“Fortuna. Call me Fortuna.” She looked out of the front window, scanning up and down the sidewalk, and then took Carol’s hand in hers and led her back to the table that Carol and Freddie had just been dining at. She sat down in Freddie’s chair.
“Ah. I can still feel him.” She shook her shoulders, like shrugging off snow. “He’s a powerful one, this Murus. What did you take from his bag? A stone of some kind?”
Carol had had a Catholic education as a girl, and although she had not taken Latin classes in over 50 years, she still recognized the word for “wall”.
“What do you mean? What’s a ‘Murus’?”
Fortuna cackled.
“You don’t know what a Murus is? How long you been doing this, girlie?”
“I… I don’t know. Forever, I guess. As long as I can remember. No one has ever had to teach me.” Carol blushed.
“You listen to old Grandma Fortuna, girl. The Muri trap the spirits. They use them for power. Yes, even your young Scottsman there.” She gestured behind Carol. Carol couldn’t hear Ian or feel his presence; she didn’t even know he was still hanging around. “Now, show me what you took.”
Carol reached into her shopping bag and pulled out the sack she had stolen from Freddie. She handed it to Fortuna Giannopoulos with some trepidation.
“Who is this woman?” Carol wondered, “Fortuna is like an old crone from a fable, warning me of the future and giving me advice, like magic beans.”
Those fables often had dire consequences for failure….
The older woman opened the sack and poured the moonstone ring out into her palm. As soon as Fortuna touched it, Carol felt an overwhelming sense of relief, like cool water pouring down her back. She exhaled a long sigh and relaxed in her chair.
“Oh, this one is nice! No wonder he wanted it,” she said. “This one is pure, you see. No attachments, no spirits, and the binding is just right. And you can’t quite see through it, like a window into some other world. Yes, it’s good you got this away from him. It’s far too powerful.” And she dropped the ring back into Carol’s hand and closed Carol’s fingers over it. “You keep this safe now, young lady. Don’t you let just anyone see this, you got me? lisoús, when you two walked in, I thought Grandmother was going to come right out of her ladle!”
“Fortuna, how do you know so much about this? I’ve never heard anything about this before. What do I do if I come across another one, another Murus?”
“Oh, dearie, you just listen to your young man, there. He’ll let you know.” She addressed the air behind Carol’s right shoulder with an arched eyebrow. “Won’t you, boy?”
“Aye, Ma’am.” Carol heard Ian agree.
“Good. You do that.” She stood up from the table. “Now, I have work to do: those napkins aren’t gonna fold themselves!” She marched herself back over to the hostess’ station, put a flat pile of napkins on the top, and started to fold them into practiced triangles.
Carol gathered her items and walked over to the counter.
“Fortuna, thank you. I had no idea. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” Carol replaced her sunglasses over her eyes. “Maybe I’ll come back and we can talk again?”
“Make sure you do, dearie. I’ll make time for you.” Grandma Giannopoulos didn’t look up from her folding.
Carol walked out into the sunlight. It was late in the afternoon now. She walked back to the parking lot where she had left her car, paid the fee, and made her way out of the city.
“Ian,” She spoke up when she was about halfway home, “Did you know all of this already?”
“No’ in such terms… but aye.” His disembodied voice sounded contrite.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What, and miss all the fun?” There was a chuckle. “Oh, I’d have fought for ye, Carlie!” He used her childhood nickname with familiarity. She had the impression of raised fists, and of riotous tavern brawls.
“Well don’t,” she said. “I don’t want any fighting. I’m an old lady, for goodness sakes!”
“Nae to me, ye aren’t,” he replied. There was a cool touch on her salt-and-cinnamon hair. “Dinnae ye worry, lass. I’m lookin’ out for ye. I’ll no’ let anythin’ happen to ye.”
She pulled in her driveway and walked into the house, dropping her keys in the porcelain bowl on the table by the entryway. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself that glass of wine, glancing up at the grandmother clock. It said 4 pm. A little early for her to be drinking, but she deserved it. She pulled the jewelry out of the shopping bag, and out of the velvet sacks, and laid it all out on the granite countertop. The moonstone ring gleamed softly in the light from the tall, recessed windows. She picked it up and went to her room; up the creaking, restored-wood steps, down the old hallway with it’s well-worn and patina-ed boards, and into her carpeted bedroom. She walked over to her jewelry box on the desk across from the bed. Inside, there was a ring-box covered with golden, Chinese satin, embroidered with tiny birds and flowers. She opened it, took the ring that was already in there out of it, and placed the moonstone ring inside. Then she closed the box and closed the jewelry box lid. She took a small key with a green tassel off of the back of the desk and turned it in the lock.
“There,” she said to herself, “that’s as safe as I can make it.”
And she sat there and sipped her wine wondering if she had been effectual at all: an old lady with greying hair and more years behind than before her.
She could hear the rising sounds of spirits arguing in the kitchen downstairs, where she had left the other pieces of jewelry.
“But she doesn’t know anything!” It was a woman’s voice. Carol assumed it was the woman who had looked at her through the amethyst ring.
“Aye! And still she’s won, at that!” Ian exclaimed. “She’ll be fine, I tell ye. She’s a feisty one, Carlie is.”
Carol felt a moment of pride at his confidence in her. She would not disappoint him. She would talk to Fortuna Giannopoulos again. And she would talk to Julia. Julia could help her fortify herself, both mentally and physically. She was a nurse, and one of Carol’s closest friends and confidants.
Carol thought there was more coming her way… she could feel it, like ozone in the air before a lightning strike. She would be ready. She would learn as much as she could. She would not let herself be taken unaware again like she had been today. And yet, Freddie Archegon had not seemed so terrible, had in fact been quite pleasant. She knew there was more to this story, but she was just too tired to do much beyond make herself some leftover soup and crawl into bed with a good mystery novel. The spirits seemed too busy communing amongst themselves. Maybe they were arguing again; Carol didn’t know and didn’t care at that moment.
She was just getting ready to turn off the light, when the telephone next to the bed rang, shrill in the silence. Carol wondered who it could be at this late hour. She picked it up.
“Hello?” she said.
The voice on the other side was smooth and cultured…, and familiar. It was not a voice she had expected to ever hear again. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
“Is this Carol Conley? This is Freddie, Freddie Archegon. I think you may have something that belongs to me.”
Carol has the ring, but how will she keep such a powerful moonstone out of Freddie Archegon’s grasp when he knows she has it? And what, exactly, would he do with it anyway? Find out in Wayward Magic.
About the Author
Born in Philadelphia, Leah W. Van Dinther never wanted to fit into the mold of “normal.” She spent her childhood around old buildings, art, society, and horses, and usually had her nose buried in a book. She accumulated knowledge like a hoard of treasure and, at some point in her younger years, realized that her greatest wish (outside of horses) was to have a library like the one in Alexandria. Lo-and-behold, the Internet was invented, and her wish came true!
Leah has been a poet, a writer, a waitress, a cook, a dessert-chef, a Montessori teacher, an
artist, a rock-star, and a horse trainer. She still accumulates knowledge like it’s going out of style and in a dizzying array of topics. No really, it would make your head spin.
She married a wonderful artist/musician/author/chef who challenges her, supports her, helps her, and loves her unconditionally to this day. His smile also makes her weak in the knees.
After spending twenty-two years in Western Montana, Leah now lives in California with her family, and her horses, Badger and Zeina. She is very glad to be up in the mountains, but thankful that there is not so much snow.
For more information about the author, please visit: http://www.ghost-stalkers.com, and don’t forget to 1-click Wayward Magic for more magic and mayhem!
The Mark of the Red God
Majanka Verstraete
All mages of the Seven Kingdoms have been branded with a rune that makes it impossible for them to access their magic. Despite the mark, Saleyna Loxley, a sixteen-year-old girl from a small town, still has access to some of her powers. As an Empath, she can connect with other people and sense their emotions. Sometimes, she can even influence other people’s emotions. However, as the Red Priests are keen to destroy any magic-wielder, Saleyna must hide her magic at all costs.
Majanka Verstraete
Saleyna Loxley was branded with the mark of the Red Priests, like all mages in the Seven Kingdoms. These marks should make it impossible for them to access their magic, but Saleyna’s powers refuse to be bound by the mark burned into her skin. As an Empath witch, she can sense other people’s emotions and intentions, and influence them, for good or for bad.
When the Brotherhood of Whispers, a top-secret underground organization of mages, enlists Saleyna’s help, she’s reluctant to get involved. Overthrowing the Red Priests means committing treason against the High King since he was the one who decreed all magic should be banned. Plus, infiltrating into the Red Priests’ stronghold means entering the lion’s den, because as soon as one of them finds out Saleyna still has her magic, her life is forfeit.
When Saleyna uncovers things are far less straightforward than she thought, and not everything is what it seems, her magic might be the only thing keeping her alive…
Chapter One
My mother pulled my arms behind me, restraining me with all her strength. I kicked at her, jerking my arms in every direction in a feeble attempt to get free.
I bit her hand as hard as I could, drawing blood.
She cursed and let go of me for a brief second, but that was enough. I sprinted forward, trying to get away from my mother and the madness going on around us.
Most of all, I wanted to get away from the woman who loomed in front of me, clad in her long, red robes, with a matching hood covering her hair. She reached for me just as I tried to get past her, and with surprising strength, lifted me up.
“Stay still, child.” Her voice was firm, the voice of someone whose orders usually got obeyed.
I screamed as loud as I could, until my lungs burned, and my throat turned raw.
The woman in red didn’t flinch.
“Hold her,” she ordered my mother.
My mother followed the command, restraining me again. “This is for your own good,” she said through gritted teeth.
As the woman in red brought the mark closer to my forehead, I struggled with all the strength I possessed. An irrational fear took hold of me. I had seen my cousin Fiona pass out when the brand touched her forehead, her flesh sizzling as it burned. I had seen my brother weep like a little child, although he was by far the toughest person I knew.
I stared at the branding iron, shaped like a cross, with complicated symbols on the bottom right and top left. I was only six years old, but I had never been this terrified of anything before in my life.
Then, the iron torched my skin, and there was nothing but scorching red pain and a seemingly endless scream.
It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. As if that one moment would forever define me: there would be a me-from-before and a me-from-after, but I would be forever divided in two halves. The girl from before and the girl from after, and those two halves would never be whole again.
The woman in red removed the branding iron from my skin and put it down on the floor. A calm smile crossed her features. She didn’t seem in the least upset at the horror she had put me and my family through.
“From now on, you’re cured.” She clapped her hands. “Cured from that rotten magic coursing through your veins, poisoning you from the inside out. You will no longer die like some of your ancestors have, so infested with magic that it turned their veins black.”
No more magic. Even though I was just a child, I had heard about the women in red, priestesses to the Blood God, who traveled all across the realms to purify those tainted by magic, or ‘cure’ them, as this woman called it. A brand marking your forehead was the least these horrible creatures did; for those already spoiled by magic, they served as judges and executioners at the same time.
No more magic.
It seemed too terrible to be true.
Chapter Two
Ten Years Later
The Red Priests flanked the woman on the stage, two of them holding her arms on each side. The leader of their pack, a towering woman with long, grey hair escaping from underneath her red hood, stood in front of the woman being held back by her companions.
The grey-haired woman also wore a red robe, the trademark outfit of the Priests of the Red God, the Blood God, but her robes were adorned with markings and runes in a language older than our kingdom.
“Witchcraft,” she said, her words cutting through the silence that had fallen over the crowd. The market square of our town, Bellhaven, had never been so busy before, not even during the yearly farmer’s market in the height of summer that drew out people from far beyond our town.
The Red Priests ordered everyone to be present. They knocked on doors, dragging people from their beds, forcing parents to bring along their children, even their babies, as we all stood on the market square, huddling together like cattle.
Which was exactly what we were: cattle, ready for the slaughter.
The moment the Red Robes stormed into town, bringing with them mayhem and vengeance, I felt something bad was about to happen, felt it in my bones. The last time they had come here, when I was barely six years old, was forever burned into my skin and soul.
My brother poked me in the ribs, and I realized I brought my hand up to the mark on my forehead without realizing it. I quickly brought my hand down. The mark, forever etched into my skin, was a permanent reminder of the horrors the Red Priests were capable of.
“Per decree of the High-King,” the woman on the stage continued, “witchcraft is outlawed in all of the Seven Kingdoms and has been for the last decade. Witches must be branded through the markings provided to us by the grace of the Red God, so that their magic is caged. This has been the law for ten years.”
Her eyes spit fire as she glanced down at us, at the crowd of heretics, which she, no doubt, believed we were. “Yet, imagine our surprise when we, disciples of the Red God, were warned that you were hiding witches in your midst.”
The Red Priestess splayed open her arms, gesturing at the kneeling woman behind her, who was being held by several of the Red God’s acolytes. The woman’s hair was drenched from sweat, her face streaked with dirt, and tears pooled from her eyes. Aife. I had known her my entire life.
She stared into the crowd, her eyes flickering back and forth, panic setting in.
Look at me, I reached out for her. Look at me.
Despite the brand on my skin, locking up my magic, I could still feel the remnants of it: a small, almost insignificant part of my magic that had survived, that had been strong enough to withstand the horrible strength of the rune.
Look at me, I said again in my mind, urging my magic to find a way to Aife’s.
Aife still looked around frantically—for someone to save her? For someone to step in and end this ex
ecution before it was too late?
No one would step in.
One month ago, when the Red Priests descended upon the town of Greymere, twice the size of ours and barely half a day’s walk away, no one complained while the Priests butchered an entire family—parents and children. When two weeks before that, the Priests raided Hammell, the biggest town in our province, and lined up five families for the slaughter, no one dared to utter a word of protest.
No one would do anything to save Aife. Not even me, stupid coward that I was.
Look at me, I repeated, sending a stronger surge of power her way.
Finally, her gaze met mine. Her blue eyes, the color of a freshwater lake, focused on me. I remembered how kind she had been when I hurt my knee while falling on the cobblestones, now many years ago. How she had patched me up by bandaging my wounded knee. And years later, when my mother was dying, when she was being devoured from the inside-out by a magic that now it could no longer be let out, had slowly turned against her, it was Aife who had sat next to my mother’s bed, holding her hand. Aife’s third eye, square in the middle of her forehead, had gazed into my mother’s disease-ridden body and had figured out what was wrong with her.
For healers, the marks the Red Priests used were even worse. The Priests burned them right on top of their third eye, basically robbing them from one of their senses completely.
Of course, Aife, even with her third eye, couldn’t fix my mother’s illness. No one could. The magic had slowly torn my mother apart, piece by piece, until all that was left was a festering husk.
I shivered, refusing to think about those days. My mother was now nothing but a skeleton withering away in a shallow grave outside of town, one of many, her soul forever departed to a world that I prayed was better than our current one.
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