by Frank Hurt
“A puppet,” Alarik repeated. “That’s a creepy way of saying it.”
The rest of the steel sculptures along the Enchanted Highway were impressive, but Alarik didn’t stop at any of them. They had a long drive ahead, and both driver and passenger were exhausted. Ember offered to drive a leg of the journey, and to her surprise, Alarik agreed. It spoke to how tired he was, that he would let someone else drive his pickup, especially in her own injured state.
“We’ll take a different route back then,” Alarik said as he took the ramp eastward rather than west on I-94. “It’s not much longer, but way safer than making you drive through bumper-to-bumper oil patch traffic in the middle of a weekday. I’ll hand the wheel over to you when we get to Mandan. That’ll be about the halfway point.”
“That’s appreciated. I might accidentally take the left lane and kill us both. I can blame it on my Britishness, driving on the wrong side of the road, yeah?”
“Not. Funny.” Alarik pronounced each word with emphasis, though his lips quirked a smile.
“I’m going to call Wallace while you drive if you don’t mind. I need to update him. A lot has happened in the past 24 hours.”
“You ain’t lyin’, sistah.”
“Alright, I know you must be tired when you start sounding less like a farm boy and more like a daytime talk show guest.”
“Word, yo.”
She smirked and shook her head as she flipped open the burner phone. It was good to hear the mirth return between them after what they had just been through. “Brilliant. Right, I’m dialing the mobile now, so silence in the carny tent, please.”
He pinched the air right before his mouth and drew a horizontal line along his lips, mimicking a zipper.
Ember muttered and looked away, trying not to encourage him. Wallace answered on the third ring.
“Wallace, it’s Ember. I’m with Rik. We’re driving.”
“Is everything fine? What’s wrong with your voice? Are you in trouble?”
“I just have a sore throat. Everything is brilliant, Wallace. So much has happened, and I need to catch you up. I think you’ll adore this status update.”
Though it had only been 36 hours since they last spoke, she did have so much to tell Wallace: the fatal encounter with the changeling spies, what they said before they died, and the findings from Nick and Katrina. Above all, the fact that she had lifted three Deference Spells, including that of his friend’s. She diplomatically elected to leave out the part where his friend nearly throttled her to death.
Her mentor was not impressed with how close she came to kidnapping and worse. But even hard-boiled Wallace Livingston, The Legend, got excited when Ember told him about lifting the Deference Spells.
“You’re right to give him some space, I think.” Wallace practically stumbled over his words, so uplifted he was with this news. “I’ll give him a call next. He needs to understand how important it is that he maintains the perception of being under the spell.”
“I think he understands, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it from an old friend.” Ember closed her eyes and swallowed, suppressing the nagging tickle in her throat. “I could see that he wanted to help. He’ll be an important ally in the effort to root out the corruption in the Magic City colony.”
“I concur. Duncan has his oddities, but he’s a reliable Investigator. I’m in your debt for rescuing him from this terrible fate.” Wallace sounded emotional, but he recovered his tone, even if it was tinted with excited energy. “You’re sure the spies didn’t report your blown cover to their handler, this Mister B?”
“Affirmative. Had they gotten away, that would be another matter. The Schmitts saw to it that they wouldn’t get a chance to muck things up for me. For all of us.”
“That family is proving to be an asset, Ember. You were right to trust your instinct. I was in error to call that into doubt.”
Ember felt a lump growing in her throat, independent from the injury. Wallace didn’t often hand out compliments, and he apologized with even less frequency. Granted, he didn’t usually have much reason to apologize. Sleep fatigue threatened to make her emotions bubble to the surface, so she changed the topic. “The disabled changelings, the scouts from the Mandaree Incident. What can we do to help them?”
“This artifact from Aedynar sounds intriguing. I’ll see about finding higher-level Healers we can trust, who might be able to figure out how best to utilize that Ley Line magnet. Your mother is a Fifth Level Healer, is she not?”
“She is, but…I’d really rather not get her involved if we can help it.” Ember flicked her tongue against her swollen lip. “If I could keep Mum out of this mess, that would be for the best.”
“Understood. I’ll see who else I can find. We also need to get you better prepared.”
“How so?”
“All that time you apprenticed with me, I didn’t teach you how to defend yourself. I coddled you. This negligence almost cost you your life with those spies.”
“I was just drained of my mana, Wallace. Had I a full reserve I would’ve—”
“You would’ve still walked into their ambush, that’s what you would have done.” His reproach was sharp. “You were caught unaware, and no amount of spellcasting would have changed that. You need to work on your situational awareness.”
He wasn’t wrong, and she knew it. Ember had been caught by surprise multiple times in the past month, in part due to her single-mindedness and ignorance of her surroundings. A cough forced its way out, punctuating the thought. She touched her incisors to the wounded bottom lip and winced at the sharp pain. A bloody good reminder.
“Yes, Wallace. Maybe Duncan can help guide me in that respect.”
“If he cannot, we’ll find someone who can,” Wallace breathed into the phone. “This is just the beginning, and when Elton Higginbotham and his cohorts realize we’re closing in on them, they won’t fade gently into the night. These are dangerous people with the means to strike hard when threatened.”
“That would be my assessment, too. Keeping low and moving cautiously will be the modus operandi.” Ember absently touched her coyote-face pendant.
“Doubtless. One last thing, Ember.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve done superlative work. Not half bad for a mere month in the field solo. Now, get some rest so you can get over that sore throat.”
“Thank you, sir. But I’m not entirely solo.” Ember looked purposefully at her driver as she ended the call.
She was tired but feeling optimistic. There would be challenges ahead—probably greater challenges than she could even fathom—but Ember wasn’t facing them alone. She had friends, and she knew they would pick her up if she stumbled.
“You didn’t tell Wallace about Duncan choking you,” Alarik said.
“I know.” She drew another swallow of cool water. “I didn’t want him getting overly concerned. He might’ve been tempted to distrust Duncan.”
“I don’t see a problem with that. Wouldn’t he be right to be wary?”
“We’re surrounded by who-knows-how-many bad guys. We need to have allies when things start unraveling.” She thought about the way she countered the Deference Spells by supernaturally unweaving them and couldn’t help but smile at her unintended pun.
“If you say so. We need to gas up,” Alarik said as he steered his Super Duty toward the off-ramp of Exit 147. “I could use a bite, too.”
“You’re hungry again, coyote? Didn’t we just have breakfast?”
The look he flashed her, Ember swore he was on the verge of whimpering. “That was two whole hours ago! I’m a growing boy.” He patted his stomach.
She laughed. “We can’t have you starving in that case.”
“Right on. So, this truck stop has a great little café. It’s the Rolling Hills Restaurant, and they serve the best knoephla.”
She scrunched her nose. “Knoephla? I’ve never heard of it. Can’t I just have a burger and chips?”
“You gotta t
ry the knoephla. I’m tellin’ ya, you’re gonna love it. It’s infinitely better than Marmite. Trust me.” He chose a parking space and shifted out of gear. Alarik turned to his passenger, extended a fist over the console, and said, “do you trust me?”
Ember tilted her head, offered a smile, and touched her fist to his. “More every day, my friend.”
Bonus #1 - Free Prequel Novel!
Keep reading for a bonus preview of Ascending Mage 2: Changeling Hunter.
But first, would you like to know more about Nick and Katrina's role in the Mandaree Incident?
Read the prequel novel Fog Over Mandaree for free, exclusively at go.frhurt.com/fom
Bonus #2 - Preview of Ascending Mage 2: Changeling Hunter
It had been such a perfect summer day, right up until someone shot him.
A brisk breeze was coming from the northwest, making the expressionless faces in the nearby sunflower field restless. Thin cirrus clouds raced as streaks high in the periwinkle sky above the Missouri Coteau.
It was Saturday morning and Evan and Brandon were tending their salsa garden, each on his hands and knees as they worked to finish the chore of pulling weeds while the day was still reasonably cool. Water seeped from black, rubber soaker hoses laid out in snake-like spirals around the plants in the garden, bubbling and hissing fine droplets of cold drink to turn the rich soil dark.
By afternoon, the temperature would be sweltering, but they would be on their way to the lake by then. The housemates had banked up, and were cashing in, two weeks’ vacation from the lignite mine where they worked. They would be spending that hard-earned downtime camping and fishing at Lake Sakakawea.
Evan had worried their flourishing garden would suffer in the unforgiving July sun while they were gone, but Brandon insisted that the plants would survive. They compromised by pledging to drive home every few days to turn on the hydrant and check their mail. It was only an hour’s drive from their rural property outside of Underwood, North Dakota to the cabin they rented near the south shore at the park district.
Evan’s iPhone rested at an angle atop a nearby fence post, the better to catch the weak Wi-Fi signal from the house. Pop music streamed from the tethered Bluetooth speaker, filling the air with last year’s big hit from The Black Eyed Peas. Honey bees hovered among the tomato blossoms, undeterred by the “boom-boom-boom” lyrics of the catchy song.
“Another one of the Sun Golds is ripe! Want this one?” Brandon was holding a deep orange cherry tomato between his thumb and forefinger, a bright grin reaching his eyes.
Evan looked up from the habanero plant he was kneeling by. “Did you get one yet?”
“Not today,” Brandon admitted. “But there’ll be more when we get back from Beulah Bay next week. You can have this one if you want it.” The willowy man stood up and stepped between the galvanized wire cages. When the chorus came on, he swiveled his narrow hips and snapped the fingers on his free hand to the beat.
Evan shook his head and admired the show. “You’re going to get stung by one of those bees if you keep that up.”
“No way! Them chickens won’t copy my swagger.” Brandon dropped the tiny fruit into Evan’s outstretched hand, then danced back to the tomato plants to resume weeding. “I’m so three-thousand-and-eight.”
“What does that even mean?”
The cherry tomato was not quite crimson, but this variety would never get fully red. Evan studied it only a moment before he popped the orb into his mouth. An explosion of sweet flavor burst across his taste buds when his teeth crushed into the juicy flesh. “Oh my god, that really is great, isn’t it? You really can’t buy tomatoes this sweet.”
The other man grinned at Evan and nodded, though he was too focused on lip-syncing to the song to voice an opinion.
Fergie had just started belting out her portion of the lyrics when the phone exploded. Tiny pieces of metal and plastic shrapnel scattered across the garden.
“What the fuck!” Evan spun around to see the top of the post splintered where the phone used to be. “I think my iPhone just overheated!”
“Woah. Do you think we left it out in the sun too long?” Brandon picked up a shattered remnant of the smartphone’s innards. He stood up and pulled out his own phone from the back pocket of his jeans—the phone was a twin to his friend’s—and held the two side by side. “Look how deformed it is!”
Without the music to mask its report, the second gunshot was unmistakable.
Brandon’s phone flew apart from his hand and shattered before it hit the ground. Blood sprayed at once from a wound that went clear through his palm, exposing splintered bones. He stared at his mauled hand, mouth agape as his mind struggled to compute what his stunned nerves prevented him from feeling.
Then he screamed.
Evan didn’t have time to think, only to react. He pulled his t-shirt off and wrapped it around his friend’s hand. Blood already began to soak through before he had a knot tied around Brandon’s wet, slippery wrist. “Keep pressure on it! I’ll get the car!” He started to run toward the house but stopped mid-stride.
A figure was approaching casually toward the garden, dressed from head to toe in hunting camouflage. A black AR-15 rifle was in the hunter’s hands, its muzzle pointed at them.
Confusion threatened to paralyze Evan as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The stranger’s face was veiled in a pattern matching the rest of his full-body camo. A strip of burlap was woven around the firearm, breaking up its unmistakable shape. Evan turned back to Brandon, who was clutching the cotton mitten around his right hand.
“Run!” Evan had to shout it three times, and even then, his friend stood like a beanpole until Evan grabbed the man’s forearm and pulled him away. They ducked behind the wooden fence at the edge of their property and ran into the neighbor’s sunflower field.
The sunflowers weren’t tall enough this early in the season to hide them, but there wasn’t any time to think of a plan, just to react. Someone was trying to kill them. Why anyone would want to murder them was beyond Evan’s comprehension.
“Why?” Brandon breathed the same thought aloud as they ran. “Why did someone shoot me?”
“Probably some junkies,” Evan guessed. “Some meth-heads trying to rob us. They probably didn’t think anybody was home.”
The breeze was stiff on their faces as they ran, hunched low. The main road was up ahead a quarter mile, and they would follow it until they got to the Gappert’s place. Richard and Darlene Gappert were their nearest neighbors, about three-quarters of a mile down the road.
The collective daisy-like faces of the plants shunned the intruders. The sunflowers were only interested in following their illuminating god as it chased across the southern sky. Despite their apathy, one of the plants managed to trip Evan as he ran bare-chested through the bristly leaves.
A bee stung his exposed shoulder and some part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Only minutes ago, he had been chiding his best friend about upsetting the bees, and now he was the one who attracted the stinger. After they got to the Gappert’s and called the McLean County Sheriff, he knew Brandon would get a laugh out of that little irony.
When they got to the ditch along the road, they were both sucking air. The makeshift bandage around Brandon’s hand was seeping with a steady flow of blood. His own shirt and jeans were splattered with dark streaks. He had been exerting himself, increasing the blood flow when he should have been trying to keep his heart rate in check.
Evan thought back to the safety training they received at the Falkirk Mine. “We need to keep your hand elevated. Keep applying pressure. And we have to slow down your heart rate.”
“Kinda hard,” Brandon wheezed, “when we’re running.”
“Okay, then sit here in the ditch. I’ll run over to Dick and Darlene’s and come back for you.”
A rusting, corrugated culvert jutted from an approach between the road and the section line trail that bordered the sunflower field. Brandon
parked himself on a patch of curlycup gumweed, using the steel cylinder as a backrest. He laid his arm on the culvert and placed his uninjured hand over the blood-soaked knot of cotton. His face was pale and sweaty, and he was breathing hard.
Evan glanced back across the sunflower field to their house in the distance. Not more than a couple hundred yards away, a camouflaged figure stalked the trail they had cut through the flat field.
He dropped down and began to crawl over to Brandon. Evan felt sweat drip down his arm and when he placed weight on his right hand, a wave of pain burned from his shoulder. Only then, did he realize that it was blood and not sweat that trickled from a wound in his shoulder. Some part of his mind remembered stumbling minutes ago and feeling a bee sting.
“You’ve been shot too!” Brandon groaned.
Among the flat prairie fields, there weren’t many options for concealment, and they would never outrun the shooter.
“He’s following us,” Evan hissed. “We need to hide! Can you shift?”
“It’s been a while,” Brandon admitted. “But I think so. Think we can both fit in the culvert?”
“You will for sure. Do it.”
Evan watched as his friend grimaced. After a moment of concentration, his lean body began to shrink, and his face became narrow and flared. Brandon’s ears migrated to the top of his head as they became triangular. Hair and skin and clothes were replaced with short, ruddy fur across his backside, white fur along his front. The stylish skinny-jeans that minutes ago had been shaking to hip-hop were now a bushy tail. The blood-soaked bandage melted away, and his damaged hand was replaced with a paw to match the other three, though this one was bleeding.
They hadn’t considered the injury, and Evan had already donated his shirt to form the bandage. He would need to kick off his shoes and use a sock to aide his friend. He picked up the fox to help him into the culvert where he would be safe. In his fox form, his friend weighed maybe 25 pounds and was easy to slide backward into the rusty cylinder.