Children of the Knight by Michael J. Bowler (book recommendations based on other books txt) 📖

The little boy’s unkempt blond hair was dirty, as were his face and clothes, and Arthur surmised at once the child was likely homeless.

The teens had a tattered and worn old coat they kept waving in front of the little boy as though they were matadors and he the bull. The small, skinny boy, clad only in shorts and an old tank top, chased after the mocking youths, who danced away and waved the coat up out of reach. Each time the boy lunged for it, one teen would snatch it back and toss it to the other.

The taller of the two sneered. “You don’ need this, little white boy. It’s too big for ya, anyway.” He laughed.

The shorter, stockier teen chimed in, “’Sides, now ya can show off all them muscles.”

Both teens laughed uproariously, high-fiving each other, dancing around the little boy, and tossing the coat back and forth until the child began to cry.

“Give it back, give it back!” the little one snuffled. “It’s all I got.”

The tall boy snorted like a pig. “Aaaah, too bad. It’s mine, now, ya little twerp.”

Lance leapt from the horse’s back, right onto his skateboard in one fluid motion, surged forward into the empty lot and plowed into the taller teen.

Blindsided, the teen could barely grunt out “Son of a—” before he flew a few feet and crumpled to the ground in a tangled heap. Whizzing past, Lance snatched the coat from the boy’s startled grasp. The stockier of the two, caught off guard by Lance’s sudden arrival, made a lunge for the newcomer. Lance whirled around on his board and leapt off it, simultaneously whipping out a small, short-handled dirk he’d borrowed from Arthur.

“Ya wanna take on somebody your own size, huh?” Lance screamed. His venomous fury startled even Arthur, who watched the scene appraisingly from the street. “Well, here I am, come an’ git me!”

The two teens eyed the waving knife blade uncertainly, exchanging a look between them as the tall one regained his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder. They held back, obviously reluctant to take on someone with a weapon.

Lance sensed their hesitation and lunged dramatically with the blade, causing both teens to turn and bolt out of sight down the dark, empty street. Satisfied, he returned the blade to the small scabbard around his waist and held out the coat to the little boy. The boy gingerly took the coat, his tear-stained face shining with gratitude, and a bit of fear.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice shaky.

Arthur approached on Llamrei, and the boy gasped aloud in surprise.

“It’s okay, kid,” Lance said, his tone even and reassuring “He’s King Arthur. He’ll take care of you.” Lance’s easy smile seemed to relax the boy. Arthur again noted the calming effect Lance had on younger children.

“What be thy name, lad?” asked Arthur.

“Uh, Chris, sir,” the boy stammered, staring in awe at the magnificent white horse and the man atop her.

“Have no fear, Chris,” Arthur assured him. “Thou art amongst friends.”

Lance nodded at the little boy. Without warning, Chris grabbed him in a tight hug. Lance stiffened, his smile twisting into an expression of fear.

Arthur eyed the boys carefully to see what would transpire.

“Thank you so much! You saved my life.” Chris bubbled gratefully into Lance’s leather jerkin. “What’s your name?”

Lance hesitantly returned the hug. “I’m, uh, I’m Lance.”

Chris continued clutching, as though afraid to let go. “Thanks, Lance.”

Arthur looked down at the two boys, and Lance gazed up at him. Arthur noted the beads of nervous sweat hugging Lance’s brow, sweat he surmised came more from the small boy touching him than from the encounter with the two teens. He smiled supportively.

“That be a brave and noble act on thy part, young Lance. It gives me pride to see you do what be right, rather than what be easy.”

Lance blushed again and glanced down. “I jus’ don’ like see’n little kids git punked. It ain’t right, ya know?”

“I know indeed,” Arthur replied knowingly, once more secure in the knowledge that Lance was truly the chosen one of his vision. “Come, lads, up on Llamrei, and let us fly this place.”

Lance separated himself from Chris, who only let go with reluctance. “You ever been on a horse?” he asked the boy with a tight smile.

The small boy shook his head.

“Well, you will now.” Lance hoisted the smaller child up to Arthur, who snagged the thin arm and swung Chris around behind him in the saddle. Then he looked approvingly at Lance, who bent to retrieve his board.

“Thy strength has considerably increased, Lance, have you not noticed?”

“Yeah.” He grinned up at Arthur. “Yeah, I have.”

Smiling, Arthur reached out a hand, and Lance clasped it firmly, flipping himself up and behind Chris onto the saddle. Nervously, Chris turned his head toward Lance. “Don’t let me fall, Lance!”

Lance flashed his most reassuring grin. “Don’t worry, little man, you’ll be fine.” With obvious reluctance, he warily slipped his arms around Chris to hold the boy in place, but Chris gripped his hands tightly and pulled them all the way around him, forcing them to press against each other snugly. Lance tensed up a moment at the closeness, but appeared to relax as Arthur spurred Llamrei forward, and the three of them melted into the shadows.

Central Juvenile Hall—the largest juvenile facility in the United States—occupied a sprawling expanse of land east of downtown Los Angeles and near County USC Medical Center. At one time, as Esteban well knew, this facility housed those juveniles considered the most violent and dangerous, but that task had now fallen to Barney J. Nelson Juvenile Hall in Sylmar. At that facility, there was a barbed-wire-surrounded enclosure known as The Compound, which housed those children, some as young as fourteen, whose cases had been sent to the adult court system.

The state of California had decided some years back that children as young as fourteen could think like adults when caught up within some potential criminal act, but could not think enough like adults to be able to vote or sit on the juries that were called upon to hear their cases.

As he sat in the very familiar dayroom in Unit K/L, Esteban again considered the idiocy of these laws. One of his homies, a small kid called Shadow, had been sentenced to two hundred fifty-five years plus eight months for killing the guy who murdered his brother. What adult wouldn’t go off on the guy who murdered a family member? Most would, he knew, despite all their dumbass speeches about “taking the law into your own hands!” Especially if, like with Shadow, the kid brother had died right there in his arms! Who wouldn’t “overreact” as the judge called it, especially considering Shadow was only fifteen at the time? Oh yeah. Esteban chuckled inwardly. He was an “adult” at that moment!

He, himself, had never killed anyone, but he’d sure as hell tried more than once. He knew he’d go down for life in prison if he got nailed for those “attempts,” but on these streets, it was kill or be killed. What the idiot DAs and judges didn’t want to admit was the war mentality of gang life, how it was no different than any dumbass war this country got itself into. Who the hell would fight a war and not try to win any way they could? These guys didn’t give a rat’s ass about reality. They’d love to put him in prison for life and feel they’d gotten a “dangerous predator” off the streets.

But he knew, and they knew, that the real power guys were still out there. Much as his pride hated the notion, Esteban knew well enough he was just small fry, easily replaceable, very expendable. That’s why all the children in prison these days didn’t put a dent in the “gang problem.” They just became the hardened thugs everybody already thought they were.

However, what he’d told Ryan was untrue. Sure, the cops’d love to get every gangster battling his enemies so’s to wipe each other out, and then all the authorities would have to do would be to clean up the mess. But that wasn’t what was happening. No, something else was going on with this tagger. It wasn’t the cops. And it wasn’t Jaime’s ’hood, neither. He shook his head in amazement. He and Jaime had been best buds when they were kids, until the other boy moved to an enemy neighborhood. Now all they could do was try and kill one another. Crazy ass life, he knew.

He glanced around the dayroom, careful never to give the impression he was staring at anyone. He sat in a cheap-ass plastic chair at one of the several metal tables used for meals. About thirty other boys, aged fifteen to seventeen, wearing county-issued pants and white T-shirts, sat at the other tables. Some were writing letters while others played cards, arm wrestled, or watched the basketball game on TV.

He had quietly moved among them ever since he’d gotten here, even talking with the black kids, normally against the gang code. But he needed to know what they knew about this tagger-guy, and all their stories struck a similar chord. The guy had tagged up their markings with that crazy “A” thing, but no one saw him.

Esteban had always been smart in school, maybe too smart. By middle school he’d taken to barely showing up at all, except he got A’s anyway. He’d find out the homework from some nerdy kid, get it all done, and have one of his friends turn it in. When it was test day, he’d show up, take the test, ace it, and not show up until the next one. How the hell useful was school anyway when he could get straight “A’s” just by doing that?

No, the lure of the streets was more compelling. He’d worked his way up the ladder, and there weren’t many kids his age out there who were smarter. That’s why he knew it fell to him to solve this mystery. He’d be back out on his next court date—juvy was too crowded to keep him very long for street fighting—and when he hit the streets he would find this tagger. And then, there’d be hell to pay!

There were now fifty boys, all sixteen years or younger within Arthur’s underground “castle,” practicing the use of his various weapons. These kids were those Arthur and Lance had encountered during their nightly excursions, as well as a few MTS students recruited by Lance. They wore protective armor of varying types—including helms to guard against head injuries—and sparred with one another under Arthur’s watchful eye. Some fired arrows at makeshift targets, missing most shots and laughing at their awkwardness, while the majority of boys parried at one another with the swords, attempting to dance around their opponent to get in the “fatal” thrust.

Arthur moved among them with ease, adjusting this one’s bow arm or that one’s stance, showing another how to hold a shield and a sword simultaneously. He stopped to observe Lance and Enrique, a sixteen-year-old from MTS, having at each other with broadswords. Arthur nodded approvingly at Lance’s great improvement in the use of the weapon. His small size still made hefting the weighty sword difficult, but he held his own against the bigger and stronger Enrique. Chris sat on the sidelines near Lance, obviously not wanting to stray too far from the boy who had rescued him. Lance and Enrique paused to rest, panting and sweaty, Lance’s flowing brown hair pasted to his face as though glued.

“Excellent, Lance,” Arthur commended the boy. “And you, as well, Enrique. You remind me of