The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

much sleep either. “Croft, I’m not sure we have till eventually. The crazies are going after people now.”

In her voice, I could also hear her fear for her son.

“Yeah, they were just talking about that on the radio,” I said. “Look, I’ll contact you as soon as I know something. In the meantime, tell Budge I’m working on it.”

“How bad can we expect it to get tonight?” she asked.

I paused as I considered the question. Like black magic, Whisperer magic was probably more potent at night. And if today’s craziness had started before sunset… “Bad,” I said. “Probably the best you can do is get everyone vulnerable out of their path. I think Budge is on the right track with the evacuation order. I promise I’m doing everything I can.”

We said goodbye, my hand trembling as I hung up.

Had I unleashed this? Was I responsible for the death and destruction?

“Hey!” the cabbie shouted. “The hell you think you’re doin’?”

I turned to the island of gas station pumps, where the cabbie had pulled in to fill up. A man had been hanging around the pumps with a squeegee when we arrived, offering to wash car windows for a few bucks. Now he was wrestling my cabbie for the gasoline nozzle.

“Help!” the cabbie gasped.

I ran over as the cabbie sagged to the pavement, clutching his chest. Squeegee Man stepped on his stomach and wrested the nozzle the rest of the way from his grip. He stood back and aimed the nozzle at the cabbie like a gangster preparing an execution.

I fumbled for my cane and shouted. The cabbie threw his arms to his ducked head as gasoline jetted from the nozzle—and hit my shield invocation. The gas poured off both sides and splashed to the pavement.

At neighboring islands, people began to scream and back away. Squeegee man wheeled with the nozzle, jetting gallons of gasoline everywhere. Wild, red-rimmed eyes stared from a twitching face. The man was gone—but not far enough. His other hand was rooting inside a jacket pocket for what I rightly guessed was a lighter.

As I caught the flash of red plastic, I thrust my cane at him and shouted, “Vigore!”

The force blast caught him in the chest and shot him from the pumps. He dropped both lighter and nozzle en route to the side of a tractor trailer, where he slammed to a stop, then pancaked to the pavement.

Exhaling, I turned back to the cabbie, who was using the side of his cab to climb to his feet. A tide of gasoline rolled toward a metal grate, its fumes bending the air and making my eyes water. Those who had fled began to venture back. A woman in business attire stooped for the dropped lighter.

“Are you all right?” I asked my cabbie.

“Did you see that?” he wheezed, still clutching his chest. “You see that?”

Behind me, I heard the distinct snikt of a metal wheel. I turned to find the woman who had retrieved the plastic lighter holding it in front of her face, staring at the slender flame. She was an older woman, dressed in a pants suit and wearing expensive-looking jewelry, but like Squeegee Man, she didn’t seem all there.

“Put that out!” I shouted.

Her staring eyes fell to the tide of gasoline, some of it running under cars. With a strange flattening of her pupils, she knelt as though to touch the flame to the gas.

“Protezione,” I called, enclosing the lighter in a shield. Without air, the flame died. The woman released the lighter and stepped back. I shrunk the shield until the lighter detonated inside it.

The woman’s eyes shifted toward me. Her face began to contort, red lips peeling back from her teeth. I glanced around. Everyone else seemed fine. Maybe this lady had a touch of age-related dementia, making her more susceptible to Whisperer magic. I readied my cane reluctantly, not wanting to hit her with an invocation, but not sure I would have a choice.

At that moment, two young men strolled into our midst, smoke wafting from their long hair and jackets. They were the ones who had been hot-boxing inside the Plymouth—and smelled the part. “Whoa, check it out,” one of them said. “It’s like a gasoline pond or something.”

For the love of God.

The other one gave a deep, throaty laugh of agreement. I watched in horror as a third member of their party slung his arm around the woman who had nearly finished Squeegee Man’s job.

“What happened, lady?” he asked her.

“Get back!” I shouted.

The three potheads turned toward me. “Dude, what’s your problem?” one of them asked.

“She’s…” I almost said dangerous, but the woman was looking around now in uncertainty, eyes normal again. With a sound of disapproval, she drew the young man’s arm from around her shoulder and marched to her car—a shiny white Bonneville—got in, and drove away.

“Can we get outta here already?” the cabbie asked me.

The lights over the pumping stations turned on, pushing back the dusk. Near the diesel pumps, Squeegee Man was still down, a gas station employee standing over him to ensure he stayed that way. How long before the magic became strong enough to overwhelm the rest of us? I wondered.

I turned back to the cabbie, who didn’t appear to have seen my magical exhibition.

“Yeah,” I said. “Good idea.”

When we pulled up to the safe house at Gehr Place twenty minutes later, I paid the cabbie double the fare.

“You sure about this,” he asked, counting through the bills.

“I feel responsible for what happened to you back there,” I said.

“You weren’t the one who went apey with the gas hose.”

No, I thought, but if I let that magic through, I might as well have been.

“Stay safe,” I told him, clapping his large shoulder.

“Thanks, you too.”

The cab droned away as I climbed the front porch steps. At the threshold, I checked the house for wards or protective energy. Still down. Inside, I dropped my pack, then flicked on lights en route to Chicory’s room. A