Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  “Stand, scoundrel.” Embers from the fairy’s wand floated into the night. “You’re one of Sheila’s boys, I bet. You good-for-nothing kids have tarnished my fruits for the last time. I’m gonna make an example outta you.”

  “Wait,” said Sam, rising. He reached for the fairy’s dirty garb. “Where is everyone getting these cute little overalls?” While removing the vine wrapped around his waist, something shifted in Sam’s chest pocket.

  “A crook and a wiseguy, aye? I’m gonna enjoy this.” The fairy tapped the ash off his wand.

  Sam patted his chest. “You mess with me, and I won’t tell you what drink pairs perfectly with your fruit.”

  “The hell are you talking about?”

  Sam slipped a hand into the pocket with the other raised near his ear. “C’mon, you don’t think I’d be out here at—what time is it?”

  “Past midnight,” said the fairy, spitting into the stalks.

  “I wouldn’t be out here past midnight for shits and giggles. You’re right: Shelly sent me.”

  “Shiela?”

  “Sheila! But she lets us call her Shelly.” Sam revealed the vial Trixie had given him. “A swig of this with a bite of your fruit, and you’ll be on cloud nine.”

  Before he could say more, the fairy zipped by and snatched the vial. “Trying to fool me, huh?” After a moment, he lowered his wand and opened the pink liquid. The fairy levitated a triangle fruit to his mouth and chewed the tip.

  “That damn Shiela. You tell her nothing pairs with my wisphounds unless I say it do.” He tilted the vial and downed its contents with impressive fashion. “And another thing, I see—” Poof.

  The fairy disappeared and the area went dark, save for shimmering gold powder that fell to the ground.

  “Shit—Trixie was gonna kill me.”

  • • •

  It took all of thirty minutes to exit the maze field. At its end, a beautiful, well-lit town rewarded Sam for his effort. Strung along the thin homes were an army of oblong bulbs. The narrow street contrasted the vast, well-manicured lawns. He thought of how picturesque the scenery was, and how it couldn’t possibly be a functioning neighborhood.

  The border separating residential and commercial buildings started with Bigby Beepot’s Candy Supply, and the headquarters of the Lekly Journal. Bulbs stretched across the street, and the shiny steel letters hovering above read: Pealsh. Soon after, Sam saw bright lights on the adjacent street. If there was a glimmer of hope in finding a bar, Pealsh looked to be the place.

  The sounds of voices and contagious laughter came all at once as Sam reached the bottom of the block. Dancing silhouettes made tall projections on the nearby shops. When he turned, he became entangled in a line filled with young wizards who flaunted their wands. The street had a fragrant smell and enough chatter that Sam wondered how he hadn’t heard it a mile away.

  At first glance, the mass of wizards didn’t seem magical. Lines such as this were common to bars as awkward conversations are to haircuts. On Trida or stateside, the scene was the same.

  At the front stood a belligerent guy or gal, touting their monetary worth. In this case, bottles of sparkling liquid and stacks of quin. Next stood the Proud Crowd, who wouldn’t enjoy the moment without first immortalizing it in a photo. There were also couples expressing their affection too freely, the salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman on a hunt to reclaim his youth, and friends arguing in one moment to spring into song the next.

  Another notorious party-line usual waited beside Sam: The Vomiter. After shouting “I’m fine,” The Vomiter puked a lumpy purple. But her peers made this memorable. One friend jabbed her wand and uttered, “Capto.” She caught the discharge just inches above the pavement.

  “Deamplify,” said another friend. They repeated the incantation until the vomit looked no larger than a droplet, which they flung into the gutter.

  The helpful friends berated a fourth woman who stood off to the side. She used an umbrella-like spell to shield her shoes. Sam withdrew the blank paper, perhaps one of these women could explain the list.

  “Alright, lad, lookin’ to get into Duke’s, Franklin’s, or Ollie’s?” said a high-pitched voice below. A young boy stood beside Sam with a paper in hand. His offbeat garb contrasted the surrounding wizards; he wore a dusty black tuxedo that looked like he bewitched it to sparkle.

  “Go bother someone else, kid.”

  “But they all look like they know what they’re doin’. Now, which spot are you goin’ to? Go ’ed to Duke’s if you need quick bevvies.”

  Sam looked beyond the crowd and noticed a row of thin buildings with long illuminated windows. “I see five bars ahead.”

  The kid laughed. “You must be new, lad. Rabbithole Tavern’s for hudgers. Swerve Meek’s, ’cause, no offense, but the only wizards allowed there got connections. And no offense but—”

  “Yeah, you said ‘no offense’ already,” grunted Sam. “Meek’s sounds familiar.”

  “This your bird?” the boy said, nodding toward the shoe-shielding friend, who tried to hide her laughter. “You two should go ’ed to Ollie’s—less rammed than the rest.”

  Sam broke from the line and spotted the Rabbithole Tavern. One needn’t step inside to see what it had to offer. Hudgers smashed their glasses together, and a tail-wagging beast peeked into the first-floor window. The building tilted enough that you could walk across rooftops. Good times for those with eight fingers and the height of a desk lamp.

  “You’re not a wizard, I take it,” said the kid. “See the same faces every weekend. Bloody hell—those lockdown talks are true, then. Not many pacts livin’ on Pealsh. How many of yous got stuck behind?”

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime? I’m sure Mama Street Rat’s worried about you.”

  “Don’t gotta be narky. I’m here with me brother.” He pointed his dingy finger at an older boy chatting with a group. “Could get you into Meek’s, but it’ll cost you some quin.” He fixed his soggy blond hair.

  The kid had outed Sam as a pact, which would’ve been simpler. But as a fugitive fleshling, any unnecessary attention would spell trouble. A glance at the shoe-shielding friend, who shook in disapproval, told Sam all he needed to know.

  “Thanks, but no thanks, kiddo.”

  “Suit yourself—cheers.” With his mangled wand, the boy shot at Sam’s hand.

  Sam screamed out. Although the hex was painless, his hand bulged, and his fingers became brick-like. The ratty boy swooped the blank paper the fleshling had dropped. He sped into the line, toward the front.

  The rear crowd chattered in a frenzy. “Help him,” shouted a man behind Sam.

  “Who has Normalcy Powder?” said another.

  The vomit-lipped woman spun around and squinted at Sam’s blocky hand. “I got this,” she said, in a shaky voice. “Stand still.” Her eyes twitched. “Stand still!”

  “I am!” blurted Sam.

  Flipping open a glass vial, the woman jiggled a cloud of pink powder and covered herself. She sneezed, whirling the dust onto nearby partiers, sobering each one.

  “Well, I feel fine,” she said in a rejuvenated cadence, disregarding the groans of the majority.

  Sam continued to scream as he clanked his cartoonish fingers together. The shoe-shielding friend stole the vial and powdered Sam’s hand without hesitation. In an instant, the pink residue fell to the ground, and Sam’s digits returned to normal.

  “Thank you!” he said, sprinting out of formation. He kept his eyes peeled for flashes of magic to dictate how far the boy had gone; there were outraged shouts not far ahead.

  “Give that back, you little shit!” Sam yelled.

  The boy’s wand expelled another flash, sending a barrage of rubber balls into Sam’s path. He tried to tiptoe around the obstacle, which made the fall look much worse. Sam collected a handful of the bouncing toys, but the scoundrel had vanished into the line.

  A sound of creaky shoes approached. “Little bruv pull a fast one on you? Taught him myself,” said
the boy’s older brother. He twirled an ugly brown wand with strings wrapped around and aimed at Sam, who leapt away, just in time. A white spark misted onto a man caught in the misfire, trapping him in a full-body straightjacket. His friends screamed profanities but caught him before he hit the ground. Sam threw the rubber balls at the older brother—each one found their mark. He shoved through the line before the hoodlum could retaliate.

  “He’s right here!” yelled a man. A light sent him cartwheeling into the bushes, but the little boy came into sight; his wand dwindled to the stump, and its ash had a stench of wet wood chips.

  Sam sprinted through the wizards who seemed to root for him as they cleared a path. As the cat-and-mouse pair approached the thin buildings, large men appeared outside.

  “Stop,” said the giant bouncer under the Meek’s sign. His voice vibrated the glistening street.

  “Lloyd!” screamed the boy.

  His brother arose to Sam’s right, sprinting at the same speed. “Gotcha, Harry!” He winded his wand and slashed it forward, sending a flash of red onto the bouncer’s chest. The impact shoved the large fellow off-balance enough to vacate the front door, or at least, where a front door should’ve been.

  The kid ducked and ran straight into the brick wall; he vanished. Sam shut his eyes and let free a barbaric yell, barreling into the wall seconds behind the boy. He smashed hard and stumbled backward in a daze. A ringing sensation throbbed at his ears, and the cheers of the crowd ceased.

  Sam opened his eyes to find he had collided with a different giant. The huge man held the stolen evidence into the air as the kid jumped for it with all his might. Sam had passed through the wall and into in a bar with a range of stenches from frankincense to clay.

  ELEVEN

  The Slinger

  “Give it here!” screamed the boy. “If it’s quins, I earned it, you dumb muppet!”

  The massive man grunted in a menacing manner, sending the child trampling through the wall from which he arrived. He took a booming step toward Sam, but a voice called for him.

  “Doak,” the bar-goers hushed enough for a man’s voice to be heard, “leave him be.”

  Sam couldn’t identify the man, or, for that matter, any of the patrons; everyone smoked from pipes, which filled the room with a white fog. A raised finger helped to single out Sam’s defender. The man wore a cream turtleneck and sat on a chair with gold tassels.

  As Sam proceeded to the spotlighted man, he was held back by the giant, who eclipsed the dim lights. The evidence sheet rocked in the air and landed into Sam’s cradled hands.

  “Yours is a new face,” said the older gentleman, puffing on a dark-green pipe.

  “So is yours. I’m Sam.”

  The man rejected the offered handshake. “You arrived with that boy, Harry Agrobast. It’s best not to get mixed with those types.”

  “No worries there. That little jerk tried to rob me. I was only looking for a place to grab a stiff drink and second-hand smoke, apparently.”

  The man grinned, removing the pipe from his mouth. “To my customers, I am Mr. Knottley; Professor Knottley to my pupils; to my allies, I am Gibb. This is my associate, Klide Kingsman.”

  Sam struggled to look at just one of the snarling faces beside the composed gentleman. He couldn’t imagine a more obscure crowd to lump together. “Nice to meet you, Gibb. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “No, you’re not excused. It’s midnight, and the workday has long rested. I see no rush. Furthermore, I’ve had minimal exposure to your kind.”

  The “your kind” Gibb referred to were pacts, at least Sam chose to believe. “Well, I’m parched from chasing that kid.” He waved the blank sheet, but Gibb didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “Dougal,” Gibb said with a snap of his fingers, “get this man a Black Squadron single malt.”

  “We’ve got a fifteen and thirty-five year,” grunted a hard-faced man. Gibb fired a look that might’ve burned a hole into the bartender for having the audacity to ask such a question.

  Sam refocused and said, “Hey, you might be able to help. Know what any of this means?” The turtlenecked gentleman took the paper and flipped it front to back. “Oh, the words will show under a flame. Do you have a wand?”

  The man’s rowdy entourage chuckled at Sam’s naivete. Gibb reached into his jacket and pulled a green wand. While snapping it open, he whispered, “Scalpo.” A red flame settled on its tip like a glowing knife, which he used to relight his pipe. He guided the light in a figure eight, and the invisible words inked the sheet.

  Gibb analyzed the writing and raised an eyebrow to Sam. “What age do you suppose I am?”

  “This’ll be good!” grunted Klide, coming closer.

  “You’re a wizard, I assume, so . . . two-hundred?” Sam winced.

  Klide erupted in laughter and galloped while Gibb readied his pipe. “Dear boy, don’t let the magic fool you. We’re the same species, are we not? Life beyond one-hundred is a luxury awarded to the fairies, giants, and those astute enough to avoid places such as this.” A plume of smoke escaped his lips. “What you have here is an archaic recipe, no doubt. Many of these ingredients haven’t been prevalent in potions since before my time. I do, however, recognize this Obsolete Offering. If I recall, that is an essential item in brewing a counter curse.”

  “Moopur tongue, lion hawk tail, wocem reduction,” said Klide. “Where you from?”

  “Yes, it’s a particularly odd list to be flaunting. And why do you need Arco?” said Gibb.

  “It’s not mine. I don’t even know what an Arco is.”

  Gibb leaned forward and pointed at the words written on the sheet. “Arco Delvis is not an ingredient. He’s a wizard—if we’re splitting hairs.” His crew snickered at the remark. After removing the pipe from his mouth, he pointed its tip at a gentleman in the rear booth.

  “Do you know where I can find Obsolete Offering?” said Sam, reaching for the evidence.

  Gibb yanked the sheet away. “If this list isn’t yours, then why ask? Perhaps you should explain what curse you’re looking to undo?”

  Though he didn’t have an answer, all Sam could muster were stutters.

  Gibb slipped the sheet into his jacket. “As I mentioned, these ingredients are before my time. I cannot turn a blind eye to a counter curse of this magnitude. It would be unwise. Allow me to hold on to this, in case it falls into the wrong hands.” Sam didn’t dare argue and cause a scene over a dead man’s property. “You’re welcome to join in our festivities. Lester, here, just lost his arms in a battle with a Ree gator.”

  “I see why you’re celebrating,” said Sam, with a confused expression.

  “My friend was with me during the fight. He lost his wits, then his upper half, then his life,” growled the armless man behind Klide. The briefcase before Gibb’s legs popped open, and inside were rows of pipes, some dark brown, others in a warm walnut, but each had a distinct look.

  The barkeep returned with a glass of bronze liquid. Sam devoured the drink in a single gulp so his arms would be free to wave away the fragrant smoke from his front. The warm whiskey swam through his throat, melting any marshmallow or peppermint pickles that remained in his stomach. If he didn’t have the urge to cough before, he did now.

  “Are these tobacco?” Sam said with a severe squint.

  “Yeah, Clara’s smoking ‘tobacco,’” said Klide, chuckling. He nudged a woman whose hair grew by inches with each puff. “What’s your poison? This pipe makes you agile as a cat. This one makes you sound”—Klide’s voice became hauntingly deep—“like this.”

  From a nearby table, Klide drank a whiskey that wasn’t his, and his voice evened out. “They only work a short while,” the cockeyed fellow said, pulling a pipe from the briefcase and imploring Sam to give it a try.

  The fleshling had smoked a small sample of cigars in his day, but nothing more. Somehow, the bar’s ambiance provided a deceiving sort of comfort. He took a quick puff of the orange pipe. No, it wasn’t tobacco or any fla
vor that should’ve come from the device. Sam likened the taste to a fine-dining experience of crispy bacon, drizzled in the essence of more bacon, paired with an unpretentious beer.

  “Let me guess: this pipe brings out the color of my eyes,” Sam said, batting his eyelids.

  Klide smirked and returned the pipe. “It’s Sarcasm Stew. And I see it’s kicked in.”

  The man with the book stood from his booth and exited through the back door.

  “It’s been such a pleasure meeting you all,” said Sam, strolling away. “High five, Lester!” The armless man’s comrades restrained him as he bolted forward.

  Sam pushed through the crowd and shoved the rear doors, exposing the bar’s backyard. A murky pond with neon-outlined koi fish surrounded the cement floor, and floating lightbulbs aligned over the water like an enclosed fence. In the corner stood the man, who aimed his jagged wand at Sam.

  “You sure know how to break the ice,” said Sam.

  “Don’t you dare try anything,” said the man, walking closer. “I saw your friend point at me. I don’t like that.”

  “When I heard your name was Arco, I knew you’d be eccentric. A real shoot-first-ask-questions-later kinda guy.”

  “Who sent you—the mages—Heru Mafia?” He pressed his wand into the crease of Sam’s chin. “Tell me before I turn you into a real rat and feed you to the owls.”

  “Ah, a fellow animal lover. Surely you know Mr. Mack.”

  “Mack?”

  “Mack.”

  He forced Sam against the door. “Mack, the hunter?”

  “You’re a great listener. I mean, top notch. Yes, the hunter sent me.”

  “Shit, why didn’t you say so?” Arco lowered his wand and dragged Sam to the middle of the yard. “That bald bastard called me this morning all frantic and stressed out. Begged for a meeting tonight. Then seven o’clock comes along, and that asshole doesn’t show.”

  “I’m sure it killed him to miss the appointment.”

  “Yeah, he better be sorry. Don’t know why I agreed to see him again, especially after how the first exchange went. You tell your boss if he wants Arco wands, he comes to Arco alone—leave the sketchy sidekick behind.”