Center of Deception

  Center of Deception

  Wielder World Two

  by

  Nat Kennedy

  Copyright © 2016 by Nat Kennedy

  Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner

  whatsoever without the express written

  permission of the publisher except for the use

  of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters,

  places and incidents are fiction and any

  resemblance to actual events, locals or persons

  is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  www.natkennedy.com

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  http://eepurl.com/bOnLyr

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 1

  The beer froth spilled over the pint glass brim, an inch of head creating a fluffy crown. August Whalen, proprietor of the Black Castle, pulled another porter from the tap.

  “Just two, Tracy?” Late on a Thursday evening, the bar was busy with a batch of mostly male customers, as was typical for the Black Castle: a haven for male Wielders.

  “Yeah, boss,” Tracy said as she scanned the floor for tables that needed her. No band played tonight, so the music list mainly mixed modern alternative and ‘90s dance.

  August swiped the glass with a towel and pushed both pints to Tracy, who placed the beers on a tray to deliver to her customers. With no pending orders, he slipped back to the kitchen and pulled a fresh batch of glasses from the dishwasher. He held them up to the light. Sparkling. Like his grin that reflected in the glass.

  “We're almost out of hummus,” called out the cook.

  “Put it on the list.” You always put it on the list. Was that so hard to remember?

  He carried the clean glasses to the front, the burgundy lighting behind the bar reflecting in their shine. To August’s annoyance, Leonard Markland waited at the cash register. August stood straighter, if that was possible.

  Markland wore a pompous leather jacket and an even more pompous smirk. August despised him. As slimy as a bottom feeder, the man maintained dirt on everyone. August trusted the BWS more than he trusted this man. However, August needed Markland—needed him and his connections.

  “Markland,” August said with a nod. “What can I getcha?”

  Markland slid a piece of paper across the bar. “Stellas.”

  August slipped the paper into his jeans pocket and pulled the man's drink. “Four bucks.”

  Markland's grin went shark sharp. “What, no 'on the house?’”

  August gave the man a false but friendly shrug. “What, and give away my profits? It's a hard business.” He tapped the bar with his hand in good-bye as he turned to help other customers, a couple of twenty-something women. The two chatted about prospective jobs. His money put them as graduate students from Albion State University. They paid their bill, freeing August to return to his office.

  “Eriko, get the bar,” he called to his other waitress.

  “Got it, August.” She stationed herself behind the taps with her thin-mouthed smile, ready to mix and pour.

  August's office was more than just his office, it was a second home away from his condo on the river. A clean man by nature, August could retire here, close the door to the music and the smell of beer, and chill. A nearly pristine antique desk he'd found in a small town upriver set the style guide for his office. A bowl of mangoes and a silver framed photograph of him and his dad perched on the top. He and his father didn't pair up as most expected, his father being white and him having a soft chocolate tone to his skin—inherited from his mother along with his mind for business—but their smiles were similar. An infectious grin that people couldn't help returning. It was a fact August had learned early and exploited often.

  He settled himself in his rolling chair, leaning back as he unfolded the slip of paper. A series of letters streamed across the slip and August deciphered the order with ease. Five cases of absinthe, six boxes of Cuban cigars, and … raw ivory?

  What the fuck?

  August scowled. No way was he going to smuggle in ivory, and Markland—the fuckmunch—knew that. At least he hadn't asked for more Pixie Dust. The man was simply a cud chewer. August folded the slip into a tiny airplane and expertly tossed it. Hidden from any casual observer, in the back corner of the wall atop his cherry wood bookcase, was a basket. It collected the slips of code that held all of his not-so-legal orders.

  He could see the airplane wouldn't make it on its own. He groaned. He could, if he wanted to roll over for his Taint, connect himself to the Nerve of the World and strum the line. The power of the Nerve that he Wielded, a force power, would push the little airplane along its path toward the wicker basket. The sweet scent of ripe mangoes would fill the air, as it did every time he Wielded.

  However, even though the paper glider wouldn't make it, August wasn't about to risk his Taint for something so ridiculously inconsequential. He glanced at the bowl of mangoes and shivered in disgust. Every time he Wielded, his obsessive Taint drove him to devour the fruit. Not a price he was willing to pay.

  So, as the airplane bounced off the wall, August scooped it from the floor and rolled his desk chair to the bookcase. His height allowed him to easily plop the airplane in the basket with the orders from Markland and his other contacts.

  August Whalen was a Wielder of the Nerve of the World. In a world where male Wielders were anathema, it was a secret he kept close.

  Male Wielders were cursed. The Nerve strummed them in a discordant way and pushed the men into OCD-like habits or physical malformations. Habits and deformities female Wielders were not burdened with. August's curse was the habit—the Taint—and that Taint drove his eyes to his bowl of mangoes.

  Mangoes were always on hand. He didn't want to think about what would happen if he ever Wielded and didn't have a mango within reach.

  He left his office and gathered up another rack of fresh pint glasses. Back at the bar, he glanced at Markland; the man's beer had barely been touched. “Saw your two oldest daughters in the bar last week, but missed the youngest,” August said with cold disdain. “Figured she didn't like the place anymore.”

  Markland snorted, running his fingers up the glass. “She likes this place just fine; seems you've got a problem with her, though.”

  Eriko breezed by to pour some coffee. “August doesn't have a problematic bone in his body, do you August?” She smiled her small smile at him. He grinned back. She brushed back her long black hair and lifted the pot to face the growing crowd of customers.

  “See,” August said, watching her walk away. “Eriko says I don't have a problematic bone in my body. Who am I to argue with Eriko?” Beyond her current table, underneath an empty dancing cage, a group of rowdy men laughed, pounding the table and urging one of their number to drink. He knew who they were. While they were regulars, he wished these men didn't patronize the Black Castle at all.

  Cultists.

  One of them hovered into the air, floated a moment, and dropped back to his seat. The crowd laughed louder.

  August saw red. He wiped his hands on a towel and marched over to the crowd. Stupid fools were lifting, right h
ere in public. “Hey hey. No smoking in here.”

  “August!” A man in a flannel shirt, John Gould, came over and slapped him on the back. “We aren't hurting nothing.” Red veins webbed the man's eyes. Gould nodded at August as if he could be brainwashed by the simple gesture.

  “Don't matter. Smoking inside is illegal. If I catch you doing it again, you're out.” Then August put on his boy-next-door smile, the one that he knew won the world over, and hoped would sway this hyped-up cult member. “Come on, bro. Don't cause me problems. We all wanna get along here.”

  The group of men, six in all, grumbled. A blond man with a scruffy beard called out, “Sorry, bartender!”

  “Fine, fine.” Gould looked over the crowd, then he leaned close to August, the cloud of alcohol on his breath almost visible. “This is our favorite bar, so we'll be good.” He added a wink for emphasis.

  Not a one of them had lit up, or probably had any cigarettes in their pockets. In fact, smoking didn't mean smoking. At least three of this crowd were Wielders—others who could reach out and pluck the Nerve of the World and manipulate forces, bodies or minds. The last thing August needed was the Bureau of Wielder Services—the BWS, the governmental police force for Wielders—to come breaking down his door, throwing forces around, busting up his glassware with bullets in the name of justice and the American Way.

  The American Way made it illegal for men to Wield the Nerve of the World. It was solely a woman's purview. And in the “Big Brother” world they lived in, you never knew where the BWS was lurking.

  To be completely honest, it wasn't the women's fault. Women weren't evil or anything, they were just heavy-handed about their purity. Their superiority.

  Stephen, his white bouncer—huge as a yeti—whose physique put August's not inconsiderable guns to shame, lumbered up to him. “Boss, need to talk to you.”

  August gave the group a final stern look. Most gave him apologetic smiles. As long as they policed themselves, he was fine. No more showing off their Wielding in his bar.

  He followed Stephen into the kitchen. Stephen was not one of those all brawn and no brains guys, in fact, he knew of August's side business and helped for a cut.

  “Okay, don't freak,” Stephen began, his huge hulking persona shelved to deliver obviously bad news, “but, there's a body in the back alley.”

  “What?” August sputtered, stunned, and when Stephen didn't crack a smile at his poor taste in jokes, a full freak out brewed, ready to be unleashed. “You serious?” He brushed past the bouncer and stumbled onto the delivery landing. Faint on the wind floated the scent of maraschino cherries. A force Wielder had used her, or his, power. Or perhaps someone had dumped a jar of cherries in the dumpster. He hopped off the landing onto the concrete. “Over there.” Stephen gestured at the dumpster. August searched the other side and saw a man splayed out, arms flopped at his sides, legs twisted, as if a huge force had crashed into him.

  The man was blond, wearing a cheap suit. “You know him?” he asked his bouncer.

  “No. Never seen him.”

  “Yeah, me either.” He sighed. There went his good night. “Think we can... ignore it?”

  Stephen cocked his brows at August. “Aren't you already on that one agent's hit list? If someone reports a body back here.... And he was obviously hit with force.” Hit with force. The same branch of power August Wielded.

  “Hide it?” August was beginning to sweat. He hated the heat that washed over his neck, face, and pits.

  “August! You've got a—” He gestured towards the body. “Anyway, you didn't do anything wrong. It was just here,” Stephen said with a tone so reasonable August cracked.

  “Fine. Clear out the basement. Take it all to storage. You have ten minutes. Then I'm calling the Agency.”

  Stephen nodded and hiked back into the bar.

  Though not exactly God-fearing, August said a little prayer over the man before he hopped up onto the landing. Back in the bar, he cut Oasis off in mid-croon. Facing Markland, he jerked his head towards the door. The man's eyebrows popped up, but he stood and left without any further urging. “Sorry folks,” August announced to the murmuring patrons, “but you gotta go. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I need to close up. Tabs are clean. Please come back tomorrow.” All that lost profit. His stomach churned as if he'd just scarfed a couple of mangoes.

  “What's going on?” one of the cult guys asked.

  “Closing early. Got a family emergency.” He waved his arm towards the door. “Everyone out.”

  Most of the patrons ditched the minute he began to evacuate the bar. Male Wielders didn't want to be anywhere near an emergency. A few lingered; he figured they were safe and normal enough.

  In his office, he pulled out his cell and dialed 911.

  “911, what is the address and nature of your emergency?”

  “Hello, this is August Whalen, owner of the Black Castle on Burton. There's a man's body behind my bar. I believe it is Wielder related.”

  Chapter 2

  With nobody inside, the Black Castle held the hint of an echo, so August turned the canned music back up to a companionable level. He cut the burgundy lighting and lit up the stone motif of his bar with bright fluorescent lights. Then he settled in for a wait, drumming his fingers against the bar to the beat of a Foo Fighters song. The clock counted seven minutes since he'd called the BWS. His fingers rattled through a quick succession of taps. What had gooed their tires with molasses? Doughnut sale? He glanced at the door. Oh God, he hoped they wouldn't arrest him.

  He should start bussing the tables, in case he wasn't given that chance before they shipped him off to the oubliette.

  Eriko and Tracy were hopefully enjoying their early night and Stephen had packed up their current stores and moved them offsite, as well as the little basket of Markland’s orders that lurked on his bookcase. August calculated the losses of the night. All the drinks, the lack of sales for the remainder of the evening, his employees’ pay.... It probably would only get worse.

  The sirens peeked through the edge of his hearing. He drank down another mouthful of Scotch, his father's favorite drink. “From the motherland,” Dad used to say. But his father's bloodline was Irish so August didn't quite get the connection.

  He took another swallow as one agent followed another followed another into his bar. He knew two of them: lead agent, Bethany Wolfe-Martin, and her non-Wielder partner, Russ Jameson. The third he didn't recognize. An Indian woman, probably a Wielder. Criminal justice was the career most female Wielders gravitated to. That or the entertainment industry. Or crime.

  He felt the latter were the most honest.

  Agent Wolfe-Martin stood at least a half-foot shorter than August, and her shoulder-length loose brown curls were pulled back in a low ponytail, giving her an almost soft look. August knew better. She was one of those women whose body language was accented with power. They exchanged a slight nod; they'd always been cordial.

  “Where is everyone, August?” She scanned the empty, filthy bar. Used glasses, napkins, and plates of snacks covered the tables. Half drunk, half eaten. Half enjoyed.

  More waste.

  Settled on his bar stool, August leaned back against the bar. His silver-threaded shirt caught the brilliance of the overhead lights and shimmered. He added a smile. “Well, ma'am, it seems my customers didn't appreciate my music tonight. I sure hope they'll be back tomorrow. Friday night is one of my busiest.”

  Jameson, a broad shouldered, friendly guy, nodded his chin at August in greeting. “Where's the body?”

  “Good question, Agent. If you'll follow me…” He slid off the stool and led them through the kitchen and storage area to the back alley landing. Trotting down the steps to the street level, he gestured toward the corpse. “Other side of the dumpster.”

  Jameson and the other agent passed by him to investigate, but Wolfe-Martin hung back.

  “Why do you think there was Wielder involvement?”

  August kept his face sole
mn, as serious as a man should be with a cold body behind his establishment. “I smelled cherries. The kind we serve in drinks.”

  “Maraschino cherries?” she asked. August nodded. “That's almond. They're flavored with almond.”

  “Ah,” he said, not really caring. “Anyway, we didn't have a case of cherries crack on the floor, so I figured it was a Tracer.”

  August shifted his eyes away from the agent’s. He knew she was a mentalist from previous interactions, and there was no chance he wanted to open himself up to a reader. Though, as a lead agent, Wolfe-Martin was probably not someone he could block even if he tried.

  “What else do you know?” she asked.

  August shook his head. “My bouncer found him and I called you.”

  “Any Wielders at your bar tonight?”

  August sighed. Here would begin the night of questions seeking answers he didn't have, or wouldn't give up.

  “I don't know anything else. I didn't hear anything. I don't know the guy. I didn't see anyone suspicious. I run a bar, so folks come in and out all night. Nobody stood out as a murderer. There was one man, who I do not know, who lifted. But, I say again, I do not know him. I asked him to stop—”

  “You didn't kick him out?” she asked with a frown.

  Male Wielders could be dangerous—so the byline and his experience told him; she must be a bit shocked at the levelheadedness of his answer. “No. He stopped Wielding and I let him be.”

  “Any customers in tonight that you did know?”

  August confessed with a steady gaze and a lift to his eyebrows. “Yes, but I will not freely give any names.”

  Wolfe-Martin nodded in return as the two watched the other agents go over the scene in the alley. “We're going to look around.”

  “Of course. I've nothing to hide.”

  Wolfe-Martin snorted. “Except your list of customers.”

  At least she didn't dub them all criminal drunks like the last time she’d raided his bar. Inwardly, he groaned. Hell, outwardly, he groaned. He did not need the attention of the BWS.