Blackwood: The Dynasty Series Book One

by Marian Gray

  “Polished lamps. Polished lamps from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Syria.” A large man with a hot pink pointed turban shoved a gold oil lamp in my face. “Gold, platinum, silver, copper, bronze.”

  A wood sign inscribed with ‘Winston Wines and Whatnot’ hung out over the path. It was attached to a cast iron arm bolted to a blue steel brick building. The window was wiped clear and featured a showcase of Babbling Bubble Burgundy Wine, Fuzzy Fizz French Champagne, and Sun-ripened Sweet Sangria.

  “He’s at the Longship, mom please!”

  The flow of people slowed and the walkway tightened to a shoulder to shoulder march.

  Aunt Margot stretched her legs thin to peer over the various heads. “What’s going on down there?” I lifted onto my tip-toes and spotted what looked to be a growing crowd. “Why are those people all in front of The Longship? The season hasn’t started yet, has it?” She lowered herself back onto the base of her pearl heels.

  “No.” Hank shook his head. “It just finished, actually. The final was last weekend.”

  As we neared the bustling mix of people, a central figure stood out. He was taller than most with a hefty set of shoulders that promised an athletic build. His light locks were woven into a messy bun, and his eyes held long lashes. The crowd captured his attention, winning smiles and autographs when requested.

  “I hate Saturdays at Brick Row,” Uncle Hank growled.

  “Who is he?” I asked. “A celebrity?”

  “An athlete.” Aunt Margot’s tone softened with a hint of desire.

  Uncle Hank groaned in annoyance. “At least try to conceal your infatuation.”

  “Oh, Hank.” Aunt Margot sighed. “You’re being ridiculous. Everyone has a celebrity crush.”

  It wasn’t difficult to see his appeal. He had friendly eyes, a generous smile, and a healthy frame. “What does he play? Football?”

  “Holmgang,” Hank corrected. “He’s a recent signing for the Boston Sons and supposed to be the next big thing—a holmgang revolutionary they’re calling him.”

  “And that is what exactly?”

  “A cruddy sport.” He spat before wheeling around a sharp corner, splitting from the main flow of traffic. In front of us zigzagged a narrow alley that was no bigger than two shoulder lengths. On either side was solid brick and looked to continue without break for the length of the passageway. But the squeezed pair didn’t cease their stroll, despite the dim and dingy surroundings. I stayed hot on their heels as we dove deeper. The stale air thickened, and the bustle of Brick Row had died from my ears to be replaced by the trickle of water from an unknown source.

  “Here it is,” Uncle Hank commented as the brick broke into a large dusty window front.

  A worn sign hung over an old black door. Grime covered its face, making it impossible to read until I stood below it. Murdock’s Mysteries appeared in chipped script. There was no light in the front window, but Uncle Hank and Aunt Margot entered anyway.

  Illuminated by floating candlelight, different parts of the shop became alive as the candelabras flew around the dark emporium. Trinkets, cauldrons, broomsticks, rugs, crystal balls, small pyramids, and all sorts of other unusual junk were stacked from floor to high ceiling.

  “We’re closed,” a scratchy, deep voice called out from deep within the store. A yellow glow slipped across the floor and shone past the hundreds of knickknacks that lined the standing shelves. Grizzly knuckles poked out into the open with lamp in hand. “I said we’re closed,” he growled as he rounded the corner but stopped when he caught sight of us. “Hank?” His arm stretched out, bringing the light to our faces.

  “You’ve gotten fat, Murdock,” Hank replied.

  Murdock was short and round with a pair of goggles upon his head that made his eyes appear bulbous in nature. “And you’ve gotten gray like an old man.”

  “At least I still have my hair.”

  “That cut makes you look like a mushroom. I’m embarrassed for you.”

  Hank released a howl. “It’s good to see you old friend.”

  Murdock cracked a jagged toothed smile. “Always a pleasure, and Ms. Margot, you’re looking lovely as always.”

  “Thanks, Marty.” She held out her gloved hand which Murdock took and placed a gentle kiss atop the leather.

  “And this is my niece, Kim,” Hank introduced. “Kim, this is one my best friends from college, Martin Murdock, or Mad Marty Murdock as he was called then.”

  Murdock chuckled. “I haven’t heard that name in decades.”

  “He got it while we were at Ivory. He had a raw talent for enchanting things.”

  “Which led to explosions more often than not,” Murdock chimed in. “Oh, we were quite a crew back then. Do you still talk to Harrison?”

  Hank shook his head. “I haven’t heard from him since he went to Africa back in ‘84.”

  “Yeah, the Chamber may have banished me to an alley way, but they sure ran him off.” Murdock’s round eyes drooped. “Enough of the past, what brings you in?”

  “Shopping for a wand.”

  Murdock’s lower lip stuck out. “Why don’t you take her to Alakazam’s then? They’ve been running specials on first wands all week. They’ll have her sized up and out the door in no time.”

  Uncle Hank’s cheeks filled with air. He blew a long hesitant sigh before replying, “Well, we’re in a bit of pinch, and I was hoping you’d help me out. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we were unable to get her a license. So, we can’t exactly go to Alakazam’s. But she needs it now. She’s got to do the summer semester at Ivory.”

  “I see.” Murdock nodded. “I’m already in hot water with the Chamber, Hank, and I don’t stock beginner wands.”

  “I understand, but if you could—”

  Murdock guided his gaze away from Uncle Hank. “I can’t even fathom selling an unlicensed individual a wand, much less one that is restricted. They raised the requirements four times this year on restricted wand users. Its a hotbed for litigation at the moment.”

  “I really need this favor, Marty.” Hank’s voice dropped to a soft note. "For old time's sake, would you please consider it?"

  Murdock stared at the three of us for an uncomfortable amount of time without uttering a sound. His lips wiggled, chewing on all the words that attempted to leave his mouth. Several times his eyes jumped between Hank and the floor. Until at last he released a sigh in surrender. “I’ll do it, but I’m not releasing any papers, nor am I registering it with the Chamber. If she gets caught with the wand, it’ll be her that gets hanged.”

  Margot clapped her hands together in celebration as Uncle Hank grinned wide. “Thank you, Murdock.”

  “Come on back.” Murdock shepherded me away from the shop front, guiding us through his dark wares by lamp light. “As I said before, I haven’t got any beginner wands for you, but judging by your arm, I see you’ve already handled one once before.”

  I hugged my scarred forearm to my chest. “Yes, my great grandmothers.”

  “Ms. Miriam Blackwood’s wand did that to you?” There was a hint of excitement in his tone.

  “When I was four.”

  The hard wood floor flowed into a pile of oriental rugs once we had made it through the labyrinth of shelves. Murdock placed his glowing lamp on an oak workbench and cast his attention to the ceiling. “We’re over here, you blasted candles.” The flying candelabras danced around the long shop until they found their way to the back, where they hovered in place. Well, most of them did anyway. “I know for a more precise match, I’m supposed to measure your hand and all that garbage, but we’re going to do this the old way instead.”

  “Which is?” I asked as I stood beside him at the workbench. He was a head shorter than me and had to look up to meet my eyes. But everyone in my family was tall, or so I was told.

  “Magic,” he giggled with a growl.

  “Marty,” Margot began, “you really don’t have an exacto-measuring tape to use?”

  He glanced back at her with a sne
er. “What? Do you think I keep just any old thing in here? No. I really don’t have an exacto-measuring tape to use. I wasn’t expecting to fit an unlicensed witch for a restricted wand today.”

  Hank shot Margot a glare. “It’s all right. The old way will do.” Margot crossed her arms, with a frown. “It worked for millions before and will work now.”

  “Glad you agree, Hank.” Murdock turned to face his station. “Your hand, please, Ms. Blackwood.” I held it out. The black shadow it cast, shook against the white wall. His meaty palm wrapped the back, and his dry fingers clamped to me. In his other hand, he retrieved a stubby wand from his jacket. “This may be a bit uncomfortable.” I nodded my understanding. “Blot,” he said as the tip of his wand touched my finger. A sharp pain raked across the pad as the skin unzipped. Crimson blood pooled at the surface. He squeezed and forced a spattering atop his table.

  “Barbaric,” Aunt Margot muttered in the background.

  He tapped his wand against the surface as though he were a composer beginning a song. He twirled it around, pointing it at selected jars that hung on the wall above his bench. A dark powder flew out of one of the cups and rained down upon the blood. A bright white burst of smoke exploded from the table. It swirled above our heads, darkening to a vibrant peacock blue.

  “Water,” Murdock mumbled.

  The smoke thickened until it appeared as ink in the air. Then, it stopped moving, frozen in time. A black liquid slipped out of another jar and entered the glob above us. A small pop fired off with a spark and released hundreds of loud crackles. Aunt Margot stepped back, holding her large hands up to block the drizzling flares. When the electric rain had ended, a chill entered the room but dissipated as soon as it pricked my skin.

  “Is that it?” Aunt Margot asked with her hands still up. “Is it over?”

  “Almost.” Murdoch turned to me and stared with an expectant gaze.

  “What?” Just as the word left my mouth, a sharp pang hit my stomach. My gut twisted in pain. A heavy sweat burst upon my brow. The spit in my mouth thinned and rolled across my tongue like water. “I don’t feel well.” My pricked hand fell to my stomach, smearing a drop of blood across my shirt. The muscles in my torso lurched, and a warm wash of bile and soup came out to meet the ground. At least, I had thought it was soup. A black puddle soaked into the Turkish rug at my feet.

  “Vile.” Aunt Margot clapped a hand to her mouth.

  Murdock shrugged. “It could’ve been worse. It could’ve come out the other end.” He turned and took a few steps to a shelf filled with at least thirty small, narrow boxes. His finger grazed over several labels before it stopped and tapped a particular one. “This is it.” He handed the box to me.

  “Shouldn’t she try it out?” Aunt Margot looked from Murdock to Uncle Hank in search of support.

  “Doesn’t really matter.” Murdoch shrugged. “That’s the only one I have that fits her. If you don’t take it, she won’t have a wand for Ivory.”

  “I guess it was meant to be,” I said to break the tension mounting between Aunt Margot and Murdock.

  “That’s one way to look at it.” Murdock nodded. “And it’s a damn fine wand too, if I do say so myself. The wood is ebony from Sri Lanka, and the copper inlay is from Anatolia. It’s an ancient wand. Based upon some of the testing I’ve done on the copper, I think it’s from two hundred to one hundred BC. And it’s a rather attractive design now. The copper has corroded to a jade green.”

  “Thank you, Murdock. We’ll take it. How much?”

  “Five hundred and fifty arcs.”

  “Five hundred and fifty arcs?” Aunt Margot repeated with a sharp voice.

  Murdock scoffed. “Don’t even pretend for one moment that you can’t afford it. I’m selling you an ancient, restricted wand for your unlicensed niece to use.”

  “Five hundred and fifty is fine. I know you’re doing us a favor, and I have no problem paying extra to cover your risk.” Uncle Hank’s hand dug into his pocket and retrieved his wallet. “Put the wand in Margot’s purse so no one sees.”

  With little else to be said, my uncle paid his friend for the wand and we left through a back door that spit us out into another dirty alley. As soon as our feet hit the main road, the air cleared of any nervous tension. Aunt Margot resumed her joyful manner, and Uncle Hank sauntered around in his usual carefree state.

  We entered the apothecary next in order to purchase the scale and glassware set, which appeared to be very similar to a chemistry set. Despite the acrid smell of rotting bits of carcasses and dry dusty plants, Aunt Margot flitted around as though she were the belle of the ball. Practically everyone in the store knew the wizarding pair. Uncle Hank engaged with others only if directly approached, but Margot sucked up every drop of attention. And it didn’t stop once we exited the apothecary. The contagious parade of greetings and handshakes followed us into the The Cackler’s Casting Shoppe.

  “How does everyone know Aunt Margot?” It was odd.

  Uncle Hank popped the lid off a canister of chalk, checking that the contents were all in one piece. “It’s not her that they know—it’s me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Margot isn’t the well-known one, it’s me.” He set the canister back on the shelf. “Well, it’s us, now, I guess.”

  “Us?”

  “You’re a Blackwood, no?” He selected another tin and peered beneath its lid. “I know it may seem implausible after the way you’ve grown up, but we’re not a poor family.”

  “What?” My jaw threatened to drop to the floor. “What do you mean we’re not poor?”

  “Just what I said. You come from a prominent family, tied to high wizard society.” He shrugged. “You never questioned why you got accepted to Ivory without ever applying? Or why, if your mother hates magic so much, that she has your great grandmother’s wand?”

  I had never thought to question my mother’s possession of my great grandmother’s wand. Growing up without magic, the wand became a family heirloom rather than a tool. “So, I was only accepted because we’re rich?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You were accepted because one of our relatives helped found the university.” Uncle Hank tucked a tin under his arm. “Everyone talks to Aunt Margot, because I’m an awkward old fart, and even though she’s married in, she at least has Blackwood at the end of her name.”

  I stared at my great uncle Hank, trying hard to believe what he had said. But reality couldn’t break through my skull. While I never went hungry, I had never heard others use the word ‘poverty’ to describe my mother’s financial situation. I shook my head. “If this is all true, then how come there were times when I didn’t have shoes without holes in them or an article of clothing that was new?”

  “Because the money that we have is wizard money—arcs. She refuses to touch it.” He turned and proceeded up to the cash register in order to purchase the canister of chalk.

  We didn’t discuss the topic anymore after we left The Cackler’s. I knew there was more about our family that I needed to learn, but the first trickle of knowledge had hit like a sledge hammer. I didn’t know whether to be relieved and excited about this new wealth, or to be angered over my mother’s stubbornness.

  “I want to stop in at Button and Needle,” Aunt Margot announced.

  Uncle Hank groaned. “Margot, we came here for Kim, and we’ve already been in Brick Row for five hours. I’m exhausted, she still needs to buy her books, and you’ve already done plenty of shopping for yourself.”

  Aunt Margot’s hands wrapped around her hips. “Well, then how about we send Kim to Twilberry’s for her books; I’ll go to Button and Needle; and you can do whatever you want. That way everyone’s happy.”

  “Fine.”

  Aunt Margot handed me my school supply list before turning on her heel and strutting down the street. Uncle Hank walked me to Twilberry’s, which was only a block away, before giving me a hefty amount of arcs and sending me in alone.

  Twilberry�
�s had a number of patrons and a line forming in order to request assistance. I decided to give the store a look-over before surrendering and asking for help—the queue appeared bothersome.

  My finger slid along the edge of the mahogany sales table as my eyes hopped from cover to cover. There was a wild assortment ranging from fiction about a young male wizard who lived with his horrid aunt and uncle; a self-help for the clumsy kitchen witch; a how-to on polishing wands well without them firing off; and a history on relations between wizards and mundies. There was only one title that gave me pause: Psychology of the Sorcerer by Ann Darby.

  I lifted the scarlet hardcover from the neat stack. My thumb split the pages, and the book opened with a creak. The spine stretched wide, releasing the aroma of fresh glue and young binding.

  My eyes glanced down the page to meet a familiar illustration. It was an old, thin man with a long white beard, dressed in a flowing azure robe and topped with a tall pointy hat. The name ‘Merlin Ambrosius’ was printed center below the image along with the year ‘1136’. The page to its right harbored the bold heading ‘Mad Merlin Syndrome’.

  Mad Merlin Syndrome has long been studied by wizards and witches alike throughout the eras, but only recently has medical psychology recognized its existence as a mental disease. While the cause of this disorder is still largely debated amongst the leading brains of the industry, all research and experts seems to agree that cases almost exclusively appear in emotionally unstable sorcerers who obsess over their abilities, knowledge, love, and need for greater power. The majority of case studies find that precursor symptoms appear in late adolescence and if left untreated, lead to violent outbursts and illusions of grandeur.

  “Interesting topic, no?” A warm, enticing masculine voice asked.

  My eyes rose from the pages and met with the man I had spotted doused in camera flashes several hours ago. The holmgang revolutionary stood taller than I had estimated and up close, I could see why Aunt Margot had gushed.

  “Sorry. That may have come off a bit too political with the Sorcerer’s Coalition on every Sunday issue of the Emporium.”