The Warlock's Curse Read Online Free PDF Page B

the fat letter from Tesla Industries, informing him that he’d been accepted into their apprenticeship program. A whole month, and the acceptance letter had said that they wanted him to get there as quickly as possible.
    Tesla Industries was the foremost center for scientific research in the United States, and their apprenticeship program was world-renowned. They only accepted one or two candidates a year—usually college men—but Mr. Waters had been so impressed with Will’s work that he had recommended Will for consideration.
    And Will had been accepted.
    The fat letter had arrived on Hallowe’en. The acceptance letter itself wasn’t fat, but the boilerplate apprenticeship contract enclosed with it was a hundred and thirty-two pages. Will had been giddy with excitement. His father, however, had hemmed and hawed. He told Will that he would have to review the contract before he could give Will his permission.
    And of course, I let him , Will thought bitterly. Trusted him, like an idiot. And wasn’t that just like Father! To pretend he was doing you a favor, looking out for your best interests, when really he was just stalling for time, stockpiling ammunition to fortify his position, so he could ultimately deliver the devastating answer from a position of unimpeachable strength:
    No, Will. I’m afraid I don’t think it is a good idea for you to enter this program. There are many more suitable opportunities closer to home. I’m afraid I cannot give you my permission.
    “Bastard,” Will muttered. Just remembering the old man sitting behind his heavy desk, delivering that shattering pronouncement so smoothly and casually, made him want to punch something.
    A cooling evening breeze blew up the hillside, and along with the smell of dry grass and aging lupines, Will caught the buttery, sugary odor of baked squash. His stomach rumbled traitorously, and his mind joined in the rebellion, suggesting that there would also be roast turkey and mashed potatoes and pies. Ma’am made such good pies. Gosh, he was hungry. He sure wished Ben would hurry up.
    Will caught sight of a flashing glimmer, like a trout leaping from a still pond. He quickly lifted his field glasses back to his eyes.
    An automobile emerged from the dark cluster of oaks that hid the road leading to the Edwards’ homestead. But not just any automobile. Will recognized it instantly as a Pierce Arrow—a 66-QQ. It was the biggest one they made, the six-passenger touring style. The gleaming chrome trim against the elegant French gray enamel, the bright-polished dark wood of the spoke wheels, the smooth blackness of the Panasote top ... what a honey of a machine! And if all that weren’t enough, it was next year’s model, a 1911. It would have to have been special ordered—and it must have cost a mint.
    The car came to a luxuriant surcease before the house’s front porch. The driver was first out of the car on the right-hand side. An imposing, heavily built man, he wore green-tinted brass goggles and a long motoring overcoat that brushed the tops of his mirror-polished black boots.
    Well, well. If it isn’t the Congressman, Will watched as his brother Argus peeled off his dogskin driving gloves. Celebrating his victory with a big new car, and so proud of it that he won’t even stand for a driver.
    The really hilarious thing was that Argus had run his recent campaign as “California’s Man of the People.” The newspapers had been amply supplied with photos of him earnestly shaking hands with laboring types in grimy overalls. The voters of California had swallowed that bunch of guff hook, line, and sinker, electing him to the U.S. House of Representatives just the past September. Will found himself wishing he had a camera right now. Wouldn’t he send those newspapers some pictures! California’s Big Goddamn Show-Off would be the headline.
    And I just bet he’s going to insist on being called “the honorable” now, Will thought. Pft! As if!
    He watched