Journey Into the Flame by T. R. Williams Page A

PCD handy?”
    Logan nodded, taking his PCD out of his pocket.
    “Dial this number,” the technician said, and then rattled off some numbers. Logan did so, and within moments, his PCD was connected with the HoloPad, and the image of Logan’s face was being projected. “See, the damn thing works,” the technician said in disgust. “This isn’t our issue.”
    “I see you have it working now,” Ms. Crawley said in a vaguely accusing manner as she walked over. “What was the problem with our equipment?”
    “It wasn’t our problem.”
    Ms. Crawley rolled her eyes and turned to Logan. “As far as you’re concerned, dear, everything is in order.” Ms. Crawley handed Logan an envelope. “Your receipt of sale and the note that fell from the book. You should see a deposit in your account in the morning.”
    “Thanks, Ms. Crawley,” Logan said, stuffing the envelope into his pocket. “Thanks for all your help.”
    “When you’re ready to leave, just let them know at the door, and they will fetch the car to take you home. Oh, and you can keep the suit. Consider it a gift from Mason One.” With that, Ms. Crawley gave Logan a hug and a kiss on the cheek and returned to the remaining guests. Logan watched as one of the auctioneer’s assistants carefully packed the books for delivery. His guilt returned in full force; he had just severed one of the few remaining connections to his parents. He walked back over to the large windows, drinking his champagne. It was almost ten o’clock, and the streets were still busy. Yes, Logan thought, feeling drained and lonelier than ever. Sebastian was right. Everyone didhave something to do; everyone had someplace he or she needed to go. Except him. Logan drained his drink and decided to stay for another.
    Many flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres later, Logan half-stumbled out of the auction house and into the car that Ms. Crawley had arranged to take him home. He leaned his head back, tired and a little drunk. After the auction, Logan had tried to celebrate the fact that all his debt had been cleared, and that his ex-wife Susan wouldn’t be hounding him for child support any longer. It had been a long time since he had been free from financial burdens. Logan closed his eyes. He could hear the faint murmur of a news report that the driver was listening to on his PCD.
    “No surprise given that fear-mongering speech of hers,” the driver said in a raised voice.
    Logan reopened his eyes. “Who are you talking about?” he asked.
    “You didn’t hear?” the driver said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “Cynthia Brown, the head of that Council of Satraya, was killed tonight.”

7
Silence will ally you to spirit in ways that words cannot.
    —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
    NEW CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, 6:00 A.M., 5 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY
    Logan was dropped off in front of his home on Barry Street, a few miles north of downtown New Chicago. He opened the black iron gate and walked up the four concrete steps to the front door, as he had done so many times before. But then he paused. Something was not right. The front door lock was broken, and the door had been forced open. He looked through a side window and saw a light on inside the house. Run, run and call the police! Logan turned around. The street was empty, and there wasn’t anyone else in sight. The car that had dropped him off was now far down the street and about to turn onto Racine Avenue.
    Logan slowly pushed the door open, trying not to make any noise. The living room had been ransacked; the furniture was tossed about, drawers opened, their contents emptied on the floor. Logan walked down the hallway to the kitchen, which had also been ransacked. The table and chairs had been overturned, and the contents of the cabinets and drawers were scattered about. Even the refrigerator had been emptied. Who did this? Logan’s foot slipped. When he looked down, he saw that he was standing in a small pool of blood. He lurched