The Shattered Gates Read Online Free Page A

people just to sit in the room with him.
    Suddenly, John’s thoughts came to a crashing halt. That was it, wasn’t it?
    Kyle wasn’t paying five hundred dollars for breakfast; he was paying five hundred dollars to have John take him out.
     As John gazed up at the empty staircase, his entire body began to fill with tense premonition of the monstrous social horrors sure to come.

     

Chapter Four

    It was the air; he always noticed it when he came through the gateway. The air here floated around him, feeling thick, almost liquid. Breathing here felt like drinking. Exotic, rich flavors rolled over his lips. Scents clung to his skin like seawater.
    Kahlil drew in a breath. His lungs tingled with the heady suffusion of oxygen. It felt like enough to last him hours—just this one breath. But he wanted more. He loved tasting everything in the air: cologne, cleansers, human sweat, pollen, insect pheromones. The next breath would taste of hot asphalt, tobacco, wild flowers and the distant ocean. The profusion of scents attested to the vibrancy of life here, so different from his own world of Basawar.
    It delighted him even now as he stepped through the door of the diner, and the smell of a perpetual breakfast engulfed him. The odors of bacon grease, fried eggs, black coffee, and cigarette smoke hung like a yellow fog over the brown booths and Formica tables.
    Kahlil watched John’s expression change as he scanned the customers. John disregarded the cluster of teenage girls sharing one order of french fries. He ignored the two old men in denim overalls, as well as the line of strangers sitting at odd intervals along the counter. He paused as he caught sight of a booth far back, and then frowned at the blonde woman who waved at him.
    The woman was pale, her hair more white than yellow. Her eyebrows almost faded into the translucent expanse of her delicate face. Her tight, clingy clothes emphasized the fractional curves of her slim body. The image of a green-eyed kitten warped across the tiny expanse of her baby blue T-shirt.
    An equally slender, dark-haired man slumped in the booth next to the woman. He looked like a remnant from an old film noir, dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and suspenders, his once slicked-back hair now hung in disheveled strings. He sagged against the padded seat like a corpse that had been propped up there. His eyes barely opened as the woman jumped up and waved at John.
    “Hey, Toffee,” the woman called out, “we were just talking about you. Come join us.”
    “Toffee?” Kahlil asked quietly.
    “Nickname. John Toffler. Toffee.” John’s expression looked as if this was an old pain that he had learned to live with. Kahlil found it amusing. It was such a small burden.
    It struck Kahlil as odd that either of the two people in the booth would be John’s friends. There was a striking disparity between their physical appearances and John’s that implied opposing lifestyles. Where these two seemed tiny and nocturnal, John’s build was tall and muscular, almost intimidating. His sun-bleached blonde hair and deeply tanned skin blatantly displayed the weeks he spent outside.
    “I’m here with someone, but I’ll catch up with you guys later.” John started towards an empty table across the room.
    “You can both join us.” As the woman got up, Kahlil stared in awe at her shoes. Like golden altars supporting her tiny feet, they were absurd and exquisite at once, exactly the kind of thing that no woman would wear in Basawar. He felt an inexplicable warmth towards the woman for owning such shoes.
    She rushed to John and, catching him before he could sit, wrapped her arms around his waist. “Come on, I promise we won’t embarrass you in front of your new boyfriend.”
    “He’s not—” John began, but the woman turned to Kahlil. She held out her hand.
    “I don’t think I’ve met you before. I’m Laurie.” She smiled, and Kahlil noticed the plastic barrettes shaped like ducks hanging