Cadence

Cadence

By Bill Ricardi

Book 2 of the Ihy Saga

Version 1.0: ‘Master’ - Copyright Bill Ricardi - 2019 - All Rights Reserved.

Members of the Bill Ricardi Fan Club and mailing list are entitled to a FREE E-book copy of his first fantasy novel, ‘Another Stupid Spell’. Details are in the bibliography section at the back of this book.

Playlist

‘Cadence’ is heavily invested in the music that surrounds us. These are some of the key songs and albums that appear in the book, presented to the reader so that they can create a playlist (on YouTube, iTunes, etc.). The reader can then use this playlist to enhance the reading experience, hearing what Lucas hears when the time is right.

These songs are presented in no particular order, to avoid spoilers. Like Lucas, you must be ready to play the right song at a moment’s notice.

Please support these amazing artists if you enjoy their work. Use their official channels when possible, buy the music that you love, become a fan if it touches your soul.

The Who - ‘Who Are You’

Mozart - 'Der Hölle Rache'

Ram Jam - 'Black Betty'

Kenny Loggins - ‘Danger Zone’

Pink Floyd - ‘Childhood's End’

Foo Fighters - 'The Pretender'

Stan Rogers - 'Barrett's Privateers'

Rage Against the Machine - ‘Bulls on Parade’

Twenty One Pilots - 'Jumpsuit'

Twenty One Pilots - 'Levitate'

Beau Black - ‘When I Come Out’

Alanis Morissette - ‘Your House’

Buckethead - ‘Soothsayer’

Portugal the Man - 'Feel It Still'

Aerosmith - ‘Mama Kin’

Pearl Jam - 'Rearviewmirror'

Flogging Molly - ‘Drunken Lullabies’

Sevendust - 'Dirty'

Clannad - ‘Coinleach Glas an Fhómhair’

Bob Warner - ‘Silver Bells - Instrumental’

Iron Maiden - ‘Hallowed Be Thy Name’

John Farnham - ‘You’re the Voice’

Fleetwood Mac - 'Songbird'

They Might Be Giants - ‘I Don’t Understand You’

Sufjan Stevens - 'Chicago'

C.W. McCall - ‘Convoy’

Katy Perry - ‘Roar’

Foreword

Since publishing ‘Rhythm’, the first book in ‘The Ihy Saga’, a lot has changed. I’ve branched out into other genres such as romance. My fantasy audiobook trilogy has hit new benchmarks. And I’ve changed the way that I pursue my career entirely.

But ‘Cadence’ somehow managed to transcend all of that chaos. Despite my fantasy novels being much more popular, I believe that this book is my finest work to date. The blend of Hollywood action, soul stirring music, and genuine characters is something that I’m quite proud of. I hope you enjoy it.

As always, there are too many people to thank:

To my fans who made the leap over from ‘Another Stupid Trilogy’ and the world of Panos I say: Finally! Get your butts in seats and start reading, you crazy and wonderful folks.

To anyone dealing with past or present abuse, loss, religious extremism, sexual oppression, bullying, and poverty: It gets better. Lucas’ story parallels our own stories. We don’t need powers or weapons to be our own heroes. Be strong, get all the help you need, find your freedom, and you can be the master of your own fate.

To my loyal Beta Reader, Tim Vecchiarelli: You are a constant source of support and encouragement when nothing else seems to be going right. Thank you for your strength.

We have to thank the amazing Kim Edwards, who stepped up and created the cover art for ‘Cadence’. It’s a study of two bulls and two worlds: The Wall Street Bull in New York City, and Apis the Bull God of Duat. Stunning vision, beautifully executed.

To Stephen King and the ‘On Writing’ method: You’re a demanding taskmaster. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This book would not be possible without the influence of Roger Zelazny, Neil Gaiman, and Aaron Sorkin. Your takes on the nature of godhood, of humanity, and of civilization changed the way I write.

To every musical artist mentioned in the book, living or otherwise: You bring the rhythm. You create the cadence. Without music, I wouldn’t be here today. In this world or the next: Rock on.

To Mark Dawson and the SPF team: You’re slowly changing my career for the better. Much love.

To Loki and Rick, a feline and a husband, who taught me that kisses are fleeting, but a cat scratch is forever.

Thank you, one and all.

Introduction

Delilah Olsen ignored the screaming that surrounded her. She was very good at that.

The ambush of Lucas Andrews had not gone according to plan. Unexpected combat prowess from the Host’s side, as well as amature combat tactics from her own forces, had resulted in multiple injuries and fatalities. The survivors claimed to have wounded the young man before being forced to flee, but Delilah knew that one couldn’t rely on second hand accounts.

Mrs. Olsen, ma’am?

She recognised the voice coming from behind the passenger seat. It was the local cell leader, though he preferred to call himself the ‘right hand of God’. God had so many ‘right hands’ these days, Delilah had to wonder if he was a relative of Durga, the ten armed Hindu deity. She didn’t say that out loud of course; these cretins wouldn’t appreciate her multi-cultural humor.

Instead Delilah said, Yes, what is it?

Stammering just a little, the man said, Well the boys, they was w-wonderin’ what went wrong? The boy was s’posed to die this time, r-right?

Mrs. Olsen spared a moment to look over her left shoulder and peer into the back of the large SUV. The grumbling, crying, and moaning of these cultists was a possible indication of a loss of faith. Professional soldiers would be efficiently rendering first aid and saving their energy. But Delilah knew that with rabble like this, some amount of appeasement was in order.

Listen to me, brothers and sisters. We are being tested by a powerful demon. But it was not God who failed us this day; it was we who failed Him. Our faith wasn’t strong enough. Our convictions fled in the face of that horrible evil.

The woman’s confident, powerful words seemed to have a calming effect on the cultists. All of them, even the wounded and the dying, locked their eyes upon the elegant creature garbed in white. Only her driver, a professionally mannered man with black shades and an earpiece, managed to avoid the trap. He kept his focus on the road.

Delilah continued, But this is not the end. The field hospital is just minutes away, and the faithful will be saved. The power of Jesus Christ will see us through this tragedy. We will recover, and we will grow our numbers as the Word of our Good Works spreads. As the Word of the Lord Himself spreads. I will see to it that you receive more training, better resources. The day comes when God will banish all of these abominations to Hell. And I swear on the Lord above: Each and every one of you will be an instrument of Heaven on that blessed day.

The effect of Delilah’s words was immediate. The cultists relaxed and murmured their thanks to God. The pain of the wounded seemed to be lessened after her speech.

Satisfied that her role had been played to perfection, Mrs. Olsen turned to face the front windshield once again. She had seen what she needed to see. It took Delilah thirty seconds to calculate how many of the wounded would die. In her head, she was already editing the force depletion reports.

The sound of country music invaded Mrs. Olsen’s ears. Her driver had turned on the radio.

Turn that shit off.

The man quickly moved to comply. The rest of their trip was conducted in silence.

The small airstrip in the vicinity of Great Barrington wasn’t much to look at. But it would do for Delilah’s purposes. The tall, thin woman hopped out of the SUV before it had even come to a complete stop. She instructed the driver to take the ‘faithful’ to the triage tent that was set up just outside the perimeter fence. Then she walked over to the awaiting golf cart. This driver might as well have been a clone of the last one.

Once the van was out of sight, Delilah took out her smartphone. She deftly tapped out an international number. The man on the other end answered with a simple, Yes?

Delilah said, Negative on target. I want options in ten.

The reply that she heard was, Yes ma’am. Then there was a faint electronic click and the line went dead.

She mounted the stairs of her Cessna Citation Sovereign. The super midsize business jet was already fired up and ready for departure. Delilah mounted the stairs two at a time, displaying an easy athleticism that belied her pampered Hollywood persona. She moved with military precision and efficiency.

The interior of the private jet was modified from the original design to suit Mrs. Olsen’s particular needs. Most of the club seating had been removed, replaced by a private office. Delilah retreated to the nerve center of her empire, even as the twin Pratt & Whitney turbofans whined with eager anticipation of the flight to come.

The setup was state of the art. Eight dedicated L-band satellite channels handled voice and data seamlessly. A small purple wiring box, something that might look quite innocent in other settings, provided sponge-based Keccak encryption and decryption for every inbound or outbound signal. In short, this was more than a CEO’s communications suite. This was a digital war room.

Still, Delilah preferred good old fashioned paper for certain things. After all, anything that you put online could potentially be accessed unless you maintained control over every piece of hardware and software all the way down the line.

So certain delicate files permanently resided in Delilah’s office. She carefully balanced the insecurity of hard copies with leading-edge physical countermeasures. Mag-locks on her steel desk drawers could only be opened by the unique magnetic patterns encoded into the key itself. As the plane taxied for takeoff, Delilah inserted her key into the lower right hand drawer. It opened with a click and a muffled thud.

Identities. Every file in the drawer was the identity of a different person. And each person was Delilah.

Enrique Sanchez was Delilah, though nobody had ever met the narco baron in person. ‘His’ army of growers and dealers had carved out a resilient cocaine distribution network that stretched from Bolivia to Fort Worth, Texas. Business was good.

Sally Faber was Delilah, though Sally rarely made personal appearances. She would attend the quarterly shareholders’ meetings for the private military company that she held a controlling interest in. But Sally preferred to spend her time travelling abroad. Often to Bolivia and Fort Worth, oddly enough.

Ister Bancroft was Delilah, though Ister was most certainly ‘on the lam’. The former Hollywood darling and executive producer had somehow got caught up in a nasty human trafficking ring. She supposedly fled to China ‘until the authorities could properly determine her innocence’. But the woman still held a lot of sway on social media, where her diehard fans often parroted the neo-Puritan thoughts and beliefs that she shared with the world.

Delilah made careful updates to the status of each identity, reflecting recent events. But she hesitated when it came to the final persona that lived in her desk drawer. She stared at the manilla cardboard pouch. The blocky, stenciled letters which spelled out ‘MRS. OLSEN’ seemed to stare back at her. A symbol of The Fraternal Order of the Crusade had been hastily, perhaps angrily scribbled on the otherwise compulsively neat file. She slammed the desk drawer shut with a displeased snarl, rather than dealing with that particular update.

As the Cessna roared down the runway and pushed Delilah back into her anchored computer chair, the digitally synthesized sound of a telephone ringing filled the office. She waited until the G forces subsided somewhat before slapping a fat blue button situated to the left of her keyboard.

The three 26 inch monitors arrayed in a semicircle in front of Mrs. Olsen flickered and came to life. On the left was a man in a tan business suit, looking sweaty and nervous. Directly ahead, a clean cut young officer in a U.S. Air Force uniform. On the right monitor, a faceless woman in a black shawl sat in a candlelit brick room.

Delilah didn’t bother with pleasantries. She said, Status on the mark.

It was the Air Force officer who answered, Nothing yet, ma’am. I called in a favor from a friend in the National Guard, and they sent a chopper out along the mark’s most likely route. Due to ongoing ops, I won’t have a satellite window for another 150 minutes.

Delilah set her jaw. She bit back the angry retort that had formulated in her mind. It wouldn’t change reality. Instead, she turned her head to the left, each of the three webcams tracking the movement. Finances and preparation for the ‘big day’?

The businessman’s halting English and heavy accent put him somewhere in Central or South America. He said, Mrs. Olsen, it’s all for the good, yes? No change, no change. Everything ready, as you say. Funds are in place, and more than enough. More than enough.

This reassurance seemed to calm Delilah, at least for the moment. Her head swivelled 90 degrees to the right as she asked, And the aftermath?

The other woman’s voice was soothing. She practically purred, Your people are ready to move into the void that will undoubtedly manifest, beloved one. They are of one mind and heart. We are strong on three continents. We will take root and the word of your work will spread.

Delilah nodded sharply. She turned back to the middle monitor and said, I want the results of the Western New York satellite sweep by the time I get to my hotel in Houston tonight. Focus on the two paths that intelligence forecasted. Don’t fuck this up.

Yes ma’am.

Mrs. Olsen ended the conference call with an irritated slap of the blue broadcast button. Then she glanced down and to her right, at the file that awaited her attention.

She violently swept aside her mouse and keyboard before slamming her fist into the metal surface of her work desk. The blow was so violent, it jarred the power cord out of the back of her central monitor.

Perhaps more disturbingly, her fingernails gouged crescent indentations in the solid metal desk.

Delilah stared into the monitor’s dark surface. With no light behind her, it should have effectively been a black mirror with nothing to reflect.

Instead, twin coils of fire stared back at Delilah, from a pair of otherwise dead eyes.

Chapter 1

‘I swear to Ra, it’s a little kit that they sell online, specifically for defiling ancient tombs.’

At first, Lucas thought that Izadore was just trying to distract his Host from the pain. The young man’s left arm was still weak and throbbing, despite the chitosan wrapping and Izy’s attempts at regeneration. Similarly, Lucky’s ribs felt like they were on fire, and every bump or pothole reignited his torment. So it made sense that the kind spirit who shared Lucas’ physical body would want to comfort him.

‘But they aren’t REAL ancient tombs. They’re these little blocks of concrete with mummies and pottery and statues embedded inside. And you get a little hammer and chisel in the kit.’

Eventually Lucas came to a different realisation: Izy was bored. And although the god-son had a couple millennia worth of things to talk about, one of his favorite activities was ranting about idiots on the Internet. Lucas knew that anything he said would just fuel the fire. So instead, the Host concentrated on keeping their Country Squire station wagon in the right lane. In the aftermath of their recent attack, the last thing that the pair needed was to be pulled over by some New York state trooper with a quota to fill.

‘It’s for kids. It’s a kit that teaches children how to grave rob and commit sacrilege against ancient spirits. Yeah well, good luck with The Curse of Rotting Flesh, little Timmy!’

Lucky sought solace from the one constant in his life: Music. He changed the input from FM radio over to the music archive stored on his phone. Lucas used his music app’s ‘random’ feature in an attempt to find something that fit the mood. The first few attempts didn’t hit the mark.

‘I mean in this day and age, with the Church of Ihy growing and thriving, you would think that there would be a plethora of tasteful Egyptian themed gifts. What about a small electrum ankh? The Eye of Horus carved in labradorite? Hell I’d settle for a pyramids of Giza mousepad.’

Lucas was bewildered. He asked, ‘What would we do with a mousepad, Izy?’

Izadore paused in his ranting. Then he insisted, ‘That’s not the point! The point is… what was my point? Oh yeah, the point is to avoid teaching children to crack open grandad’s final resting place like some kind of unholy piñata. What’s wrong with humanity these days?’

If Lucas had an answer for the god-son, it died before the Host could relay it. Lucky’s phone selected, at random, a song that was particularly meaningful to him. Lucas had been intentionally avoiding it for a couple of years. Izadore went quiet as the significance of the song dawned on him.

The first four bars were eight notes repeated; the echoing strain of a bass guitar that was desperate to cry out a warning. It was saying: Rough road ahead, but probably no rougher than you’re used to.

Lucas’ knuckles went white as he gripped the Country Squire’s steering wheel. Izadore leaned into the music, channeling its hidden power to the benefit of his Host. Pearl Jam’s ‘Rearviewmirror’ became their entire world.

The Taconic State Parkway seemed to blur around Host and god-son. Lucas didn’t even feel his right foot pressing down on the accelerator. He was too focused on the lyrics of a song that could have easily been written about his life, had he been alive when Eddie Vedder originally put pen to paper. Unconsciously, Lucas was hoping that more speed would allow him to escape the sheer tonnage of his past.

But that didn’t happen. Instead, the first verse summarized his life in crystal clarity: His attempts to escape or mitigate his parents’ physical and mental abuse. His quest for emancipation; one that was ultimately successful, though it cost him any chance at a real home.

The next verse conjured vivid flashbacks. Lucky relived the countless, relentless beatings of school bullies who saw the virtual orphan as an easy target. He could almost feel them touching his body. Instead of the haze of pain that Lucas was supposed to be experiencing, he was being held down. Afraid. Helpless. Victim to whatever injury, ridicule, and defilement that they wanted to inflict upon him.

Then he remembered looking down at his naked body in the shower. Every welt, every burn, every scar told an old tale. Lucas had endured because he had to. Though there were times when…

‘I know buddy. I know.’

The station wagon started to sway and rumble. Lucky’s stiff muscles weren’t responding. With tears streaming down his cheeks, the Host allowed his partner to take the wheel. It was only Izy being with him, in him, all around him that granted Lucas the support that he needed to keep himself alive. The god-son kept the Country Squire on the road while Lucas retreated into his own mind.

Now just a passenger inside of his own body, Lucas could fully experience the grief and rage that had been dredged up. He screamed impotently, replaying the narrative of his past. The shame of being unable or unwilling to fight back weighed heavily, much like a thick yoke slowly crippling a beast of burden. With the instrumental bridge playing in his ears, Lucas slammed his fists against the walls of his own psyche, unable to refuse the cowardly mantle that he had once worn.

But then there was a shift. When Vedder’s new mantra registered in Lucky’s mind, the tears stopped. Lucas remember that he had eventually stood up for himself. His covenant with Ihy was a moment of bravery that changed everything. Suddenly he was rushing away from the pain and regret. He was rushing towards, something, towards someone: Izadore.

The moisture in his eyes drifted up and away like cold steam. His vision, and with it the manifestation of the real world, snapped back into crystal clarity.

Lucas ‘felt’ his friend’s hands on his shoulders. A gentle push was all the Host needed. As the song finally faded out, Lucas took control of his body once again. The grief and rage were still there, but those sensations were muted. Distant. He was shaking a bit from the after effects of his supernatural experience, but not violently enough to threaten Lucas’ ability to drive.

Izy mentioned, ‘If you have any more songs that hit you that hard, you might want to take them off of the general playlist. They’re useful, and highly important. But not something we want to deal with without a bit of planning’

Lucas absently dried his cheeks as best he could with the fingers of his right hand, careful not to jar his left shoulder too much. There wasn’t nearly as much of an objection from his bruised ribs as he had predicted. He asked aloud, Did you manage to get a little more healing done?

‘Yes. It would have been a shame to waste all of that energy.’

Lucas scolded his friend, ‘The attack was just a few hours back. You shouldn’t be straining yourself like that.’

Izadore mentally rolled his eyes. ‘Thanks dad! I won’t be out too late. I’ll take protection, don’t worry.’

‘Izy…’

‘I’m fine Lucas. Really. Besides, we’re heading into New York City, right? There will be ample opportunities to ‘recharge’. With eight and a half million people to proposition, I’m sure one of them will take pity on you.’

Lucas snorted. He was about to retort when he caught a glimpse of the sign for the next exit. Holy shit. White Plains? There’s no way we’re here already.

Izy thought, ‘No, this is about right. With the pain and all that, you’ve been drifting in and out a little bit. And that last burst of speed certainly helped.’

‘This is one of the places that we wanted to check out right? For the phone?’

‘Is it? I don’t think so.’

Lucas experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance as he and Izadore remembered the same moment differently. Lucas took a couple of deep breaths and reminded himself that the brain wasn’t a perfect mechanism. He allowed Izy to access his memories, which just confirmed what he thought he saw rather than the reality of the situation.

Izy suggested, ‘Let’s get some gas anyway, and we can check the Net. With thousands of years of memories to work with, certain trivial details can get lost. And I’ll admit that my attention might have been drifting.’

A quick web search, conducted while gassing up the Country Squire, confirmed that Lucas wasn’t going nuts. In fact, the phone repair and security shop was just a few streets away from the service station. They agreed to visit the place after topping up the fuel in their tank and the air in their tires. Lucas paid the attendant in cash before slowly sliding back into the driver’s seat and firing up the engine.

As the two made their way to the new address, Izadore reminded Lucas, ‘Remember: These people have their own vocabulary. If you aren’t cool, you won’t get through the door. So you need to throw around the right words.’

Lucas thought, ‘Sure. Words like Leet.’

‘Deep web.’

‘Routing.’

‘Jacked up.’

‘Pong.’

‘Do you mean Ping by chance?’

‘That too. Ping Pong.’

‘Mainframes.’

‘Inkjet.’

Izy thought, confidently, ‘Yeah, we got this.’

Lucas pulled into the strip mall’s small parking lot. There wasn’t a lot of competition over parking spaces. The Host slowly made his way out of the Country Squire’s driver seat, careful not to aggravate his ribcage or shoulder too much. Bolstered by Ihy’s self-assuredness, Lucas strode through the door of The Cracked Case .

‘Oh. Well, I’m a little disappointed.’

Lucky had to admit, he was a bit disappointed as well. Instead of a dimly lit den filled with wires and old CRT monitors, The Cracked Case was a clean, modern shop. Interlocking anti-static tiles made up the majority of the flooring. Reconditioned phones sat neatly inside of an illuminated glass case. Certifications hung on the wall behind the counter, naming just about every brand of phone that existed.

A voice practically sung out from somewhere behind the counter, Hello there, welcome to The Cracked Case. My name is Zelda, how can I help you today?

Lucas felt a little better after hearing that. He thought, ‘Zelda is a cool name.’

Izy agreed, ‘We can trust anyone named Zelda, I think.’

Aloud, Lucas said, Hi there Zelda. My name is Lucky.

The shopkeeper stood from where she was putting some components away on a low shelf. Zelda was a tall, blonde Scandinavian woman in her mid 20’s. And she was already frowning. Lucky? Really?

Lucas was immediately on the defensive. He stammered, Well. Y-you know, my friends call me L-Lucky. I’m Lucas.

Ah. And how can I help you, Lucas?

‘We just have to prove that we’re cool. Do the thing.’

Lucas took out a phone. This particular one had been liberated from one of the Host’s recent attackers. Lucas said, I need to route the Dark Web.

The blank stare that Zelda leveled at him did not inspire confidence.

Lucky tried again as he slid the phone across the glass counter, I’d like you to jack this up.

Zelda said, I’m calling the cops.

Izadore thought, ‘Abort. Let’s get out of here.’

But Lucas’ instinct was to reach out and say, No, please wait. The sudden movement tugged at his dented and bruised ribs. He had to catch himself on the counter to stay upright. There could be no mistaking the twisted mask of pain on his face.

Zelda’s expression went from irritation to concern. She took her hand out of her pocket, but it wasn’t grasping a mobile phone or a weapon. Instead the woman reached out with an open palm and grabbed Lucky’s arm at the elbow, helping to support his weight. Shit. Are you alright?

Lucas panted in a series of shallow breaths, just trying to get the pain to subside so that he could stand up again. Eventually he was able to straighten his back and stop leaning on the counter. He responded, No. Listen, I’m being chased. Not by cops or the government, just… chased. I need to get what’s on that phone and then… make it safe to use. To look stuff up. Without being followed, you know?

The woman behind the counter schooled her expression. She withdrew her hand from Lucas’ elbow. Instead she reached out with a finger and lightly brushed an old scar near Lucky’s right temple. She murmured, You don’t have any aunts or uncles that you can trust?

‘Lucas. She thinks we’re running away from home.’

‘Well she’s not completely wrong, buddy.’

Lucas shook his head a little bit. He murmured, I have a friend I’m meeting in New York. That was true after a fashion as well; he would eventually be hooking up with D. J. Beets, after all.

Zelda looked torn for a few seconds. Then she said, The ‘paranoia package’ is $40. Plus $10 for the spare SD card. I dump the old data, sanitize the phone, root it, and then install my framework. Pay as you go sim, Tor browser, software burner number app, no verified information required. Full instructions will be on the phone. There’s no tech support. When you need to top up, you do it here, or on my website. Got it?

Lucas’ reply was immediate, even though he didn’t understand half of what Zelda had just said, Yes ma’am. He dug out fifty dollars in crumpled bills and slid them across the counter.

The tall woman rang him up. His receipt simply said: ‘Repair Services - $50 - Tax Inc.’

Zelda didn’t turn on the phone right away. Instead she slid it into some sort of mesh cage. From his recent audio systems education, Lucky identified it as a small Faraday cage. It was used to block wireless signals.

Izy commented, ‘Smart. That will stop any anti theft or phone-home type of thing until she can disable it all.’

Without looking up from her work, Zelda said, This will take a little while. Grab an ice pop, wait outside.

Lucas looked around at the mention of ice pops. There was a small freezer by the door, containing boxes of generic ice pops. A sign on the side of the freezer spelled out, in no uncertain terms, ‘NO ICE POPS IN THE STORE - EAT OUTSIDE’.

Lucky was happy enough to leave the competent technician to do her work in peace. He slowly made his way to the door, pausing only to grab his free sugar water.

‘Grape! Grape please.’

Plastic tube of purple ice in hand, the pair retreated to the Country Squire’s wayback. Lucas devoured the ice pop in minutes. Then he leaned back on the bed. He just needed to rest his eyes for a while.

It was a gentle knocking on the rear hatch that eventually roused Lucas. He sat up and popped the back open.

Zelda stood at the car’s rear bumper, a small shopping bag in hand. She offered it to Lucky as she said, You should get the windshield fixed. They might stop you for it.

Lucas sighed softly as he took the freshly rooted and secured phone from the technician. The bullet hole in the passenger side of his front windscreen was so far down on their list of priorities, Lucas had nearly forgotten about it. Still, he promised, I will, as soon as I can afford to slow down.

Zelda nodded slowly. She said, Alright. The data from the old phone is on the extra SD card, in plain text. Be safe. Then the shopkeeper headed back inside.

‘She was really nice. We should go to her for all of our covert cellular communication needs.’

Lucas asked, ‘Are you high right now or something, Izy?’

The god-son paused for a few moments before answering. It gave Lucas time to scoot out of the wayback and get into the driver’s seat instead.

Finally, Izadore thought, ‘You were right before, about me pushing things too far. I’m a bit out of it. I’ve been channeling a lot of power into keeping us upright and healing us