Magick in Prose Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Book One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  Book Two

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  Book Three

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Magick in Prose

  Ember’s Flame

  Trilogy

  by

  Sevan Paris

  Story Consultants

  Cindy Paris and Jessica Pierce

  Book One

  Prologue

  “Most people don’t realize it, but the city of Prose is filled with magic.

  “The rush of a fresh lover’s embrace. The bright goodbye of the sun setting over the valley. The smell of Julie Baby’s fresh donuts on Frazier Avenue.

  “The city is also full of another kind of Magick. The one spelled with a k. Fewer know about that one—I mean really know about. The proof is out there if you happen to come across it. Mystickal ash floating over 3rd Street. A chipmunk belting Ariana Grande from an oak tree. Someone so powerful and so dark that when they speak to you, in a quiet timbre, your soul shutters as it tries to leave your body. That’s the impressive stuff. The scary stuff. The stuff that enchanted weapons and tentacled nightmares are made of. That’s the stuff you gotta worry about. Eff taxes and eff Trump.”

  The guy on the barstool next to me smiles. A peanut shell clings to his rosy cheek. “Yeah, man, eff all that.” His head bobs, and he jerks his hand under his chin, to keep from passing out on the bar again. His glassy eyes fall to my boobs. “Speaking of effing…”

  I take another sip of Guinness. “I’m too much for you to handle.”

  He sighs, and the peanut shell falls off. “Looks like I’m just handling myself tonight.”

  I consider it for a moment. He’s not bad looking. Average build, mid-thirties. Blond hair and dressed for success with a suit and loose tie. I’m ashamed to say it’s not the wedding ring on his finger that keeps me from boning. It’s the fear of him throwing up on me.

  “Another round, Ember?” Jake says. He took over the Dishonest Pint after it reopened last year. Given the types of customers who usually frequent the place—those with powers, those with Magicks, and those with marital problems—he does a pretty good job of keeping everything smooth. Unless you knew it, you’d think this was an average bar for average folks.

  I wave him off. “No, that’s my limit.”

  “What about you, Romeo?” Jake says.

  Suit and tie shakes his head. “Nope. Struck out, so I’m going home.” He hands Jake plastic. “Put the lady’s on me too.”

  I pull my wallet from the pocket of my black leather jacket and plop in on the bar. “No thanks, I got it.”

  “I insist,” the man says. “Maybe we’ll meet again, and you’ll remember me.” He slides off the stool and nearly falls over.

  “You okay to drive there, buddy?” Jake says.

  “I’m going to Uber.” His slur makes it sound like “Woober.”

  Jake hands back the credit card receipt. “Alright, man. Here you go then.”

  It takes a couple tries, but the man manages to grab the receipt from Jake’s fingers. He salutes us and turns to the exit. He nearly trips twice on his way out.

  I shake my head and finish the rest of my beer. It’s down to that foamy part, the part you only finish when you don’t have another one on the way. I slide the Visa to Jake.

  Jake slides it back. “Nope, I put it on his tab.”

  “Why?” I say.

  Jake shrugs. “He offered. If it bothers you so much, you can pay him back sometime. Guy is a regular.”

  I almost tell Jake to refund the guy’s money, but why bother? A free beer is a free beer. That, combined with the fact that I have a lonely bed waiting for me at home (or that building I call home) almost makes me hang around to order another Guinness. But someone catches my attention at the back of the bar. A woman wearing a green halter top and tight mini. Long blond hair and dark skin. She watches my almost adulterer grab his coat from a hook and stumble out the door.

  Something about the way she looks at him, about the way she lowers her head, about the way she sizes him up like a lioness does a gazelle…

  She stands up from her empty table and follows him out into the January night. Without a jacket.

  The Magickal tattoos on my arms tingle. My Ember sense. “Guess that sometime is now.”

  ***

  The man ambles through the puddle-filled street outside Dishonest Pint.

  The woman doesn’t hurry to catch up. No need. A man can only walk so fast after talking to Evan Williams long enough and hard enough.

  He pulls his phone and thumbs it on. He flinches at the phone’s bright light and drops it in a puddle.

  “Christ!” He stares at the phone, probably wondering whether he can fish it from the water without falling over.

  Halter Top woman bends over and picks up the phone for him.

  He straightens, surprised to see her. His eyes trace every inch of her, not even wondering why the forty-degree night hasn’t turned the woman’s nipples into eraser tips.

  He says something to her, grinning.

  No emotion passes Halter Top’s face. She holds the phone between them for a heartbeat and then tosses it down the street. It clatters on the asphalt before splashing into another puddle.

  “Hey!” he says.

  He doesn’t say anymore because Halter Top presses herself against him—lips, tits, and all. Her leg bends, rubs against his knee.

  The man’s shoulder’s heave once, twice, three times, and then a gush of vomit explodes between their faces. He jerks away, finishes puking on the pavement.

  “Sorry,” he says, wiping his chin. “Sorry, I’m just…” he straightens and sees that she hasn’t moved much. Hasn’t reacted at all really. She just stares at him with a blank expression, his supper dripping from her chin.

  Her mouth opens to three times the size of a regular person’s, exposing long needle teeth. Her dark skin ripples. She seizes the man by the lapel and spins him into the alley.

  The man cowers against a dumpster, watching her. Watching it.

  It splashes through puddles slowly, letting his fear build. Yellow light shimmers around her as the last of the glamour spell fades. Her knees bend backwards like a canine’s. Claws slide from long fingers. The clothing, the rest of her body—all of it—shifts into large scales, thick and dark green. Yellow eyes stare at the cowering man from the other end of a long, snarling snout. It shoves the man against the dumpster.

  “Please, God, no!” he yells, sounding far more lucid than he did in the bar.

  The creature’s hand lunges out, clutches the man’s throat. It lifts him from the ground and straightens to its seven-foot height. The man pounds against the spindly arm for all the good it does. Its other clawed hand raises to rip out the man’s heart.

  Then the alley lights up, the color of hell.

  The creature jerks its head around, stares at me. Sees me standing there with a fiery glowing katana in each hand. They spark with Ward Magicks, feeding off my will. Off my concentration. And I suddenly wish I hadn’t had that second Guinness.

  “Scalawag, right?” I say.

  It growls.

  “Heard about you, never saw one though. You are butt-ugly. No wonder you glam yourself up.”

  Another g
rowl.

  “Let him go, and I let you walk.” I spin a katana for emphasis; it hums through the air. “That’s your only choice.”

  It turns back to the man, raising its clawed hand even higher and telling me exactly how it feels about my only choice.

  I charge, yelling and katanas blazing.

  I swipe through the arm pinning the man against the dumpster. The creature yells and jerks back its cauterized stump. Its yellow eyes widen and it howls in pain.

  “Told ya.”

  It lunges after me, good hand swiping through the air. It’s fast. Faster than anything I’ve fought in a while. I don’t even have time to bring a katana down before its claws slice my ribs. Thin lines of pain burn in my side.

  I drop a sword, letting it fade to nothing. My hand circles the air, spinning a shield to life. The creature lunges again. The shield stops him cold.

  I yell and drive it back, through puddles, through garbage, and against a brick wall. Somewhere in its primitive mind, it hasn’t latched onto the fact that no matter how hard it pushes, no matter how much bigger or stronger it is than me, it’s not getting past this shield. It’s not getting past me.

  I lock eyes with the scalawag when I shove my katana through its chest. It jerks once before the light goes out of its eyes.

  I palm my Amulet of Ash and whisper, “Cinis.” The scalawag’s scales darken and it turns to ash, carried away by a loud whisper of soul wind.

  I step back, releasing my hold on the shield and the sword. They wink out of existence and my tattoos stop tingling.

  I look at the man, still leaning against the dumpster.

  “Thank you,” he whispers. He clears his throat and then tries again: “Thank you.”

  I nod, look at my ribs. The shirt’s ripped in four places where the scalawag’s claws tore into me. Blood wells from the cuts, but they don’t look too deep. Probably won’t even need Magick to take care of them.

  “How can I…?” he starts, looking at the spot where the creature disappeared. All that’s left is a burnt hole in the brick from my katana.

  “Be a better person,” I say, looking at his wedding ring. I walk back towards the street. “Somebody should be.”

  Chapter One

  By the time I make it back to the church, the adrenaline has worn off, and I’m limping from the pain in my side. The bleeding is worse, and I can’t wait to get my hands on some ibuprofen.

  The marquee in front of the church reads, “If you don’t drive, someone else will.”

  I humph. That’s what I get for living in a building with a panache for fortune telling. I shake my head, and limp towards the entrance. The Volkswagen Beetle parked outside flashes its lights at me and softly honks its horn.

  “What?”

  Another honk.

  “No.” I look at my side. “No, I’m fine. Nothing some pain killer and bandages won’t fix.”

  The Beetle starts up and guns its chirpy engine. It slides to a stop in front of the door, blocking me.

  “Look, I said I’m fine. Really, I’m okay.”

  It revs up the engine.

  “What do you want me to say? You were right, okay, Harry? I should have let you come with me. Are you happy?”

  The Beetle shifts into reverse and backs into a parking spot between the church and a condemned house next door. The headlights stay on for a moment longer, a final I-told-you-so, and then click off.

  “Pompous, know it all car,” I say, walking up the steps. I look at the blood on my hand… and press it against my side again.

  “Harry is right to be concerned,” a female voice says from the church’s roof.

  I look up and see a woman in her forties. She wears a revealing one-piece, with a neckline that plunges past the thick curves of her breasts all the way to her belly button. The ringlets of her dark hair hang over her shoulders and onto a cloak, propped open with hands on her curvy hips. The stance welcomes God, Mickey Mouse, and everybody to stare at her tits like she was a Vegas showgirl. It helps that she has the slammin’ body to pull it off.

  “Mystick,” I say. “And just why are you hanging out on my roof like a creeper?”

  “I was meditating,” she says. She whispers something and a flash of purple light teleports her to my side. “While waiting on you to show up.”

  “Show up? You act like I’m late for something.”

  “You act as though you’re not.”

  I open the door. It creaks into the inky darkness filling the church. “Today is the day, huh?”

  “It is. Just like it has been this day every day for the past six months.”

  I walk into the church. The Latin carved into the door frame glows, recognizing me. “Lux!” The thick blanket of blackness enveloping the nave retreats into the Night Realm as faeries clamber down from the rafters. Their bellies burn with a soft light, brighter and brighter, until the entire room takes on a pleasant glow.

  One of the fist-sized faeries bares its fanged teeth at Mystick. “Amica,” I say.

  The faeries instantly forget about her and resume flying about the room, keeping the darkness at bay.

  Mystick still waits at the doorway. “What?” I say. “What are you waiting on?”

  “For you to invite me in,” she says, pointing at the door frame. “I have no doubt you’re using the seal of Zala to protect your home, and I do not wish to be fried by Magickal lightning. Again.”

  I smile at the memory. “Yeah, that was pretty funny. I did say I was sorry about that, right?”

  She straightens. “You did not.”

  “Mm, weird.” I walk to the mini fridge humming away in the corner and grab a Guinness. I pop the top and then say, “You may enter.”

  Mystick nods and walks in, taking in the room. Most of the pews are shoved to the side, to make room for my cot, flat screen, and a clothing rack. A hot plate and a microwave are in the corner next to the fridge, with a few boxes of food.

  Mystick runs a finger over a pew and rubs the collected dust. “Quaint.”

  “Quaint is how I roll.”

  “I thought you were going to clean this place up, make it homey.”

  “I thought Hillary Clinton would be president, but here we are.” I take a long gulp. And offer Mystick one.

  She refuses with a polite raise of her hand. “No thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” I walk past the pews and pull the chain to the bathroom light.

  “So… have you found a suitable candidate?”

  I tap several ibuprofen into my palm and roll my eyes. “No, but I bet you have.”

  “I have divined three, but I think only one of them worth your time.”

  “Three, wow,” I say in a flat voice. “That’s a lot for one month, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. But since you insist on being difficult about the process, I see no alternative rather than to search for as many candidates as possible.”

  “I’m not being difficult.” I slurp more beer and swallow four pills. “I’m treating this Magick with the respect it deserves.” I look for bandages under the sink, but can’t find any. I could have sworn I bought some at the Dollar Store last week.

  “Pardon me for saying so, but if that were true, you would have chosen a new Sayer by now. Many of us fear that you’re squandering this power. Or worse, that you don’t respect it.”

  “Boy, that’s rich.” I give up on the cabinet and walk back to the nave. I press my hand against my side again, only to see the bleeding is getting worse. “Dammit.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Don’t change the subject: They don’t get to say I don’t respect this power when they’ve done nothing but act pissy ever since I became a Ward.”

  Mystick seems to consider a few replies before settling on, “Can you blame them?”

  I sigh, and my side burns hotter. “Dammit!”

  Mystick whispers something and waves her hand. My shirt cinches up to reveal the claw marks across my ribs. Blood swells from the w
ound and pools above my blue jeans.

  Her brown eyes narrow. “Is that the mark of a scalawag?”

  “I don’t know, is this the Magick of an asshole holding up my shirt?”

  “Please, you’re clearly in pain.” Mystick says something in a hushed voice and the pain dissipates, replaced with a slight itch. The blood lines flare purple and scabs appear. They look a few days old. “There,” Mystick nods, satisfied. “That should hurry things up a bit.”

  I shake my head and walk to the clothing rack, pulling off my shirt. A few strands of Crayola red hair cling to it. The hair dye box called it emo red.

  “No thank you is necessary,” Mystick says.

  I yank an AC/DC shirt from the hanger and pull it over my head. “And no help was needed.”

  Mystick almost leans against the dusty pew, and then seems to think better of it. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe if you had a better attitude people might find you more agreeable?”

  “It’s occurred to me that I don’t care about who finds me agreeable.”

  Mystick waves a hand and manila folder appears with a burst of light. “So here we are, with a new potential being forced on you. You can, as you agreed to do, look into this person. See if she’s worthy. Or me and the other Sayers in the Clave can hold you down, force the Magicks from you and give it to whomever we damn well please. Now how agreeable do you feel?”

  I snatch the folder from Mystick’s hand and grab my beer. “Fine.”

  “And the scalawag?” she says.

  I flick through the folder’s papers, pretend to read them. “What about it?”

  “Where was it? I’ll need to look into it.”

  “No need. I killed it.”

  “I see. And how did it get here?”

  “All it did was growl and hiss. So unless growl’n hiss is a person’s name, I don’t know who’s controlling it. All it wanted to do was feed on some rando.”

  “But it had to be delivering the blood to someone afterwards. Were you not concerned about that?”

  “Uh, no, I was concerned about the thing trying to eat some poor drunk son of a bitch in an alley.”