Jestin Kase and the Masters of Dragon Metal Read online

  ~BOOK ONE~

  JESTIN KASE

  AND THE

  MASTERS OF DRAGON METAL

  J. MICHAEL WHITE

  Copyright © J. Michael White, 2022

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN: 979-8-9852213-1-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing Edition 2022

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To the random stranger who cut in front of me at the coffee shop.

  This is for you, jerk.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alley Cat

  Apparently, the cops didn’t like it when you burned down your foster home. Who knew?

  Police lights flashed across the dark streets as Jestin ran through the back alleys of Chicago. He pumped his legs as fast as he could, hopping over fences, dashing up and down fire escapes, and cutting across rooftops. His legs burned with fatigue, and his chest ached as his heart pounded.

  Christ, I need to get back into shape.

  No matter how fast he ran, the police sirens followed. He could hear at least three cars. Maybe four.

  “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” he muttered, out of breath. Understaffed and underpaid, the cops rarely showed this level of persistence when they needed to give chase. They typically responded in an hour or two, if at all, and never followed Jestin’s trail for longer than a few minutes. Granted, he’d never burned down a house before—at least, not an entire house.

  Jestin ducked into a tight alley and collapsed between a dumpster and a cluster of garbage cans. He leaned against the brick wall and breathed deeply, his pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his neck.

  Gradually, the siren sounds moved farther and farther away.

  “Okay . . .” he whispered between breaths. “Okay . . . no more arson. Arson bad. Got it.”

  His voice startled something. He heard a clang; a black cat hissed, bolted from a garbage can, and landed on the dumpster. The feline arched his back, raising his short hair and poofing his tail. He glared, more afraid than angry, trying to look tough . . . and failing. The cat had one of those cute teddy-bear faces—hard to find that frightening.

  Jestin sighed at the cat’s sad attempt to scare him. “That’s an impressive, bushy tail you have there. I’m very intimidated.” The cat breathed another hiss. Jestin nodded. “Yes, yes. You’re very fearsome. But I need to crash here for a sec, okay?”

  Jestin curled up on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, scrunching his black winter jacket, worn over a gray hoodie. Sweat dripped down his forehead, chilling in the winter air and wetting his shaggy brown bangs. He shuffled his legs, trying to get comfortable. Cold air seeped into the rips and tears in his faded jeans and worn sneakers—his big toe slipped through a hole in his right shoe.

  Slowly, Jestin glanced up at the feline. Hair bristled down the black cat’s spine, and his golden-brown eyes stared from a face as terrorizing as a child’s stuffed animal.

  “Oh, calm down. I’m Jestin, by the way. Fifteen. Orphan on the run. I don’t suppose you have a name?”

  The cat rumbled a soft growl.

  “Growly McHissy-Face? Nice to meet you.”

  Another quick hiss.

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

  The cat walked slowly in a circle, hopped onto the pavement, and stared at Jestin, staying crouched and ready to pounce if needed. Then he lowered his tail, still cautious, but not aggressive.

  “See? We’re fine,” Jestin said. “Well . . . at least you’re fine. I’m royally screwed.”

  Jestin told Growly McHissy-Face his story, because why not?

  Jestin had spent the past three weeks living in the basement of a foster home, where kids crammed together in bunk beds and sleeping bags. Their foster father cared little for them. As part of the system’s private sector, the man got paid per kid. So instead of children, he saw dollar signs and treated his charges no better than farmers treated livestock.

  “I didn’t like the guy. So I burned his house down,” Jestin said. “Totally logical.”

  The cat tilted his head. He looked inquisitive instead of afraid but still kept all fours beneath his body so he could spring away if needed. Something about Jestin’s voice seemed to calm the feline, so the boy kept talking.

  “What?” Jestin said with a shrug. “Okay, yeah, it was stupid and impulsive. You’re right. You get me, Growly McHissy-Face. You really get me.”

  Unfortunately, Jestin didn’t think far enough ahead. He had no idea what to do or where to go next. Not to mention, he may or may not have needed a psych evaluation. See, he didn’t burn down the house just because the foster dad was a prick (that didn’t help his case, though). Jestin learned something about the man, something that sounded crazy.

  He was a thrall.

  Jestin called the man that because he was enthralled by a demon’s influence. Empty and pathetic, the foster father fed off the loneliness and despair of the kids under his care. The man’s greed empowered him, twisted him into a soulless pawn of chaos—not exactly something Jestin could explain to the cops or his social worker.

  “So I took care of him myself,” Jestin said. “Why? Because no one else would.” Besides, the man wasn’t human anymore; a thrall was a monster on the inside, evil, beyond saving, not a person, not even alive in the traditional sense. Killing a thrall wasn’t taking a life, it was saving the lives of others.

  The boy rolled his hands into fists at the mem
ory. Ugh, I’m too young to feel this old. Can I retire yet? Is that an option?

  “Maybe I’ll just move in with you,” Jestin said to the cat, extending his hand slowly, palm up. “Would you like the company?”

  Reluctantly, the cat stretched his body forward, moving his nose closer and closer to Jestin’s fingers, sniffing the boy’s hand until he got several good whiffs, his whiskers prickling Jestin’s skin. Then he rubbed the side of his face against the boy’s palm and started to purr like a boat engine.

  “See? Everything’s fine. I’m safe. Definitely not crazy. Definitely not sitting in the trash talking to an alley cat . . .” Sometimes I hate my life.

  The cat sprang up the boy’s arm, climbed around his neck, and dropped into his hoodie, using it like a hammock. Jestin snorted a laugh. “Make yourself at home.”

  Suddenly, Jestin heard a shuffle from the shadows. The cat snapped his head around and perked his ears. Jestin stayed as still as possible. At first, he thought the shuffle belonged to another cat. But the steps sounded too heavy. And human.

  “Son of a mother,” he muttered.

  “You suck at hiding,” a voice said. Someone moved from the shadows, a man, looking as though he had stepped out of one of those techno-pumped action movies from the late 1990s. He wore black leather pants that matched his jacket, which covered a black button-down shirt. His dark hair looked slicked back, and he had the slightest hints of stubble across his square jaw. He looked at Jestin with piercing icy blue eyes that gave the boy goose bumps.

  Oddly, the cat stayed calm.

  “Who says I’m hiding?” Jestin stayed on the ground—didn’t want to seem nervous, even though his heart pounded with panic. “Just . . . taking my cat for a walk.”

  Taking your cat for a walk? You’re a freaking idiot, he scolded himself.

  “Oh, I see,” the stranger said as he looked toward the other end of the alley. “I thought maybe you were running from the police who’ve been chasing you all night.”

  “Oh, them.” Jestin smiled sheepishly and ruffled the back of his hair. “Yeah, well, no. We’re tight, the police and me. Good pals.”

  Who was this guy? A fed? Social worker? Thrall? No, he didn’t seem enthralled and didn’t look like a cop or a fed . . . not that Jestin had ever seen a fed, but didn’t they wear suits? Either way, the stranger obviously dressed too nice for a social worker.

  “What about you?” Jestin asked. “Do you make it a habit of sneaking up on kids in alleys? Maybe I should call the police.”

  “You could.” The stranger seemed distracted. He pulled out his pocket watch, flipped it open and checked the time, then clicked it back shut, stuffing it into his pocket. “Or you could come with me and listen to what I have to say. It’s a better option than running all night. And something tells me you won’t be able to duck the cops much longer. Not this time.”

  Jestin’s instincts screamed at him to run, but he didn’t have many escape options. He glanced back to see if the cat would help, maybe pounce to his defense. But the feline was busy licking himself in the boy’s hoodie. Thanks, Growly McHissy-Face. Thanks.

  “Appreciate it, but I can take care of myself,” Jestin said, climbing slowly to his feet. He tried to sound confident enough to make the stranger think he had some secret butt-kicking ability, which he so did not. “Thanks.”

  Suddenly, sirens blared from both ends of the alley, and police lights strobed through the darkness. Tires screeched against pavement as cop cars swerved to a halt, blocking both ways out of the alley.

  Jestin cursed beneath his breath. “You stalled me!”

  “No, I tried to get you to hurry.” The stranger pulled two handguns from his jacket, completely enforcing his I-am-the-One techno-vibe.

  The cops shouted, weapons drawn, as they used their car doors for cover—two officers on one end of the alley and three on the other side.

  “Freeze!”

  “Don’t move!”

  They opened fire before Jestin could tell them to calm the hell down. Their guns thundered, blasting bullets. The techno-stranger didn’t seem worried and whispered something beneath his breath.

  Jestin ducked and covered his head—stupid, as if that would help. Surprisingly, nothing happened. He didn’t feel the sting of hot metal tearing through his body. Instead, the gunfire stopped, and shoes shuffled against the pavement.

  The silence of shock.

  When Jestin looked up, he saw the stranger standing with his guns at his sides. His eyes flickered with blue energy, and the same type of power pulsed from both ends of the alleyway. Apparently, the guy made force fields. Actual freaking force fields, flickers of light along invisible walls that had blocked the hailstorm of bullets.

  The shields lowered with a final flicker. The stranger lifted his guns and opened fire toward the nearest end of the alleyway. His bullets blazed with fiery energy that punctured through a cop car, which exploded into a ball of fire and shrapnel, hurling two cops off their feet.

  The remaining three officers tossed their guns aside, pulled out their batons, and charged at the stranger from behind. Their skin shifted, turning a sickly green as their eyes became bloodshot. They snarled like rabid wolves, with drool dripping down their fat chins.

  The stranger whipped around and fired, blasting the officers. But they kept running as if they didn’t even feel the bullets stinging through their bodies, smoke hissing from the wounds. Growly McHissy-Face perked his head at the scent of burnt meat. So helpful.

  The “police” charged closer.

  The stranger tossed his guns aside and jump-kicked a cop upside the head. He moved with the type of speed and fancy motions you saw on TV, punching and kicking the three attackers before they could land a single strike with their batons.

  He tore a baton from a cop’s hand, smashed it against the man’s face, and swung wide, bashing the second attacker across the head. The final attacker leaned forward and lunged with a howl. The stranger threw the baton against the man’s forehead, whipping him off his feet with a boom of wind.

  Stepping back, the stranger whispered and snapped his fingers; the attackers’ bodies burst into flames.

  Crap. What the what?

  Sure, Jestin knew the supernatural existed in some form. But he never expected to see a dual-gun-wielding magician torch a bunch of . . . whatever they were . . . with fiery bullets and energy shields.

  Jestin stayed on the ground, eyes wide, looking up at the stranger. “Um. No offense, but who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the guy who just saved your life.” He tucked his guns back into his belt. “Any other questions? No? Good. Now hurry up and come with me. You have work to do.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Babylonian Bible School

  The stranger called himself Gideon. He grabbed the nearest cop car and drove off with Jestin in the passenger seat. The cat still rested in Jestin’s hoodie, eyes half closed and one paw tangled in the boy’s hair. I belong to the feline now, apparently.

  “You know,” Jestin started to say as he looked out the window. Vacant storefronts whizzed by as the car sped down the night-lit street. “You can’t just take people like this.”

  “But burning down houses is fine?”

  Jestin shrugged. “Touché. Seriously, though. I mean . . . you can’t just . . . how can you . . . ugh . . .”

  “Are you trying to ask me something?”

  Jestin’s patience snapped. “Yeah, what the hell just happened?”

  “You brought attention to yourself when you started taking out the enthralled,” Gideon said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Is that what those cops were?”

  “More or less. Once someone is enthralled, they lose all their humanity. That’s what happened to those things back there. They weren’t really men. They weren’t really cops. Not anymore.” He acted as though he took that personally for some reason. Jestin wanted to ask why, but his mind kept screami
ng a different question.

  “What the hell?” So articulate. “Seriously, what the freaking hell?”

  “Why so surprised?” Gideon asked. “You’ve killed at least five of these things.”

  “But they never got all green and bloodshot, and I didn’t use fire bullets, force fields, and ninja kung fu to do it.”

  “No, but you knew how. You knew their vulnerabilities. Someone had to teach you. Who?”

  “What, you want to hear my life story now? You’re the one who kidnapped me. You say things.” Jestin waved him on so he’d keep speaking. “Thralls. Magic fire bullets. Go.”

  Gideon nodded, a silent agreement to further explain the night’s craziness. “The enthralled are at the bottom of the bump-in-the-night totem pole. Dark forces like them, they’ve existed as long as humanity, but now they’ve done something mankind never could.”

  “Evolved beyond an interest in reality TV?”

  “United,” he said, ignoring the joke. “There were three secret societies—Three Great Schools of Magic—tasked with keeping the Great Dark at bay. But they spent so much time fighting each other, they didn’t notice evil start to influence everything about our daily lives. Politics. Religion. The schools still exist, but they’ve lost their way.”

  Gideon nodded out the window, toward the run-down and vacant businesses in the distance. “Look at the shape of things where we live. Corruption. Apathy. Greed. Sickness. People like to read stories about dystopian futures, but they don’t realize they’re already living in one. We have neighborhoods worse off than District 12. You can help me change that.”

  “How? Am I some kind of Chosen One or something? Destined to fight the good fight? Do I have a lightning bolt tattoo on my forehead I don’t know about?”

  “No, don’t be a dumbass,” Gideon said. “There are no chosen ones. There are no special destinies. You fight for your own fate.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation?”

  “Because you have been fighting,” Gideon said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you.”