Promise: Caulborn #2

Promise: Caulborn #2 Read Free

Book: Promise: Caulborn #2 Read Free
Author: Nicholas Olivo
Tags: General Fiction
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nodded and ten minutes later dropped me at the curb in front of the office. It’s an unassuming three-story brick building from the 1800s. The main door is a thick metal job that’s built to withstand any manner of assault, physical or magical. I ran my ID badge in front of a small plate next to the door, which then swung open into a small anteroom. As the door swung shut behind me, I swiped my badge again in front of a second scanner, and stepped into the building’s lobby.
    Jake, the ever-present security guard, nodded at me from behind the desk. Jake’s arms are as thick around as most men’s legs, and his gray eyes never miss anything. In the entire time I’ve worked here, I’ve only heard Jake speak about two-dozen words. I nodded back and headed down the hall into Medical, where I found Mrs. Rita pinning up a crayon drawing over her desk. “We love you, Gramma Rita” was written in shaky pink letters. The picture showed three small stick figures gathered around a larger one and a rainbow arching over them.
    “Nice artwork,” I said with a grin.
    Mrs. Rita’s eyes twinkled with pride. “My Tasha is quite the artist, isn’t she? Wait and see, Vincent, she’ll have paintings in all the fancy galleries someday.” Even after all these years, Mrs. Rita’s Cajun accent still seems out of place with her Korean features. She looked at the clock and clucked her tongue. “It’s never good when you come here late at night, Vincent. What’s wrong?” I relayed the night’s events to her and handed over the soil sample. “I’ll start the analysis on this straight away and compare it to the other samples you’ve brought in. Maybe we’ll know something by the time you come back in the morning. Now go rest, you look tired.” She shooed me out of Medical, and I caught a cab home.
    I entered my apartment and found Petra seated at the kitchen table, surrounded by open cookbooks. She had a pad of paper in front of her and was jotting down the page numbers for recipes. Her curly brown hair was pulled up on top of her head, and she was wearing a pair of pink sweatpants and a black T-shirt that read “Come to the Dark Side, we have cookies.” The scent of cooking oil was strong in the air, and our deep fryer was out on the counter, a bunch of crumpled Twinkie wrappers on the counter beside it. I swallowed. Deep-fried Twinkies were Petra’s ultimate comfort food, and there was only one time when she ate them.
    “Hey, love,” I said. “When’s your mother coming over?”
    “Saturday lunch,” she replied without looking up. To herself, she said, “Lamb, lamb, lamb, ah here we go.” She thumbed to a page in the book and nodded. “I think this recipe would be good.” I sighed. Petra’s mother is none other than Aphrodite herself. Most theater majors and mythology students know the story of Pygmalion; guy sculpts a beautiful statue, Aphrodite animates it, names it Galatia, and Pygmalion and Galatia live happily ever after. The part that didn’t make it into the myths is that Galatia was destroyed in a stampede. Pygmalion, wracked with grief, sculpted another statue, Petra. Aphrodite animated Petra, but Petra could never live up to her deceased sister’s reputation, despite being stronger, faster, and smarter.
    I ran a hand through my hair. “Petra, don’t do this to yourself. Let’s just order takeout or something. No matter what you do, she’s just going to nitpick you. Remember that time you made escargot? She went on for an hour about how Galatia would’ve caught the snails by singing to them, and how you’d done the best you could, but sung snails tasted so much better.”
    Petra still didn’t look up. “I’m certain this time will be better, Vincent. I asked Hephaestus about this, and Galatia never cooked lamb. There won’t be anything about this meal that will give her a chance to compare me to Galatia.”
    “Petra, you know she’ll just make something up.” I shrugged out of my bloody,

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