Cameron Haley - Mob rules

It was Adan.

My boss made a small, inarticulate sound as he rushed to his son. He wept openly as he embraced him. The rest of the crowd moved away to give them some privacy, but I just stood there and stared.

As I watched them, I realized this Adan wasn't quite the same as the one I remembered, the one that had been a lie. This Adan had juice. When I looked at him, I saw the magic in him, strong and vibrant. It was the magic both of this world and the other one, the place they called Avalon. It was the same magic of two worlds that was in me.

Finally Rashan released him and led him away. Adan must have felt my stare, because he turned and looked back, and our eyes met. And he must have seen something in the way I looked at him, because he smiled at me, uncertain but warm. Then he turned away again, and took his father's arm, and left.

On the way home, I stopped at Miss American Pie and went into the restroom. Jamal was gone, but the words "JJ was here" were carved into the door of the stall, as if with a very sharp knife.

"Peace out, Jamal," I said, and then I went out of there and into the restaurant. It smelled like apples and cinnamon, but that was just the fucking pizza. Acknowledgments If writing a first novel is difficult, publishing one is even tougher. I wouldn't have accomplished either without contributions and support from a lot of remarkable people. I'd like to thank my two moms, Phyllis Benage and Louise Clark, for making everything possible. My friends Michael Born and John Cunnick for introducing me to fantasy and science fiction, and for sharing so many adventures with me. Jeffrey Barber and Christian Petersen for letting me make stuff up for a living. My agent, Shawna McCarthy, and my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, two very talented women who believed in this book and made it better. Tim Bradstreet, for the fantastic cover art. The entire community at Absolute Write, especially the squirrels in Query Hell and my crew in Purgatory. Most of all, I want to thank Maria Benage, who believed even when I didn't.