Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4)

by Melinda Kucsera

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Not the friendliest of openings but as a witch of my abilities, I had to be careful. There were those out there that sought to contain and control weather witches for their own nefarious purposes. Or so my parents had been teaching me.

  He grinned, his hands coming up in supplication and peace. “I came here to swim and found you. I could ask why a weather witch is out here on my beach,” he countered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his swim shorts and raising an eyebrow in question.

  I scoffed. “No one owns this beach.”

  “This part is owned by my family, actually. I think you may have gotten yourself turned around. Not that I mind, of course.” He grinned and eyed me from head to toe, the admiration clear on his face.

  I opened my mouth to contest, but then I let my gaze roam the area and realized I had walked much further than I’d intended. I very well could’ve been on private property right now. My cheeks flamed in embarrassment, and a gust of warm wind whipped around us. The lightning and thunder slowed as I started to get over my nervousness.

  He chuckled. “Quite alright. It looked like you were trying to figure things out. I certainly don’t mind the company, but my parents might not like having things burned to a crisp by a weather witch in a bad mood.”

  “I...I…” I stuttered, not knowing how to respond to that one. I would never knowingly burn anything down. I had control of fire; it was one of the few things I did have control over.

  “What makes you think I’m a weather witch?” I asked with suspicion. My anxiety started to rise again, the waves behind me rushing in faster with my amped-up agitation.

  He chuckled. “It seems rather obvious to me. Every bit of your emotion shows on your face and the weather surrounding us is corresponding to it.” He shrugged. “Not a big deal. I’ve never met a weather witch before. My parents have only told me stories of ones before.”

  My eyes were wide, still trying to process all of this. He seemed harmless. Or at least he wasn’t trying to attack me or anything. I figured I might be safe.

  He grinned at my awkwardness, stepped forward, and held out his hand. “Braxton Conrad, at your service.” He dipped his head, almost giving a bow, and a fluttery feeling passed over me.

  I sucked in a breath. I knew that name. His family was a powerful witch family, one nobody ever crossed if they could help it. It was well known that to cross the Conrad family was to court your own demise.

  Some would say the same about my family, too. The Stratan family was also an old witch family with many ties. It was actually rather odd that he and I had not crossed paths before. Though if I remembered correctly, Braxton was a few years older than me. And besides, given my upbringing, my father was not one for following the family traditions. Maybe the fact that we hadn’t met before wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

  “Sky Stratan,” I managed to say as I reached forward and gripped his hand. Fire and sparks raced across our hands, and a soft shower of fire sparkles started to fall.

  “By the Great Divine,” he whispered in awe.

  Where the bursts of fire fell, it sizzled, but it never burned. Then a realization struck me: our touch was doing this. I had never had this happen before. It was localized too. Just a small ring of fire falling over us, not burning, even though we both flinched as it hit our skin, our grips tightening to prepare for the pain.

  “I would say that the great divine wished us to meet Braxton Conrad.” I looked up to meet his shocked gaze.

  He swallowed a few times, as if trying to gain some composure before speaking again. Finally, he nodded. “I would have to agree, Sky Stratan. Would you care to join me for an iced coffee?”

  I smiled, giving his hand a squeeze as the rain of fire turned to fireflies in the night.

  “What about your swim?” I glanced back at the now-calm waves of the ocean.

  He gave me a smile that made me shudder. I hadn’t ever had this feeling with Nick. He gripped my hand tighter in his, his thumb brushing back and forth on the top of my hand. It felt so good. So right.

  “The ocean will always be there. Unless you mean to change it?” He arched an eyebrow at me in question.

  My eyes went wide at his suggestion and I chuckled. “No, I don’t want to change anything. This place is calming for me.”

  “Good, I love it here too. So coffee?”

  His hand tightened over mine, and that touch gave me a sense of peace I hadn’t felt since before these powers had emerged. A wave of calm washed over me, giving me even more control over my power. A pleasant shiver traveled down my spine, and I realized all the negative energy that had been surrounding me had evaporated just because he was holding my hand.

  The Great Divine really did have a plan for me after all. Fate had brought me there to meet that man. He would bring the calm and solace I needed to control my power. I hoped. Only time would tell.

  “I’d love that.”

  The coven of elders are coming for the new weather witch and they have their own nefarious ideas for her.

  Sky may be the new weather witch, a reluctant one but what is yet to be determined is if she and Braxton can bring new promise to the age of witches.

  Find out what happens to Sky and Braxton in “Weather Witch Worries,” part of Wayward Magic, the next book in the Magic Underground trilogy of anthologies.

  About the Author

  International bestselling author, A. R. Johnston is just a small-town girl from Nova Scotia, Canada, looking to share her tales with others. She is known to write mostly urban fantasy, though she goes where the muses lead her and you never know where that may be. She is a lover of coffee, good TV shows, horror flicks, and a reader of good books. She pretends to be a writer when real life doesn’t get in the way. Pesky full-time job and adulting! Sign up for her newsletter at

  arjohnstonauthor.wordpress.com.

  Don’t forget to grab your copy of the next anthology in this amazing set—Wayward Magic.

  The Mouth of the Dragon

  Rumors

  Devorah Fox

  When his ship goes off course, King Bewilliam and his knights venture into an unknown land in hopes of gaining practical guidance to reach their destination port. Instead, the people they encounter have heard only of the mysterious fabled land of Perooc and its magnificent treasure rumored to satisfy every desire. Even those who refute Perooc’s existence live lives shaped by its denial. Others devote themselves to the attainment of its treasure. Yet no one admits to knowing its location and how to reach it. An empiricist, the king wants nothing to do with magic. In pursuit of his own ends, however, he finds himself breaching the gates and plumbing the hidden passages said to lead to Perooc and the acquisition of its secret power.

  I drew inspiration for the three stories of “The Mouth of the Dragon” from “The Parable of the Palace,” a chapter in “The Guide to the Perplexed.” A masterwork of religious philosophy by Moses ben Maimon (aka Maimonides), a medieval rabbi, the “Guide” seeks to resolve the conflict between metaphysical and secular knowledge.

  Devorah Fox

  Aboard the Emperor’s Fancy en route to the port of Hewnstone, the ship's hold filled with food for the famine-stricken Chalklands, King Bewilliam and his knights become blanketed in an impenetrable fog.

  They rescue a man adrift in the miasma, a wizard searching for the fabled land of Perooc. Guarded by a dragon, Perooc’s magnificent treasure is reputed to satisfy every desire. When the fog clears, the king and his cohorts discover themselves gravely off-course and venture to a nearby landmass.

  The king’s hopes to find people who can guide them to port are dashed by recalcitrant denizens of Here and There who have never heard of the king’s realm or of the port. They warn him not to dare seek the mysterious Perooc, a perilous mission from which no one has returned.

  Chapter One

  Robin leaned back in his chair to feel the sun on his face. The breeze filled his nostrils with the signature smell of salt and
sea. His cat, Meeyoo, lay stretched out on a sunlit spot of the deck.

  This was the way to travel on an ocean-going vessel, he thought, much better than the last time he sailed. Estranged from his throne, he was then not King Bewilliam, but a vagabond and a fugitive. Forced to reinvent himself, he'd bargained his way aboard a battered cargo ship, bartering for passage with service as a deckhand. The work kept him so busy for the majority of the trip that he failed to notice anything other than the task at hand. Then came that storm and the sea monster…

  After that onerous passage, he reclaimed his throne but kept souvenirs of that trying time: a humble but handy rucksack, his feline companion, and one other item: a name. Robin.

  “Robin” was the moniker chosen by the alter ego who emerged during those desperate days. Plucky Robin employed talents the king didn’t realize he had. Though restored to his rightful place, he never fully surrendered that secret second self. To everyone else, he was “Sire,” “Your Majesty,” and “King Bewilliam,” but in his mind he was Robin who persevered through trial after trial.

  Robin settled deeper into his chair and stretched out his legs. He owed much to that scrappy, resilient persona but being king had its advantages. He would not labor on this voyage. This time plenty of hands attended to the work of sailing: his trusted knights, an experienced cartographer, capable sailors, and servants. They would arrive safely at the port of Hewnstone in no time. They would unload their cargo and continue onward by land to his Bell Castle.

  If only he could relax, but they couldn't return to the Chalklands too soon. The kingdom’s subjects were desperate for the ship's cargo, the first delivery of food to relieve the famine that decimated the realm. The job of rebuilding would be daunting but he was eager to start. He had done it before; he'd do it a second time.

  As well, he worried about how the realm had fared in his absence.

  The ship's rocking motion and ruffling sails lulled him into a doze. Robin closed his eyes. His muscles slackened. Troubling thoughts drifted away on the wind.

  The cooling of his cheek nudged his vigilant soldier-sense. He cracked open one eye. The sunlight had dimmed. A passing cloud, Robin told himself.

  Or was it the gryphon, an elusive guardian everyone alleged shadowed the king? He had never seen it, although Sir Maxwell claimed he did. A mythical beast with a lion's body, the head and wings of an eagle, and a snake for a tail. If such a creature existed it would be a land animal and unlikely to be this far out at sea, Robin reasoned.

  He closed his eye and tried to regain his tranquility.

  He no sooner became aware that his skin seemed moist as well as cool than came a murmur.

  “Sire?”

  Robin mentally swatted it away as if it were a fly. Who dared to disturb the king, he wondered.

  “Sire?” came the voice a second time, and louder.

  Recognizing it as that of Sir Maxwell, his youngest knight, Robin sighed and opened both eyes. The figure standing before him was blurry and the king blinked to clear his vision.

  The knight bowed. “I'm sorry to bother you, Sire. The helmsman said to alert Your Majesty. We have encountered a fog bank.”

  The king sat straighter and looked about. His vision wasn't blurry, the air was. A towering opaque white mass as tall as a snow-covered hill enveloped them in an impenetrable haze.

  “Helmsman Tychor says that because of insufficient visibility we must check our speed until it passes or until we pass through it. He wanted Your Majesty to know why we slowed.”

  “Thank you.” The king dismissed the knight. The air grew damper and the fog so dense that he could see nothing a few feet away. Meeyoo disappeared in the thick mist. Anxious, Robin rose from his seat thinking to take refuge in the solidity of his cabin. He skidded on the slick deck and grasped at the rails to steady himself. The sea and sky merged into one cottony cocoon. With nothing to reckon by, he lost all sense of motion or direction. An object adrift on the water's surface close to the ship made him dizzy. Robin couldn't tell if he was moving or if it was or if neither of them was.

  He spied something through a sheer spot in the fog. As if through a veil, he made out another floating object. It seemed too big to be a bird. Was it a large fish, a whale, or a monster? His racing heart beat faster.

  “Sire?”

  The king realized that Sir Maxwell stood but a few paces away.

  “Does Your Majesty see it too?”

  “Something's out there, Sir Maxwell. Can you tell what it is?”

  “It would appear to be someone in a vessel.”

  Robin frowned. “Out here?” They had seen no other ships since they left Sea Gate.

  Sir Maxwell handed the king a spyglass and pointed across the water. “Your Majesty should be able to see him.”

  Robin adjusted the glass's focus. He discerned something denser and darker than the fog, what appeared to be someone in a ship's boat roughly a league away. “He has no sail. How did he travel all the way out here? Not with a paddle, surely.”

  “I caught a glimpse of him, Sire. He flailed his arms about. I got the distinct impression that he is in trouble. Perhaps he had a sail and lost it or it became damaged.”

  “Ahoy,” came a disembodied voice. “Help. Can you help me?”

  “Sire, someone is out on the water,” said Sir Maxwell. “Should we attempt a rescue?”

  The sea breeze thinned a spot in the veil of fog. Robin squinted into the spyglass trying to bring the distant figure into clearer focus. Was it a man? All the king could make out was a person in a robe and headgear, with long hair or a veil. Was it a woman? The figure was a tiny speck against the vast sea and sky.

  “We're not that far ….”

  “Try to keep him in sight, such as it is. We will consult with the helmsman.” Robin gingerly dismounted the slippery steps from the aftcastle and fumbled his way across the deck to the helm.

  Helmsman Tychor half-turned. Without taking his hands from the tiller, he cut something of a bow. A tall reed of a man, he appeared as if he could be blown over by the merest gust. However, his sovereign, Empress Alexandra, had assured King Bewilliam that the man's experience and competence would deliver them to Hewnstone without incident.

  “Your Majesty was apprised of the danger presented by this fog?” he asked.

  “We were.”

  Helmsman Tychor grunted. “I hope it blows away soon. Stalled like this, we will not make port until after dark. It will make docking treacherous.”

  “We may be able to make up time once we break through this fog. Meanwhile, there is a man seemingly adrift.”

  “Your Majesty wishes to rescue him?”

  “We would be reluctant to leave him if he is in trouble and we could have rendered assistance.” The king glanced behind him. “It would appear that he drifts close to us. We move slowly, the seas and wind are calm.”

  “Your Majesty speaks as one who does a fair amount of sailing.”

  Robin had been drafted to take the Orion’s tiller and kept it on course through a ferocious windstorm. However, the Emperor's Fancy was under his command and that was all Tychor needed to know. “Hold her steady and we'll endeavor to aid him.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” Tychor's narrowed eyes and set jaw communicated his displeasure.

  At the king's command, anyone, not otherwise engaged, found his way starboard. Meeyoo stuck her furry face through the rails.

  The distance closed between the ship and the target and the king identified a single person in the boat without sails. Not a woman, unless she somehow managed to grow a long white beard. A wine-colored robe cinched with a braided belt covered the lone sailor from neck to ankles and a wide-brimmed peaked hat shaded the wrinkled face of an elderly man.

  “You are in need of help?” Sir Alan called.

  “I am, good sir. I would be ever so grateful,” came the hoarse reply.

  Crew members lowered a rope ladder, scrambled down, grabbed the boat's lines, and secured them to Th
e Fancy. The boat's passenger struggled to climb the ladder. He was so feeble he needed to be lifted aboard. “Thank you.” The man's gaze swept the assembled crew. “You saved my life and for that, I am in your debt.” He bowed to each one. When his eyes fell on Robin, he dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty.”

  “King Bewilliam. Of the Chalklands,” said Sir Albert.

  “And the Palisades,” Sir Maxwell added.

  “Rise, good sir,” Robin said.

  “I … I cannot.” The man caved in on himself and appeared about to plant his face on the deck. Sir Albert and Sir Alan each put a hand under the man's armpits and raised him.

  “He's probably parched,” said Dame Deidre. “Hungry, too.”

  “Take him to the mess. Give him food and drink,” Robin commanded. “And put us back on our original course.”

  His knights half carried the man to the grimy lower midships. Hunched over the table, the strange man sucked on a ship's biscuit and gulped some watered wine.

  “Slowly now, good sir,” said Dame Deidre. “Take it easy.”

  Nourishment revived the man such that he could straighten his torso. “Again, I thank you for your kindness,” he said, his voice gruff.

  “How came you to be in such dire circumstances?” Sir Albert asked. “So far from land, alone, in such a small boat?”

  The man drank more. “Yes, I owe you an explanation. I am Ofan. I am a wizard.”

  A wizard. King Bewilliam’s throat tightened and his belly cramped. Magic. He did not like magic. Like many rulers, he had seers and soothsayers at court and consulted them but never found their pronouncements to be of much help. Facts, figures, the testimony of witnesses, the opinions of experts, those were valuable aids in decision-making. Now here he was, on a ship in the middle of the ocean, with a magician. He frowned, then told himself he needn't be concerned. Ofan couldn't be much of a sorcerer. Had the man any magical skills at all why had he not conjured his rescue?