Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  “Search,” Dara said, “three-five-eight Wending Place, Chalker, Lekly.”

  “He lives in our old stomping grounds, Dee. We’ll need transport,” said Crissa.

  The map zoomed on Lekly Island, and a bubble sprouted from the address.

  “He’s a few miles from the coastline,” said Dara. “Mind spotting the ride?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re low on funds.”

  “Of course not. But it’ll take longer if I’m not using my wand.”

  Crissa scoffed. She snapped her stick into alignment then said, “Port.” Its end went red and pulsated with a slow, hypnotizing rhythm. The crew huddled around the enticing glow that camouflage in the receding sunlight.

  “You’ve reached the Grove at the Linking Port. How can I help you?” uttered a voice from the wand’s newly green tip.

  “Hello,” said Crissa, in manufactured glee, “I’d like to order transport—”

  “Hi, this is Anne from the Grove at the Linking Port. How can I help?” said the operator.

  “Yes, hello? I’d like to order—”

  “Oops, I had the mirror faced the other way,” said the woman; her faded projection warped into view. “Hello! Now I can see you. Apologies, it’s my first day. I’m Anne, how can I help?”

  “Does everyone on Trida start their new job on the same week? That’s some sadistic shit,” whispered Sam.

  Crissa’s tone showed her impatience. “Anne, we’d like transportation, please.”

  “Sure, one second,” said Anne. “Are you having issues with your wand?”

  “No, just prefer to order transport this way.”

  “Ah, okay, one second. How many travelers?”

  “Three and an infant.”

  “Hey!” roared Rowen.

  “Okay, perfect, Ms. Avabelle. The closest wagon is two minutes away, and your chauffeur’s name is Morrison.” The image of a chisel-jawed man appeared beside Anne. “Can I help you with anything el—”

  “Nothing more, thanks.”

  Sam bounced beside Crissa and yelled, “You’re a rockstar, Anne! Keep at it and don’t let any callers get to you!”

  “Thank you! Have a great da—” Crissa folded her wand, and a purple smoke lingered with the scent of burning herbs.

  “That’s cool!” Sam tried to reopen the stick. “Can you make personal calls from that thing?”

  The siblings broke into laughter. “We’ve had linked communication for more than a century, and mirrored holograms about the same time. Why do you think they started the pact program? Whatever advancements you’ve got, you can be certain we’ve got a variation. Besides, calling the Grove isn’t the fastest way to get things done.”

  “Request,” Dara said. The end of the tool bubbled into a microphone head. “Mail delivery.”

  “Verify,” uttered a monotone voice from the quasi-microphone.

  “Dara Avabelle . . . number—” she whispered beneath her shielded hand. A bundle of pamphlets ejected from the wand and landed in Dara’s palm. “There are faster ways for everything, but we prefer to speak with a person on the other end. Most conversations are interesting if you have the patience,” she said, nudging Crissa.

  “That’s crazy. Order us a pizza or burgers—scratch that—get nachos. Bar food would hit the spot right about now,” said Sam, salivating.

  “I like the enthusiasm, but that’s a different service and tool altogether. A pizza isn’t coming through my wand unless you want a twisted ball of chum—don’t ask me how I know that.”

  “What’s the special words for food deliveries? Delivious mi foodous?” Sam said.

  Rowen buried his face in his hands.

  “Our father told us of a spell five words long. I don’t remember what it’s for, but most newer spells have simplified names. ‘Request’ is a more recent one, and you’d use ‘menu’ for food, depending on the vendor.”

  “No need to lecture the fleshing, he’ll be gone in no time,” said Crissa, grabbing her sister’s mail. “Why is Enchantments Now writing to you? Please don’t tell me you’re pitching to them?”

  “What I do in my personal time is none of your business—but what’s it say?”

  “Our ride’s here,” Rowen said.

  Dara slipped the letters into her jacket. “Anyone want popcorn for the road?”

  “No,” grunted the group in unison.

  A bicycle hauling a small camper on its rear pulled beside the group. “Crissa Avabelle?” The bronze man asked. With a sudden stop, he whiplashed forward, and his tattoos did the same. The chauffeur, Morrison, wore a hat with a bill that stretched far enough to shade his neck. “Hop in.”

  A map floated above Morrison’s handlebars, and an orange spike pointed at their destination. He crossed his toned arms and rested on the bike’s side.

  The cold air smacked Sam as he climbed into the camper behind Dara. “Holy shit,” he said, catching a glimpse of its interior. An instant warmth filled Sam’s chest. He had a flashback of his first studio apartment, which separated his bed and kitchen by inches. Although, the inside of the camper was larger and much cleaner.

  Rowen shut the door with the help of Morrison and sprinted to a screen mounted on the wall.

  “What show is on?” said Crissa, washing her hands in the limited kitchen.

  “Dunno, it’s not turned on,” said Rowen. The camper bounced like it hit a snag in the road, and an image appeared on the screen.

  “It’s nearing the news hour. Change the channel when it’s time,” said Crissa, rummaging through the cabinets.

  Sam inspected the brown leather sofa perched against the rear wall. He pushed a silver nob that hung above the head rest. The couch legs stretched flat, and its cushion repositioned as a thin mattress. “Alright, you guys have cool things on Lekly, but this is the cherry on top.” Sam face-planted into the bed. “Ugh. Midday naps make everything better. Wake me when we get there.”

  The tension released from his legs. He wasn’t used to the amount of walking he’d endured that day, even for city dweller’s standards.

  The images on the screen went hazy, but the commentary lingered: “Now that our base is done, uncover your arachnid. As you can see, I’m using a standard forest spider.” The bumps in the road brought Sam into a relaxed state. “Our colleagues at Ocean Potions use anemone tarantulas, but the choice is yours.” The voice drifted into a quiet hum. “Scalprus. See how our ingredients bind together with the blood?”

  Silence.

  EIGHT

  The Hunter

  Rowen rattled at Sam’s knee, plucking him from his dream. Sam competed against the weight of his eyelids. He’d often take a grumpy disposition after naps; however, the heat had mellowed, welcoming him into a peaceful ambiance. The shifting gravel beneath his feet continued toward a one-story home lost in a batch of trees.

  “How’d I get here?” said Sam, fighting off a yawn.

  “Morrison carried you out,” uttered Dara.

  Sam hustled onto the frail steps that led to the front door. The sky had dimmed during the journey, appearing now as a gradient of purple to orange, and wind triumphed over the humidity.

  Mack’s neighbors in Wending Place were few and far between. Aside from the rainbow fireflies whizzing by, Sam found the street painfully ordinary. But then came a clattering noise behind overgrown weeds in the distance.

  “Faster!” screamed a kid leading a mixed batch of friends. The children trailing behind mashed against one another. “Gotta get home before the last light!”

  As they passed each streetlamp, the bulb fizzed out, leading to more panicked screams.

  “We’re not gonna make it!” said a hudger child, tumbling in a cart hauled by a sheep-like creature. When they reached the lamp by Mack’s home, Sam saw that the galloping steps were not from a sheep, pony, or deer, but a boy that had four legs covered with long white hair.

  “Move your asses!” shouted a kid at the back. The children didn’t pay Rowen and the sisters an
y mind, and vice versa. Sam, however, froze in place. He wanted to cheer for the wild bunch who were beating the streetlamps by mere seconds.

  Dara knocked on Mack’s door, over and over. The sisters descended the porch, leaving Sam and Rowen at its doorstep. Mack’s door looked weak enough to kick-in, and you could look inside if you had the courage to shift its splintery wood. Rowen hopped beneath the low-hanging window, desperate to find a way inside. Likeminded, Sam listened for any movement and went for the doorknob.

  “Why? Why do I do this? In my experience, unlocked doors are not a good sign.”

  Crissa sprang for the stairs and scolded Sam. “That’s breaking and entering. It’s like you’re begging me to bring you to Grand Station.”

  “Technically, we haven’t entered,” Dara said.

  “What? We’re not going inside. Mack’s not home,” said her sister.

  “Can’t you enter? It’s your case,” said Sam.

  “I never said that. I said it’s my job to ask questions and find out what’s going on.”

  “You’re not working the case? What does that mean?” said Dara.

  “It means I’m here on my time to find out who hurt you and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Ms. Ward pulled me off the investigation. Apparently, it’s too personal to be involved.”

  “So you’re not supposed to be here. I think you should go back.”

  “I’m looking out for you, Dara.”

  “I don’t need you to. I’m capable of handling myself; I’m not as foolish as you think. Last week you hit the ground running, and now you want to add this to you cases solved.”

  Sam scooted between the sisters. “As much as I’d like to hear the rest of this, I should point out our little hudger friend is gone.”

  Rowen howled, forcing the group’s hand. They barged into the house, including Crissa.

  “Rowen!” yelled Sam, turning into a spacious room overwhelmed with decorations. He zigzagged through a maze of pianos and animal heads mounted low on the walls. The home smelled of mud after a light rain.

  “In here!” screamed Dara.

  Sam followed the wizard’s faint whimpers. He ran through a creaky wooden hallway lined with moving images of Mr. Mack’s hunts. The group joined in an office-like room. A fish that could only come from a child’s nightmare hung atop wooden beams, and blanketed crates leaned in the corner. At the center stood a desk with a seated man; his face rested on its surface.

  “Is that—is he your—”

  “That’s Mr. Mack,” said Dara, hands clasped on her head. She looked ill, and the color left her cheeks.

  Crissa pushed through the others with her weapon drawn. “Take out your wand, hudger.”

  “What?” said Rowen, fumbling backward.

  “Bring it out, slowly.” She approached the shaking hudger and analyzed his wand before shifting her focus. “Pulse.” A blue glow appeared on her wand’s tip but faded away. “He’s dead. I have to call this in. You all have to leave right now.”

  “Not ’til we find out who framed Dad.” Rowen stormed into the adjoining room.

  “Get him, Sam,” said Crissa.

  “I don’t have a weapon. What if the killer’s still here?”

  “I’ll go,” said Dara, unable to stare at Mack’s body. She snapped her wand straight and dashed from the room.

  “No, stay here!” yelled Crissa, to no avail.

  Sam walked beside the desk and stared at Mack’s serene face. “You sure he’s dead? When we found Dara, she looked gone, too.”

  “He has no pulse, Sam.” Crissa inspected the remnants on the desk.

  “That’s fine—use your magic to bring him back to life, and then he can tell us who did this.”

  “That’s not how it works. The dead stay dead.”

  A queasy sensation fluttered in Sam’s stomach. Now, more than ever, he realized how safe his solo hobbies were back home. He’d much rather reflect on his impending poverty than accept that he stood a sneeze away from a dead body. If Crissa wasn’t nearby, Sam might’ve stress-cleaned the empty bottles that had fallen over.

  “I don’t know if you hurt Dara. I’m still unsure. But you didn’t kill this guard unless you’ve got powers that you’re not telling us about. Maybe this case is too personal. I want you to go with my sister to the coastline, north of here, and wait for me. You and Rowen have gotten this far without getting caught. Last I heard, a group of mages were scouring Lekly for you.”

  “Well, shit. No pressure.”

  “You managed to get away from me.”

  “Is that the sweet sound of praise?”

  “More like an admission of how reckless you are, but also observant. Whoever did this could be coming for Dara. Keep her company. She’ll defend herself if she sees it coming.” Crissa used her wand to pull a paper from beneath Mack’s face.

  “We’ll protect her,” said Sam with confidence.

  “Don’t be as dense as you look. Dara will be protecting you if anything. Just be an extra set of eyes.” Crissa inspected the floating paper. “Request—show last fingerprint.” Her wand flared a bluish purple.

  “Approval needed,” said the toneless voice from the wand. Crissa walked to the corner of the room to whisper her reply. Meanwhile, Dara returned with the riled hudger.

  “Did she find somethin’?” Rowen asked.

  “She’s checking for fingerprints. What do you have?” said Sam, pointing at the object in the hudger’s meaty hands.

  Rowen lifted a claw about half his height. “Talon of spiked fowl. Plenty more in the other room. These are exclusive to Okra Island where Dad works.”

  “And look at this,” uttered Dara, raising a calendar with three dates circled in red.

  “Hey!” yelled Crissa. “Don’t touch anything! It’s all evidence.” She stormed to the desk and said, “Exsolvo.” The floating paper released from her hold and drifted near the deceased man.

  “Why would Mr. Mack circle Wednesday, yesterday, and today?

  “It could be his work schedule,” said Sam.

  “Sure, but I’ve gone through the entire calendar, and there’re no other marks.”

  “Look at them crates. Seems like Mack’s movin’ or startin’ to,” uttered Rowen. He walked to the foot of the stacked containers.

  Sam hovered over the blank paper Crissa had dropped. The uneasiness in his stomach had yet to fade. Carrying a conversation with a dead guy nearby seemed distasteful, though he could see how the search for answers might’ve numbed them.

  The scrutor stared at the evidence in Rowen’s embrace. “Possession of that talon is illegal. Mack would’ve faced time at Persolus. It looks like he’s tied to the Okra animal huntings.”

  “You should see his backroom,” said Dara. “He’s got a stuffed moopur in a glass case. I can’t believe a person would do this to sanctuary animals.”

  “I’ll have to bring in guys from the Wildlife Commission,” Crissa said.

  “Yer in luck. I know the best wrangler ever to step foot on Okra Island, but he can’t help; he’s stuck in Grand Station ’cause ya think he hurt yer sister.” Rowen slid the claw toward Crissa, and it scorched the wooden floor with a bright flame. The talon glistened, and the room went quiet. Suddenly, it slammed into the wall behind Mack’s desk. Icicles crumbled from its base, and the talon itself froze.

  Seething, Crissa shouted, “Nobody—touch—a—damn—thing!”

  To diffuse the tension, Sam pointed at the blank sheet. “You find any fingerprints on this?”

  “Who cares ’bout fingerprints!” yelled Rowen. “This guard might’ve cleared my dad, but now he’s dead.” He yanked the cloth off the crates in anger, revealing its eerie contents.

  The group shared a gasp as a blue tone brushed the room. A huge jar rested in the center, and a stingray with a rope-like texture floated at the surface.

  “Stingray!” shouted Sam. “Raske said . . . R-Raske said—”

  “Get a hold of yourself, fleshling,” uttered Cr
issa.

  He took a deep breath. “Dara, when Rowen and I met you in the hospital, what did I say happened to you?”

  Dara shot Sam a confused glare but eventually her brows relaxed. “You told me I had stingray something.”

  Sam jumped, smacking his finger on the huge crate. “Stingray!”

  “Hold on. Are you implying Mr. Mack cursed me? He wouldn’t do that. The guards are a close-knit community.”

  “But you’re new,” blurted Sam. Elated, Rowen ran laps around the group.

  “No, he couldn’t have,” whispered Dara.

  “Not so fast. Just because Mack has a stingray, doesn’t mean he used it for a curse,” said Crissa. “It could be another trophy to hang in this pigsty.”

  Rowen roared at her response, and Dara stormed from the room. Crissa chased after her, but they returned with Dara in front, hauling books so worn they might’ve crumbled in her arms.

  “Saw these under the moopur case,” said Dara, distributing the tattered books.

  Crissa remained standing while the others knelt. “You can’t be serious. Curses aren’t in textbooks, new or old.”

  “Yes, but some hexes are.”

  “Hexes, curses—what’s the difference?” Sam mumbled.

  Rowen dragged a rugged volume from the pile. “Hexes are unpleasant magic, annoyin’ or painful at most. Curses are fer killin’.”

  “He’s partly right,” blurted Crissa. “A curse evokes death, but can also take it away. Ms. Ward told us of a case where—”

  “These aren’t textbooks,” said Dara, in a quiet tone. As she turned the thick book to its side, a flimsy parchment hung from its spine:

  BELONGING TO THE LIBRARY OF SIR TOROLD ELIAS GASPARE

  The revelation brought Crissa to a squat. “Spellbooks stolen from Sir Gaspare—”

  Dara sifted through the first book with ease. “If Mr. Mack conjured the curse, he had to have learned it somewhere. It looks like each book has a banned magic list for its period. If the mixture is here, ‘Mobility Restraints and Paralysis’ won’t be on the list,” said Dara.

  “Well, time to prove Crissa wrong,” said Sam. He opened a book and checked its warning: