The Taming of Adam: Part 1: The Path to Envale

By Jason Hubbard

Meet Adam Taylor. He is a black mage: a magic-wielder who draws power from the essence of shadows. He is also a loner who prefers only his own company and dreams of power simply to make a living with it. He shuns and pushes away others, making him an extremely rude and antisocial miscreant. On the inside, though, he is a sensitive soul who doesn't quite know the meaning of love and friendship.

Gene London, meanwhile, is a famous attorney who has a knack for defending difficult cases. He is also a government lobbyist who speaks to lawmakers on behalf of corporations (a normally legal profession as long as he doesn't give lawmakers luxurious gifts ... which he regularly does). Lately, he's been seeing a mysterious person whom he calls "the lady in the mirror." This lady claims she is trapped in another dimension, and she says that if London finds a way to free her, she will be his forevermore.

Little did Adam know, on the day he did something foolish and horrific, that he was setting himself on a course to a meeting with the dastardly Gene London ... and setting in motion a series of events that will change him for better or worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483537481

Book preview

One

The time was coming to see her again, and he could hardly wait.

Thirty-six year old Gene London arrived at his sizable, gated-community apartment carrying a brown paper bag that had the store logo Bath & Beauty. He set it down on the kitchen counter then slipped free from his charcoal coat and threw it on the nearest armchair, glad to finally be rid of it. Like most office professionals, he was used to the heaviness of a fine suit coat, but right now he wanted to throw all remnants of his lousy work day behind him. For nine hellish hours he had to listen to his partners and clerks talk about the problems of this client and that client—a car crash here, an armed robbery there—and all the while he had something else on his mind.

Today, real soon … I’ll finally see her again.

He tried to remember how long it had been since he last did so. Was it the beginning of the summer? Spring’s last rainfall? Whatever it was, it had been too long. She might be angry with him. Even so, the long wait was mostly her fault, not his. I prefer you see me when you have something to report, she had once said, so he began to see her only when he had something relevant to say.

Once, during lunch hour, he had found himself daydreaming. His mind’s eye dwelled on creamy white skin and eyes the color of shallow tropical waters … and then he heard his business partner Kenny say, —pee on the carpet?

Gene snapped out of his reverie and looked at Kenny curiously. Um, sorry, what was that?

Renin to Gene, Renin to Gene, Kenny said, waving a hand inches from Gene’s face. I said, doesn’t this mark here look like someone took a pee on the carpet? Maybe it’s time we hired some cleaners.

Gene looked at said mark and made a smug smile. I think it adds character to the place.

"Yeah, you’re a character!" Kenny made a curt laugh and moseyed off. After that, Gene tried to keep his mind on office matters.

Now that he was home, though, he was free to chuck all thoughts of business out the window and get down to what really mattered to him.

He had intended on starting the process right away, but he found himself wandering into the kitchen first, about to make his daily fresh coffee. He even poured the instant crystals into the mug before he caught himself. Hey, what the hell am I doing? This can wait, but she can’t.

He grabbed the paper bag, brought it into the bathroom, and set it on the toilet lid. He then cleared the counter around the sink—placing things like his razor and soap dispenser in the cabinet below—and drew from the bag four white candles (unscented, even though Bath & Beauty had candles with as many different fragrances as an iguana had scales). He set the candles around the sink, getting them as close to the mirror as he could without danger of setting the walls on fire, then lit them with a cigarette lighter and turned off the vanity lights.

He then did something he had done before but wasn’t sure he’d bother with again: He reached back into the cabinet beneath the sink and retrieved a bottle of perfume. Sapphire Tears was the brand name, which he thought fitted his woman well enough, for he could imagine such tears rolling from her blue eyes. If she was even capable of crying. Sometimes I wonder. He stepped through the bathroom door and sprayed twice above the sink, giving the miniscule droplets in the air time to come down before they were given a chance to land on him.

He then stepped back in and faced the mirror. Now all there was left to do was the spell. Just thinking about it set his heart racing, which made him smile despite himself. He had seen hundreds of beautiful women in his life, yet only she could made him feel like a teenager this close to middle-age.

Gene slid his hands across his flat cheeks. With closed eyes, he made a silent prayer to Nephus, the god of red magic, then put his palms together and began to chant. His words were of the ancient language of Renlin, said to have been spoken during the time when Voltor, the black god, still walked the planet. He spoke them slowly and surely, rolling them off his tongue smoothly and effortlessly, never skipping a beat nor a single syllable.

He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there. The woman, the goddess, the love of his life. She was appearing in the mirror, replacing his image with her own.

His eyes slowly opened, his heart jumping in anticipation. Sure enough, she was there, standing amid a milky white aura. She never had a consistent form: Her edges always dissolved into the aura, making her appear ghostly and distant. But at least her face was clear—beautiful, adoring, a model of perfection. Her sky-blue eyes were filled with light, as if they themselves were a source of illumination; her delicate lips were coated with scarlet lipstick, the only darkness her pale face bore; her wheat-colored hair was parted on her right side, which then flowed down in graceful curls like wisps of cloud. She wore a slender white dress that could have been a nightgown, slightly transparent with a cleavage that ran shoulder-to-shoulder in a perfect, teasing curve. He was glad he had used the perfume; the scent in the air made it almost seem she was right there in the room with him.

Ellen, Gene softly said.

She grinned and tilted her head up. Gene, she said, sounding relieved yet at the same time a little exasperated. It’s been so long, I was starting to worry.

Afraid I forgot you?

Afraid you tried doing everything on your own and got yourself blown to bits.

He grinned and laughed a little. Not likely to happen … but I’d do it as a last resort, because I love you so much.

She raised a shoulder and blinked at him a few times. And I, you … but not as tiny bits.

I summoned you today because we’re almost there. I swear to you, we’ll be holding hands sooner than you might think. You remember Jill, the Congresswoman I’ve been talking to? I finally got her to send that grant our way.

Wait, you mean give money to the people helping you? What were they called again?

Altor Laboratories. They should be getting it in about six days, just after Jill announces that they’re the recipients.

He was hoping she would be elated. Instead she crossed her arms and gave him that sidelong look that always cut right through him. Gene … are absolutely sure this ‘Congresswoman’ will do as you say?

Yes, she will. She gave her word.

"Gene … are you a hundred percent sure, or more like eighty percent?"

He sighed. That look of hers always made him end up spilling his guts. "Okay, more like eighty. But I have plenty of faith in her, just as you have plenty in me. And look how your faith rewarded you: I haven’t been blown to bits."

I see that. But Gene, just ask yourself: If this Congresswoman Jill screws you over … what would she have to lose?

He averted his gaze and pressed his lips together. It was a question he had asked himself several times, and he was never satisfied with the answer. My friendship … my faith … some disappointed Altor executives …

And what else?

That’s about it, I think.

Ellen slowly shook her head. Oh, Gene … I don’t think that’s enough. She tapped the other side of the mirror, making soft tinkling sounds. You have to do better to ensure she does what you want.

Gene planted both hands on the counter and leaned forward. So what do you want me to do? Threaten to kill her?

She gave him that sidelong look for a moment … then averted her eyes.

Gene straightened himself up again. That’s what I thought.

Ellen sighed. Okay, you want to know what I think? I think that … that it’s always an option best left on the table.

Gene frowned a little. A growing sense of horror threatened to make him do more, but he managed to stamp it down. This wasn’t the first time Ellen had said something morally ambiguous. He just chalked it up to desperation. I’ll think about it.

Ellen smiled and shook her head again. My love for you, Gene, grows each and every time I see you … but you can still piss me off sometimes.

What? What did I do?

You said you’d ‘think about it.’ That means you’re just humoring me.

He scratched the back of his neck. He hated it when she saw right through him like this, but given his choice of words, it was entirely his fault this time. Look, you just don’t know Jill very well, love. If I threatened her, it might make her screw us over for sure.

Well, since money seems to be our only obstacle left standing, it stands to reason that you should do whatever you can to get it.

Actually, it’s not our only obstacle. Having a hefty budget would be great, but we would still need a mage willing enough to cast the spell.

The Rending Spell, Ellen said, reciting the name as tenderly as one would the name of a famous jewel. Have you been talking to any mages about it?

Gene stifled the urge to laugh. My dear, I haven’t even begun … and even if I did, I wouldn’t do the asking myself. If you were to say ‘Rending Spell’ in a community of mages, you’d run the chance of getting chased right out of town. Finding the right person won’t be easy. He or she would have to be both naïve and powerful. If you’re naïve, then you’re young; if you’re powerful, then you’re old. There’s virtually no middle ground.

What was it you once said to me? Ellen asked, running her fingers down a lock of hair. ‘Whatever’s hard is worth doing?’

‘Whatever’s worth doing is never easy.’ Close enough, and it’s absolutely true. I’ll find someone, don’t you worry.

I suggest you find someone young—someone who shows promise.

"And then wait till he gets powerful? That’ll take a long time."

Don’t worry about the wait. Trust me, it will work out. When Ellen was in mid-sentence, she started to disappear. You’re fading. Remember, find someone young—a black mage.

Gene reached out a hand. Yes, Ellen. I love you!

And I lo—

She was gone, replaced by Gene’s own startled reflection. His heart sank a little, frustrated at how the time had seemed to fly by. Still, he had seen her again, and it had lifted his spirits. True, she had made him squirm a little, but it was one thing he loved about her because it made the two of them alike. He was primarily a lawyer, after all; it was partly his job to make supposed eyewitnesses squirm on the stand. He pictured Ellen as a lawyer herself and chuckled.

As he blew out the candles, he thought of her last words: Find someone young. Well, that was easy enough. There was certainly one kind of place where promising young mages gathered.

Two

One hundred fifty miles away from Gene London’s posh little apartment, seventeen-year-old Adam Taylor was going down a slope on the fast track to terminal boredom. He propped his head up on his right hand, the elbow planted on his desk. He occasionally tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes and wished he had had breakfast, but deep down he knew what his real problem was: He simply didn’t want to be here in this huge, arena-shaped classroom with hundreds of other students trying to listen intently to the droning words of the instructor below.

His eyes wandered the room, hoping to catch something new and interesting—anything that would help keep him awake. To the left were posters with lessons on phosphorescent stones, as well as a bulletin board tacked with flyers and bulletins. To the right were glass cases of phosphorescent stones, more posters, and a marble bust of Rudolf Donning, one of the greatest mages in history.

Maybe if the real Donning was teaching, this class would be worth coming to. It was an unfair assessment, he knew, but he was sure it was true, nonetheless. Professor Benjamin Stow—a rotund, elderly man with gray wisps of hair wrapped around his head—seemed to be a capable enough teacher, but so far all he was doing was teaching things Adam (and the rest of the class, in fact) already knew.

Everyone, please turn to page eighty-four, Professor Stow said in a raised voice. "As I said two weeks ago, this class may be the most depressing one you’ll have all year. That’s because phosphorescent stones can be as dangerous as they are useful. I’m sure some of you have had problems with them already, or know someone who has. Not to mention the fact that having this class as part of your curriculum is mandatory by law because of the threat of upset parents and lawsuits and all that fun stuff.

"Phosphorescent stones are meditating tools used to tap into the inner magical power within us all. Though many of you can perform spells without one, continued meditating can allow you to hone your powers further, and even let you use spells from the other two magic schools. If not for phosphorescent stones, magic usage would not be possible, and we’d probably not live in the world we do now.

But there’s the dark side to using these stones, always the dark side. And that is why you are here in this class right now: to know of the dark side of using these stones and to avoid—

Adam stifled a yawn, got up from his desk, and proceeded to the exit, drawing only a few wary eyes. Once the door opened and closed on sighing pneumatic hinges, everyone’s attention went back to the professor.

Adam’s departure wasn’t missed by Professor Stow, however. But he was hardly outraged, just disappointed. He had been expecting Adam’s early leave right from the moment his class started. It had not only happened before, but consistently over the past two weeks. Adam Taylor had followed a simple pattern of arriving to class, listening to the professor’s opening statements, and then abruptly leaving with no explanation.

Professor Stow wondered why Adam bothered to show up at all. Was he expecting something? If so, why did he never sit through an entire class with him? He had paid good money to attend the university, so why did he not make the most of it? The professor shook his head and continued on with his speech. It was useless to ask such questions at present; it was best now to just concentrate on the rest of the class—students who actually gave a damn about their education.

Adam exited the Alfred P. Murtha Building and into the chilly September morning. He crossed the street and headed into the main campus of the university, proceeding along the long walkway leading to the John Norris Building, the campus’ largest structure where the dean’s office was. To his right was the football field some fifty yards away. He glanced at the varsity team at practice and snickered. Sports were never his thing, and his contempt for everything sports-related was bone-deep. He took a branching walkway leading to his dormitory, eager to escape the grating sounds of young men at play.

In his billowy black robe worn over a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, Adam would have drawn a few stares if he was out on the street; but on the campus of Cooper University for the Magical Sciences, his attire was normal. Even with his long black hair tied into a ponytail and pale-white skin that may have seen less sunlight than an angler fish, Adam didn’t really stand out as anyone particularly odd. Nearly all the other students in Professor Stow’s classroom bore some similarities to him, either in dress style, complexion, or attitude. He was immersed in the studies of black magic, which had always attracted the despondent and rebellious: two adjectives which fit Adam to a T.

He reached the Houseman Dormitory and went to his place: room 37 in the east wing. As expected, his roommate Johnny wasn’t in. Adam was free to go to Johnny’s stereo system, turn on the power, and push the PLAY button. From the left speaker, a few notes from an electric guitar sounded, then the guitarist started laying on the power chords, strumming the strings at five strokes per second. The drummer pounded on the skins like a dying man in the desert trying to open a coconut. And the bass player … well, there was a bass player, but his notes couldn’t be heard over the rest of the noise. Thus was the music of Adam’s favorite rock band, the Spleen Squishers.

And then the singer came in—if what he did could actually be called singing. He screamed into the mike, claiming that Satan was his master and that he anxiously awaited his glorious return to the face of the world. All the while, Adam nodded his head like it was on a spring—either because he agreed with the singer’s sentiments or was simply matching the song’s tempo, no one could ever tell.

He then went to the freezer, took out an icy-cold, rock-solid burrito, threw it into the microwave, and pressed the 60 SECONDS button. He played around with his robe a bit while waiting for it to be done (a weird habit he made sure not to do in front of other people), then took the burrito out and laid it on a plate. The next song on the CD came on, a happy little number called I am Restless; I am Vengeance. It was a song about an ex-girlfriend of the singer’s who left him for another guy; the singer called upon his dark lord Satan to rain his vengeful spirit on the girl and make her sorry she broke his heart. Adam liked the song well enough, but he believed the singer got what he deserved, that he should have known better than to get serious with a girl. Girls, in Adam’s opinion, were simply not worth his time and effort. Girls could disappear from the face of the planet and he wouldn’t give it a second thought.

By the time the third song came up (a sad number about how people didn’t worship Satan enough as they should), there was a knock on the door. Adam slowly finished his mouthful of burrito and sluggishly answered the door. His visitor was a tall, gangly young man in a red robe sporting a small green rune. Adam glared at him with his sunken brown eyes.

Hey, could you turn it down? the young man asked. If not, I’m calling the super.

‘I’m calling the super,’ Adam said in his best mocking tone, and then slammed the door shut. He went to his stereo, turned the volume up a hair, and went back to his burrito. Stupid red mage, he thought as he swirled hot beef and beans around his tongue. What does he know?

Eventually, Adam got tired of the CD (he’d heard it approximately two hundred fifty-six times before), and switched the stereo’s function to the radio. It was tuned onto a news station where Adam could get his fix of information from the wild, crazy world outside his own little reality. The droll voice of a gentleman in his fifties was sounding off the headlines.

"—she sent her dog on the officers. The officers had no choice but to put the animal down, and the woman is now being held in custody. Yesterday morning, an Eastern Coastline train was held back after a man laid down on the tracks and refused to move. Authorities say he is a local bartender who is protesting the noise of the trains next to his business. They were unable to move him due to the chains the man used to strap himself to the rails, where he still remains. The chains are apparently magically reinforced, for several people have taken axes and hacksaws to them but were unsuccessful in breaking them.

And the news making headlines across the country is the school—

Adam turned it off at this point, which is rather unfortunate. If he had held off in cutting the power for just a second, he would have caught the next word the newscaster was about to say: shooting. And that would have made even a cynical guy like Adam pause for thought.

Three

Professor Mark Rain performed his usual morning routine, which involved taking a shower while brushing his teeth, putting on clothes, and then turning on the TV in the kitchen and pouring himself a bowl of cereal. On most mornings, he went through these motions at the same speed and the same tempo, like a conductor leading an orchestra through a familiar symphony. But on this Wednesday morning, he found himself a little sluggish in pouring his cereal, as his ears hung onto every word coming from the TV. Soon he could hardly keep his eyes off the screen, as they were glued to every image it sent his way.

There was an aerial view of a parking lot, one that must have been for a school judging from the line of yellow buses. It was filled with people—mostly young students in civvies who could hardly stand still, but also police officers and medical personnel waiting by their cruisers and ambulances. Alongside the identity of the cable news network was the headline HIGH SCHOOL SHOOTING IN JEROME, NEW VENICE.

An anchorman’s friendly-but-concerned voice sounded over the image; he was talking with a reporter over a phone line. Can you tell us what the situation is like now? Are there any hostages being held?

No word as of yet, the reporter said, his voice sounding tinny through his cell phone. We do know that one of the gunmen was brought down somewhere around the school cafeteria by S.W.A.T. members who are closing in on the second gunman right now.

So it seems the situation is coming to a close fairly soon. Robert, could you please elaborate on how this got started?

Well, some students said to have heard a gunshot in a hallway, which was probably when the first victim was shot: a teacher who was asking why two students were late to class. Someone sounded an alarm, and more shots were fired as the school emptied.

The screen started showing a montage of the shocked and traumatized students, many of whom were crying and hugging each other as they waited for the eventual outcome of the shootings inside.

Again, for those viewers just joining us, there has been a school shooting in Jerome, New Venice at St. Clark High School, the anchorman said. The police have dispatched their S.W.A.T. team inside to confront the two gunmen who are said to be students. One of the gunmen has reportedly been brought down by S.W.A.T., and the other is still held up inside the building.

An anchorwoman’s voice now joined the fray, followed by an image of the two perfectly-coifed news anchors in their studio alongside the ever-present aerial view of the school parking lot. This is just the latest in a deadly string of school shootings taking place across the country in rural areas. Just within the last six months, there have been a total of four school shootings all done by students outside of the inner cities—so many in fact that the Department of Disaster Control and Relief has been debating whether or not they should declare an official emergency situation for the entire nation. They fear that more and more young people are being encouraged to commit these heinous massacres.

The camera changed to a close-up of the anchorman. This just in: The county sheriff has talked with one of our reporters, and he says that the students were able to bring the guns in through the school’s metal detectors because the guns were magically enchanted to be undetectable.

Professor Rain nearly choked and spat out his mouthful of cereal at the words magically enchanted. He was just getting ready for his day at Cooper University for the Magical Sciences, and he instantly realized there was going to be one hell of a firestorm in the teachers’ lounge.

Guns? Magically enchanted? Any teacher of magic worth his salt could tell you that such a spell was possible, but just who in the hell was willing to conjure it up? It was a spell that could serve no useful purpose—not in the civilized world, anyway. So just what kind of sick, twisted soul would use his years of meditating on phosphorescent stones to allow two insane teenagers to enter their schools with their guns undetected? The question burned in Professor Rain’s mind, threatening to collapse his deeply-ingrained belief that the modern world still had consideration and civility.

Truth was, the practice of magic was lately undergoing a lot of scrutiny. There were people who said that magic would remain a staple in the world forever, for its usefulness knew no bounds. Magic was used for construction, farming, and power generation, among many other things. But there were also those who claimed that magic’s cons were steadily outweighing its positives. Magic was being used more often in guerrilla warfare, medical malpractice, crime-scene tampering, and selfish endeavors such as marital affairs and business manipulation. There was also the ever-present danger of improper meditating on phosphorescent stones: the gateways of magic usage.

And now magic critics could add assisting school-shooters to the list of cons. Throughout the world, there was a growing resentment towards mages, for people didn’t know whether to trust them or not. Of course, this had been a problem throughout all of history, but now people in power were starting to consider keeping phosphorescent stones out of the hands of the public and reserving them for only a select few individuals. Such talk was an affront to human rights, but after seeing how magic played a role in the school shootings in New Venice, it would be harder for magic advocates to defend everyone’s right to use magic.

With his eyes still on the TV, the professor shook his head in dismay. It was not going to be a fun day at the office. But before all the inevitable discussions and personal conclusions, there was now simply the shock of seeing a terrible story unfold in front of him in his small apartment kitchen.

The screen was showing a close-up of Jerome’s sheriff—a man by the name of William Telley—in front of a microphone. Our thermal scanner shows the two young men with shotguns. When we used a magic-detecting filter on the scanner, it showed us that the guns have some sort of spell on them. We suspect the magic allowed the guns to pass through the school’s metal detectors without raising an alarm.

Do you have any clues as to who could have used magic on these guns in this area? the off-camera reporter asked.

None at this point, but we’ll launch an investigation soon enough. The sheriff sounded not only reassuring, but also as if he was holding something back. He probably had a good idea who was responsible for the enchantments and had already sent some men to question him.

The reporter was soon shown alongside a live feed of the news studio. As you may know, metal detectors are common in schools in inner-city schools. But here in rural Jerome, the detectors were added a year ago due to the concerns of protective parents. The school has had no violence in the past; the detectors were put in only at the requests of teachers and parents.

Professor Rain shook his head again, as anyone would. Being a teacher who worked around young people, he could understand the terror and sense of loss that the other teachers in Jerome must be feeling. But specifically, he was a university professor who often had students his own age, and he could hardly believe that such an incident could occur on the Cooper University campus. He didn’t even care if some people would call that a false sense of security—he didn’t think anyone would be dying there anytime soon. That was because the entire campus was protected by magical barriers that disallowed forbidden types of magic, or disallowed certain types of magic from going to extremes. These barriers also disallowed gunpowder and other types of explosives from igniting. Sure, ignition systems in cars still worked because they were an exception, but guns and bombs had only a snowball’s chance in hell.

Professor Rain finished his cereal and turned off the TV. He then went out to his car and suddenly had the strangest feeling of being watched. He fumbled around his pocket for his keys for a moment, but he then brought his hands together and murmured a few words of Renlin. His mind was soon alight with statistical information of the goings-on around him, everything from the water running in underground pipes to grasshoppers traveling in a nearby lawn. He could tell what the apartment tenants were doing, such as folding laundry, eating corn chips, and having sex. No one was watching him and no one seemed to even know he was here.

He put his hands down and went about getting into his car. He supposed the news story just made him a little paranoid. Things like that could happen even to a great mage like Rudolf Donning, who had had more enemies than friends.

Still, I should know better than to think someone was out to get me, he thought to himself. Who would want anything from a foolish, twice-divorced man like me, anyway?

He smiled to himself as he started the engine … but then he frowned. He realized he had no idea the reason those two boys had for going crazy like they did. Was it something that could affect one of his own pupils?

Four

Throughout his two years of high school, Adam had never studied for his subjects. He failed most of his tests and often turned in homework with little doodles on them. He repeated the ninth grade before dropping out the following summer. His former teachers shook their heads at him, believing he’d never amount to anything. And yet here he was, sitting in his university dorm room reading a textbook.

It should come as no surprise. Adam may never have been interested in math, English, or science, but the only topic that ever caught his fancy was magic. Magic held a calling for him that no other subject had, as if he was made just to do magic and nothing else.

Unfortunately he had only one magic class in his pre-university days, and that was in the third grade when he was a snot-nosed kid who spent most of his free time watching television and destroying his toys. He started meditating on a phosphorescent stone that year and soon found himself doing magic spells and finding new ways to destroy his toys. His mother showed concern for his destructive behavior, while his father just shrugged and ordered him not to tear down the house.

Magic seemed to be the only thing he was good at, probably because it was the one thing he ever worked hard on. All his subjects in school seemed like such a waste of time and energy. He simply didn’t get the point of much of his education. Why would he wonder what Jane owed the grocery store if she had A pounds of apples at B dollars per ounce and X ounces of oranges at Y dollars per pound? What did it matter where train A would pass train B if A was going at X speed and B was going at Y speed? Why would he care about some punk kid who flew around with a pixie and brought some girl to a magical fantasy land, or some guy who apparently caught things in the middle of rye?

Magic seemed to skip all the bull and head straight to doing stuff, actually taking less effort than lifting schoolbooks. He had always hated doing real work, and magic gave him a chance to do that work with only the power of his mind (this allowed him to grow up with thin arms and revealing ribs—not exactly the sort of prey a mountain lion would salivate for).

Sure, magic required math sometimes, such as figuring out how many rune stones were needed to perform a clean surgical laceration. But it was simple arithmetic, not your mind-numbing algebra and trig. It was all so simple, yet the results of magic spells were amazing. It was a wonder why Jane’s stupid old grocery bill was so important.

Of course, at some point in his life, Adam got into reading (though he’d never admit to it). He sometimes picked up a big fat novel and finish it in two weeks. They were novels of adventure and heroism; about big tough guys whom he could never aspire to be; about comely maidens who were mere sex objects and rewarded the hunky hero for a job well done. They were books he could really sink his teeth into, though he always did it alone and usually when his parents were out of the house. This flirtation with reading helped him years later when he enrolled into the university, as it did this night with a book in front of him called MASTERING YOUR DARK SIDE.

So how could a seventeen-year-old who couldn’t even pass the ninth grade be able enter one the nation’s finest establishments of magic education? The answer is something that helps politicians rise to power despite numerous false campaign promises. It also gives people the motivation to build skyscrapers for several years and topple them in a single day. And while it is simple in structure and design, it governs the fates of millions of people across the globe.

It’s money, which Adam’s grandfather had had an abundance of. Adam’s father also had a lot, but not by much in comparison. While Adam’s father regarded him as a total loss—a product not worthy of his golden loins—his grandfather had seen him as a tiny godsend in a blanket, an heir capable enough to continue his family line with panache and