Prison Breaker Book 1: Savant
The world is not always as it seems. More than humans walk the Earth.
Prison Breaker: Savant
Two types of people know what I am: those who want to hire me and those who want to kill me. I was still determining the category of my newest customer.
I peered unblinking at where he stood in the doorway of my decade-old Class C RV. My favorite newsboy cap angled low over my face, casting my eyes in shadow. I stood straight-backed in my velvet Italian cut jacket with notched lapels. “Good morning. But no, thank you.”
My new potential client hesitated, then spoke cautiously in an English accent. “I drove two hours through the mountains to reach you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the others queued outside my door, then back at me with a knowing tip of his head. “You can’t say no until you hear what I have to tell you.” He reached back and shut the door with a click. My eyes narrowed at the presumption.
My would-be customer was a clean-cut fellow with glasses and the silver sideburns that always accompany the word “distinguished.” Not the sort you’d expect to find in a fortuneteller’s studio, but all types are interested in the arcane and the archaic. He wore a tie and a seamlessly stitched vicuña wool suit.
Alarm bells jangled in my head. The only people who dressed that well in a quaint little mountain village were divorce attorneys on their lunch break or those “in the know” who were trying to make an impression. In these mountains, an impression came at a cost.
The window revealed a mountain pass cradling a lake in the Wenatchee Forest Preserve in Washington state. The two-million-acre preservation covered a larger space than Chicago, Los Angeles, New York City, and Washington, DC combined. It was the most recent stop for my employer, the Amazin’ Bandini’s Traveling Circus. Through the thin walls of the RV drifted the blare and buzz of circus barkers and milling patrons, accompanied by the scent of reheated caramel, salted dough, and matted animal fur laced with sweat.
I studied him for a moment longer. “Remove your shoes. Then you may enter.”
The man looked perplexed, but he cautiously bent over, slid off his suede penny loafers, and set them next to the door. He straightened, clearing his throat expectantly.
I still felt a twinge of unease but puffed out a breath. I wasn’t in the financial position to turn away customers of either variety. Besides, thank heavens, he was clean. I could almost detect the hint of soap.
I beckoned him over, and we settled at the circular dining table, all sidelong glances and rutted brows, like a couple of snuffling hounds interpreting the unspoken language of scent molecules and pheromones. I faced the window, which, like the rest of my mobile home, displayed the sort of cleanliness found only in the strictest of boot camps or prisons. My only friend, Preacher, suggests I have a phobia where dirt and germs are concerned. I’d like to think I have a higher standard for hygiene than most. I guess it’s like they say: you never quite leave your past behind.
Sideburns eyed the place. “Not what I expected.”
I began to shrug but caught myself. An uncouth gesture. Preacher was rubbing off on me. I dipped my head, then settled straight-backed, folding my hands. “I get that a lot.”
He looked at me. “You’re not what I expected either.”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm. You’re the palm reader, then?”
“The sign says fortuneteller.”
“Ah, well, I didn’t see the sign. Your bodyguard was blocking it. Scary-looking gent, isn’t he?”
I didn’t like speaking ill of my friends, but I also knew better than to engage in needless correction, so I deflected, “Preacher is definitely a sight.”
“His name’s Preacher? Charming.” He eyed me again and clicked his tongue. “As for you, I was picturing someone…a bit more imposing.”
I examined him but didn’t reply. It was the birthright of ex-royals to overlook insults. I’m not jockey-short, but I wouldn’t be playing center for any sports teams, either. I’m about five-eight and built like a gymnast with steely muscles built for rapid and acrobatic motion. When I’m not wearing a disguise for a job, I’ve been told that in the right light, I look like an old-school Italian gangster. Except for my eyes, which were a rare blue, like starlight suspended in winter frost, flecked with the telltale indigo of an eternal talent. My beard was prominent, as intended. It covered most of the scars on my face and helped disguise my features from the few who might recognize me.
I stroked said beard and murmured, “You’re overdressed and undermannered. What is it you want?”
Sideburns’ eyes and nostrils flared, as if he were oscillating between surprise and offense. He cleared his throat. “That’s forthright of you. I appreciate honesty.”
“No, you do not. You want something from me, so you’re pretending not to be upset, but there is a line outside, and you’re wasting my time. What do you want?”
Sideburns’ eyes narrowed. Most people aren’t used to unapologetic honesty, but I can’t afford the socially acceptable everyday deceptions others participate in. My abilities, as they are, rely on an uncluttered mind. Over the years, I’ve found that lying of any variety, which includes flattery, direct omission, and half-truths, muddies my mind.
“Well, then.” Sideburns sounded flustered. “I mean to say…” His voice trailed off, and he examined me to see if I was serious.
I watched him back, allowing him to gather himself. My intention wasn’t to dishonor. I don’t like offending people, but that’s sometimes the cost of clarity.
Sideburns cleared his throat formally, mustering the residue of his dignity. “My employer wishes to hire you.”
“I don’t do house calls.” I jerked a thumb toward a sign on the wall behind me, then caught myself and closed my hand. Preacher’s blunt motions were rubbing off on me. “Sixty for fifteen minutes, thirty for five. I’ll have to charge you for the full quarter-hour if we don’t hurry this along.”
Sideburns shook his head primly. “I’m not talking about this.” He spread his hands, likely skirting options like “charade” or “fool’s errand.” He glanced at me and settled on, “Er, sideshow. My employer wishes to hire you for a masterpiece.”
He used the terminology of the knowing, but the self-important way he said it told me Sideburns was either new to the game or a small player.
“I don’t know if I’d call them masterpieces.” I didn’t fidget, nor did I blink. My hands were as still as ice on the wooden table. A deflection, not quite a lie, but close enough to put me on guard. I’d have to be careful. “Our caricature artist is two tents past the caramel apple stand.”
My customer’s nose twitched as he adjusted his round-framed glasses. “I heard you never turned down a job.”
“I don’t know you.”
“My employer is highly, ah, motivated. They’re willing to pay twice your normal rate.”
That caught my attention. “My normal rate is high.”
“Like I said, they’re motivated. You’d be doing it for double.”
I steepled my fingers beneath my bearded chin. “Take off your sunglasses.”
Sideburns hesitated. “You’re not getting off on this, are you?”
I glanced at the penny loafers by the door and suppressed a smirk at the unbecoming humor. “No. Glasses off, too.”
“My employer mentioned I ought to keep them on.”
“Did your employer say why?”
“No, sh…er, they just said to keep them on.”
He’d been about to say “she.” I filed the information under “Further Use.”
“I won’t conduct business unless I can look someone in the eye.” I didn’t need eye contact to get what I wanted, but it made things much easier and harder to detect.
Sideburns made no move to comply.
“Return to your employer, then.” I gestured dismissively at the door. “Tell them I’m not interested. That will be thirty dollars.”
“Wait! No, here.” He took them off, revealing dull gray eyes. His gaze flicked toward the crucifix on the wall behind me. It was the one ornament on Preacher’s side of the RV. My friend’s half of the mobile home looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, but I’d learned to live with the discarded clothing and empty food wrappers as long as they didn’t encroach on my half, despite every instinct in me screaming for orderliness.
“Are you a praying man?” he asked, sounding mildly surprised.
“Not as much as I could be. Cross isn’t mine. That a problem?” I cleared my throat, frowning. “Pardon. I meant to say, the cross isn’t mine. Is that a problem?” No excuse for truncating sentences like some agent of chaos.
His lips curled, twisting up one side and curving down on the other in a grotesque half-smile. “No problem. Just figured…a savant like yourself, well…” He glanced back toward the crucifix. “Didn’t think you’d be the sort is all. Do you really…believe it? Like, resurrecting bodies? War in heaven? Celestial assassinations on Earth?” He winced and gave a disarming smile, as if to say, “Come on, you can tell me the truth.”
I suppressed a frown, but felt this was too close to dishonesty and allowed it to curdle my lips. I’d personally tasted the wars in the second heaven, and they were no laughing matter. Watching a legion of the angels of death descend in chariots of lightning on the giant, golden dominions of the fallen host was enough to bring even the most courageous man to his knees.
Clearing my throat, I studied my customer, then reached out.
I was starting to suspect Sideburns didn’t know everything I was. Someone had told him I was a savant, but from the way he was acting, and confirmed by removing his glasses, I was nearly certain he didn’t know I was also an eternal talent.
There are six eternal talents hidden in the bloodlines of a few, traceable to before the first penned letter in a history tome. The most common were “Elementalists.” Their devotion to a single source of power, like fire, lightning, or energy, taxed their physical bodies until they looked ghoulish and gaunt.
The “Potent” transmuted their flesh into hard substances like diamond or a steel alloy. They had often served on the front lines during the eternal wars. The “Kindred” were my least favorite since shapeshifters were unpredictable at the best of times. The longer they spent in their monstrous shapes, the stranger their…appetites became.
“Alchemists” were rare nowadays. Their best and bright had been purged after the first prisons were built. The “Blessed” considered themselves the best of the talents, but if you ask me, luck is not a talent.
That left the “Wit,” the rarest of all.
The talents have always existed. Some suggest they were the offspring of angels and mankind. Others say they were gifts from the gods to their champions, using humans as proxies in their unceasing wars. Others whisper of an age-old barter by the dryad queen of the Hidden Kingdoms or the genie lords of old.
Others simply embrace the mystery. The eternal talents have been, are, and will be. That’s enough, as far as I’m concerned.
There was a time when the world respected the arcane, but then TV shows and movies came along with their superheroes and teen witches. The painful arts became a façade. Those in the know prefer it that way. We’d rather the rest of the world—the rest of you—go through your lives sneering at the eternals as fairytales and wishful thinking. We’re a private folk.
Also, what you don’t know about, you can’t defeat.
Mine was one of the rarer, more peculiar talents. I am one of “the Wit.” I kept my gaze fixed on Sideburns’ and, as gently as a breeze wafting across meadow lilies, I extended my consciousness.
Our minds touched, but he didn’t withdraw. His expression stayed quizzical with undertones of scorn and discomfit. He wasn’t trained, then.
Reading someone’s mind, not brain, isn’t at all like reading a book. Were I to play a slideshow of the things I saw, it would resemble gibberish or a Rorschach test. Decades of training have taught me the language, however, so what I saw was as clear as writing on a wall.
A kaleidoscope of images and thoughts and impressions and inaudible words played across my mind’s eye like shadow puppets. I don’t mean “mind’s eye” in the way charlatans use it. Most people, even the unknowing, have access to it. One simply closes their eyes and looks for pictures. The ancient Roman lawyer Cicero called it the “mentis oculi.” Modern scientists refer to it as “hypnagogic imagery.”
I gently prodded Sideburns’ mind, questioning and directing it like a shepherd herding his flock. If Sideburns had met an Imperial mind talent, he would have been putty in their hands. They could have mined him for any skills or talents he’d developed over years. The more powerful Wits could have taken control and inhabited his body for a few days before dispensing with it like a snake shedding its skin.
I wasn’t interested in anything that dramatic. I probed further, feeling the images as foggy shadows flit across my consciousness. I asked another few questions to locate the memories and thoughts I needed, but as I was about to withdraw, I spotted something.
His mind was open to my pillaging, but one small portion was guarded as if by an Imperial mind talent. After another few failed attempts to access the guarded memory cluster, I withdrew my reach, my frown deepening. Whoever had sent him here knew what I was and had gone to great lengths to conceal their own identity.
The hairs stood to attention on the back of my neck, and I felt like a deer in a hunter’s sights right before the gunshot. An unseen finger was tightening on a trigger.
Will double the pay be enough to entice our hero to step out of his cozy life? Find out on May 8th, when Savant: Prison Breaker Book 1 is released. Until then head over to Amazon and pre-order it today.
