Sleight of Hand

Prologue

K

urtis Drummond, a man of forty-eight years, paced back and forth in front of six of his students with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Kurtis was of the athletic type, though he was middle-aged. This was because he had been declared the Superhumans' formal trainer since he was a young adult. It came with the job. His build was enhanced by the simple fitted t-shirt and black pants he wore. His fair hair was cut short. His blue eyes sparkled, though they did not sparkle with joy or contentment. In his eyes and on the rest of his face was a look of grave seriousness.

"All right... this is it," Kurtis said grimly. "This is what you've prepared for. The Mage will undoubtedly throw challenges your way. There will be more humans than you've ever fought before. I know it is against your nature to fight the humans, but the Mage has given us no choice. If this civilization is to survive, you must defend it. We must end this war."

The trainer stopped his pacing and faced his team. He surveyed the young faces of his trainees. Aivilo, Trebor, Hanna, Bacon, Ammee and Mac. Their expressions were set with determination and drive. Their unique combat out­fits were pristine and effective. Their eyes glinted with mixtures of emotions.

"The future of this civilization is in your hands," Kurtis finished solemnly, casting a glance to his long-time assis­tant, Alyakim. She stood behind him slightly, but watched the other Superhumans—the Elite, they were called—with just as much scrutiny.

The Elite nodded their understanding. No one said a word, just shuffled one after the other to embrace their teacher. Kurtis almost couldn't bear it. These kids were being forced to use their amazing abilities... for war.

"Kurtis."

He was brought back to the present. One of the Elite was standing in front of him.

It was Trebor.

He was tall and had dark, tousled hair. His features were sharp, and he had a broad chest and shoul­ders. His green eyes sparked intensely against his tan skin. He was dressed from head to toe in black, a testament to his amazing talents. He sported his usual biker gloves and studded earring.

Trebor gazed down at Kurtis with a sort of gravity that Kurtis could feel weighing down on him. It was hard to imag­ine any of the Elite were only sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old. They were still children, needing to grow up too fast.

Kurtis remembered first meeting the boy in front of him. Trebor had been six at the time, and he had been small. Smaller than many of the kids Kurtis trained. But he'd had potential from that first day. And now, here he was, standing in front of Kurtis as one of the most powerful Super­humans Kurtis had ever met twelve years later.

"Trebor," Kurtis greeted with a bow of the head.

"Thank you," Trebor said with his deep voice.

Kurtis frowned. "Whatever for, my boy?" he asked.