.”
Clearly frustrated when Mike’s explanation isn’t forthcoming, Mr. Taylor plunges ahead anyway, his single-minded focus wrapped up in the scheme Mike has assured will make him a very wealthy man. “Well, are they dangerous, to the plan? Is there some way to ensure we succeed before they do?”
Now that’s rich, Mike thinks to himself, unable to keep from laughing out loud.
“I don’t see how any of this is funny,” Mr. Taylor chastises. “The Wanderers have no interest in your pet project, I assure you,” Mike replies, voice laced with contempt. “The bastards have only one purpose. They hunt the Sylph.” It wasn’t always so, Mike remembers, taking a second to grieve for a time long since past.
“Finally! That’s the first good thing I’ve heard all day.” Taylor beams, his only concern being that the Wanderers pose no threat to his marketing plans. There isn’t a soul on the planet who won’t pay an arm and a leg for the kind of power Mr. Taylor plans on selling. Who knows, maybe he’ll even partake a little himself, he thinks. Then he wouldn’t need Mike. Yes, that’s exactly what he’ll do. Once the serum has taken effect, he’ll can the bastard, bury him, ball and all, underneath the rose garden on his estate.
“Since Asad is no longer with us, you’ll have to begin donating to the project yourself,” Mr. Taylor announces.
Mike’s smile takes on a sudden air of authority instead of the meek appeasing grin of a subservient, but Mr. Taylor fails to notice, too caught up in his own power trip. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
“What? How dare you talk back to me! I still own you!” Taylor threatens. Pushing back his chair, Taylor bends down pulling back the corner of the rug under his desk. Hidden in the wood flooring is another secret compartment which Taylor accesses, quickly removing a perfectly round black and red patterned sphere. “You haven’t given me my three wishes yet, and as long as I have this, I am your master,” he boasts.
Enraged by the despicable little man before him, Mike overturns a chair and pounces on Mr. Taylor. Squeezing his fingers around his throat, Mike holds Mr. Taylor up off the floor by his collar.
“I am Himyar. I have no master.” Himyar’s eyes glow red as he prepares to put this human in his proper place. “Funny thing about your get rich quick scheme is that it would never have worked.” Mr. Taylor’s eyes bug out upon hearing the news, but with Himyar’s fist clenched around his neck he is helpless to respond. Dangling above the floor his face begins to turn purple from lack of oxygen.
“You can’t bottle a Sylph’s power,” Mike laughs again tauntingly. “And you certainly can’t sell it to your friends. I had hoped if a human ingested enough of the essence, the originating Sylph would be able to possess them and forever be free of their insufferable sphere.”
Close to passing out Mr. Taylor hangs by his collar, unable to do anything but listen as Himyar monologues.
“Pity. Now we’ll never know,” he says and drops Mr. Taylor to the floor. “You’ve outlived whatever usefulness you ever had. Your heart’s been working overtime, my friend. It needs a break.”
Himyar begins to snap his fingers, the rhythm keeping time with Mr. Taylor’s accelerated heart rate for a minute. Then just as spontaneously as he started, he stops. Taylor’s body spasms once and comes to rest at Himyar’s feet with the mineral sphere still clutched tightly in his palm.
Bending over Mr. Taylor’s body, Himyar dabs at the thin trickle of blood exiting Taylor’s nose with his index finger. Rising he stares at the life sustaining crimson liquid a moment before leaning over Taylor’s desk to leave his calling card firmly imprinted on the ledger.
Acknowledgements
My deepest appreciation goes out to the team of individuals who helped me put this together, who lived with my insanity the last eight months and took my barrage of emails in stride. Thank you to Nathalia for giving a beautiful face to my story. Thank you to Shannon for suggesting this crazy endeavor, if not for you there wouldn’t be voices in my head, all the time. Thank you to Robin and Michelle for taming the unending stream of consciousness that is my brain on paper into something people will actually understand. And a special thanks to Josh, whom I can’t seem to do anything without.
About the Author
Jocelyn resides in sunny California with her husband, who is the best thing that ever happened to her, and her four beautiful children. When not writing she’s either reading, running (because she’s convinced herself she loves it), or outside soaking up the sunshine.
Connect with me:
www.jocelynstover.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/JocelynStoverofficial
The Wanderer Series
Out of Reach
A Step Away
Within My Grasp
Also By Jocelyn Stover
Skin Deep
Indulgence
Out of Reach Page 22