Negative Film E-Book (Book 2)

"Intense storytelling of an intricate and powerful world" - Amazon Reader

The second book in the Places of Power series- where SC races to stop an ancient power.

The raids happen at night. Searches by the police are regular, tearing homes apart down to the nails, the officer's intentions a mystery. This time, it's not SC they are trying to find, but someone else entirely- whispers of a rare power from centuries before.

Join SC and his friends as they discover the police's intentions and attempt to thwart their plans. But with a new villain in town, and Darian missing, can they be successful? Should they fail, the enemy will become more powerful than they can imagine. But if they succeed, they'll unearth secrets best left hidden by time.

Check out chapter one of Negative Film here:

Chapter 1

The front door gave way in two kicks from a reinforced boot, the paneling snapping as the locking mechanism exploded through the wood. It had never been meant to withstand force—rather, the house had relied upon the prestige of its neighborhood to provide protection, placing faith in the crime watch and the flimsy aluminum gate that guarded the street. The door itself had been crafted as an ornament, the rich mahogany actually extending only a sixteenth of an inch before it was replaced by cheap particle board, the gold-plated bracers constructed of hollow tin tubes. It stood confident and overbearing, proud, but without any true strength. Without a backbone.

Just like its owner.

"What is the meaning of this!" he shouted as he rushed down red carpeted stairs, lightning crackling between his fingertips. Lightning that he had never actually used for defense or work, but had offered as proof of his pedigree, atop a reputation supported by generational trust funds. "Don't make me—"

"Police," came the gruff answer as six flashlights swiveled his way, and his face turned paler than their beams. There were plenty of reasons the police might appear at his place, but he had long worked out arrangements that would have prevented such occurrences. Laundered money was to be overlooked so long as change found its way to the station. The same principle applied for tax exploitation. And as for his other crimes, there were always those who would open their hand in exchange for closing their mouths.

"Officers, surely we can reach an arrangement," he blubbered, the lightning fading to mere sparks. "May I request your purpose and your warrant?"

"If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear," said their leader, his eyes narrowing. "We received a report of suspicious activity at this residence. There are those who hide from the state, those who would be willing to pay dearly for a back room. James, your openness to lucrative deals does not go unnoticed, and my officers themselves reported figures entering and exiting this house. Confess now, and we no longer have to search. Of course, should you confess now, we will have found those wanted in the sewer, where they belong, and not your house. But only if you confess. Otherwise, you will be just as wanted by the state."

"This is preposterous!" James, the owner, answered as the officers split, each taking a different path. "I've had no dealings of any sort!"

"Then you have nothing to fear, James," answered the leader, his voice a whisper through thin lips. "Nothing at all."

Dressers smashed into splinters as the officers searched, drywall caved to reveal no hidden compartments, and carpet surrendered to knives. The leader smiled as he watched James fidget, the dollar amounts nearly reflecting in his eyes as they streamed away from his net worth. And soon the first officer climbed the stairs, searching James’ own room, the uppermost of the house with a view of the city more priceless than any of his possessions. The officer frowned as he ripped covers from the bed, chucked the mattress to the floor, and tapped the floorboards. And he spoke after a minute, his voice exasperated and laced with frustration.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he said, rolling his eyes as he continued to search. "We're after the escapee. Number six from the report. Going to be damn hard to find, you know, because—"

His voice trailed off as he turned and saw that he was the only one in the room. His brow knit together, and he mumbled, craning his neck to check that he was indeed alone. He could have sworn his partner had followed him, and after hours of briefing, had actually asked what they were looking for just a moment ago.

But instead, no one was there.

He continued to search with the hairs on his neck half raised, whipping around at the slightest noise to inspect the room, taking less and less care as each second passed. Then he nearly left the room at a sprint, like a child running back from leaving the trash at the end of a long driveway after dark. And in seconds, he returned to the lead officer, while the others kept watch on James downstairs.

"There's someone here," he said. "I feel it, and I don't like it."

"Your power," asked the leader. "Does it indicate anything?"

"Nothing, sir," he answered, shuffling his feet. "I feel nothing alive in this room. Aside from the clock, there's no energy consumption. But there's ways to hide, as you know. And this feels wrong."

"Fine," hissed the leader, extending a hand forwards, his eyes sliding over each of the objects in the room. "Step back; we need a full investigation."

The officer rushed through the doorway just as the leader's hand formed a fist, and the room came to life. James' bedspread unknit itself, each of the individual threads spiderwebbing apart, pulling the seams of the mattress with them. The springs uncoiled as if they were made of spaghetti, arranging themselves in neat rows on the hardwood. Screws unwound from the bookshelves as each book came apart at individual pages, streaming forward in rivers of paper that accumulated in a neat pile at the center of the room. The dresser disassembled at the joints, the planks stacking to be organized by size, with a neat row of knobs atop. And every other object of the room unmade itself, from the desk to the office chair, the ceiling fan to the vents, down to wiring in the walls, until all that was left were their components, organized, and inanimate.

"Nothing to be found," stated the leader as the officer peered wide-eyed over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry sir," came the reply, the far larger man biting his lip. "I thought—"

"It does not matter; I expected to find nothing anyway," the leader said, his voice level. "The descriptions of those entering the house did not match our records. No, not at all. I knew that walking in."

"Then why did we bother, sir?"

"Because there are those who would best remember," he answered, looking through the floor to where James stood below, "who runs this city and who merely resides in it."

He shook his head and left, the officer following, too far away to hear the gulp that sounded from the roof as three adolescents pressed their ears against shingles, catching the bits of conversation below, the words muffled. And as the police cars trickled away, they departed, one of them hovering to lower the other two to the ground and to steal off into the night.