Free The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One by James A. Owen Page B

his, then again placed his hand on her chest and one on her leg—but this time, instead of tracing gentle letters, he gripped it with an intensity and a strain that made his teeth clench and cords stand out on his forearms. She cried out and there was a sudden, splintering sound; The others seated at the table scooted back in their chairs, and Galen and Michael were just about to leap to her aid when her cry of fear turned to a shriek of surprise and delight.
    Obscuro stepped away from her and slumped against the wall; she jumped to her feet—both of which were real. Her right foot was pale and pink, and far thinner than the left, but it was flesh. Hesitatingly, she inched away from the wooden shards and splinters now piled around her table in the sawdust, reeling in shock and disbelief. She looked at Obscuro, her eyes filling with tears, then hobbled from the room when he nodded his acceptance of her unspoken gratitude.
    Wordlessly, he removed the hat and moved to the man who had heckled him throughout the performance. On Obscuro’s approach, he rose from his seat and the illusionist looked him up and down, estimating. Obscuro raised one eyebrow, a direct question, and the larger man nodded, biting his lower lip and twisting his hat in his hands.
    Michael craned his neck, peering carefully at the big man—why did he seem so familiar? Michael was sure they had met, but it could not have been a significant occasion, else he’s have rung a clearer bell in Michael’s head. He finally dismissed the itch—the fellow had probably been a pick man on a dig, or some such thing.
    The illusionist measured the man a moment more, then reached into the stovepipe hat and withdrew an iron bar, which he promptly shoved into the stout man’s forehead.
    “Dear God!” Michael screamed, a half-instant after he saw Galen jump up and grab Obscuro by the arms, “What the hell have you done?” The patrons began shrieking and clambering over tables and chairs to escape, and for a few moments, the illusionist stood in the eye of a human hurricane.
    In answer to Michael’s frantic query, Obscuro simply spread his hands and nodded at the impaled man, who was still standing next to his table. There was an unusual lack of blood; only a slow trickle running down the bridge of his nose. The bar had gone cleanly through the skull, sticking a full eight inches out the back of the man’s head, and almost a foot in the front. Other than his concern for the fuss being made, he seemed utterly unshaken about what had just occurred. In the rear near the kitchen, Rutland and Burlington had begun cleaning up with large, flat, brooms.
    Galen loosed his grip on the slim young man’s arms—given the evening’s events, he would not be surprised if this were more illusion. Michael stood hunched over a chair, breathing hard, his eyes wild.
    Obscuro reached into the hat and pulled out a handkerchief, which he handed to the stout man. “Here,” he said mildly, “sorry if there’s a mess. If you’ll go to the back, I’m sure Mr. Burlington will have something to put on that.”
    The man took the proffered kerchief and with a look of gratitude, turned and disappeared behind the bar.
    “I must be more tired than I’d thought,” said Obscuro. “That bar was supposed to have gone all the way through. Perhaps if it was at a different angle….”
    “Different angle?” said Michael. “Are you out of your mind ?”
    “You’re right,” said Obscuro resignedly. “It’s just a matter of inadequate force, plain and simple. Better luck next time, eh?”
    Galen began gathering his coat, his face a stone mask. “Enough of this. I’m done with this madness.”
    “But professor,” said the illusionist, “I haven’t given you the answer to your dilemma, yet.”
    “My dilemma?” Exclaimed Galen, astonished. “You and your dilemma and your matter of historical and academic importance and your swill soda and snack cakes and this whole place can just go