The Judas Line Read Online Free PDF Page A

entertainment in America made me wish for the good old days of gladiatorial combat. Or public executions. Now that’s reality TV that would garner serious ratings.
    After soaking in the shower for about a thousand years, I exited the tiny bathroom satisfyingly clean and pruny, toweling myself vigorously. “Your turn, big man,” I told Mike, who eyed my Billy Idol-like wet hair with much amusement. By the time he finished his shower (while abusing my ears with “Puff the Magic Dragon” at the top of his lungs), I was dry and dressed in black boxer briefs and a loosely fitting Police concert t-shirt.
    “Hey, Jude,” he chuckled as he donned his own boxers. “What’s up? Ready to talk?”
    Always with the Beatles reference … that’s what I get for choosing that name. “No, Mike. I’m ready to play show and tell, man.” With that I opened the door, letting in the cool night air. Outside was the motel’s cracked asphalt parking lot where Mike’s sad little Corolla sat all alone with no automobile companionship. The halogen light that should have made the lot bright as day was burned out. The conditions looked optimal for my purposes and the zillion stars in the moonless sky lent a bit of extra magic to the still air. The January cold bit at my bare feet and ankles, but I didn’t care.
    “Show me what?” Mike inquired, pulling on a black t-shirt with the words HOLY ROLLER on the back.
    Giving him an enigmatic smile, I began to whistle, much like when I dismissed the sprites that had taken the old man’s hat, but instead of a breeze through aspens, the whistle emerged like the haunting moan of wind wending around an old, decrepit house. Once again the sweet smell of lemongrass soothed me.
    Mike’s mouth opened and I held up a hand to forestall any questions, keeping the eerie melody threading through my lips. One minute … two … my lips started to become numb and my mouth began to dry out. Just when I was about to call it quits and grab the stash of cypress leaves to help with summoning, I felt the smallest of air sprites wind around my legs.
    “What is needed, Magus?” it asked in its whispery windy voice.
    In the Language of Air, which was a trilling whistle, I said, “ I ask that you reveal yourself to this human, O marvelous free one.” Fickle, mercurial air sprites, of all the elementals, were the most susceptible to flattery.
    “And why should I do this, Magus?”
    “It would fill him with awe and terror at your majesty,” I replied, laying it on thick as library paste.
    I could almost feel the tiny sprite’s ego swell. It slinked its way over to a fair amount of rubbish (beer bottles, caps, gum and candy wrapper, etc.) and began to spin them round, swirling, cavorting in a fit of garbage glee. Motes of dust and dirt joined the two-foot tall tornado as it frolicked and danced toward Mike, whose eyelids had disappeared behind their orbs.
    “J-Jude … what … what …?” he gabbled, pointing at the whirling garbage.
    Usually I could shave with Mike’s wit, so you can imagine how pleased I felt watching his remarkable intellect say sayonara. As for the sprite, it was having the time of its life.
    Then it said something that ripped the smile off my face. “This one smells of the Creator.”
    “ What do you mean, O wise one? ” I whistled back in surprise.
    Its laughter was the rustle of a zephyr across long grass. “Those who dedicate themselves to the service of the Creator always smell different … pure.”
    Pure? The smell of God? Or was it the smell of God’s magic?
    “Tell him I will touch him now.” Its tone was perfunctory, commanding.
    Smiling, I said, “Mike, hold out your hands. Slowly, please.”
    Gulping, he did as he was told. The dirt, dust and rubbish fell to the asphalt in a heap. Leaping on the hapless priest, it swirled around his arms, moving faster and faster until his hands shook as if palsied.
    “Jude, what’s going on?”
    “He’s shaking your hands,