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Shadow of the Eternal Watcher
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Synopsis
Duster Raines has demons. Some visit him in his dreams, reminding him of the choices he made in combat to survive. Others visit him while he’s awake, demanding he pay penance for those sins. But lately, he’s started seeing an alternate version of reality where he leads a life of importance full of wealth and power. Visions so vivid, they seem more real than the life he lives as a PI, scrounging the gutters of Los Angeles for an easy buck. It’s enough to drive anyone insane.
Pulled into a missing persons case he never wanted, Raines finds himself framed and hunted by the government. But as he searches for answers to clear his name, he discovers a truth he never could have imagined. He possesses the ability to bend spacetime to accomplish incredible feats. With these powers, maybe he’s got a shot at the life he deserves.
There’s only one problem standing in his way, the other Duster Raines.
Release date: January 28, 2025
Publisher: Inkshares
Print pages: 317
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Author updates
Shadow of the Eternal Watcher
Josh Mendoza
Prologue
They’re coming for you.
The First Consul woke in a panic, gasping for breath like a drowning man pulled back from the brink. What had he been dreaming about? His frantic pulse made him certain it had been a nightmare, but the memories of it vanished faster than wisps of smoke flitting into a night sky. All that remained was an anxious need to flee, chiseling away at his chest with the rhythm of his racing heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Over and over and over, driving him mad with a desperation to make it stop.
Disoriented, he stared into an inky darkness at what he assumed was the ceiling. Something was wrong. Or had he done something wrong? He couldn’t be sure. None of it made sense in the delirium of sleep. Most people would’ve dismissed their worries as nonsense and gone back to bed. But he wasn’t most people. His instincts told him to make sure. And listening to that little voice in his head was the only reason he was still breathing.
Pushing through exhaustion, he forced his aching body to sit up. Detecting motion, the lights in the room came to a dim but acceptable level, a fire crackled to life in the hearth, and the internal temperature began to rise to his preferred settings. As his eyes adjusted, the Consul found himself staring directly into the unrelenting eyes of the first emperor, stitched into a cut silk tapestry hanging above his fireplace. The grim face gave him a start that nearly sent him toppling from bed. He’d had the wall hanging brought up from the lower levels earlier that month, and he still wasn’t used to its ghastly occupant. The museum curators had objected to his taking the artwork—or, as they had put it, an irreplaceable piece of early imperial antiquity—but they had eventually settled on praising his good taste and giving him what he wanted.
A wise decision when it came to their own self-preservation.
The tapestry’s depiction was well known to any descendant of the imperium. East meets West. The unification of two great empires. At the center of the tapestry stood the unifier—with his dead stare—always portrayed in both the classical Roman toga and the traditional Chinese robe. Beneath the man, two dragons consumed one another in the fiery pits of hell. One was white and muscular in the ancient Western motif and the other depicted as sinewy strands of black smoke in the Eastern tradition. A symbiotic circle of death and rebirth. Day and night. Yin and Yang. The Eternal Watcher.
The Consul slipped out of bed and immediately wished he’d waited for the heaters to finish their job. The clammy marble clung to his skin. He despised the primitive stones and wood paneling that decorated this extravagant penthouse. But tradition was important to the masses, and presenting stoic austerity with imperial decadence gave him legitimacy.
The balcony door slid back easily as he approached, letting in the semblance of crisp autumn air that the climate control system estimated to be appropriate. The air was stale from the recirculation, poorly hidden beneath artificial air fresheners mimicking a pine forest. Another illusion for the masses. There hadn’t been a forest on this planet in nearly two hundred years. Was this even what a pine forest would smell like? Who the hell knew? But his scientists assured him their calculations were precise.
All this pretending was an inconvenience. He preferred to live with the reality of their predicament. To celebrate the technology that allowed them to survive on their ruined planet and keep their enemies at bay. Dreaming of something that hadn’t existed in their lifetimes was a distraction
for the weak. But again, he wasn’t most people. He took another deep breath of this fantasy, wishing for the stench of the city or the bustling noise of metropolitan mayhem, something that might remind a man they were alive. But none of it reached the Consul through the invisible energy shield enclosing his balcony.
Safety at a cost. A trade-off. Debatable if it was a good one.
At least he could see his city. The evening sky thrummed with activity, lit up by the red running lights of the maglev trams whirring between the sheer ebony towers of the capital. He strained his eyes, focusing past the towers and blinking lights, beyond the incessant glow from the floating neon advertisements and shop windows below. All that sweat, desperation, and sin pulsed under his feet. But up here at the pinnacle of society, the First Consul stood alone.
In the distance, he caught a glimpse of what he’d been looking for in the faint but distinct vibration of the shield that enclosed the entire city grid. Its nearly invisible net pulsed with a shimmering azure energy. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. All was still. All was quiet. All was as it should be.
He shivered. If that was true, then why did he have this lingering dread in the pit of his stomach?
Returning to his room, he found himself very much alone save for that unnerving yet watchful gaze of the tapestry. All that chaos with one great power at its center. A vortex of certainty. Reaching the top of any organization was difficult. No one knew that better than him. He’d scraped and hustled, toiled and suffered, cheated and lied his way to the head of the largest mining conglomerate Earth had ever known. But that wasn’t enough. Wealth was only an instrument to greater power. Even as a child dreaming of a better life, he’d known that to be true. So, with his newfound tool, he’d bought himself an army and united his two strongest political foes by force, establishing a peace that had lasted over a decade. Balance in the triumvirate. A precursor in early times to the glory that became the dyad of the imperial dynasty.
Perhaps history would echo itself. A First Consul could easily become an Emperor. A new dynasty to rival anything seen in Rome or Xi’an.
A goal for you to strive for in these trying times.
He’d no sooner decided to go back to bed then the lights in his quarters pulsed off and then on again. A power surge? Unlikely but possible.
You can only hope.
That knot in his stomach returned as he hustled back to the balcony. His palms sweated
with anticipation at the danger he might find lurking. On the horizon, the faint blue hum of the energy shield was still there. And then, in the blink of an eye, it wasn’t. The alarm klaxons blared an instant later, warning of the imminent threat that he’d instinctively known was coming since the moment he woke.
The First Consul swore to himself but didn’t hesitate. He’d always been a fighter and he’d prepared for this very eventuality. Next to his bed, he ripped open the drawer of his end table and pulled out a standard-issue military sidearm. He spun the knobs on the pistol, bringing its emitters to full power. Next to where the pistol had been was his communicator. He activated it but was met by only static.
The power surge could be an accident. Energy reserves had been dwindling dangerously low the last few years with mining operations at a near standstill. But the jammed internal communications could mean only one thing. He’d been betrayed.
He heard the danger before he saw the flash of emerald light, a deep guttural issuance that seemed to precede the monster that would surely come for him now that the shield had failed. Spinning to face his attacker, he saw only the swirling mist of green eyes as the creature’s stone-like talons slashed across his chest. Pain seared through his torso and he wheezed a cry of surprise. The damn things were fast.
He staggered back, wounded but alive, and fired his pistol.
But the shot missed the creature because it had vanished the moment before he pulled the trigger. The crackling blue projectile flew across his quarters and ripped through a terra-cotta statue. Its burnt-orange bearded face and traditional chain-link armor disintegrated before the two-thousand-year-old relic had a chance to explode. The energy pulse slammed into the wall behind where the statue of the ancient Chinese warrior had been, sending marble and wood flying in all directions and dissipating in the reinforced titanium wall hidden behind the classical facade.
The Consul was on his feet, his soldiering taking over. He checked his surroundings. Every shadow could be the deathblow. Again, he heard the slow guttural roar that preceded the return of a Stone Tail. He spun and fired the weapon, not waiting to see his attacker. The blue sphere slammed into a flash of green light as a reptilian monstrosity began to coalesce into existence. The gravity pulse did its job, disrupting the monster’s inter-dimensional phase, stopping it between realities and neutralizing the creature. Even though the light simply blipped to nothing, the First Consul liked to imagine he’d heard the horrified screech of an animal as the primitive lizard was sent back to its Maker.
The main door to his quarters flew open as three troopers dashed into his room, pulse rifles at the ready. Their sleek black armor glistened in the glow of the blinking red alarm lights. None of the soldiers had taken the time to don their helmets, and he recognized two of them as his personal bodyguards, though he couldn’t remember their names. The third woman he didn’t know. While she scanned the area for another attacker, his two protectors came directly to him without a sideways glance.
As if they aren’t worried they’ll be attacked . . .
Or know they won’t be. You know what has to be done.
Without a second thought,
the First Consul unleashed two quick blasts from his still fully charged pistol. The bodyguards actually did scream as the pulse energy connected with their armor and began to melt them from the inside out. A blast at this range was deadly no matter what. The First Consul watched as the bodyguards disintegrated, trying to determine if they’d known the plan all along. The soldier he didn’t know froze in horror, her deep-brown eyes dancing between the vaporizing men and her leader, wondering if she was next. But she did not raise her weapon to attack him. That, as far as he was concerned, was the definition of loyalty.
“What’s your name, soldier?” the First Consul asked.
“Kai, my liege.”
“Well, Kai, I’ve been betrayed. And those two were either complicit in my assassination or inept for allowing it to happen. I won’t abide either.”
“Of course not,” she said, regaining her composure. “What are your orders?”
“Go to the hangar bay and prepare my shuttle. We’re leaving this planet. The sailors on my flagship are all loyal.”
“I can’t leave you, sir. You’ve been injured.”
“Just a scratch. Besides, I can take care of myself. But I want that shuttle gears-up when I’m on board. Understood?”
The trooper slammed her fist to her armored chest in the traditional imperial salute and ran for the door.
“And Kai,” the First Consul called after her. She turned back at the door, eager to serve. “Tell no one. I’ll be to you shortly.”
Alone again, the First Consul hurried back into the living room where the fire in the hearth still burned. Above it, the tapestry hung in tatters. Stray energy and bits of exploded wall from his previous shots had ruined the once-priceless heirloom. He stooped down and picked up a remnant of the artwork, the black dragon consuming the tail of the white one. He crushed his fist around the silk and felt it turn to ash in his hand.
The First Consul slid back a false compartment, hidden behind where the tapestry used to hang, revealing a safe. He inputted his command code into the keypad and let the machine scan his eye. With a satisfying click, it opened to reveal a simple metal lockbox, a stark contrast to the embellished artifacts displayed around his room. He pulled the box out, almost dropping it from the sheer weight of the thing. The metal top lifted off easily. The heaviness of the container came from what was held within it. Inside, a stone the size of his fist glowed with swirling green clouds, just as the eyes of the monster who’d come for it had.
He reached down and stroked the stone.
And instantly, everything around him phased out of existence, seeming to morph into gray smoke. His insides lurched, and he felt as if he’d been hurled across the room. But he hadn’t moved an inch. There was a ringing in the air, though he was certain he hadn’t hit his head. He glanced around, the place was exactly as it had been, smoking cinders, broken stone, and charred human remains. But lying nearby at the
base of the fireplace was something that hadn’t been there before: himself.
Or at least some other version of himself he barely even recognized.
He stared at the unconscious man lying at his feet, knelt down and shook him. The other him did not stir. Then he heard it again, that incessant ringing. He rifled the man’s pockets until he found the source of the noise, a cumbersome plastic brick with a retractable antenna. He put the archaic communication device near the sleeping man’s ear and waited.
The man’s eyes fluttered open, glassy, maybe drunk. But they were the First Consul’s eyes. The two of them locked gazes. The other man blinked away sleep, seeing his double, but obviously not believing him to be real. That was all right. The First Consul hadn’t believed the stories when his workers started reporting strange hallucinations in the mines. The impossible was meant to be doubted until it became the only probable solution.
The First Consul smiled at the man who was nearly the spitting image of himself. “You’d better answer that. It might be important.”
The other him blinked again stupidly and fumbled with the ringing contraption.
“And be careful, Duster Raines,” the First Consul said. “If they came for me, they’ll be coming for you, too. Hopefully I’ll get to you first.”
The other him flipped open his communication device. The ringing ceased and the duplicate vanished as if he’d never been there to begin with. But he knew exactly where to find that man when he needed him.
The First Consul readied his pistol, hefted the green stone, and hurried through the ravaged artwork of a once-great empire to his waiting command ship and the civil war he’d been trying to avoid.
My beater of a Ford Galaxie swerved across Wilshire as I fought to keep it between the white lines. I probably shouldn’t have driven. It was late—after midnight—and I’d already had a few too many. Though that’d never stopped me before. The car groaned as I jerked the wheel back to center. Missed the sidewalk but might’ve taken someone’s mirror with me. Impossible to know for sure. Didn’t feel too bad about it either way. People knew the risks parking in LA.
At least I’d made incredible time. Threw the jalopy into park just past Fairfax and stared at the neon sign for my favorite watering hole. The thing sputtered, missing a few letters, but clearly read The Lazy Giant. The street was deserted except for a few homeless catching a wink in the cold. This bar defined dive. And not in a hip way that made it a
draw. That’s why I liked it.
Out of the glove box, I grabbed my wallet and cell phone, leaving behind my 9mm. Guess I felt lucky on a couple of counts that night. Checked myself quick in the reflection of the window. Looked like I’d been living out of the car, which wasn’t far from the truth. Straightened my hair, ran my fingers over my mustache, pulled at my sport coat—it needed a press—and made my way across the street. Hopefully my date had low standards.
The Lazy Giant attracted a loyal crowd because of the cheap drinks and friendly pours. But that evening was sparse, even for a Tuesday. Jeff tended bar most nights, though my knowledge of his personal life ended with the name. A big guy, overweight but strong, with a jaw that could crack walnuts—if one ever had the disposition or desire to do such a thing—he didn’t move much behind that bar, no space for it, but he always sweat like he’d just run a marathon. He cleaned a glass in the sink and, when he saw me, tossed a dirty look my way.
“We’re closing up, Raines.”
“But you aren’t closed yet.”
Jeff sighed, grabbed the bourbon bottle, and began mixing my drink.
“Perfect Manhattan on the rocks,” I said out of habit. “Little dry. Little sweet.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
A couple of the low-life regulars slouched over their cocktails, dead to the world. Some twentysomething grad students in loose-fitting USC sweatshirts played darts in the corner. Never seen them before. Probably thought it a joke to have date night in a shithole like this. I didn’t see a woman by herself. Let alone one that belonged to the voice I’d heard on the phone.
“Anyone ask for me tonight, Jeff?”
“Nope.” He set the Manhattan on the bar and smirked. “If someone had, I’d have locked the door.”
“Funny.”
My would-be employer went by Madison Andrews, and she’d roused me from the warm embrace of an alcoholic stupor with an unwanted phone call. I didn’t know her. Trust me, I would’ve remembered that voice. It had a rasp that caught in the back of the throat and sounded like broken glass grinding together in a bag of marbles. Just my type. I felt bad about Carla but she’d abandoned me, not the other way around. That’s always a tough pill to swallow. The rejection, I mean. We should’ve been keeping each other warm in bed. Instead, I’d had a few drinks alone and tried to lose consciousness on the cold linoleum of my run-down apartment in Koreatown. Probably that very whiskey giving me delusions of grandeur about this nightcap with Madison being a date.
Making myself at home in a booth, I got to work nursing my drink. It went down smooth and cool with the ice and settled in my stomach, fortifying with the other bourbons I’d already enjoyed. That easy feel of the buzz slid over me in waves, blurring life’s problems with the incessant
throbbing in my head and the spinning sensation of the booze. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the fall.
“You didn’t order me one?” that unmistakable rasp of a voice asked.
My eyes snapped open to meet one dangerous woman. She had dark hair, brown skin, and olive eyes to match her very expensive-looking cocktail dress. My date belonged at the lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, not this storied establishment. But she couldn’t care less. This lady had confidence to spare, and she’d lowered herself to my level because she needed something from me. And it obviously wasn’t my good company.
What a letdown for you.
Depression took hold as I imagined returning home to my instant ramen and pet cockroaches. I banished that despair with a gulp of whiskey. Madison flashed a fake smile and the entire night felt disingenuous. In an instant, self-pity gave way to a bitter fury I barely recognized as my own. All I wanted was for her to shut her damn mouth and leave me be. But she persisted, you had to give her that.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?”
Vaguely, I motioned across the booth and Madison sat. In her eyes, I thought I caught a glimpse of disdain. Maybe fear. But it disappeared faster than it arrived. I chalked it up to the booze and let it go.
Jeff sauntered over, and she ordered a gin and tonic. I got a refill. We stared at each other for those moments it took the bartender to make the drinks and bring them back. Awkward. We drank in silence until she broke it: “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you got my name over the phone. You haven’t even introduced yourself.”
“My name’s Duster Raines. Raines’ll do. I’m a private investigator. But based on the fact you called me and mentioned work, I assume you already knew both those things.”
“Cute.”
“So, you going to tell me what you want, or we just going to sit here and pretend this is a social call until the bar closes?”
“You’re handsome, Mr. Raines. Bet you’d clean up nice.”
“I’m tall, too. Still doesn’t explain why I’m sitting in this dump.”
“You picked it.” Madison took a long sip of her cocktail. “Most men would be excited to have a drink with me.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. That voice of yours is killer. And anyone can see you’re beautiful. And that dress . . .” She shifted uncomfortably under my lingering gaze. I chased the crude moment away with more whiskey. “But I see the depression on that wedding finger, and I don’t make a habit of messing with other men’s wives. Usually ends with someone
in the hospital. And it’s never me.”
She rubbed the place where her wedding ring had been. I loved being right.
“You’re a mean drunk.”
“It’s past my bedtime.”
She laughed. “I like you.”
“Well, now we have something in common,” I lied. “So how about you tell me what this is all about?”
“My husband.”
“Where’s the ring?”
“Somewhere safe. I took it off because . . .”
“You don’t have to explain to me.”
“That’s kind of you.” She downed her drink. Liquid courage. “He disappeared three days ago.”
“Police?”
“What can they do? They have no idea what’s coming. None of you do.”
She stared at me with an intensity I’d only seen matched a few times in my life. And one of those was a dirty little incident from the Gulf War I preferred to forget. Her gaze burned straight through me, as if she’d forgotten we were talking, seeing something beyond this place. A skill I could relate to. Should’ve gotten up right then and left. But I didn’t.
“What do you think happened?” I asked as kind as I could manage.
“That he’s been abducted,” she muttered, snapping back from wherever she’d been.
“Did they leave a note?”
She laughed wildly, which in my experience only happened in bad movies or right before someone shoved a knife in your neck. “No, don’t be silly.” Madison leaned across the table so her lips nearly brushed my ear and whispered, “Aliens don’t leave notes.”
* * *
Back out on the road, I let the car do its job. Flew down Fairfax to God knows where. But anywhere sounded better than where I’d just been. The engine complained as I turned hard onto Sunset and headed into the heart of Hollywood, ...
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