Nightshade (17 tales of Urban Fantasy, Magic, Mayhem, Demons, Fae, Witches, Ghosts, and more)

by Annie Bellet

  My phone was blaring rock music before I shut the door. I grimaced as I answered it. “Yes?”

  Shaw chuckled in my ear. “Why did the—?”

  “—incubus call me with a chicken joke if he expected to get lucky tonight? Good question.”

  The incubus cleared his throat and ended the call. I stomped on the gas and got the hell off Brum’s property. It wasn’t until after I pulled up to my apartment that I remembered the reward.

  I had been so shocked by Ringo’s ignoble end, it hadn’t crossed my mind to ask Brum about the bounty on the cockatrice.

  Killing it had probably voided the offer. Then again, he wouldn’t have a clutch of cockatrice eggs if Ringo hadn’t gone wandering in the first place, and they might have been stolen or eaten if not for me.

  Still. Maybe I was better off not reminding Brum of my role in the discovery of the eggs or the demise of the father—mother?—considering how ecstatic he had been kneeling in the dirt. I had all but seen the dollar signs flashing in his eyes, and I had nothing but lint to offer him if he decided to spin the reward into a bill for damages. Not even the pack would reimburse him once they found out the bird’s death was my fault.

  Oh well. I might not have a check burning a hole in my pocket, but there was a smokin’-hot incubus upstairs waiting for me, and that was kind of the same thing.

  A cupcake enthusiast and funky sock lover possessed of an overactive imagination, Hailey lives in the Deep South with her handcuff-carrying hubby, her fluty-tooting daughter and their herd of dachshunds.

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  Atomic

  C. Gockel

  Sigyn is prophesied to be the consort of a king. Instead she marries a fool. Centuries after his chaos destroys their marriage, the fallout begins ...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sigyn’s grandmother had stopped eating the youth-bestowing apples of Idunn decades ago. Her fingers are papery with age when they grip Sigyn’s chin. “Look up at me, child.”

  Sigyn cranes her neck to meet her grandmother’s eyes, so high above her own.

  Grandmother’s gaze is foggy, but her smile is sharp. “Oh, it might have been worth living to see you grow. Sigyn… Victory Woman, it means. You’ll find yourself consort to a man of great power.” Grandmother lowers her head so her eyes are level with Sigyn’s. “A king maker you’ll be, Girl. A king maker.”

  ***

  “Mama, it hurts! It hurts!” The language of the prayers is Japanese, and those words are the only ones discernible in the cacophony of cries of terror, pain, and loneliness crowding Sigyn’s head, or more accurately, her heart. Covering her ears would do nothing to stop the psychic roar. Only moments ago she’d been in Asgard, realm of those once worshipped as gods, beneath a golden sun and a crystalline blue sky. Now on Earth, in the city the prayers have summoned her to, the sky is choked with soot and smoke, the ground beneath her sizzles, and a wall of fire rings the eerily circular plane she’s standing on. Strangely, she feels an overabundance of free particles in the breeze. She is a magical being, and has more natural resistance to radiation than a human, but if she weren’t wearing armor, she thinks it would be too much for her.

  “My God, what have we done?” This prayer is in English, and the accent sounds American.

  “It hurts! It hurts!” rises in Japanese, above the wordless chorus.

  She blinks. She must be in Japan. Sigyn turns, and something crackles beneath her feet. Looking down, her jaw drops. A thin crust of glass covers the sandy soil. Lifting her gaze, she sees a dome stripped of everything but twisted and charred steel supports. She’s on a battlefield, obviously. But where are the wounded … and the corpses?

  Concentrating, she sends a magical apparition beyond the fiery ring, a trick learned from her ex-husband. A few meters away, her doppelgänger sees a reverse shadow on a stone wall that looks like the silhouette of a woman and child. Sigyn’s apparition moves on and sees a few more such shadows; and then an amorphous shape on the ground catches her eye. As she approaches, realization hits Sigyn swift and hard. Her concentration breaks and her consciousness snaps back into her body. She vomits, but she can’t expel the memory of melted eyes and skin sliding from a corpse.

  Body bent, she blinks as ash falls around her like snow. What is she doing here? It is said that prayers are only heard when they relate to a magical being’s higher purpose. Although her skill with burns is better than most, the burns she saw are beyond the skill of any Asgardian.

  Wiping her mouth, she picks a direction at random and moves toward the flames. Her armor is enough to protect her, and she is determined to find her purpose. Before she reaches the fire, the voices in her head become a wail that splits her eardrums and her skin burns with such intensity it feels like it’s bubbling from within. With a cry, she stumbles back to the center of the crater. The prayers immediately become a murmur and her skin is cool again. Peeling back a piece of her armor, she finds her skin unmarred. It is a phantom pain related to the magical summons in her head.

  “Please, don’t let me lose him in Japan,” she hears in English, and in Japanese she hears, “Water! Please water.”

  She exhales in frustration. Obviously, she’s supposed to stay here for a purpose, but what? Canting her head, she listens to the swell of prayers, the roar of flames, and the buzz of radiation. And then, above it all, she hears a hiccup, not ten paces behind her. She feels the sort of flickering magic she associates with one person.

  Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she turns and finds whom she expects: Loki, the so-called God of Mischief and Lies, legendary drunk, the King of Asgard’s fool, and her ex-husband. He is wearing a brilliantly-colored cotton robe with printed yellow flowers that barely goes to his knees. His ginger hair is flopping over one eye. A green canvas knapsack and his sword hang over one shoulder. In the opposite hand, he clutches a bottle that Sigyn knows is some sort of alcohol. Giving her a clumsy bow, he exclaims, “Sigyn! What a pleasant surprise!” Waving the bottle in an all-encompassing gesture, Loki’s smile turns hard. “Isn’t it marvelous?” His voice is as brittle as the glass-encrusted ground.

  “What happened here?” she asks.

  “Humans have tamed the powers of the atom,” Loki slurs, getting so close she can smell alcohol leaching from his skin. He taps his chin. “Although maybe ‘tamed’ isn’t quite the right word.”

  Covering her nose, Sigyn says, “How?”

  Loki snorts. “The Americans put some unstable elements in a giant tin can with a neutron trigger and boom … atomic fission!”

  Sigyn rolls back on her feet. Magic is based on what humans call “quantum mechanics.” She understands the basics of atoms, and what fission is: atoms being ripped apart and the energy set in motion by the destruction. “The Americans did this?” Unlike most Asgardians, Sigyn follows events on Earth rather closely; Earth is the only place where really interesting things happen. She admires the Americans’ Bill of Rights and Constitution, but not their racism. Any admiration aside … “They are a second tier nation with an anti-intellectual streak … how?”

  “A lot of Germany’s best scientists were Jewish,” Loki says in a subdued voice. “They fled to the United States.”

  Sigyn’s gaze flits to him. It’s the sort of cogent observation he has always surprised her with. There were reasons why she married him.

  Loki takes a swig from the bottle. “Fission … so close to magic.” One of his eyes closes, and he belches. “The king will be so pissed.”

  Feeling exhausted and disgusted, Sigyn wipes soot from her brow. “You’re the one who’s pissed.”

  “You’d be too,” Loki slurs. “If you’d walked through th
e fires and had seen what I’ve seen.”

  It takes no provocation whatsoever for Loki to get drunk, but in this case ... “I sent out an apparition. I saw a little,” Sigyn says softly.

  Loki thrusts the bottle under Sigyn’s nose. Accepting it, Sigyn gratefully takes a swig, but the burn doesn’t erase her memories. Handing the bottle back, she looks out at the swirling flames. The whole city appears to be flattened and set alight. “You walked through that?” He’s not even wearing armor. Even drunk, his power exceeds hers.

  Loki shrugs. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was called,” Sigyn responds.

  Loki sniffs. “To do what?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know; but I still hear them.”

  “You’re not done, then!” he says too brightly. “I’ll keep you company while you figure it out.” With that, Loki flops down on the hot earth, wriggles and purrs. “The ground is toasty!” Laying back, he throws a hand over his eyes. Sigyn’s skin heats, remembering a human story of an emperor fiddling while Rome burned … Loki is doing less … but she’s not doing much more.

  Readjusting her sword, she sits down beside him. “Why are you here?” Sigyn asks. It takes special dispensation to be allowed on Earth: a decree from King Odin or a prayer. “I thought everyone here was recalled when Germany surrendered in Europe?” All of Asgard had been in an uproar. Odin and Thor had favored the Nazis for their “discipline” and “warrior culture.”

  “Was I recalled?” Putting his hand on his chest, Loki flutters his eyelashes. “I must have missed the message.”

  Once the reply would have made her laugh; now it only makes her sigh. Loki skirts Odin’s orders, but never outright disobeys him.

  Pushing back his bangs, Loki says, “Since I was on Earth and in the neighborhood, I thought I’d visit Japan.”

  “Where in Japan are we?” Sigyn asks.

  Loki blinks. “Hiroshima. I came here last night.” His eyes slide to the destruction. “I felt like I had to come here …” He frowns, takes a long swig, and mutters, “just my luck.”

  Cries of “It hurts! It hurts!” and “I’d do anything to bring my boys home,” wash over Sigyn in a fresh wave. Beside her, Loki adjusts his garment and grumbles, “I’ll never get all the soot out of this.”

  Sigyn pulls her knees up to her chest. She can’t tell what time of day it is. The sun is completely obscured.

  Beside her Loki says, “Is this a woman’s dress? The men’s garments in this country look like dresses.” Touching a large flower print on his robe, he purses his lips. “But this is definitely a woman’s dress.”

  Sigyn grits her teeth, annoyed at his flippancy and his drunkenness.

  More softly, he says, “Of course, I took it from the closet of the woman I spent the night with …”

  Sigyn isn’t jealous. It’s been centuries since she and Loki have been together. When she doesn’t respond, Loki continues. “She’s dead, now. A sliver of wood blown by the blast pierced her body. It was such a minor wound … you would have been able to heal it.” His lips twist bitterly. “But I couldn’t.”

  Sigyn feels her heart pound. Her fingernails bite into her palms—anger on the young woman’s behalf floods her. Loki is great at surviving—he can walk through fire and radiation without armor—but he can’t mend a paper cut on another. Still, his magic is so strong she can feel it from paces away, a flickering, raw power. If Loki would just apply himself, he could be as great a healer as any in the Nine Realms.

  Taking another swig from his bottle, Loki mutters, “I destroy everything beautiful … Helen, Aggie, Gullveig ...” He’s said those words for centuries after setbacks large and small. Maybe Helen and Aggie he could not have helped; but humans are dying in agony, their voices are in Sigyn’s head and her heart, and she can do nothing.

  “You blame every disaster on your imagined curse!” she snaps. “The girl died because you won’t spare any patience to learn to help others.” The fire of her wrath grows hotter. “And Gullveig died because you wouldn’t confront the king!”

  Sitting up, eyes blazing, Loki says, “Because I know that to confront him is death!”

  “To live under his rule is death!” Sigyn snarls. “Haven’t you noticed how few children are born in Asgard?” Gullveig had said it was something about Odin’s magic preserving the established order; maybe that was part of the reason he killed her.

  “I don’t see you picking up a sword,” Loki hisses.

  Sigyn hisses back, “There are other ways.” She doesn’t want to destroy the monarchy—maybe once upon a time she had—but she doesn’t want anything like the French or Bolshevik revolutions in her realm. She doesn’t want the streets of Asgard to run red with blood.

  “Pfft … you and Nari.” He makes an opening and closing motion with one hand. “Talk, talk, talk … Nari’s infected you with his chatter of democracy. I may do nothing, but his talk is worse.” Loki’s face loses its hard edge. “Really, Sigyn, it is. You shouldn’t indulge his highbrow notions. Odin will make an example of Nari. You know that, if he does, Valli will do something stupid, and then we’ll lose them both. Please, Sigyn … they listen to you.”

  Sigyn feels no sympathy. “Maybe they’d listen to you if you weren’t drunk—”

  Loki falls over before she finishes her sentence. The tirade she’d planned about how they are adults and should be allowed to choose their own destinies is interrupted by a snore.

  ***

  Trapped by the prayers, Sigyn sits in the burning city, listening to Loki “sawing wood,” as the humans would say. When he stops snoring, she has a moment of panic despite herself. She reaches over and puts her hand on his chest where his garment has spilled open. She feels his heart beat beneath her palm, and his magic whips up like flames to caress her skin, stronger than she remembers, but as always, flickering and unstable. She releases a breath … and then mutters a curse. She’s looking after him again. “Meek and deluded Sigyn,” the court had called her for standing by Loki when he was sent to prison … but he’d gone to prison for her and their sons. If he’d tried to escape, they all would have been banished. How could she not stand by him?

  She stares at her hand. Loki is a foundling from the icy world of Jotunheim. Like all his people, he’s always been pale-skinned. Her skin, like most Asgardians, is the shade of ripe wheat.

  Out of habit, she draws the edges of his robe-like garment together. They’d had many good years, beautiful children, and in a world where wives were protected and indulged but seldom respected, Loki had treated her as an intellectual equal. He’d taught her how to use her magic—weak as it might be. They’d always fought and had shouting matches about esoteric things like law and politics. But they’d never disparage each other in the heat of an argument. She feels herself flush. And afterward, they’d make up.

  “Sigyn.”

  The whisper startles her from her reverie. Her eyes meet Loki’s. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes appear black. One of his hands moves to cover hers. Her heart stops … and then his eyes slip closed and the moment is over.

  She reminds herself she’s glad it’s over. Their lives have gone in different directions. Loki works for Odin, King of Asgard and self-appointed leader of the Nine Realms. More often than not, Sigyn works against him.

  ***

  The sky is darkening when she feels another surge of magic. This magic is so smooth and dark, it almost oozes. She recognizes it too late. One moment she is staring at nothing but devastation, and then she blinks and finds herself facing a grizzled white-bearded warrior in golden armor. One of his eyes is covered by a metal plate. She clambers to her feet, but Odin pays no attention to her. He is scanning the field of fire, grasping his spear Gungnir. The force of Odin’s magic is so great that irradiated particles slow, and the fiery circle draws back. Old instincts die hard and Sigyn leaps in front of Loki, blocking Odin’s one-eyed view of his prone body. Behind the King of Asgard, a squad of Einherjar stream through th
e World Gate and flank their master.

  Gazing out at the plain, Odin shakes his head and whispers, “They know not what they’ve done.”

  And then his eye falls on Sigyn. “You!” Odin hisses. “What are you doing here?”

  Before Sigyn can respond, Odin roars, “Your precious allies, with their democracies, see what they have done! See what they have unleashed on an entire race?” Odin’s lip curls. “The hypocrites. They’ll have the Japanese enslaved within weeks—those they don’t melt like candles. You were called to this treacherous, cowardly slaughter, Victory Woman?”

  Sigyn stumbles back. No one has called her that in a very long time. Odin thumps his spear and points it at her. “I can’t stand to look at you. Leave.”

  Sigyn trembles. She is just competent with her sword, and only a little more competent with magic. And now she stands before the most powerful magic user in the Nine Realms flanked by his soldiers. There is a magical compulsion behind that command, and her body wants to obey. But the voices in her head are still praying, and they give her strength. Sigyn’s fists ball at her sides. “I was called here. By your laws, All Father, I am allowed to—”

  Holding out a hand, Odin commands, “Stop.”

  Words die on her tongue. She feels his magic tighten around her as if she’s caught in a dream where she can’t move. Odin jerks a hand and Einherjar rush forward. They confiscate her weapon and haul her by the arms toward the World Gate. Her skin burns as though she is on fire. The chorus of prayers is so loud; she thinks she will shatter like the glassy ground. A woman screams and it splits Sigyn’s eardrums. It takes a moment for it to register that the scream was her own.

  The men hauling Sigyn drop her. “She’s burning up!”

  Falling to her knees, Sigyn breathes shakily. The sound of the prayers is back to a song; the burn beneath her skin is gone.

  Odin grunts. “If you will not haul this creature away, I will do it myself.”