Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within by L J Hachmeister & R R Virdi

Author:L J Hachmeister & R R Virdi [Hachmeister, L J & Virdi, R R]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B07V6PM444
Publisher: Source 7 Productions, LLC
Published: 2019-10-07T11:00:00+00:00

“So what did you find out?” the sheriff asked.

I absently ran my palms over my dusty jeans. The damn interrogation room felt claustrophobic, despite the fact that I knew I wasn’t being charged or held—guess there’s just something about police stations that give me the jitters.

“Not much I didn’t already know.” Except that you might be royally boned, I thought. As much as I hated what was going on in Valentine, if these idiot Rubes really had entered into a legally binding contract with the Piper, there wasn’t much I could do for ’em. They shouldn’t have screwed around with something they didn’t understand. There were a lot of nasty things out there in the big wide world; most were predatory, looking for any excuse to attack. The law of the friggin’ jungle, right there.

Harlan pushed his way through the door a moment later, carefully balancing a large plastic trash can full of sloshing water.

“Just set it here,” I said, waving him over. The man complied, confusion running across his face as I removed my socks and dipped my toesy-wosies into the water with a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Sheriff Copeman said, eyeing the trash can, then rubbing at one temple, “but what exactly is this going to accomplish?”

I sniffed, then wiggled my toes. “It’s magic stuff,” I replied, even though it’s not really magic—more like advanced physics than weird rituals or any of that occult bullshit. “Don’t worry about it. I just need to hammer a few things out.” I closed my eyes, letting go of my fear and anxiety over this whole clusterfuck, feeding all of those unhelpful thoughts and emotions into the fires of the Vis as I conjured a weave of water and will, boring deeper inside myself. Seeking to connect with my inner man.

And by “inner man,” I mean Cassius Aquinas, the shit-talking water elemental who lived inside my head, permanently bound to my subconscious mind.

When I opened my eyes a heartbeat later, I was no longer gazing at Sheriff Copeman in the boxy interrogation room. Instead, I stood on a narrow street lined on either side by two-story buildings and lit with the yellow glow of evenly spaced street lamps and neon signs in a riot of hues: sapphire blue, fallout green, look-at-me red. Most of the buildings had balconies jutting out over the wide sidewalks, which were filled with umbrella covered tables, all absent of guests. Bourbon Street, smack dab in the New Orleans French Quarter.

Except it was quiet, still, and lifeless—a thing which could never be said of the real Bourbon Street.

My brainscape, a metaphysical representation of my psyche, which naturally resembled the Big Easy, with its hot, muggy nights, over-the-top eats, and outta-this-world music scene. Here I was at home. Here I was safe and the aches and pains of real life were like distant memories, hazy and faded at the edges. The air filled with the scent of slow roasted pork—tangy, smoky, sweet—while licks of gritty blues swirled around me, thick as cigar smoke.

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