The Ascension: First Novel in the Callum Walker Series

By J. M. Shaw

A magical war is brewing. While humankind is blissfully unaware, two evil brothers, a sorcerer and a necromancer, are marshalling deadly supernatural forces and armies of mythical creatures in a bid to destroy one another. The triumphant warlord will be free to impose their dominion over Earth’s natural world and a coexisting magical realm concealed from human knowledge behind an ethereal veil.

Meanwhile, Callum Walker is an introverted young man born with gifts that he struggles to understand. As monsters begin wreaking havoc in his city, Callum is compelled to use his unmastered arcane abilities to combat the growing menace. Unfortunately, the scheming warlords notice his vigilante escapades, and both see Callum as a potential threat.

Before coming to terms with his extraordinary powers, Callum discovers a cryptic prophecy that proclaims he will end the pervasive warfare now breaching the veil. However, Callum soon finds himself pursued by the agents of both factions, plus those seeking personal sanctuary or offering to help.

Ultimately, Callum Walker must overcome his fears and doubts if he hopes to survive, let alone bring the conflict to an end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Chiu
• Release date: Apr 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781777883904

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Amiserable evening wind signals the onset of an early winter, and weary pedestrians hurry homeward to escape the biting cold. Clutching their coats tightly around their bodies, they crowd the sidewalks and spill onto the street when their prayers for a green light are answered. Snug inside a busy coffee shop, Callum Walker luxuriates in the comforting atmosphere and studies the herd of rosy-cheeked people from his seat beside the window. His fingers tingle with warmth from his steaming mug of coffee—a pleasant extravagance for the young man.

Unlike many customers, he does not enjoy a healthy pay cheque. In fact, Callum can barely afford the daily indulgence of his coffee, but it gives him a reason to linger. In a brutal world that offers little comfort, this is his haven after a challenging day. Rather than fighting the weather and the crowds, Callum relaxes in the café until the droves of people thin out. His preferred spot allows him to observe the throng of passersby while he mentally prepares for his own hour-long journey home. With his calm and quiet demeanor, no one would suspect that he is alert to the possibility of danger that only he can identify.

Behind him, a cluster of leather chairs forms a semicircle in front of the fireplace, where a pair of well-dressed businessmen speak in raised voices above the droning hum.

Only one more week of this weather, then I’ll be sunning myself on a beach in Italy, one of the men declares. Would you believe that Gracie wanted to book an Alaskan cruise in the middle of winter. I swear that woman has no common sense.

What did you tell her? His companion sheds his tailored jacket and neatly lays it over the seat back as he awaits an answer to his question.

I told her we should take separate vacations next year. The first man proudly smirks, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. What about you. Did you make any plans for the holidays?

I wish I could get away, the second man scoffs. Jill can’t travel until the baby is born. Her mother has taken up residence in our in-law suite, and my wife’s snoring has me banished to the guest room.

Callum rolls his eyes and hides his scowl behind a swig of coffee as the men casually flaunt their affluence. Resentment boils from the pit of his stomach as he compares his humble existence to the lavish lifestyles they describe. He eyes their warm coats, which sharply contrast with his meager layers of clothing beneath a thin jacket that barely keeps the cold at bay. While the wealthy men discuss the cost of their favorite resorts, Callum prays he can work enough overtime hours to afford food and other necessities not covered by his base wages.

Don’t let them get to you, a cheery voice from behind startles him.

He nearly spills his drink as he snaps a gawk at the pretty barista suddenly standing beside him. Her name, Lucy, is written on a tag that dangles from the breast of her shirt, and the top two buttons have been unhooked to reveal a hint of her shapely bosom.

You and I both know that guys like them are nothing but blowhards.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Callum quickly averts his eyes, ashamed of sneaking a peak at her cleavage and praying she does not notice the warm blush creeping from his chest to his face.

Really? Lucy cocks a brow. Afraid to meet her enchanting, azure eyes, Callum keeps his gaze glued to the window. I figured, as a maintenance worker, you’d be used to listening to those who look down on everyone with an air of privilege.

Excuse me. One of the opulent men, overhearing her remark, slices Lucy a disapproving glare.

Your excused, Lucy chimes back, flashing the besuited men a smug, Cheshire grin.

Disarmed and angered by her derisive behavior, both men grab their coats and storm toward the counter. Callum hears only snippets of their overzealous rant to the unlucky cashier.

Don’t worry about them, Lucy shrugs. She seizes one of the now empty chairs and drags it closer to Callum, demonstrating surprising strength for such a petite young woman. My supervisor isn’t working tonight, and I’ve suffered enough tongue lashings on my own, James owes me this one, Lucy explains, taking a seat directly in front of him. He won’t tattle on me if he knows what’s good for him.

H…how do you know what I do for work? Callum stammers, stiffening his posture and scooting back in his chair to keep their knees from touching. Her correct assessment of his occupation puts him immediately on edge. While he recognizes a few of the café customers from his workplace, his job typically keeps him invisibly toiling behind the scenes. Even when his demanding and thankless profession invokes the wrath of corporate leaseholders whose air conditioning has failed or toilets have clogged, they seldom remember him after the fact.

I noticed your key card when you paid for your coffee, Lucy darts a glance at his right hip where his wallet digs into the side of his leg. It’s kind of hard to miss your name and job title when their written in big letters across the top.

Oh, Callum stares at his mug and thoughtfully frowns as he considers her logical explanation.

You know, I’m pretty sure this is the most conversation we’ve had since I started working here. Lucy offers him a coy grin as she tucks a short lock of hair behind her ear.

I’m not much of a talker, Callum mumbles, refusing to look at her and risk being enchanted by her flirtatious advances. Truth be told, he enjoys her friendly greetings, but years of loneliness, fear, and inexperience prevent him from reciprocating. If Lucy were to learn about his dreadful situation or who he really is, she would undoubtedly reject him. It is better to spare himself the trouble and heartache by keeping his distance.

Well, I figured that, Lucy says, batting her long lashes. A confusing torrent of emotions stirs within Callum’s soul, and his pulse races. You’ve avoided talking to me since I started working here and, because I’ve got your undivided attention now, I thought we might get to know each⁠—

You thought wrong, he interrupts, unnerved by his discomforting storm of thoughts and feelings. Lucy’s expression changes with the sharpness of his tone, and Callum cringes. He had not meant to be so blunt, but he also did not want her to misread his intention to remain aloof.

I see, she whispers as she stands up, pushing her chair back with her legs. I…I have to get back to work anyway, Lucy says, flustered. She quickly buttons the top of her shirt and forces a smile, but it falls short of concealing her dismay. Well…uhm…see you tomorrow.

Callum watches her hurry away. He wants to say something to alleviate her dejection, but the moment is gone—not that he would know what to say anyway. Dazed and confounded, he returns to his vigil at the window, wanting nothing more than to escape to the relative comfort of his bed and forget this awkward moment, but he knows that his day is far from over.

Observing that the bevy of pedestrians has lessened significantly, he pulls a cellphone from his pocket. He checks the time and can hardly believe that he has already wasted an hour. His half-finished drink is now cold, but he gulps down the last few mouthfuls because he knows he will need the caffeine boost before his night is done. Rising from his seat, he discards his empty cup in the trash before pulling his hood over his head of short, brown hair. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets and without looking back, he drags himself out the door and into the bitter cold evening.

It is another good night for hunting. At least he hopes so.

CHAPTER TWO

Only a few pedestrians remain on the sidewalk, and they hardly notice when Callum joins them. He hunches his lean shoulders against the freezing wind, while his misting breath swirls in front of his clean-shaven face before being whipped away.

The lights in the windows of the high-rise towers blink out one by one as Duncaster’s city center surrenders to the night. On the walkways, soft halos from streetlamps cast deep shadows across pathways of trampled snow. As Callum walks for several blocks, he occasionally glances over his shoulder to ensure that he is not being followed. At the next intersection, he turns south and treks onward for an hour.

Travelling beyond the prosperous inner city, there are no cameras to monitor the streets or businesses. Police and security agents are noticeably absent unless called to an actual crime in progress. The farther Callum travels, the more obvious the changes in infrastructure become.

Office buildings and department stores give way to restaurants and strip malls and, beyond those, condominiums occupy entire city blocks. These, in turn, yield to liquor marts and all-night convenience stores with heavy bars protecting their windows. He becomes a bit more anxious as he reaches the shanty district, home to the underprivileged, where people search for opportunities to either make a dollar or rob someone else of theirs.

Muffled shouts from within buildings, the crash of a toppled metal bin, and a distant gunshot sends his heart galloping. His daily commute has him traversing this sector regularly, and he has been mugged a few times, but bruises and a wounded ego are nothing compared to some of the more hazardous threats he faces. Despite the cold and other perils, however, Callum is not heading straight home tonight. Instead, he trudges on, alert for signs of something more sinister than a roving gang of thugs.

I must be a glutton for punishment, he thinks to himself, shivering as the final traces of warmth from his coffee fade. At least the frigid temperature keeps him alert and diminishes the effects of fatigue, which is important because Callum will need all his wits about him.

Over the past two weeks, he has followed news reports and read published testimonies of terrifying encounters with something large and deadly. While the media usually downplays such stories as fear-driven fantasy, Callum knows better. The strange incidents capture the attention of thrill-seekers, leading them to venture into the night and spawning morbid headlines with their gruesome deaths.

The attacks that have claimed five victims over the previous four days were all reported to have happened within a three-block radius of where he now stands. The unfortunate souls died after suffering terrible injuries thought to have been inflicted by a vicious animal. When he also heard an eyewitness account of a massive, wolf-like creature with red eyes, he gave credence to the stories and started planning his mission to track down the beast.

It must be around here somewhere. Callum nervously scans the sleeping buildings and side streets. He sees no signs of anyone roaming the night, but he is reluctant to trust his eyes alone. Fortunately, he is endowed with the gift of psychic perception, an ability that has saved his life several times during his vigilante pursuits.

Pausing under a streetlamp, he closes his eyes and opens his mind to any life signatures or impressions in his immediate area. At first, all he can sense are rodents and stray cats. Their living energy wafts through the air like pockets of static electricity. Soon, a vile aura catches his notice, causing his skin to crawl.

Found you, Callum realizes with apprehension.

Cautiously he resumes his hunt, following the trail of pernicious energy toward a neglected alley. An eerie yellow glow from a bare bulb casts a patch of light at the mouth of the lane. The passageway extends the entire length of the buildings on either side with its far end reaching another puddle of light at the neighboring street. The bulbs are too far apart to penetrate the dark midpoint, but he spies a battered green dumpster resting at the fringe of the shadowy interspace.

He hesitates as a shiver runs down his spine, and his breathing quickens. His empathic senses set off alarms in his mind, but he ignores the burning desire to run and, instead, turns toward the uncertainty hidden in the shadows.

Despite his fear, Callum must consciously steady his resolve to face the unseen threat. As always, the first steps toward danger are the hardest. As he moves forward, he pulls his hands from his pockets, ready to defend himself. He spots sheets of plywood and other construction materials leaning against the wall beside a doorway but cannot identify the nebulous shapes beyond the illuminated zone. Heaps of rubble offer hiding places large enough to conceal a grown man, and anything could be tucked inside a recessed door frame or crouched behind fetid mounds of overstuffed trash bags. Intuition draws him toward the ugly, olive-colored bin, but clairvoyance, like gut feelings, is rarely specific.

His heart beats hard against his ribs, and his eyes warily dart from one dark space to another. Nevertheless, he faces his dread with courage, not because he has a death wish but because he has an advantage—one born from the power of magic.

Actively concealing his abilities from the world, Callum strives to use his unique gifts for good. After leaving foster care at eighteen, he used his arcane talents to provide for himself out of necessity. Creating simple distractions, he stole food and money, but his conscience eventually forced him to cease such unethical behavior. Since then, he has tried to atone for his previous misconduct, using his talents to rid the world of evil and help those who are defenseless against unnatural foes.

He is not immune to fear, and his magical skills do not always provide enough confidence in the presence of an unknown malevolence. Currently, he is aware that something terrible hides nearby, biding its time, but Callum presses on despite his apprehension.

Is someone there? He creeps forward as beads of cold sweat form across his brow and trickle down the sides of his face.

Malicious energy, imbued with odious magic, permeates the alley’s atmosphere, like smoke revealing a fire, activating Callum’s ethereal insight. He feels hostility, emanating like pulses of frozen air, from the direction of the dumpster.

The squat, rusty bin sits squarely in front of him with its two heavy plastic lids covering the top as if guarding its precious contents. At almost six feet wide and chest height, it seems an adequate hiding place. Silently, he stalks toward the steel container. He clenches his jaw and, trembling, grasps the edge of one lid. With his other hand, he retrieves his cellphone and activates the flashlight. Holding the lamp against his chest to hide the light, he readies himself for the moment he will need to use it. He tenses and, in a single quick motion, he flips the lid up and beams the spotlight into the pitch-black interior.

The light reveals a few bulging garbage bags, remnants of rotting food, and patches of greasy, steel floor. Identifying no threat, he exhales a stifled breath as he lowers the lid. Pull yourself together, he berates himself. He cannot shake the feeling that evil is nearby while fingers of terror tickle his neck. If it’s not in the bin…then where?

Still facing the foul-smelling dumpster, he hears a deep-throated growl. Realizing his mistake, he curses his stupidity for assuming the creature would be hiding inside. Peering over the bin and into the shadows, he sees blood-red eyes glaring back at him. If not for his practiced ability to push aside immobilizing fear, he would be paralyzed by panic.

Callum slowly retreats as the snarling beast effortlessly leaps atop the dumpster. The plastic lids buckle and pop under the creature’s weight.

Oh, what is this? Another foolish human here to challenge me. Do you honestly think you will succeed where others have failed? The wolf pulls its lips into a snarl, revealing rows of glistening teeth.

The young man’s study of ancient myths and folklore has proven both informative and surprisingly accurate. He immediately recognizes the mythical creature standing before him.

I can’t let you keep hunting people, Amarok. Callum musters his courage and swallows the lump of fear rising in his throat.

How clever you are to know my name, and how foolish of you to come hunting me without a weapon. Amarok growls as it drops down from the bin, landing with barely a sound. The creature’s eyes lock on Callum as it pads toward him, licking its lips and sizing up its prey. I can smell your fear, Human, Amarok chuckles, looking down its long snout and taking obvious pleasure in toying with its intended victim.

Everyone feels fear. Callum lifts his chin and bravely stares back while trying to control his quavering voice. It’s what we do in spite of it that defines us.

And what do you plan on doing? Amarok cocks his head.

I plan on killing you. He tenses, pulling his shoulders back and standing taller.

Ha! Amarok snorts, spraying the young man with a mist of snot. And how are you going to kill me? Humans have no fangs or claws to fight with. Your kind are all so timid and weak. Perhaps you plan on killing me with humor? The wolf taunts, keeping its gaze pinned on him as it slowly circles its prey.

Callum wipes the slime from his face and holds his ground. He steadily turns his head to follow the great wolf as it loops around him. Pausing behind its quarry, Amarok slaps him across the back of his thighs with its heavy tail.

It’s quite brazen of you to assume that I’m unarmed, Callum defiantly mutters through gritting teeth, biting his tongue to prevent himself from wincing.

"You are unarmed. I see no weapon in your hand, and there is nothing of danger to me within your garments." Amarok completes its circle, stopping with its wet nose and bared fangs within reach of Callum’s face.

I’m not as weak as you might think, and just because you don’t see any weapons, doesn’t mean I’m unarmed, he says, slowing his breathing to calm his nerves in preparation for what he knows he must do. As he has instinctively done before, he visualizes the power he wants to employ, and a magical word enters his consciousness. Without hesitation, he thrusts his right hand at the wolf’s face, cupping his palm over Amarok’s muzzle. "Pyrovium!" he whispers, vowing to remember the spell for future use if he survives this confrontation.

Flames instantly manifest from Callum’s mind, illuminating his arm and hand with crimson light. The beast’s snout ignites beneath his touch, and he yanks his arm back as Amarok yelps and thrashes in panic, wheeling, lurching, and pawing at its burning face. Unfortunately, he is not fast enough to avoid being hit in the chest by the wolf’s spinning hindquarters. Expelling a grunt, Callum lands unceremoniously in a half-frozen puddle of filthy water. Attempting to shake off the unexpected blow, the young man’s attention is captured by a hissing sound. He peers up, horrified to see Amarok straddling a pile of snow with its scorched head pressed into the slushy mound. Once the fire is quenched, Amarok lifts its head and scowls at him with savage fury.

How is it possible that a human has magic? Only my master, Kincaid, possesses that kind of power, Amarok spits.

Kincaid? He questions the name, but he never gets an answer.

Amarok charges with its head low and its maw gaping with ugly yellow fangs ready to rend human flesh. With no time to think, Callum lifts both arms and extends his fingers toward the wolf.

"Pyrovium! Pyrovium!" He frantically repeats the incantation that is still fresh in his mind. Orange flames burst from his fingertips, spraying Amarok in a blazing shower as the wolf barrels forward. Callum’s arms suddenly feel heavy, and he is briefly lightheaded from the exertion of casting his second incantation. Amarok continues running, closing in on its target with its body now engulfed in flames.

Shit! Callum rolls over the wet pavement, desperate to evade the four-legged fireball bearing down on him. He comes to a stop on his belly as a wave of heat rushes past him.

Blinded and senseless, Amarok slams headfirst into a wall with a sickening crack. The tormented wolf flails against the bricks, struggling to end its searing torture. Its screams are silenced by the arcane fire consuming its face. After several excruciating seconds, its efforts become feeble, and it slumps to the ground, unmoving and silent.

Callum covers his mouth and nose with his wet sleeve to filter the acrid smell of burning fur and flesh. He staggers to his feet and approaches the blackened and smoking form. Even as the flames fizzle out, the dying wolf tenaciously clings to life. Amarok, oozing blood from his charred hide, still glowers at his would-be prey.

I’m sorry it came to this, but I can’t allow you to continue killing, Callum says, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the wretched creature.

You will face my master’s wrath, Amarok warns, its voice hoarse and weak. His plan is already in motion, and you cannot stop him. The wolf tries to rise, but its strength fails, and it collapses again. The spark of life in the beast’s ruby-colored eyes fades, and a final breath rattles from its lungs.

Even though Amarok has killed and would happily kill again, Callum feels a guilty pang for inflicting such misery on the beast. Fighting evil makes him an instrument of punishment, leaving him to grapple with the moral implications of his actions. At least for now, his desire to defend remains stronger than his remorse.

Moments after Amarok’s death, its body begins to shimmer with white light. A consuming radiance emanates from the seared corpse. Callum shields his eyes and squints until the glare subsides, and the wolf’s body is reduced to bits of gray ash floating in the frosty air. The only residual evidence of Amarok’s existence is an oddly shaped smudge on the ground—a random shadow detached from its life source. The alley once again plunges into dark obscurity, bound by the sentinels of yellow light at both ends.

Callum tucks his hands into his soggy pockets and limps back toward the street. Aching and cold to the bone, he heads home, contemplating a new mystery.

Who the hell is Kincaid?

CHAPTER THREE

When his alarm blares the next morning, Callum pulls the blankets over his head to muffle the noise. After safely making his way back to his apartment the night before, he shed his filthy clothes and stood in a steaming shower until all traces of grime were expunged. He then lumbered off to his welcoming bed which is nothing more than a mildew-ridden, second-hand mattress on the floor. After crawling beneath his blankets, he quickly fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Now fully awake, he notices a pervasive soreness covering every inch of his body. Thankfully, his night’s rest, however short, was enough to restore the energy expended during his nocturnal venture.

Yielding to his wake-up call, Callum rolls over with a grunt and shuts off the screaming buzzer. He groans as he sits up and wipes away the traces of sleep from his face. It will take him a while to feel like his usual self again, but the morning is already in full swing, and he must get ready for work.

Grudgingly, he clammers to his feet and gently stretches before heading to his closet to rummage through an unfolded pile of clothing. He collects a wrinkled pair of blue jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt. He carries them to the bathroom to hurriedly strip, shave, and shower before dressing.

Wiping a towel across the foggy mirror, Callum examines the injuries beneath his shirt. He gawks at the deep bruising across his chest where Amarok struck him during its frenzied thrashing. No doubt he has other colorful contusions on the rest of his body, but he has no time for further investigation.

Despite his obvious injuries, he received far less punishment than he had inflicted on the creature he fought. A daily regimen of walking, plus the rigors of a physically demanding job, have developed a muscular physique, allowing him to endure such abuse better than most.

He swallows a pain pill and quickly finishes in the bathroom. Stepping into the heart of his apartment, he frowns at the dusty slivers of sunlight filtering through the broken Venetian slats. The hazy brightness barely illuminates the grungy furniture, faded linoleum, and peeling wallpaper.

With a dismayed sigh, Callum traverses the room and plops down on a sagging loveseat. Scraps of plywood, plastic milk crates, and stacks of old phone books create a makeshift coffee table. Its surface is buried under piles of newspapers and dog-eared collections of fabled tales, the product of endless scrounging at discount stores and yard sales. Among the editorials and compendiums are an assortment of chipped and dirty dishes that attest to the table’s dual purpose as a dining area as well as a desk. Grabbing an open cereal box from the floor beside his sofa, he scoops handfuls of stale, sugary bites into his mouth.

Farthest from the window, the tiny kitchenette is barely used beyond boiling water or heating canned soup. The cranky mini fridge no longer works well enough to keep food cold, so Callum survives on cheap, packaged meals rather than fresh rations. Adjacent to the sad galley sits a folding table, sagging beneath the weight of magazines and worn reference books on ancient mythology. He does not care that his spartan comforts are preowned or rescued from someone’s trash. This is how he has managed with his paltry earnings, and he has come to terms with that fact.

Before leaving on his long trek to work, Callum grabs a can of tuna, a bag of crackers, and a couple of peanut butter packets salvaged from a local restaurant. He stuffs his lunch into a threadbare backpack and, after layering himself in a sweater and hoodie, he heads out. Reaching the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, he pulls out his cellphone and spends the next several minutes skimming the morning headlines as he walks. This part of his morning routine allows him time to search for any reports of strange happenings or accounts from secret observers of his nightly battle.

Well, that’s good news, Callum sighs with relief after finding no mention of his harrowing encounter with Amarok. Last night’s battle seems to have escaped any unwanted attention.

The possibility of eyewitnesses to his supernatural battles worries him far more than any residual, physical evidence, which never lingers long after a creature’s death. He is grateful for the unexplained process that governs what remains of the mythological monsters he neutralizes. All of the creatures he has slain simply dissolved in white light, and Callum regards this process as ultimate proof of a successful hunt.

A few months ago, he was unfortunate enough to be caught on camera using magic to defeat an undead spawn. Since it was dark, and the video was shot at a distance, the grainy image was brushed off as a hoax. While he cannot control the location of his magical confrontations, hunting at night dramatically reduces his chances of being seen. With a solaced grin, he pockets his phone and continues trudging.

Although it would be nice to be appreciated, or even rewarded for his efforts, the young man knows that the discovery of his abilities would breed fear and suspicion. It is much easier to remain invisible than it would be to hide from a populace that knows who he is and what he can do. If his gifts are discovered, he will never again enjoy another peaceful moment. That is why he keeps his gifts hidden and chooses to remain alone. Secrecy is a safer alternative to a lifetime of running. Besides, he prefers to be the hunter rather than the hunted.

As his commute drones on, his pounding head and aching muscles grow more relentless. Complaining will not lessen his discomfort, and he cannot afford to miss any shifts at work. This is not the first time he has slaved through pain and fatigue after a night of hunting, nor will it be his last.

As Callum passes the cozy café, he sneaks a peak through the window, but Lucy is not there. His disappointment at her absence surprises him. Although he sequesters himself out of necessity, he still longs for human connections. He looks forward to seeing Lucy each evening, realizing that she is the closest thing he has to a friend.

Finally, he arrives at the high-rise building where he works. He hurriedly enters the lobby, thankful for the warmth after his journey. The sun streaming through the three-story glass wall of the foyer, brings blinding daylight into the immense space. Footsteps and voices echo from the towering walls and vaulted ceiling as business tenants, clad in trench coats and suits, meander across the spacious vestibule, oblivious to his presence.

Callum weaves a path through the lobby and slips down a quiet hallway toward a bank of service elevators. Using his employee key card, he summons a lift and impatiently waits, visualizing his lengthy to-do list. Deep in thought, he fails to notice his approaching supervisor.

It’s going to be another busy day, Cal, Robert announces, startling him.

Good morning to you too, he replies, attempting to conceal his aggravation behind a veil of sarcasm.

Robert is not a small man, so Callum must have been deeply distracted to not see or hear him coming. It is a mistake that could get him killed on a hunt, and he chastises himself for his lapse in attentiveness as the elevator arrives with a chipper ding. He follows Robert inside the car.

You’re going to be training the new guy today, Robert reports as he punches the basement button, and the elevator starts to descend.

Callum shoots him a puzzled gaze, wondering when and why they hired a new employee. The last staff meeting was less than a month ago, and it outlined the need to reduce their operating budget. A year before that, a wage cut was negotiated in lieu of layoffs, and Callum was fortunate that overtime hours were not slashed as well.

How can the company afford to hire more staff? Callum asks, immediately regretting his question. He watches Robert’s reaction closely, knowing that his job security is dependent on not causing displeasure in his superiors. While it is depressing and demeaning to be railed at by business owners for simply doing his job, and then admonished by a supervisor who orders him to appease the jerks in suits, he cannot survive without a regular income.

That’s not really your business now is it, Robert returns, flitting Callum a disapproving glance. You’re paid to do whatever we tell you. Your job doesn’t require you to think beyond completing your tasks, and there are plenty of other hopefuls willing to fill your position if you have a problem with that.

You’re right. I’m sorry. Callum cringes, aiming a frown at the floor. His shoulders sag beneath the oppressive weight of his inescapable situation and overwhelming duties. Can you tell me what floors I’m covering today? He questions, quickly changing the topic.

You’re working in the basement. The heating unit needs fixing, and generator three is scheduled for replacement.

Callum grimaces at the thought of his heavy workload. Many of his duties are well beyond the scope of his job description, but voicing any objections is not wise. I’ll just have to muddle through as usual, he resolves with