Children of the Knight, Michael J. Bowler [classic book list txt] 📗

guys’re tryin’ ta get us ta wipe ourselves out. You makes us think each other’s doin’ it, we fight, and you win. End of story.”

Ryan sighed with exhaustion. “If it was that simple, kid, you and your homies would’ve been dead long ago.”

Gibson tried the “good cop” routine. “You have any idea who’s doing this, Esteban?”

Esteban snorted derisively. “Like I’d say if I did? Don’t be a fool.”

Gibson’s temper suddenly flared, and he made a grab for Esteban. “Watch your mouth, punk!”

Ryan’s hand on his shoulder restrained him. Esteban continued smirking while Gibson pulled back his clenched fist.

“Not now!” Ryan barked. “Just get him outta here.”

Regaining control, the frustrated Gibson stood and yanked Esteban to his feet, shoving him toward the exit, almost causing the boy to trip from the ankle shackles. “Back to the hall, Gallegos.”

Esteban laughed. “Home sweet home.”

Ryan watched them exit, frustrated and angry. He snapped the pencil he’d been fiddling with and threw the pieces onto his desk. He reached for a sketchpad and picked it up, gazing in irritation at an artist’s rendering of the “A” symbol. What the hell was going on in his city?

A small, lean boy appeared at the mouth of an alley and darted quickly into the protective shadows behind a large dumpster. A sheriff’s car cruised slowly past the mouth of the alley and then continued on out of sight. The boy stepped from his hiding place and dusted himself off. Lance Sepulveda, a fourteen-year-old orphan, warily glanced around. Between avoiding gang members and cops, he lived a very cautious life.

The gang members liked to beat him up and the cops put him in juvy as a runaway. There was no place in Los Angeles for kids like him who didn’t commit crimes, so they had to bide their time in juvy to wait for yet another group home to take them.

A smart, clever boy with unusually green eyes—which drew derisive comments from other Latinos—Lance preferred the freedom of the streets, living for a time with this friend or that friend, having no ties to anyone. He wore a pair of baggy overalls with the straps hanging down and a gray hoodie flipped up to obscure his face, clothes given to him by one of his friends. He lugged a bulging, ratty-looking backpack in one hand and an old skateboard in the other.

Lance continued warily down the alley. Tonight there were no unusual sounds save the occasional plane practically landing atop Lennox on its approach into LAX.

From the shadows around him loomed two large black youths. Lance was grabbed and spun around. The skateboard flew from his grasp and clattered to the concrete.

Broad-shouldered, muscular Justin sneered at the fear flitting over Lance’s startled face. “What’s the hurry, Pretty Boy? We got business wit’ you.”

Reaching out one arm, he slapped the hood off Lance’s head, allowing the boy’s long hair to tumble about his shoulders, and then snatched the old backpack away so hard it tore open with a loud ripping sound, scattering clothes, candy, and junk food onto the ground.

Taller and built more for basketball than boxing, Dwayne sneered at the junk. “Man, what a loser!”

Lance fought down his fear and glared at both boys, ignoring his hated nickname, “Pretty Boy.” Justin grabbed him by the front of his shirt and practically lifted him off the ground. Lance fought and struggled, but he was no match for the muscular boy. “Mr. R. says he had a talk with you about workin’ these streets for him.”

“Yeah, he did, and I told him no. I don’t want no part a that! I run myself.”

“No problemo, Mexicano,” Justin sneered, tossing Lance to the ground like a ragdoll. “’Cept Mr. R., he don’t like guys who know too much ’bout his business. Especially guys who won’t work for him.”

Lance landed and rolled, leaping to his feet almost at once. His heart thumped wildly, his green eyes blazing with equal parts fury and fear. “I don’t know nuthin’!” he spat angrily, visibly shaking with panic. “’Cept you jerks slang that crap for ’im! Who would I tell? What could I say anyway?”

Dwayne flipped open an evil-looking switchblade and pressed the razor-sharp point to Lance’s throat before he could even flinch.

“You could just say no—to life, ya little runt!” He began slowly pressing the knife into Lance’s throat, a wicked smile creasing his dark, tatted face.

A deep, harsh voice echoed from behind the three boys. “Unhand that lad, or forfeit your lives!”

Dwayne whirled to look over his shoulder.

From the shadows, confidently approaching, rode a man on horseback! The three youths merely gaped in astonishment. None of them had ever even seen a real horse before, much less one in this neighborhood. When the rider emerged from the darkness into a patch of streetlight, they gasped anew. He wore a full suit of knightly armor and carried a massive, gleaming sword that looked capable of slicing all three of them in half at the same time! The boys could not make out any facial features, as they were covered by a helm and mouthpiece.

The three stood frozen to the spot, Dwayne’s blade pressed against Lance’s throat as the knight halted his horse a few feet away.

Dwayne found his voice first. “Say what?” He couldn’t believe what he was seeing! He needed to stop sampling R’s stuff, that was a for sure.

“I do believe my intent was clear,” calmly stated the knight in a strong voice tinged with something like a Southern accent. “Unhand the boy or forfeit your lives.”

With speed seemingly impossible underneath all that armor, the knight flicked his sword downward and across, and Dwayne’s pants dropped to his feet.

Startled, the boy reached down to retrieve them, and the knight swung the sword again, this time slicing open the hand holding the knife, causing Dwayne to curse and fling the blade to the ground.

Without pause, the knight just as swiftly swung the sword deftly back up, letting the point rest against Justin’s throat. The muscular boy whimpered in terror.

“Okay, you win,” he muttered fearfully, the tip of the sword already drawing blood. He stepped away from Lance.

The mysterious knight looked down at Lance. “Shall I kill these two for you, lad?”

Lance sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t know what to say.

Justin keened with fear. “Hey, man, ya’ll can’t kill us cuz my dad’s a cop!”

Dwayne trembled, but he was too hard-ass to show it. “Shut up, fool!”

The knight ignored them, focusing his attention on Lance, who gawked like a fish out of water. “Well, lad?”

Coming back to his senses, Lance realized that the man wanted an answer. Would he really kill these guys if I asked him to? He didn’t think he wanted to find out. “Let ’em go.”

Without pause, the knight pulled his gleaming sword back from Justin’s throat, but still gripped it firmly, ready to strike. He gazed down at the two older youths. “Methinks we shall meet again.”

Always the bolder of the two, Dwayne spat viciously on the ground in front of the horse, causing it to neigh in annoyance. “Like hell!”

Then he and Justin turned and bolted, Dwayne struggling to keep his pants from tripping him up. They quickly vanished from the mouth of the alley.

Lance gazed upward at the knight, still speechless, staring at the horse, the sword, and the armor. His breath caught in his throat. He didn’t do drugs, so it couldn’t be that. So what the hell was going on?

The knight sheathed his sword as he stared down at the boy, his eyes shimmering slightly within the helm. “Have thou no manners, to not thank me for thy life?”

That helm and those hidden eyes creeped Lance out something fierce. “Oh yeah, sorry,” he stammered. “Yeah, uh, thanks.” He paused a moment. “Would you, would you really have killed them guys for me?”

“No. Not unless my life or yours be at stake. I wished merely to discern something of your character.”

“Huh? You talk weird, mister.”

The knight ignored Lance’s comment. “What be thy name, lad?”

Lance’s hackles instantly rose. “Uh, they call me, well, ‘Pretty Boy’. I don’t think I am, neither, but I guess it’s the hair.”

“Thou art a handsome youth, so the name appears to fit thee. Why doth you dislike it?”

“Cause they don’t mean it like a compliment,” Lance replied sourly. “They just do it to mock me.”

“If it displeases you, I shall not use it. Hast thou no Christian name?”

Lance never shared his true name with anyone. On these streets, knowing one’s true name could be dangerous. Yet somehow, this man’s commanding tone and presence forced his guard down. “Huh? Oh, uh, Lance. Lance Sepulveda.” It was practically a whisper. Then he felt his old boldness return. “What’s it to you, anyways?”

The knight reacted with surprise. “Thy name be Lance?”

“Yeah, so?”

The knight squinted through the helm, studying Lance’s shadowed face.

“Of course that be thy name, lad,” he murmured, almost to himself, almost as if Lance wasn’t even there. “All is as it should be.”

Lance stood warily gazing up at him, a shiver flitting up and down his spine at those mysterious words, as though everything really was as it should be. But that didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

The man noted Lance’s scattered clothes on the ground. “Tell me, young Lance, are these all your worldly belongings?” There was deep sadness in that voice.

Lance bristled. “What about it? I move around a lot.” He set about picking up his stuff and shoving everything into the torn backpack.

“I see,” the knight observed, his tone unreadable.

Lance retrieved his skateboard and stared at the knight, uncertain what to do next. His breathing had calmed, and he found himself deeply curious about this guy, even though curiosity on these streets could get you killed.

“Have you a place to lay thy head this night?” the knight inquired in a conversational tone.

Lance went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat, his heart pounding anew. “I always got places,” he announced, prepared to leap onto his board and jet out of there.

The knight made no threatening gestures, nor did the magnificent white horse even shuffle its feet with impatience.

His body tight with tension, Lance still eyed the animal admiringly. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Come with me,” the knight offered. “I have a bed for thee.”

Lance leapt back and whipped a knife out of his pocket. It was small and wouldn’t do much damage, but even that short blade gave him a tiny sense of security. Sweat broke out on his face as he gazed upward and gulped. “You queer or somethin’?”

“How odd that after so many centuries, some words still retain their most common meanings.”

Lance knew he was a smart kid—teachers had told him that since the first grade. But he didn’t have a clue what this guy was talking about. What kind of English was he speaking, anyways?

“Huh?” was all he could muster, his heart still thrumming with fear.

“Be at peace, young one,” the knight assured him. “The answer to thy question be nay.”

Lance continued to eye him with great uncertainty. “Nay” sounded like “no,” and that made him feel more at ease, slowing his heart a bit. “You got food at your place?”

“Yes, lad, all you could possibly eat. Now, if you get up on mine horse, we shalt be away.”

Lance’s extreme hunger did the deciding for him. Sure, he had the junk food in his pack, but real food was always better. “Okay. But if you try