Maurice Broaddus - King Maker

At the moment he was trapped in that cycle: needed money for a car, needed a car for a job, and needed a job for money. He accomplished the first goal and he got a job. The blue FedEx uniform was like a second skin at this point. He used to work down by the airport, trying to save up enough money to get a car and full get on his feet, but his kin were bleeding him dry for ride money, charging twenty-five bucks for a ten-minute trip. Another reason to add to that list. Life would be easier if he could walk to work or if he worked along a bus line, so he had hopes of transferring to a closer branch. Soon he'd be able to apply to school, maybe IUPUI or Ivy Tech, something to get started.

The room lights flickered, interrupting his reading. Briefly he wondered if rats chewed on the wiring, as such was the natural order of things. Finding his place in his book again, he found comfort in the slightly chilly room by curling up and covering himself with a blanket. Fully dressed and it being the waning days of summer, Lott found himself pulling the comforter further around him. A creeping numbness settled into his feet so slowly he didn't realize the deep ache of cold in his bones at first. Movement skittered on the edge of his vision. Against the contrast of the dark blanket he realized he could see his breath. He was ready to adjust the thermostat or call the super when he noticed something else. Smoke billowed in from under the door.

Lott rolled out of his bed. The heavy fog had a measured creep to it, its movement contrary to the laws governing mists. Cloudy torrents seeped under the door and through the slits of the window with nary a smoke detector going off. Rushing to the bathroom, he scooped up several towels, returning to find that the wisps had formed a hand with a raised finger, wagging at him for having any thoughts of stemming it.

With that, the mist dispersed in a puff then coalesced into a screen of sorts. The picture of a woman formed, one unfamiliar to Lott though her beauty — despite the smoky portrait — was quite evident. Tall and proud, hair pulled back into a ponytail, she had a fragility and strength all at the same time. His heart filled with an ecstatic longing. Soon, another shape entered the scene. Clearly it was Lott, the two recognizing each other. They moved like guilty people not wanting to be caught, yet desiring the other all the more. They embraced, cloudy fingers fumbling over each other, probing, undressing. Lott stepped nearer, his hand raised in front of him as if to touch the entwined pair.

Suddenly, the tendrils of mist took hold of him, whip-like cords wrapping around his hands, squeezing him with such force he winced despite his surprise. The fog rope lifted him from the ground, his arms pulled over his head. Lott kicked at the fallen cloud, each kick dispersing it briefly only to have it re-form. It formed a teeth-filled maw, opening and closing, with dark indentations giving it the appearance of eyes as it drew Lott toward it. A tongue lolled out, snaking its way to him, its serpentine undulations writhing up his body until it arrived at his face. It licked about him, its ephemeral touch both cold and light. Lott pulled away from it, straining from its touch as much as its tight embrace allowed. The coil reared up, a cloud cobra, then it rammed itself into his mouth. The coldness seeped into Lott. Its essence pushed down his throat. He gagged as it forced itself into him, filling him. Growing light-headed, unable to breathe, his eyes fluttered as they sank back into his head.

The door buckled as something with a lot of force behind it slammed into it. The crash roused Lott back to near lucidity. He turned his head to see what manner of beast would follow next. Interminable seconds passed as the mist both drained and filled him. With the next blow, the door flew off its hinges followed by King and Merle tumbling in.

King came to a stuttering halt as it took him a moment to get his head around the sight of his longtime friend suspended on tendrils of smoke. Gathering himself, he swung madly to break the beast's grip. Merle stood, near motionless, as if a patron at an art exhibit taking in the beauty and scale of the machinations as only a true connoisseur such as he could appreciate.

"What is this thing?" King cried out as he punched in vain. "Merle?"

Merle arced his hand as if throwing up a mystical gang sign, and an arc of green light struck the room. The tentacles of vapor collapsed, their tethers cut, dispersing like fog under morning rays. Merle's complexion turned suddenly pallid and gray. He reached out to a lampstand for purchase, but missed it, instead falling from sheer exhaustion.

"Merle, are you all right?" King caught Lott as best he could, propping him up until his legs steadied themselves enough for him to bear his own weight. "What was that?"

"Each action costs." Merle gulped air between words. "Someone called the dragon's breath."

"The what? Why attack Lott?"

"Someone wishes to cut off your support before you can assemble it. Nice."

"You can marvel at it later. Let's get out of here before it comes back."

Loaded with hundreds of songs from his father's childhood, doo-wop mostly, but a mix of tunes through the '70s, the music on King's iPod was the last connection to the father he barely remembered. He had no distant memory of his father, only the idea of him. His mother treasured a few items he'd left with her between visits. Of the few records left at her place, her favourite was Isaac Hayes' Hot Buttered Soul. She played it over and over, often saying how the record reminded her of him and how out of his own time he seemed to be. An old soul. Only in these moments, between battles and with his music, did he feel like his father's son.

Lott slept, exhausted but otherwise none the worse for wear after being attacked. As if around a campfire taking the first watch, King plopped down on his couch. Merle laid on the floor, head propped up in his hands, and stared at the dancing lights of the iPod with childlike fascination.

"What the hell was that?" King had been waiting to ask but had decided not to open the topic until he had a chance to digest what he'd seen.

"The dragon's breath," Merle said with a matterof-factness.

"Oh. Well, now that you've laid it out for me, that explains everything."

"It's the same for every hero's journey. You're only told as much as you're ready to accept."

"And what couldn't I accept?" King poured himself a glass of water, tilting the pitcher to Merle who waved off the offer.

"That magic is real. That mystery has power and truth."

"Uh huh."

"This would be you still being not quite ready." Merle rolled over, a mad light in his eyes. Clearing the countertop that doubled as a table, he spread a few coasters along it. "The city, like many places, is swathed by ley lines, what some might call fairy chains. Think of them as lines of force that connect places of power."

"This better not be some Satanic shit."

"No, no. This is older than that. Think of the magic that I describe as energy." Merle traced a line from one coaster to the next. "A natural energy that runs along power lines."

"These ley lines…"

"Exactly. And they connect places of power."

"Like power stations."

"Some people, or elementals, can naturally harness that energy better."

"Like you?"

"Me? I'm an old man in a tinfoil hat. Barely capable of a glamour here or there, though I've got a few tricks left in me."

"I'm having a hard time getting my mind around this."

"We live in precarious times. No room for magic. Or dragons. For the line of the serpent to continue, it must adapt to the age. For now I have it on good authority that we need to wait."

"On whose authority?"

"Sir Rupert's, of course."

"Great." King stared at his empty glass he didn't remember draining and refilled it. It was going to be a long evening.