The Crucible, Book 1: Forged Steel

Chapter 1

If downtown at two AM was a mathematical equation, the answer would be 'creepy times ten.' I took a gulp of room-temperature coffee.

Outside our booth window sat a table full of Goths who clutched their coffee mugs like weapons and glared at anyone who got too close. An apparent dress code of mile-high spiked hair, ten pounds of facial piercings, and exposed boxers made the sidewalks an even bigger freak show.

Across the table, my roommate, Marc Gillam, stretched his arms above his head. The metal bracelet on his wrist clanked on the back of the booth. His mouth gaped in a silent yawn.

"Ready to go back yet?" I asked.

"Nope. Are you?"

"Oh, no. I love sitting here with my contacts getting all grainy and my chin dragging in my latte. I'm good." I took another gulp. "Just surprised you want to stay out this late with finals coming up."

"Josh, please, like you care about finals." Marc

stared out into the café, drumming two fingers on the lip of his coffee cup.

I shrugged and turned back to the window. Rather than watch the passersby on the sidewalk, this time I watched the ghostly reflection of the café interior. It reduced the café to a wash of warm browns and bright splotches of clothing, the faces of everyone around me blurred beyond recognition. Even my own long face, spiked hair, and brown eyes looked vague.

Twenty-three years old, five ditched bachelor degrees, and just a few points away from getting kicked out of our military-strict college. Marc was right. Who cared about tests anyway? I yawned.

Marc ran his hand through his dark blond hair. "Heard you had a meeting with your school counselor this afternoon."

Small talk? From my best friend? I looked at him and raised one eyebrow. "Yeah. Turns out that my trig professor didn't appreciate me hacking the school BlackBoard and changing the class schedules." That'd been the least I'd done, but apparently it was the proverbial straw, which made Professor Blackaby a camel. The mental picture made me snicker.

Marc rolled his eyes. "Genius Josh strikes again."

"If I hear that nickname one more time, I'll kick your butt so hard it'll be your new belly."

He grinned. "C'mon. All you need is a pocket protector, and..."

I kicked his leg under the table.

"Ow! What're we now, in grade school?"

I crossed my arms on the table and rested my face on them. "Dude, why are we really here?"

"Do we need a reason?"

"Mister Perfect decides to sneak out of his dorm on a weekend, when he should be studying for finals. No, I don't need any—" I rolled my eyes and immediately regretted it when my contact stuck in the corner of my left eye. "Gah, that burns!" I pawed at it. The contact came loose and dropped into my palm.

The doorbell jingled over the coffee shop entrance. I glanced toward it. One of the aforementioned guys with mile-high hair ducked into the café's main room, his eyes running over the crowd as if he was looking for someone specific. Even with only one eye functional, I recognized the squirmy scar on his neck and the Mohawk hairdo. Blake Davis, a guy I'd gone to high school with. The gigantic linebacker's hair was purple now, and he had a few more facial piercings than when I'd known him, but the scar was too unique to be anyone else.

I started to wave.

Marc hissed.

"What?" I glanced at him.