Changer (Athanor) Read Online Free PDF

the pouting lips and seductive eyes remain, but the build is lean, almost angular, height accented by a leonine mane of golden brown hair cut in a stylish shag.  Although his official bio claims he is half-Native American, half-French, Tommy Thunderburst looks like nothing so much as the incarnation of rock n’ roll—and that he is.
    “Hi, Tommy,” Sven says, stepping past the man in the doorway, a bantam strutting beneath the leopard’s jaw.  “Thanks for seeing me.”
    “Yeah, right, man.”  Befuddled still, Tommy closes the door and follows Sven into the living room.
    Remnants of a fire fill the kiva fireplace in one corner, cigarette ashes overflow several Indian pots around the room.  Glasses half-filled with flat soda or stale fruit juice randomly decorate any available tabletop where the drinker had distractedly put them aside and forgotten their existence.
    The source of that distraction is even more evident than the mess.  Sheet music is scattered on stands and the floor.  Two acoustic guitars lean against a grand piano.  A flute and a lyre rest atop the piano.  Electronic gear is heaped in another corner.  Through an open door, Sven spots enough recording equipment to make a major studio envious.
    Eyes sleepy no more, Tommy views the chaos, clearly aware of it for the first time.
    “Sorry about the mess, man.  I didn’t expect company.”
    “No, don’t worry about it,” Sven says jovially.  “I did drop by unannounced.  Tell me, did you like my gift?”
    Tommy’s eyes narrow.  “Maybe.”
    “Hey!” Sven warms his tones.  “I’m not a narc, and I’m not from her either.”
    Neither of them need to clarify who the female in question is.  Tommy’s lovers have been countless, but only one woman is a constant in his life.
    “She don’t care,” Tommy says bluntly.
    Without volition, he has strayed over to one of the guitars.  He picks it up, sits on the edge of one of the chairs and starts strumming something atonal yet melodious.  Sven feels himself being captivated by the music, shakes himself.
    “Tommy, I’m a big fan of your music.”
    “Ain’t had any out yet, bud.”
    “I’ve heard you in the clubs.  You’re good.  I think you’re going to be as big as Elvis…”  He pauses, watches for some flicker of acknowledgment in the downturned gaze.  “As big as Angus… as Orpheus.”
    The gaze that lifts from the guitar is no longer sleepy.
    “Who are you?”
    “A friend.  One who knows what you can do, who is glad to know that you are walking among us once more and who wants to…”
    “Use me?”
    Sven arches his brow.  “Hardly.”
    He lies easily.  Deception is easier for him than truth.  With truth he always feels he is giving something away.  However, since no one gets something for nothing, he has made himself comfortable with the necessity for truthfulness from time to time.  With Tommy, this time, there is no need for awkward truth.
    “No, Tommy, I’m just a fan.  After your last ‘fall,’ I researched how you might avoid your… tendency toward excess?”
    He makes the last a question, as if he himself is less than certain what he means, although he knows precisely.  Many athanor have patterns they live over and over again.  For Tommy Thunderburst the pattern involves music, tragic love, drugs, and self-destruction.
    “Excess,” Tommy laughs bitterly.  “Call it that, if you want.”
    “I have,” Sven continues cheerily, “taken advantage of modern chemistry.  There are designer drugs that give highs unlike anything in wine or dope, but safe—non-addicting.”
    “That’s what they said about cocaine,” Tommy says, fingers working through a syncopated scale.  “And about lots of other shit.  And there are drug tests, now.  Get you arrested.  The days of wine and roses are gone, my red-haired kinsman.”
    “What,” Sven says, leaning forward, “if I gave you a charm that would protect you from all of that?”
    He quickly