Swift Magic (The Swift Codex Book 2)

by Nicolette Jinks

  This hadn't been here when I was on my hike with my parents.

  “What are these?” I asked.

  “It's like a fortune tree,” Mordon said. “Don't you know? The colony has one, we maintain it for the children and New Year's. People write encouragements, prompts, and dares. They leave it tied to the tree. Our rule is to compose a message you would like to receive. If you tie a bad note to the tree it will take that note away and give you one of the scrolls previously confiscated.”

  He laughed, making me think he'd done this intentionally as a child.

  “Speaking from experience?”

  “I learned a few choice words that way. Agnes was not happy to hear me repeat them.”

  Lyall patted the trunk affectionately. “Our tree does the same. Feraline of the Swift Clan, all you two need to do to officially be welcomed to the Verdant Wildwoods is to take a scroll. Mordon Meadows, Drake Lord of the Kragdomen Colony, same goes for you.”

  I reached forward and took one that was wrinkled from rain and brown from dust. Mordon grabbed the nearest one at hand.

  He got his seal open first.

  “When in doubt, have faith and believe.”

  Lyall shrugged. “I wonder how many there are that say that.”

  Mordon's may have been common, but I could tell there was something weird with mine. The underside of the scroll was black as I uncurled it, its writing revealed in flashes as the light reflected off it the way a feather gleams.

  It took me a minute to be able to read it.

  Miss Swift,

  You face a foe who is one step ahead of you. These people need you more and more as the day becomes dark.

  Remember, on a cold night keep a warm hearth.

  -Death

  My brow furrowed. I wanted to show the message to Mordon, but before I could, I felt the page lighten. It broke into five chunks which became crow feathers in my palm, its words the glint of light.

  “Incredible,” Mordon said.

  Lyall wordlessly reached for them. A honeysuckle scented breeze snatched the feathers and swirled them out into the canopy of leaves.

  “What was that?” Lyall asked.

  “A correspondence from Death,” I said, setting my shoulders. “There's work to be done.”

  Lyall gazed westwardly, checking the path of the sun. “It will have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, we camp. The intruders mean that I need to check upon the health of the wards within this area. Stay at camp. The last thing I want to do is rescue you two.”

  Chapter Seven

  … The gray-coated Hunter gripped my arm and hauled me into the shadowy recesses of shrubs. Behind us were thin woods. Ahead of us, the place a wraith held my father captive. Indignation tightened my throat. My parents would expect me to use the small door in the quietest part of the house, it was what we'd discussed many times before. I relaxed in the Hunter's grasp before quickly jerking free.

  The man snatched my jacket. “Get down! If they see you, we're caught. And I never wanted you in this.”

  His name was Desmond and he was one of three Hunters who had decided to join us on the wraith hunt. It had started off with my parents being contacted about a supposed possession of a woman. It turned out to be much, much more. A low-grade demon wasn't too terrifying but was still serious, so my parent's hadn't been concerned until I discovered that we were deal with a wraith.

  Finding a wraith was like finding smallpox in a children's daycare. A wraith was fast, deadly, and quick to leave bodies in its wake.

  For one thing, wraiths could and would change bodies as often as desired, becoming crazier with each change. No one to my knowledge had survived being possessed by a wraith. For another thing, wraiths could mist when agitated. This made them enter a kinetic state of being which rendered them very hard to kill.

  So when we found out that we had a wraith on our hands, I'd supported getting back-up. Right until I met Desmond, that is.

  The Hunters in general treated me fine in front of my parents but when it was just me they acted as if I were some cock-sure arrogant kid. I was newly out of my teens, but I lacked the confidence I seemed to display as I followed to the letter exactly what I'd been taught. Desmond had been sure that, considering our respective experience, he could do no wrong and I could do no right. As a result, I wasn't where I should have been and it wasn't me who paid the price.

  Our trouble was the Hunters were treating this wraith as if he were a demon. Demons could be overcome, would fight and wane, then run. Wraiths gained strength through confrontation, yet their weakness was they loved to swing a deal. You just had to be particular about what bargain you were making.

  The wraith, half-mad in soul lust, now had Father in a shack perched at the edge of a cliff.

  Guess who was the scapegoat for that blunder?

  “We can't sneak up on her. If she's old, she already knows we're here. If she's young, she won't like being startled.”

  “She will not let your father go. I know. Follow my lead or stay here,” he said.

  Without waiting for a response, he scurried through the shadowed hedges along the house. Lately I'd been wondering if I was in too deep. The cases were spiraling ever closer and closer to sorcerers, and being near one made me feel jealous. Having the Hunters give me the cold shoulder was yet another reminder that I would not be one of them, no matter what my parents thought.

  I could not bring myself to follow Desmond as he navigated gracefully through defensive wards, avoiding them with the aid of a spell at the tips of his fingers. It was a sore reminder of the magic I hadn't regained. Around these people, my parents began to use spells freely. When they were alone with me, my parents were conservative with their spells as a consideration. Now, though, they'd taken on a different attitude.

  It was expected now that I'd be over losing my magic. That I'd accept my position as a scint worker, something to be shown off as a mark of courage yet also pitied and secretly sheltered. That was what the Hunters expected of me: to be a crippled mascot cheering from the sidelines.

  Once the crunch of Desmond's feet faded, I stood up in the night.

  I had a choice. To do as I was told, or to be on my own.

  A sharp spell pierced through the midnight air. I heard the cry of alarm. I ran.

  I came awake under the sweeping boughs of a droopy evergreen. Mordon nestled against me, chest rising and falling with slow breaths. His arm was slung over my shoulder, flexing when I wriggled. A honeysuckle breeze tickled my skin. Tiny little hairs stood up on my neck. Slowly, I pried his hand off me.

  “No.” Mordon's muscles hardened. He pulled me snug to his chest. “Mine.”

  He nosed my neck as if to affirm I was there.

  “Mordon,” I whispered and tried to shrug him off with the same results. “I want to sit up.”

  He tightened his grip, ant then a growl slipped from his throat. I prepared to push my way out of his arms. Teeth closed about my ear lobe, firm enough to make me freeze.

  “Mine.”

  I sighed and went limp in his grasp. “Yes, yours.”

  Suddenly content, his body softened and he licked the ear he'd been biting. I scrubbed at the saliva, deciding that licking wasn't really my thing. I tried to make my neck comfortable by using his bicep as a pillow. It sort of worked.

  “What was your dream about?” Mordon asked.

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “Since you woke me with all your tossing and turning.”

  “Maybe I wouldn't toss and turn if you'd let me be comfortable.”

  “If I do not hold you, I get a knee in my gut or heel in my throat.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I do. You are a very mobile sleeper.”

  Distantly, I recalled that I used to fall asleep with my legs propped up against the wall. It seemed that Mordon had taken the wall's place in my sleeping arrangement.

  “Sorry.”

  “You apologize too often for no solid reason. I am consid
ering banning the word 'sorry' so you learn when to use it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn't think I said it that much.”

  “You say it when you are not at fault, thereby making it too often. Next time you apologize, you had best know what it is for.” Quieter, he added, “It's not good to hold yourself accountable when the consequences were not a direct result of your decision.”

  “Fine.”

  We were there in silence. Quick little darts of bats sliced through the air. At times I thought I could hear a faint click from their wings.

  “The dream?” Mordon asked.

  I shrugged. “Nothing too bad. Well, not yet. It was about one of the Hunters who was with my parents and me. Father was caught. I was trying to help free him, but the Hunters didn't want to listen to me.”

  “The reason being?”

  “I had the least credibility.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Who would you listen to, three seasoned Hunters or a barely twenty-year-old without magic?”

  “Hmm.”

  “One of them went and got himself killed.”

  Mordon stroked the hair out of my face. “That seems to happen to your companions.”

  I stiffened. “Not funny.”

  “That makes it no less of a valid observation. What killed him?”

  “Ambushing a wraith.”

  “I do not believe I have ever met a wraith.”

  “Probably not. They prefer to hang with the non-magical crowd, but even so they don't stand out unless they're mad. And by mad, I mean insane not angry. It isn't common to see them at all.”

  “Was it this wraith who had your father?”

  “Yes, but it wasn't what you think. She didn't have him tied up and gagged or anything. When I walked into the room, the fiasco with the 'intruder' had calmed. They were playing cards.”

  “Cards? Why do I sense there was something important to keep him at the table?”

  “Because there was. It was Mother's life. That's how you tango with a wraith: deals and swindles. If Father won, he'd walk away free. If he lost, the wraith would get a new—younger and prettier—body.”

  Mordon raised himself onto his elbows. “Your mother's? Not yours?”

  “A magic wielding fey who will look in the prime of her life for ages, or a scint girl with acne?” I shook my head. “It was a no-brainer.”

  Mordon frowned, obviously in disagreement with my assessment. “Did your father win? I assume he did.”

  “Win against a wraith? Doesn't happen.”

  “So your mother...”

  “Is fine. Father postponed ending the card game until I appeared. He had an alright hand, but not enough to win unless her hand was absolutely horrid.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Joined the game. Used one of my trinkets to make it look like I had a strong hand when I really had a so-so one. Then I shuffled the deck before she could examine it, said goodnight, and left with Father.”

  “And that was that? What happened to the wraith?”

  I paused, wondering how he'd take the last bit. “Mother was waiting outside the door for us. She threw gasoline on the wraith and lit it. Wraiths can take a lot of things but they can't take fire.”

  Unlike demons.

  Mordon tapped his finger against my arm, thinking. “And why didn't your father do this earlier?”

  “Wraiths can see or sense two things in their territory but not three. She was watching Father and me, but she couldn't see Mother as she approached.”

  “Why does this memory haunt you?”

  I remembered. My insides went cold. “When they all wanted to know why I let Desmond try his ambush when I knew how to handle the situation. They wouldn't believe that Desmond wouldn't listen to me.”

  “I see.” Mordon was quiet for a minute.

  “I pretty well quit after that. Started doing my own thing. Just busting household bogies and practicing potions. Safe things, you know? Or that's what I thought.”

  Mordon kissed my cheek. “You sound finished with talking.”

  “I'm so tired.”

  He cradled me close. “Leothuwaceh, my love. Leothuwaceh.”

  The worries melted as the spell soothed over me. I relaxed. At the edge of sleep, I mumbled, “Thanks.”

  “Anything, love.”

  Chapter Eight

  Some kind of bark-based tisane simmered over the fire in a pot blackened with smoke. Thick, goopey oatmeal rested on hot stones lining the fire pit. Inside the oatmeal were bits of dried fruit, now plump and tender, to sweeten the otherwise bland mush.

  I was the last one up. Though I blamed the dreams, laziness was the real culprit. When the sun first peeked over the horizon, I couldn't be bothered to awaken with the men. Goopy oatmeal and oversteeped bark tisane was my reward, and I enjoyed it with relish.

  Mordon and Lyall were both absent.

  An inspection of the camp hinted they wouldn't be gone for long. A stick in the ground cast a shadow which was at a slight angle to another stick radiating from the base. I guessed that it marked the sun's shadows at the time of their departure. Lyall's bedroll was folded up, not snugly secured to his pack with its top open.

  The open pack piqued my curiousity. It would be wrong to nose through Lyall's possessions, particularly given they seemed to be all he had. That little fact also made a quick browse irresistible. I gathered my feet under me.

  “Morning.”

  It was Lyall. I tried not to look guilty. “Morning. Where did the two of you go?”

  “Your fire drake is sunbathing.”

  The image of Mordon mostly naked at the side of a pool filled my mind. “What?”

  “His wings are massive in a place like this. He's meant for high-altitude gliding. It's inconvenient, but I will say he has a fancy color pattern.”

  I thought of his red scales, the black cross down his back, the stripes on his legs. “I didn't realize it was considered fancy.”

  Lyall whistled. “Any female would love to have his pattern. Wouldn't surprise me if he got teased a lot as a youngster for being so flashy.”

  “He hasn't mentioned anything.”

  Lyall shrugged, obviously dismissing the topic in favor of another one. “About the Blackwings who interrupted us?”

  “I was kind of expecting an act of retribution. The hitman was a bit direct, but not completely out of the blue.”

  “Your father would not be happy to hear of it.”

  “And so he shouldn't,” I said slowly, pointedly.

  “Fine. It is in the past, isn't it?”

  “Right.”

  “Consider one little thing. Consider that you may be safer here with people who understand you than with those who are ignorant and afraid.”

  I resisted rolling my eyes. “I will consider it.”

  “I know you ran with a few of the Hunters from time to time. Maybe you can meet up with them again.”

  “I hope not.”

  Lyall was genuinely surprised. “Why?”

  “It's nothing.”

  He opened his arms wide, hooked them behind his head. “Throw me a stick here.”

  “No.”

  “Very well. If you're sure?”

  I nodded.

  He twirled his foot in a circle. When it was clear I was going to stand by my refusal, he grunted and reached into his open pack. There was a rustling sound, and a half-sized newspaper appeared in his hand. He flopped it open, fanning the fern leaves beside his pack. The paper must have arrived as I slept because I hadn't seen it anytime yesterday or last night. Mordon either hadn't seen it or had already caroused it in his customary morning habit.

  “Anything interesting?” I asked, noting that the paper was titled Wildwoods Weekly. Must be a small community if they only printed a weekly paper.

  “Interesting as in the gossip, the weekly serial stories, or actual news?”

  “How about actual news?”

  Lyall snapped the floppy top straight a
nd flipped to a middle page. He read aloud.