It's that time again! In this chapter, we'll meet the third of Our Heroes - along with several of his agents. And this time, the minor characters you'll meet will stick around!
As always, enjoy. Please remember that I'm actively seeking feedback on this, and opinions are not only welcome, but greeted warmly and embraced.
I have a little time available this weekend, so "Chapter Four" should be up by Saturday or Sunday. Hurry! Get your comments in before the musical number in C4 appears!
Chapter 3 - "Sloan"
Fifteen feet below the streets, in a damp, malodorous tunnel, one man stood and shivered. His heart still raced, his lungs still burned, and his body still ached. Certain types of magic played havoc with his body, and even though he’d tapped into it over an hour ago, he’d yet to climb up from the depths of the ritual. He glanced down at his right hand; it trembled. He made a fist and tried to will away the shaking.
Elias Merriwether Sloan stood in front of time- and moisture-warped door and tried to collect his breath. Through a gap in the planking, he saw into the room beyond the door. Four men sat in the room, waiting for him. They sat on battered, dark chairs that had splintered and mildewed in the humid air, and had seated more men than they. The oldest sat with his feet flat on the floor, his elbows on his knees, and his chin tucked into his chest. The youngest had tilted his chair back on two legs until it touched the damp wall behind him. Of the two seated between them, one cleaned him fingernails with a short knife and the other sat and stared at the door in the wall opposite them. They would all wait for him, no matter how late he was. He didn’t want to set a bad example of tardiness or disrespect to the others, but he didn’t want them to see him in this state either. Only one of them would say anything to him, but he was the one he needed to speak to the most.
Sloan stepped toward the door, his breathing less ragged and his heart beginning to slow. The aches remained, but those wouldn’t show. I looked at his hand again. The trembling had stopped. It was time. He grabbed the handle of the wood-and-iron door and pulled it open. He’d kept the hinges oiled; despite its age, the door didn’t squeak. He stepped into the meeting-room and glanced toward the men. He nodded.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/290/