Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

ready for our Round Table?” Peter and Gunnar both nodded, but not before both peering over my shoulder again. Peter looked curious, but Gunnar didn’t seem satisfied with my response.
    “Of course we’re ready. It’s our fifth anniversary, after all.”
    “Oh, Darling . You remembered !” I mocked. Gunnar rolled his eyes. I unlocked the heavy oak front door, closing my eyes for a moment as I turned off my secondary alarm system — a fine mist of magic was laced over the entire perimeter of the building. My friends, knowing the routine, waited patiently, although Peter studied me curiously, no doubt trying to see something of my magic. Peter had experienced its effects once, and wasn’t anxious to see it happen again. The feeling of a thousand fire ants swarming your body left an impression, and very real bites. One reason for the secondary protection was the valuable and unique items stored inside, but the other was because I lived in the loft overlooking the front lobby — and what a lobby it was.
    I had purchased the antique 1920’s theater and performed a few minor renovations, redesigning the Grand Lobby into a bookstore with a more modern feel. Several steps led down into the store from the entryway. Six-foot-high, walled-glass dividers were randomly scattered about, effectively sectioning the room into a maze of couches, bookshelves, and even a European coffee bar tucked back against the wall. The convoluted maze was an extensive web of Feng Shui that a team of monks had helped me design. Modern, yet classic. Yin and Yang. Vintage movie posters, steam-punk paraphernalia, and vinyl records decorated the rough brick walls. It was the ultimate man cave.
    Even though the place was empty at this time of night, it still felt homey and welcoming. The glass wall dividers were covered with wax penciled graffiti in a variety of different colors — quotes, ancient passages from classic works, names, and brief artwork — a rite of passage granted to my frequent customers.
    I led the way to the back stairs that climbed the old brick wall to my loft.
    Two of the three theaters nestled in the back had also been revamped. One was packed with almost every type of gaming system. I had even acquired a team of beta-testers to try out games in the developmental stages. Hence, installing the coffee shop in the lobby. Nerds needed caffeine to function.
    And my business was the Atlantis for nerds across the land. Nerdlantis.
    The second theater was now a vast library where I conducted my more profitable sales with those premier clients of mine.
    The third theater was on a need-to-know basis, and not many needed to know.
    My glass-windowed loft overlooked the entire store, both front and back, as I had gutted the old projector room to create a home within a home for myself — a Sanctum Sanctorum . The stairs creaked as we ascended my modern castle-tower, reminding me of the Captain’s prow of a ship, overseeing the activity of the crew below. I shouldered the heavy oak door open and headed back to the bar against the far wall. Settling down into a pair of couches inside the large open loft, my friends took off their coats, relaxing as I began to work. I discarded my own ruined coat, tossing it into a nearby laundry basket with optimistic hope that it could be salvaged. I placed three cups before me.
    Absinthe was the chosen poison for this auspicious evening.
    The licorice-fired spirit had been the favorite drink of visionaries throughout history, including Oscar Wilde, Vincent Van Gogh, and Ernest Hemmingway. But I wasn’t about to attempt Hemmingway’s famous Death in the Afternoon cocktail of chilled champagne and Absinthe. I chose the French Method instead.
    I bent to my task, the process of making the perfect drink now a familiar routine for me as I listened to Gunnar and Peter’s soft conversation. Salivating with anticipation as the thick aroma began to fill my nose, I placed several ice cubes into the drinks, set my