by K.N. Lee
Of course I was told by so many people that this was because of lack of rest. How could I rest knowing there was pure evil headed towards Earth, and it was on my shoulders to go up against it? Regardless of all that they said, I knew that it had nothing to do with rest or lack thereof. The change I felt, it was deeper, and it was real. Sleep would not chase the demons away. They were a part of me now, and they were here to stay, I knew it. I just didn’t know what it meant for me, or the people I was meant to protect.
29
I watched as the people, my people, enjoyed themselves. Each of them was oblivious to the approaching danger. I was envious of their ignorance. I wished I could just dance and sing, and not be concerned about anything but where my next drink was coming from. That was no longer possible for me.
Two hours past and we sat in silence. I didn’t feel like talking, which thankfully wasn’t hard to achieve considering that the founder was more or less a zombie throughout the entire event. She barely spoke to me when I sat down, and seemed truly annoyed by having to be there. Once, I thought I heard her mumble something about heathens, but I really wasn’t paying much attention. Our lack of interest in the event was equaled.
The night began to weigh on me. I was tired, mind and body. Sitting in the middle of a party having music blasted at every angle of my head was not helping me relax. The celebration was still going strong and didn’t look to be ending any time soon.
“I think I’m going to call it a night,” I pushed my chair back from the table. This caused the legs to scrape the ground, and earned me a very dirty look from the founder.
“Okay, I’ll walk you home.” Lacal started to get up but I placed my arm on his shoulder stopping him. I loved his company and looked forward to it most days, but I needed space. I needed some time to myself.
“No, stay, enjoy yourself. You have been babysitting me long enough.” He didn’t argue and I was happy for that. Yet I was irritated that he didn’t contest to my calling it babysitting.
I decided to go home. The streets were clear. Everyone was in the center of town. This gave me time to absorb the scenery, something I hadn’t had much chance to do. Usually I was rushing from one location to the next trying to avoid the crowds.
It was all cobble stone streets and buildings made of bricks. Very few updates were made to the buildings close to the center of town. I imagined they looked almost exactly the same as when they were first built. The ground was covered in snow and I should have been freezing, but I barely felt a chill.
Since my Awakening, my body temperature ran about 10 degrees hotter. This of course went against common theory. Vampires were supposed to be ice boxes. The thin jacket I wore was actually beginning to cause me to sweat. I was told this effect was caused by my body reacting to the change. It would eventually wear off, and I would cool down to well below normal temperature. Yet, even after I cooled down, my skin would never feel like ice.
The house was the last on the street. Lacal’s childhood home. The lights were on inside and the door was open allowing the yellow beams of light to spill out onto the street. Something wasn’t right. Everyone was still at the celebration. I walked to the door cautiously, trying not to get my heart rate up and alert Lacal. I didn’t want him to come running if there was nothing really out of sorts.
“Lamar?” I peered around the corner of the door hoping he would shout out from the kitchen. It would be great if he were cooking, I could really use some food, and I hadn’t eaten a thing at the festival. My griping stomach would have to wait. Lamar was not home, but the house was not unoccupied.
~A~
Two girls who looked to be about 17 years old, stood in the middle of the hall. They were identical twins. To emphasize the obvious they wore matching snow suits, one pink and one purple. They had deep caramel complexions and large round hazel eyes. They were average height and very slim. The one in the pink had pig tails, and the one in purple had braids. She was curvier than her sister. Both of their hair fell past their shoulders.
“Um…hi?” I stepped across the threshold into the house and left the door open behind me. I didn’t want any obstacles if I needed to make a run for it. They gave me a bad feeling and the little voice inside me warned me to be cautious. I had learned to listen to that voice.
“Hi,” the girl in purple said. “I’m Menaria and this is my sister Nadia,” Nadia giggled and waved, Menaria rolled her eyes.
“I’m Alexa,” I said stepping forward with my hand held out to shake. Perhaps they were friends of Lacal’s coming to visit. My hand hung in front of me. Neither of them took it.
“We know who you are,” Nadia giggled. It was supposed to sound innocent, but fell horribly short. The sinister sound clashed with her wholesome look.
“Okay?” I stepped back, closer to the door. I was beginning to panic; I tried to remind myself not to. I had to remain calm.
“We have a message for you,” Nadia said with more giggling, this time accompanied by a theatrical bow.
“Get over the antics Nadia; I don’t want to be here all night,” Menaria tossed her braids over her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest.
“A message…from who?” I looked from Nadia to Menaria. She would give me the answers without the show.
“Jocelyn,” Menaria huffed.
“And who is Jocelyn?” Perhaps I should have known that name, but I didn’t.
“He didn’t tell you?” Nadia giggled again which was seriously starting to get on my nerves. She was fiddling with a folded piece of paper.
“Lacal can clarify that,” Menaria snatched the piece of paper from Nadia and handed it to me. She clearly didn’t want to be there, I wondered if she was being forced.
I unfolded and read the note.
Alexa,
Hey bitch.
I have your friend. You want her? Come get her.
-Jocelyn
P.S.
Love my new shiny red Porsche!
“What is this?” I held the paper out towards them.
“You read it, I’m sure you understood it, it’s not that difficult to decipher. Our job was to deliver the message and that’s done,” Menaria said as they pushed past me and moved for the exit. “Oh and you have three days to comply. Trust me; she isn’t the patient kind, she won’t hesitate to kill her.”
“Excuse me?” I could feel my blood begin to boil.
“Look I’m the messenger there is your message. Bye.” Menaria pushed past me, Nadia followed.
“You think you can just come in here, threaten me, and just leave?”
Nadia turned, smiled and said simply. “Yes.”
“Like hell!” The anger, the temper that I had been trying to subdue, it all boiled to the top. The world began to shake around me. The floor rocked and the two girls fought to maintain their balance. “You aren’t going anywhere!” I yelled.
Menaria moved towards me, she was quick, but I was quicker. Her body flew backwards, slammed into the door frame and knocked it off of its hinges. Nadia charged at me but I used my mind to cut off her airways. She clawed at her throat trying to remove the hand that was not there. That silly little grin was missing as her complexion changed to an odd shade of blue.
“She will die!” Menaria yelled.
Those three words were enough to break my concentration. That’s all it took, Lamar had warned me. One instance of weakness and your opponent will take you down. The room started to spin and I felt a pressure so strong on the inside of my head that I actually feared it would cause my brain to explode.
The grip I had on Nadia failed. As she got to her feet, my vision blurred and my chest tightened, refusing to let air into my lungs. I spun around trying to find my bearings. Nadia and Menaria were standing in the doorway again. Their blurry figures seemed to tower over me. I tried to remain alert but my oxygen deprived brain was fading quickly.
I could see their eyes. They were wide and glazed over, but, I could tell they were focusing on me. Whatever this p
ain was that I was feeling inside of my head was there because they put it there.
I heard Nadia's giggles ringing inside my head like bells and then I was on the floor. My body curled up and I crushed the note in a tight fist. The world slipped away and then popped back into focus with a painful sharpness. I was back in my grandmother’s empty house. The lack of her presence screamed at me. She was gone. She hated me. She was gone. My vision flooded with tears and I completely shut down.
“Alexa? Alexa, can you hear me?” I heard his frightened voice, but, I couldn’t find him. I tried to move towards his voice and let him save me from this, but I couldn’t. I was trapped.
Then I saw her face, floating above me, red hair matted with dirt. Tears streamed down her face, she was out of reach. I fought to get to her, but every step I took forward only sent her further away from me. She was scared and alone and if I didn’t do something to stop them, she would die. There was no way I could let that happen to Jazz. Not after all that she had done for me.
I pulled away from the darkness and away from my friend. I struggled against its tight grip and towed my heavy form towards Lacal’s voice. It was hard to turn away but following Jazz’s image was only sending her deeper into the darkness and taking me further away from any chance of actually saving her.
I opened my eyes to find his distraught face hovering above my own. I reached up and touched his cheek. I had to make sure he was real and wouldn’t move away like Jazz had. He smiled, relieved that I had finally responded. He kissed my forehead and pulled me into his arms. When he released me he asked if I was okay. He asked what had happened, why the house was destroyed. I did not respond. I had my own questions to ask.
My throat burned as I spoke. But I had to get the words out. I simply had to know. “Who the hell is Jocelyn?”
~The End~
About the Author
Jessica Cage is an International Award Winning, and USA Today Best-Selling Author. Born and raised in Chicago, IL, writing has always been a passion for her. She dabbles in artistic creations of all sorts but at the end of the day, it's the pen that her hand itches to hold. Jessica had never considered following her dream to be a writer because she was told far too often "There is no money in writing." So, she chose the path most often traveled. During pregnancy she asked herself an important question. How would she be able to inspire her unborn son to follow his dreams and reach for the stars, if she never had the guts to do it herself? Jessica decided to take a risk and unleash the plethora of characters and their crazy adventurous worlds that had previously existed only in her mind, into the realm of readers. She did this with hopes to inspire not only her son but herself. Inviting the world to tag along on her journey to become the writer she has always wanted to be. She hopes to continue writing and bringing her signature Caged Fantasies to readers everywhere.
To find out when more to the story will be published, follow Jessica’s Website at:
www.jessicacage.com
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Never Magic
The Lost Spellbooks Book One
Caroline A. Gill
When the world falls into war, Mathilde Strawsman must break every ancient tradition and fight for a claim to her family's magic if she has any hope of saving the last of her people and find the wonder in her own heart.
To those who fight real monsters every day,
both seen and unseen.
We are strongest together. Reach out and lift each other.
Pain is only ever overcome by love.
There is no failure if you rise tomorrow and
try again.
We rise despite our failures.
We soar because of our friends.
Prologue
Before the Fall
Crouching down just outside the open door, Mathilde could see the boys gathered around the dining room table, their eyes wide at the magic that Papa called to his open hands. While he whispered ancient words, her older brothers sat, hypnotized by the dancing lights and the stories the magic told.
In the darkened corner, Mathilde pushed her ear as close to the wall as she could, listening to the whispers of ancient vidartan priests. Every bit of the closely-guarded magic was breathtaking, even the mere glimpses she managed to catch. Hearing the stories was worth the discomfort.
She loved the way Papa’s face lit up as he talked to Ethan and Edgar about the hidden world, about the will of H--V--N, about the miracles that they would see when they, too, became priests. Mathilde felt that same eagerness. Her curiosity mixed with wonder every time she heard Papa teach.
A few times, Papa saw her shadow at the edge of the door. He knew she was listening. He never said anything about it. Every moment she could, Mattie lingered, eavesdropping at the corner of the wall.
Once, Papa even winked at her while he taught Ethan and Edgar their appointed path as priests and magicians.
“Vahagn,” he spoke to the cold wax and the thread in the middle of the candle. Nothing happened. “Lean in, boys. Concentrate. And then,” Papa closed his eyes for a moment, like he was dreaming. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the unlit thread and the hard wax. “Vahagn. That’s all I ask.”
A bit of smoke swirled off the tip. One tiny spark flickered and died.
“You get the principle. But our magic is stronger together. Ready?” Papa put his arms around the boys. All three of them focused on the cold wax of the reluctant candle.
“Vahagn!” With one voice, united, they said the word of power.
Her lips moved with theirs, but made no sound.
Mathilde could feel a strange popping sensation in the air. She couldn’t see anything from the side of the door. But there in the corner—the candle lit. A flame danced in that room, fire appeared by magic.
“There you are,” A stern hand reached down and yanked Mathilde up. “No time for daydreaming, young lady. We have work to do to get this house ready for the festival. Come along,” Mama insisted.
Mathilde followed her into the kitchen.
The counters were already covered in pastries and the layered dough that crumbled so perfectly when baked.
Mathilde’s mouth watered in anticipation.
“For a young lady of eighteen, you need to spend more time in here, learning how to keep house, how to mend torn clothes, how to take care of your family. Leave your father and brothers alone.”
Mama tsked tsked her annoyance. “It is not seemly. The neighbors will talk.”
Handing Mathilde the other end of a roll of bread, the two of them stretched the dough and folded it, creating layers, then sprinkled the surface with sugar.
Mathilde listened to her mother. But her mind was filled with faraway stories and dreams of magic. Mama worked the dough, while Mathilde did everything right, helping at each step.
Once the pastries were cut and put in the oven, Mama turned to Mathilde. She wanted to say something, Mathilde could tell. She braced herself as Mama blurted out the simple facts: “You’re never going to hold vidartan magic,” she said, the wooden spoon in her hand emphasized each word.
“You and I, we are weavers. That’s our job. We make a house a home. But the priests, they make the threads from magic.” Mama’s eyes turned sharp when Mathilde did not respond.
“Hmmpf,” Mama said, a frown marring her beautiful face, “Know your place, girl. There is enough to do ere the sun goes down. And, stop moping, for goodness’ sake, there is work right here in this kitchen!”
Mathilde cleaned and washed.
Mathilde scoured, scrubbed, and folded.
But most of all, Mathilde Shawsman dreamed.
1
A Dream of Freedom
They say I am trash.
Hollyoaken hatred tastes particularly bitter. Now, people I have known my whole life hide when I walk by. Because my family is vidaya, we must run.
We must.
I’m only a girl, the servant of my mother’s sacrifice and my father’s blood. There is no pe
ace, not as long as the Hollyoaken dogs of war seek us. There is only the wide, open ocean and a chance to live free, far from here.
Far away.
“Hold on. For now, that’s enough. Be brave,” Mama’s voice was full of fear, “Please, Enrich, my darling, don’t cough.”
Mathilde heard her mother’s urgent, whispered instructions when they parted at the cabin opening. Certainly, her sick father did as well. For most of the journey through back streets, alongside roads, and now across the rough water, Papa held Mathilde’s smaller hand.
Steady as the snowmelt. Strong as the high mountains. As dependable as the sun. My Papa.
“We will rise again,” he murmured in his sleep almost every night. Those words and the grasp of his calloused fingers—anchored her when everything familiar was lost.
It was the only comfort Mathilde had in the darkest of places.
Like a coffin, the walls closed in around her as the secret door slammed shut. Once they were at sea, it was difficult to hear anything over the lapping of the waves and the rocking of the medium-sized boat.
Bitter cold, the ocean air stank.
Confined in less space than a closet, Mathilde fought a creeping feeling of dread. It had been two hours. Five more to go… Hold on.
I can do this.
Sirens in the distance echoed across the water, getting louder. The boat slowed down. Mathilde’s heart dropped into her stomach. Still as a statue, she did not dare move, not even one inch. Here they come.