The Sal Van Sleen Adventures

The Sal Van Sleen Adventures

Boxed Set (1-3)

Eric Kent Edstrom

Contents

Shadow of the Oak

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Shadow of the Midnight Moon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Shadow of the Crone

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Free Chapters Ahead . . .

Undermountain (Chapter 1): Camp Six

Undermountain (Chapter 2): You Call This a Creek?

Undermountain (Chapter 3): What a Mess

Also by Eric Kent Edstrom

About the Author

Shadow of the Oak

1

The thing about sword fighting is that it’s much more dangerous than it looks on TV. I learned this the hard way. The result? A police record and a lifetime ban from Charlie’s Pizzowie .

The reason I, Sal Van Sleen, survived the fracas at all was because when I was fourteen, I spent two months in Haiti. It was sort of a foreign exchange program. I say sort of because it wasn’t an official kind of thing, being the result of a pen pal relationship my mom had struck up through a church club.

For weeks I had listened to her talk about how this Haitian family needed help cutting cane because the father had a bad back. One day, Mom got tired of dropping unsubtle hints and announced I was going down there to help out. She said it would be a great cultural experience for me. You know, expand my horizons and all.

And they’re good Catholics, she had added.

The horizon in a sugar cane field is about thirteen inches away, and any expansion of said horizon was due to the strength of my right arm. And a machete.

So when the bat monster confronted me at Charlie’s, I called upon some muscle memory in my sword arm.

The whole thing started in the summer of 1986, when Billy Stratford and I held the first official meeting of our new company, Standard Comics. Stupid name, I know. I was into irony at the time.

Since we had no office, we held the meeting on top of the dam on the Little Hickory river. It was a beige, concrete affair. Water poured through big holes in the middle. The top served as a bridge, though it went nowhere, with the other side of the river being all farm fields. We liked to go there as the sun set because it was quiet, private, and pretty.

Billy brought a backpack full of comics, a sketchbook, pencils, and a bag of carrots. I had a lighter and a pack of stolen Marlboros stuffed in the front pocket of my Levi’s.

We dangled our legs over the concrete edge of the dam while Billy sketched. I smoked, occasionally flicking ash into the river.

Everything’s been done already, I said. Invisibility, super strength, teleportation . . . ESP.

Billy tapped the eraser of his Ticonderoga No. 2 against his bottom lip. ESP . . .? Maybe our hero could, like, read his own mind.

Stupid. It was a declaration I often made at that age.

I wasn’t finished. What if he could read his own mind from the future? That way he’d know the mistakes he made and do things different. Billy’s shoulders crept up towards his ears the way they always did when he got excited about an idea. His pencil became a blur as he drew. To symbolize his telepathic hearing, he’ll have radar-dish ears on his outfit.

Costume.

Whatever. I was thinking maybe of going against the whole form-fitting outf—costume—most guys have. How about a sleeveless tunic over a billowing genie pant? And for flare . . . gingham bandana.

Stupid. How about if he can hear everyone’s thoughts? That way he’d know what they were about to do and dodge out of the way.

You just complained that ESP had already been done. Billy grabbed the bag of baby carrots from his backpack. It was the only sugary treat his mom allowed him. He offered me one. We just have to find a new twist.

I tossed my cigarette butt into the river and took the proffered carrot. Maybe we should focus on the bad guy.

Ooh. Ooh. I had an idea for her. Billy scratched long lines on his sketchpad. In seconds, a slinky evening gown took shape. But instead of heels, she’ll wear these thigh-high boots. He penciled in a head, hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. What do you think about a smoky eye beneath over-plucked brows?

I bit my carrot in half and peered across the dam to where a sliver of gravel bike path showed through the box elders. Do you think Becca will show up?

Billy continued to shade in our bad girl, who now wore a diamond choker and a samurai sword slung over her back. His voice became singsong, falsely casual. Maybe her power is a shrieking voice that deafens all who hear it.

He wasn’t talking about our bad girl.

Be nice, I said. Becca is our printer. Her father owned a Ford dealership, which meant she had access to a copy machine and lots of free paper. Unless you’ve come into some cash you haven’t told me about.

Billy flipped to a clean page and started a new sketch of our hero. It seemed to me his lines were unnecessarily dark all of a sudden. Probably due to my comment about Billy’s poverty. His mom worked thirds at the cannery. And since his deadbeat dad didn’t pay support, they lived over in Frond Valley Mobile Park. Then again, his sudden sulk might have been due to me bringing up Becca.

For my part, I thought Becca brought some very important assets to our endeavor. And her dad’s copier, too.

She did show up, eventually, with her little sister Chrissy in tow. Their blonde ponytails—ash blonde, as Billy frequently pointed out—waved behind them as the girls bounced into view. Chrissy mimicked pretty much everything her older sister did.

Becca always kept her head tilted and her chin down, as if she were posing for a portrait. As a result, she seemed to peer up from beneath her eyebrows. I found it dead sexy. Her sister emulated this behavior, but since she was only twelve, it made her seem kind of demonic.

Becca folded her arms and frowned at me as I lit another cig. I offered it to her, but she took a step back. No!

I could tell she was putting on an act by the little worried glance she threw at her sister. Chrissy was a tattletale. Oh wait. I already said she was twelve, didn’t I?

Come on, I said. We started without you.

I extended an arm to let her ascend the stairs to the top of the dam. Ladies first and all. It’s nice when politeness and a quick ogle work together. She wore denim shorts, flip-flops, and a Coca-Cola rugby shirt. I pretty much just focused on the shorts.

At the top of the stairs, Becca turned and shouted down at her sister: Stay out of the water. I don’t want to hear you whining because your shoes are soggy.

Chrissy rolled her eyes and flopped down on the riverbank and pulled a book from her purse.

Becca peered over Billy’s shoulder. I like that gown. But I thought you were going to do a comic book.

Billy slammed the sketchbook shut and glared at me. Shall we begin?

I took a pull on the cigarette and tossed it into the river. I hereby call this meeting to order. All the shareholders are present, so we have a quorum. I think we can dispense with meeting minutes since we’re not a legal entity at this point.

Where did you learn all that stuff? Becca asked. She had taken a seat next to Billy and leaned back on her hands, ponytail just brushing the concrete walk behind her.

I lost track of my thoughts for a moment as I studied her pale legs. Huh?

The business lingo.

My dad is an attorney. He does this stuff for businesses all the time. I guess I kind of picked it up along the way.

Billy sat with his lips twisted, an exaggerated look of patience on his face. I knew this look well. It meant he was either about to break into song or say something extremely cutting.

It was starting to get dark anyway, so I got down to business. Okay. We need to talk about our product strategy. Billy and I have been brainstorming characters and storylines. Billy, can we review the designs you’ve done so far?

Billy flipped open his sketchbook. I wasn’t aware that the printer had any say in the content.

I gave him that look my mom always gives me when I’m embarrassing her in public.

Unfortunately, it was as effective on Billy as it was on me. He held up the sketch of our hero with the radar-dish ears for about five-sevenths of a second before flipping to the bad girl with her choker and samurai sword, which he held up for maybe a seventh of a second longer.

Becca smiled at Billy.

Even now, my heart breaks to think of that row of even white teeth, how they flashed as her soft lips parted.

Those are totally awesome, she said. Her tanned hands reached out for the sketchbook. Can I see them again?

Despite my general state of rapture at looking at Becca, I noticed Billy glaring at me. He looked hurt, though I couldn’t see why. The girl had complimented his artwork. And from Billy’s perspective, that was about the best compliment you could give. He dropped the sketchbook in front of Becca and stood up.

Billy wore jeans and a light green polo with the collar popped. His hair, short on top and long in the back, fluttered in the breeze. What else do we need to discuss? He snatched up his bag of carrots and dug one out.

Schedule, I said. We need to have at least four issues—

The scream didn’t register right away. My brain thought it was a bird or a wild cat. But the shrieks pulsed and grew higher, more desperate.

Becca leapt up. Chrissy!

I spun. Becca’s little sister no longer sat by the bank. Her book lay on the grass where she’d been.

More screams, coming from the bike path.

I don’t remember descending the stairs. One moment I was standing there gaping, and the next I was on my bike, pedaling as hard as I could.

The bike path had once been the bed of an old train track. It ran straight and level. I followed Chrissy’s screams, but I couldn’t see her. She had to be off in the trees.

Becca cried out from far behind me, but I didn’t turn. I flicked the gear shifter on my ten-speed and stood on the pedals. The gravel hissed under my wheels as I flew.

There. A flash of white among the trees off to my left. My rear wheel slid out as I crushed the brakes. All those hours I’d spent skidding paid off in that moment. In seconds, I leapt off the bike and darted into the trees.

Along with Chrissy’s screams came another sound, a low, guttural, animal one. I slowed and listened. Off to my left, I heard the crush of feet through the underbrush. Probably Billy.

I crept forward now, hoping that whatever had taken Chrissy would focus on Billy’s approach.

I saw her then, high among the branches of the box elders. Her weight bent the limbs over. Above her, braced among the thicker boles, a black monster hissed. Its orange eyes, triangular and unblinking, bore down on me. Its fang-crowded maw grinned. Dirty wings folded over its compressed body like a dark cloak.

Chrissy stirred, causing the limbs to shake and bow further.

From far off, Becca screamed for Chrissy again. The girl moaned and tried to sit up. The limbs sagged, and she tumbled. I dove forward and tried to catch her, but I did little more than break her fall as her weight crushed me. My breath went out of my lungs as if sucked out by a vacuum.

As I gasped for air, I saw the creature spread its wings and lift off, its feet spread like eagle talons but ten times bigger.

My diaphragm started working again, and I heaved in great gulps of air. The acrid smell of a smoke bomb hit my nose and made me cough.

Chrissy! Becca ran towards us and threw her arms around her sister. Chrissy’s blonde hair, free of its ponytail, stood out from her head, as if she’d been hit with an electric shock. Becca held her sister at arm’s length and inspected her for injuries. Not finding any, she pulled her close again and hugged her. Both cried.

Chrissy’s small voice came from Becca’s shoulder. What happened to me?

Becca looked at me, questioning.

I pointed at the branches above use. She was up in this tree when I got here.

Billy joined us and frowned