Black Market (The Wizard Hall Chronicles Book 2)

by Sheryl Steines

  His heart pounded in his ears. He could barely take in air as the smoke poured from the incinerator doors in front of him. He ignored the rancid smell and lunged across the threshold, falling to his knees. Crawling beneath the smoke, Bitherby reached the back door to the basement where the elves and trolls lived. Popping open the door, he took a tentative step down the staircase.

  The staircase consisted of two by fours supported by more two by fours and held at a precarious angle with elf magic. They swayed as Bitherby took each step. He held on to the railing as he carefully made his way to the hard stone floor of the basement.

  The stairs led into a large room with a kitchen to the left. It was nothing more than a fireplace and a large prep table. Four creatures, one troll and three elves, prepared a morning meal of gruel, which boiled in a large pot. The mostly soupy mixture popped against the thick metal of the cauldron.

  Hard biscuits baked in the fireplace were nestled in the hot coals. His mouth watered thinking of the bread, of the warm broth. But what waited for him back at the prison was why he had come back here. Rather than making contact with his brethren in the kitchen, Bitherby slunk to the other side of the basement where bunk beds lay end to end.

  Hundreds of beds filled the room. Some were metal, others were shaped from wood planks. They created zig-zagging aisles, making travel through the basement challenging at best.

  The elves and trolls not working in the market slept. They lay nestled on piles of dirty clothing, rumpled sheets, and worn blankets. Little bodies in deep sleep rose and fell with each breath. Rumbling snores rattled from tiny mouths.

  Single light bulbs hung from thin cords every ten feet, providing Bitherby with just enough light to see inches in front of his face. Knowing the room as well as he did, he sidestepped a large hole at the head of the aisle and headed deep in the bowels of the room.

  The room croaked and groaned, and snores and squeaks wafted to Bitherby. He shuddered as he walked through the space, which was so well-hidden underground that even the Wizard Guard knew nothing about it. He missed the warmth of the barn he blew apart. Even the prison felt safer, warmer, sweeter than this.

  He continued to Huxley’s bed, kicking a pile of clothing as he felt the edge of each bed, his fingertips grazing rough, dirty fabric. The two elves had grown up together and found themselves in the precarious circumstances of living and working for the black market. It didn’t pay well and offered no opportunities; they lived nearly as slaves. But Huxley and Bitherby worked because that’s what they did, and there was little opportunity for them.

  He jumped Miss Annie’s teleport without much thought after Huxley told him what the wizard guard wanted. He’d been worried sick about his friend ever since and hoped to find him safe. And as he thought of that, he wished to be back at the prison even with the humans there. But first he needed Huxley. Bitherby promised himself to bring Huxley with him when he returned to the prison.

  Bitherby’s fingers grazed the beds as he passed. He sniffed and recognized the scent that Huxley carried. The elf held his hand over his friend’s mouth, startling the sleeping creature. Unable to scream, he bolted upright and heard a soothing “Ssshh,” beside him. “Huxley, it’s me.”

  Huxley removed Bitherby’s hand. “What are you doing here? They see ya and you’re dead.” Huxley’s eyes darted around the room as if the humans lurked in the shadows.

  “I need your help,” Bitherby ordered. Huxley’s bruised eyes grew wide with fear, his swollen lip trembled, and his green skin turned ashen white and glowed in the darkness.

  “You can’t be here. They find you and kill you.” He quivered in his bed, which vibrated against the stone floor. Bitherby placed a hand on his friend to calm the nervous elf.

  “Shhh. You wake everyone. I need help. The wizard guard protects me; she’ll protect you too.”

  “Why you come back?” Huxley asked.

  “Her Aloja fairy is in the dungeon,” Bitherby whispered angrily.

  “You risk your life for her fairy?” Huxley spat.

  “Hafta. I need your help. Wizard Guard don’t know the market. Will never find her.” Bitherby wrung his hands and glanced around at his former mates, expecting them to wake and turn him in. They were all still asleep.

  Huxley climbed off the bed so he was eye level with his friend. “You stupid elf.”

  Bitherby let out the stale air from his lungs. “They still looking for the girl. And you,” Huxley protested.

  “I gotta,” Bitherby said.

  “You gotta. You gotta be stupid,” Huxley said and led his friend from the basement.

  *

  “Cham. You need to come home,” Dave Smith commanded. As the roommate of a wizard guard, he was familiar with the crazy schedules and hours. But as he stood in his pajamas at five thirty in the morning, the wizard zoologist wasn’t familiar with this particular scenario. He anxiously stared at the woman standing in the hallway outside his shared apartment with his best friend. She was pointing a gun at his chest.

  “Wha… the ma… er?” Cham’s voice broke up over the phone line. Reception on the island was weak at best. In the early morning, between the thick fog and the overabundance of magic surrounding the prison and the island, most cell signals were blocked or splotchy at best.

  “I can’t hear you!” Dave yelled into the phone. Panic rose, and bile sat at the base of his throat as he stared down the end of the gun barrel. He could barely tell Cham what was happening.

  “Goin’… side?” Cham’s voice cracked as he exited the prison.

  Dave fiddled with his phone while Arden stared at him through glazed eyes, watery from the biting wind. She patted down her windblown hair. The messenger bag draped across her shoulder slipped and opened, revealing several folders and thick stacks of paper. Again, she waved the gun in the air.

  “Okay. Sorry. What’s up?” Cham asked.

  “Arden Blakely is here to see you,” Dave responded. His arm hung down along his side, his palm open and facing the woman.

  Arden pointed to the gun and placed an index finger to her lips reminding Dave to not say a word.

  “Arden Blakely? What the hell is she doing there?”

  “She’s very insistent and wants to talk to you.” Dave’s eyes darted around the room as he planned his escape. Maybe he could teleport out the window—if he could reach it before a bullet pierced his body.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m staring at a very cold metal object. Just get home.”

  Arden’s hand shook as she waved the gun, motioning for Dave to enter his house. He backed into the living space, stumbled against an ottoman, and sat.

  “Get out if you can. I’m on my way,” Cham ordered.

  Arden glanced around the room, from the sofas to the windows to the television and down the hallway, assessing the space. Her eyes stopped on Dave, and her frown grew deeper. She sighed, grabbed her bag, and held it tightly against her chest as she sat across from him. He watched the gun, which was still pointed at his chest.

  “Can… can I offer you something?” Dave asked, trying to keep her calm.

  “No, dear. I’ll just wait here for Mr. Chamsky.”

  “He’s on his way,” Dave assured her.

  “I’m sure. I heard you talk to him. I’m not stupid, you know.” Arden aimed the gun at his head.

  “You are a doctor of archaeology. I would never think you were stupid. I do think the gun is unnecessary. I called Cham. He’s on his way,” Dave reiterated and ran his hand through his hair, his palm facing her.

  After Dave’s reassuring words, she appeared to relax. She shifted in the seat, lowered the gun, and loosened her grip. He had never summoned a gun—he’d always worried it would backfire if he did—but if he didn’t try…

  What the hell.

  With a simple summoning spell, he called for the weapon. It easily slipped from her grasp and landed in the palm of his hand.

  She neither looked upset nor surprised, even
with the gun now pointed at her.

  *

  Cham still hadn’t caught his breath. Worried for Dave, he ran to the conference room where Annie lay sleeping, and he slipped on his shoes.

  “Where are you going?” Annie murmured

  “Arden Blakely has more information for me. I’ll go get it and come back. Go back to sleep.”

  “Okay,” Annie said and rolled over.

  Cham arrived home less than ten minutes after his phone call and took the stairs two at a time to his third-story apartment. Not wanting to frighten or upset Arden Blakely, he cautiously opened the door and poked his head around the edge. Dave sat across from Arden, holding the gun and pointing it at her, though his grip was halfhearted.

  That’s a relief.

  Arden was nonreactive, off in her own world, sitting with the messenger bag in her lap and her hands wrapped around the straps so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  “Arden, what the hell are you doing here?” Cham asked through shortened breaths. He had done little to ready for the trip back home except throw on his shoes. The laces dragged and flopped against each other.

  I’ll worry about how she found me later.

  Dave handed him the gun and sat back down. Crossing his legs and resting against the back of the chair, he shrugged when Cham looked at him.

  “I found the translation. I had it all along.” Arden laughed nervously. Her small voice was wracked with pain, confusion.

  She seemed childlike in many ways, possibly from PTSD, Cham guessed. Her anxious hands played with the strap on her canvas bag, rattling the lock in a rhythmic pattern. Cham clenched his fists and took a deep breath, observing her carefully.

  Arden looked through him, toward the blank back wall.

  What is her true motive?

  “Why did you really come?” Cham asked.

  Arden slowly turned her head, her smile wide and somewhat creepy. Cham shuddered when she said, “You have my ring and I want it back. It’s my job to protect the ring.”

  The Fraternitatem!

  Staring at her sixty-year-old face, Cham could see the years of wear and pain. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, hazy as if she wasn’t mentally present and only barely physically here. The woman quivered against the leather sofa.

  “Are you a member of the Fraternitatem?” The archaeologist didn’t answer. The question seemed to upset her; she took to rocking in her seat.

  “It was my job to keep the ring safe.” She rocked harder, and the leather squeaked under her weight.

  What did they do to her when she was kidnapped?

  “I want to go with you to the market. Make sure the spell is used correctly.” Her voice wasn’t authoritative. It was robotic, as if she were brainwashed and merely relaying a message.

  Is she part of some plan?

  “Nonmagicals are forbidden in the market. You should know that from your research,” Cham advised.

  A smile broke across her lips and grew wider, fanatical. Arden held open her bag, showing him all of the contents. “But Robert, I can help. See.”

  We have the untranslated spell. That can’t be the translation. It’s too much. Besides the ring, what the hell does she want?

  “Listen, Dr. Blakely. I can’t just take you to the market. Let me call and ask permission. Give me a sec and I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh. All right, Mr. Chamsky. Go make your call.” Arden sighed and closed her bag holding it stiffly on her lap.

  “Not until you tell me why you want the ring so badly.”

  Deep lines grew deeper around her mouth and her eyes, her skin much like leather. She lived much life under the sun.

  “I found the ring in 1970. It’s mine. I want it back. I’ve been tracking it since I lost it. You will take me to it.”

  “Are you a member of the Fraternitatem of Solomon?” Cham asked her again. She smiled and raised her brows while stroking the strap of her bag.

  A buzz came from Cham’s back pocket. Not taking his eyes from Arden he answered Annie’s call.

  “Not a good time, Annie.”

  “I went back through her diary. Arden’s a trained assassin.”

  Chapter 25

  Annie had awoken at five thirty in the morning, when Cham left for an unexpected call about Arden Blakely.

  Odd.

  Awake and shivering, she climbed out of bed, wrapped herself in additional blankets, and sat at the table in the room while the elf taking care of her needs tended to the heater under the window. Annie offered a wane smile to the poor elf, who had been woken too early. Then she picked up her notes from Arden Blakely’s diary. There had to be something in there that explained who the archeologist really was.

  December 1970

  I’ve been here so long I don’t remember what the sun looks like. Nicky stopped looking at me as his boss so long ago. He orders me to work for him. He threatens me with violence. I only needed him to hit me once to realize how mean he really is and to know my safety was only threatened if I don’t do what he and the rest of them ask. If I want to get out of here, I will do what they say. It will hurt otherwise, if I don’t. I wish I knew where Nicky’s hate came from. I really do.

  January 1971

  The work is long and tiring. This ring, the Ring of Solomon that I found at the dig site, it’s magical. If I had only read this, I wouldn’t have believed it. But I saw it. Saw it with the spell. It worked. I finally translated the ancient language and they—the Fraternitatem of Solomon, magical beings with the power to move objects or cast spells—they made the ring work. It was horrible. They turned a poor man into a shapeshifter. I watched his nose grow out and hair cover his entire body until he no longer resembled a human. I saw the man become a dog, right before my eyes.

  March 1971

  They promised they’d let me go. I’ve heard it so many times before, I no longer believe it. And yet I still have hope.

  They offered me freedom, but it will come at a price. I must work for them. The Fraternitatem of Solomon. It’s a funny group, charged with finding and protecting the ring.

  April 1971

  I’m near black belt level of karate. And now they’ve given me a gun, an added weapon with which to do my job. There’s power in the steel. In the smooth steel inside my palm. I practice every day. I can hit the target in the middle of the forehead. I can hit the target in the chest.

  They’ve exposed me to so much, to the magic and the potions. Magic is exhilarating, even for an onlooker who lacks the power. Simply knowing that it exists gives me a rush.

  I started small and killed a goat. It was easy with the gun.

  With weeks of practice, I’ve become a good shot.

  Because I lack magic, they’ve taught me potions—herbs and minerals and other ingredients and their chemical reactions. It’s much like cooking, I’ve noticed.

  May 1971

  They’ve sped up the training. I’ve shadowed Benaiah on several occasions. He’s stealthy and quiet. As we came upon the man, the one with the sword belonging to the king, I saw how easy it was to take his life. The potion I created, the death potion, worked better than I could have imagined. And as all the ingredients are natural, though magical, the police will never know what happened.

  I shadowed Benaiah again tonight, and this time, it led to a hand-to-hand fight. The punches flew, and since I am so close to a black belt in karate, I was able to take the man down fairly easily. Adrenaline flowed. I felt strong, until Benaiah handed me the gun and I had to make the choice to shoot. With a shaky hand and a desire to go home, I pulled the trigger. It didn’t feel as badly as I thought. And with the man dead, we took the magical talisman that had once belonged to the king.

  June 1971

  To prove myself, I went on a solo mission. It would be easy, they told me. Ask the man for information. Take care of him when he did or when he didn’t. I would have to choose. In Tibet, I heard my ring was here. But it wasn’t; it had already been sold. And the man, a man who’s name I
forgot, he begged for his life. But he had promised me the ring would be mine. He lied. And now he’s dead.

  I was welcomed into the Fraternitatem of Solomon for my loyalty to my kidnappers, for finding and giving them my ring. I took the oath as a newly minted member, and in return I will be sent home with the knowledge that should they need me I will appear, regardless of the case or what needed to be done.

  Home…

  “Crap!” Annie shouted loud enough for Gibbs to fly into her room. She was so shocked by his appearance, by his rather urbane long-sleeved pajama dress, that she nearly forgot what she had read.

  Her stare confused him; he blushed. “Annie?”

  “Sorry. Sorry. She’s an assassin. Arden Blakely was gone for a year, forced to investigate the ring and then…” She showed Gibbs the book.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Crap! Cham! She’s at his house. He just left.”

  Her fingers fumbled over the buttons as she dialed him.

  “Not a good time, Annie,” he answered.

  “I went back through her diary. Arden’s a trained assassin.”

  He was silent on the other end, and she feared she had found this too late—maybe Dave was dead or injured.

  “Makes sense. When Dave called, she had a gun on him, though given her condition he easily summoned it from her.”

  “Good. I was so worried. Did she tell you why she came?” Annie asked.

  “Translation spell. Though there’s something more here. I found a strange potion in her bag when I looked at the spell. I’m going to bring her in. It’s getting weirder,” Cham said.

  Annie’s heart pounded wildly, but she was relieved he and Dave were fine. “Did you ask her about the Fraternitatem of Solomon?”

  “I tried. Her smile just gets creepier.”

  “She’s definitely a member, according to her diary,” Annie explained. Her hand shook and rattled the papers.