Feral Magic: An Urban Fantasy Romance-Thriller

by Nicolette Jinks

  Chapter Six

  I stared at the valley below. A creek babbled by the house, lined with columbines, poppies, and heather. A castle huddled against the mountain across the valley, hiding behind mist. Crisp honeysuckle came in on the wind; at first I thought it came from outside, but I realized later that the scent followed me.

  Soon enough, I had organized my notes to satisfaction. I went in search of food. There was a refrigerator in the kitchen, though it had the style dating back to the sixties or so, mint green with a cream pinstripe. The oven matched. The counter was decaying asbestos. I sighed, ran quickly through the empty cupboards and found a pantry at the end of the dining hall. Bare shelves lined the pantry, set up for potion ingredients.

  Nothing left to look at in my little home, and so I went through the double french doors.

  The living room from yesterday greeted me. It was basking in sunlight, blushing furniture, and a chocolate carpet. Contrary to what Leif had indicated, I did not see anyone around. There was a book on a side table; I flipped through it. Latin, of course. Maybe one of Leif's books?

  A clatter came from the kitchen. I jumped. My magic rushed to investigate. Mordon was pouring himself a thick, dark drink. He came out from around the cabinets, brushing his hands at my magic as though to dissipate it.

  He smiled when he saw me. "Forget where you were?"

  "Just didn't know I had company," I said, trailing after him to the breakfast nook. I sat across from him, feeling a little unsteady, still unaccustomed to the press and constant motion of the air against all my senses. He sipped at his drink. I asked, "What is that?"

  "Something from home," was all he said, blowing over steam, rustling a Thaumaturgical Tribune before him. I'd already skimmed over the copy Leif brought, though I hadn't finished that one article. I would rather remember myself as a person who didn't break into houses and terrify people.

  The vapors teased my tongue, I licked my lips at the salted undertones drifting on the steam. Though I had never been one for craving salt, much less indistinguishable drinks from unknown origins, my stomach growled. Embarrassed and seeing he was occupied with the paper, I went into the kitchen, made myself three eggs, and wolfed them down.

  "You should probably have some toast, too," Mordon said. I cocked my head at him, wondering if he was teasing me or perhaps making one of those none-too-kind comments men sometimes make to tell a woman to mind her weight. He sighed. "Or a piece of fruit or something. Your metabolism is going to be working hard to keep up with your recovery. Eat double what you normally would, for at least a week."

  "Leif said I had a busy day ahead of me, but you're the only one here."

  "I'm the only one without a 'normal' job," Mordon said.

  I stuffed my fist against my lips to keep from giggling when the image of Mordon as a stay at home father popped into my head. I cleared my throat and went to cruise the kitchen again, coming back with a slab of cold roast beef and a mug of milk.

  "No breads?" Mordon looked amused.

  "Sounds nasty," I said, though I couldn't account for why the thought of bread or anything sweet turned my stomach. When I finished, I asked Mordon again about his drink.

  "They call it 'brew'. I know that isn't a real name, but there you are. It's the common beverage, served at all times of the day. There are a few variations, but…" Mordon shrugged, then teased, "Want some? Most people find it to be an acquired taste."

  I nodded before he had the chance to retract his offer. He raised a brow, pushed his mug towards me. It was thick as gravy, and tasted like it had been made from lamb broth. Copper lingered on my tongue, pepper bit my lips. For an instant, I warred between finding it revolting and comforting. Comfort won out. Reluctantly, I passed it back to Mordon.

  "Dare I ask what you think?"

  I frowned. There was something familiar about it. "That's something only drakes have?"

  Mordon shrugged. "A few people have taken a liking to it who aren't. Why?"

  "I can't get over the feeling I've had it before."

  He went back to reading the paper.

  I rubbed my forehead. "Can we get out of here? The air's so stale."

  He cocked a glance at me. "You are doing well so far. Do you want to push your limits?"

  I dove for my shoes, making Mordon chuckle. "Don't seem so eager."

  "I don't like four walls and closed doors."

  Somehow, Mordon beat me to the door.

  To my surprise, Mordon did not take me "out" so much as "into the shop". I held my tongue to avoid sounding like a child complaining that her toy wasn't the exact shade of fuchsia that was on the box. Nevertheless, my hesitance made Mordon turn around.

  "We're going to run through some tests first. Depending on how you do, we will go into the market while it's quiet."

  The door dropped us behind the counter with a jewellery case and a vintage cash register.

  “What's with the sarcophagus?” I asked.

  “Templar. Nothing too exciting, but you never know what you will get when you buy the contents of a locked dungeon.”

  I was not sure if I was curious or repulsed by the thought of sharing this place with a dead body.

  “Close your eyes and feel out the environment,” Mordon said.

  “What?”

  “With your magic. It's an advantage only some types have. I can't very well walk into a new place and send tendrils of fire over everything, but that would have saved me from headache. Light and dark elements may be able to do it, but it's fairly noticeable when they do. Flickering lights? Dark elementals love that trick. But the wind, it's invisible, and it works everywhere.” Mordon spoke with a mixture of envy and practicality.

  What wasn't he telling me? I was uneasy, but I couldn't put my finger down why. “What will happen?”

  Mordon spread a velvet pad over the jewellery case and tipped a wooden box over it. Jewels flashed in the light, some tumbling from the box, some on his fingers as he picked apart tangled chains. “There's one way to find out.”

  I put my hand on my hip. “There's always more than one way.”

  “That's the spirit,” he said. He righted the box and sorted rhinestones straight into it.

  I sighed, realizing that he wasn't going to just tell me what he had in mind. I was going to have to find out for myself. The next straightforward solution was to just do as he suggested and hope for the best.

  My eyes closed and I let out a breath. Nothing happened instantly and I felt foolish. How had I done this last time? Why was this magic so pressing and urgent at one second, and absent the second I wanted it?

  Mordon chuckled.

  My eyes squeezed but I resisted opening them. “Are you going to tell me to let go of my conscience stream of thought and relax into meditation or whatever?”

  “No.”

  The word startled me into staring at him. Mordon's fingers flew through the jewels now that he had necklaces lined up by their chains. There came a steady plunk, plunk as he tossed one pin after the next into sorting boxes.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “There's always more than one way.” He held a stone up to the light and stroked his chin as though it were a beard. Lowering the ring down, he made a fist behind it. Green glowed in the gaps between his fingers. When he opened his fist, a flitting flame illuminated the gem.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Once more I felt that breath expand and continue, seeming to fill my body from my throat to my toes. I felt the air as it passed over my skin like my own finger touching my cheek.

  When I looked upon the shop, I felt dizzy and heady, as though I had inhaled too much perfume. At first, the wind moved of its own natural current from floor to ceiling. Then I focused on it and I realized I could touch the bookcase with the air, as though through a glove.

  Controlling the air was like guiding a trickle of water through impressions made with a stick in the dirt. Sometimes it worked well and the air followed the path I wanted. Sometimes it
chose its own path.

  My magic skimmed along the edge of a carved cross on the sarcophagus. Heat blazed through me, seeming to start at my heart. I froze, confused, and put a hand to my chest. Heat scorched through my veins. I yanked back from the sarcophagus, but something wouldn't let me go.

  I panicked at first and tried to pull back harder. My mouth was dry, and I couldn't voice a scream. The air had gone still.

  With a frantic struggle, I threw all my strength against the foreign spell. Nothing seemed to happen. Dryness spread down my throat.

  Whatever was happening, struggling was doing me more harm than good. Fighting off panic, I forced myself to relax. I counted to ten, slowly. Then I yanked my magic back. I felt resistance, then a popping sensation as the spell let me go. I staggered, put a hand to my throat, and coughed.

  “What did you do?” Mordon asked, sounding concerned. “You didn't break anything, did you?”

  Gasping for air and with a mouth too dry to respond anyway, I answered him by giving him a one-fingered salute.

  “I do believe that's a rude gesture. Mind explaining why I've earned it?”

  It took me a minute to work my throat. This gave me enough time to both take control of my anger and to feel shamed for my vulgarity.

  I said, “Because you were more worried of what I broke than if I was fine.”

  Mordon had by now sorted through his jewels and was arranging the remainder in the case below. He snorted dismissively. “There is not a thing in here which would actually harm you. Even if you did hurt yourself, I'm supervising.”

  “Thanks for making me sound like a child,” I said. Now my face was hot with anger again.

  “If you were, this would be much easier. Think of it this way: you are virtually a child who has been picked up and deposited in an adult body. The magic is clumsy, strong, and is just as likely to respond to the whims of the moment as it is a deliberate command. If you want someone who will be there to hold your hand and help you open doors, then I'm not the one you want. So, tell me, do you want a teacher who will guide you to the toilet?”

  Indignation and anger boiled through my every thought. Magic pooled around me, bundled up tight and ready to spring. Then I knew he was intentionally antagonizing me.

  I wondered for a second if he expected me to retaliate, if he would see backing down as a sign of weakness. My eyes met his and I refused to look away when I saw the dance of flames in them.

  I said, “If I'm too much of a burden, please do tell me, and I will see if you can't trade me for a gentle lamb.”

  Mordon snapped his fingers and the air exploded into fire.

  Adrenaline shot through me. I gathered the air and shoved it away from me when I saw the flames leap at their touch. I held my breath and pushed all the air out from me, leaving me in a vacuum in the center.

  The flames fell to coals. Lightheadedness made my vision swim, but I held the vacuum. Mordon flicked his fingers. The coals and fire died.

  I gripped the corner of the counter to remain standing.

  “A promising start,” Mordon said. The display had not so much as made his breath hitch. I knew. I could feel its regularity. “You would not have been allowed to do that any less than six weeks into the rehabilitation program we are supposed to be following.”

  There was something twisting my stomach. I couldn't so much as nod to reply. For a few seconds, I gulped at cool air. Feeling better, I said, “Sarcophagus.”

  Mordon stared at me for a puzzled minute, then said, “Ah, yes. You go straight for the toughest challenge, don't you?”

  Before I could reply, the door opened behind me. I jumped and caught a glimpse of a flying carpet in the background before the visitor shut the arched door. I was still coming to terms with the flying carpet when Mordon greeted the man in a scarcely-polite voice.

  “Gregory Cole, what brings Your Humanness to my domain?”

  “My name is Gregor.”

  My jaw dropped as a man from my nightmare stepped up to the counter.

  Gregor Cole was a man as tall as a hanged skeleton and with all its vivacity. Black clothes draped his shoulders. Though he did not so much as acknowledge me, terror froze me stiff as a board.

  “Lord Meadows. I received a copy of the official report,” Cole said. “I know there was no body which was cremated.”

  Mordon nudged me aside and stood nose to nose with the taller man. Silence suspended between them, a scent like a butcher's shop wafting on Cole's lips. Mordon did not seem to care or notice.

  “It was a quiet ceremony,” Mordon said.

  “One that excluded me.”

  “Yes.”

  Cole wrinkled his lip, and said, “Very well, if that is how you will have it. As a pure-blood to a pure-blood, I am giving you advice it is best you heed: quondam ferus, fera, semper.”

  Mordon's face remained neutral. He said, “If that is all.”

  “That is all.” His eyes darted to mine, and it felt like he rammed his fist into my gut. Those eyes were dark and dull.

  There was a whisper as his cloak trailed him out of the shop, and a resounding echo as he slammed the door. Though the man had left all the more suddenly than he had entered, his scent remained.

  Mordon immediately bolted to a bookshelf and took a spine as thick as two hands into his arms. He was muttering something.

  I shuddered. “Why did he smell like that?”

  “Later, later,” Mordon said, then his face pinched together in tight lines of concentration. “What did he say? Quon-something…something semper. The last is obvious. But the rest…”

  I repeated the phrase. Mordon looked up the words. Then he cocked his head at me.

  “Are you positive that is what he said?” Mordon asked. I nodded. Mordon added, “How? Did you write it down or use a mnemonic device?”

  “Just good memory. It's genetic.”

  “Yes, I should be accustomed to it by now,” Mordon said.

  “What's it mean?”

  Mordon frowned, and then said, “You refer to the phrase? 'Once wild, always wild', more or less. It's clearly an allusion to you, but why he would warn me about you is very interesting indeed.”

  Mordon fell to staring at me. When I moved away, his eyes did not follow. He stared into empty space.

  “Mordon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What was with the fire?”

  His eyes snapped to mine and he shook his head as though clearing it. “Still thinking of that? It was a test. See what you would do when threatened a little.”

  I scoffed. “I wasn't really threatened.”

  Disbelieving, he cocked a brow at me. “No?”

  “Aren't you a little afraid of me? After what Cole said?”

  “What could you possibly do to me?” Mordon asked.

  Now my brow furrowed and I considered not answering him. But, this Cole had a point. If Mordon were to let his cockiness get the better of him, I wanted him to know full well the danger I could present.

  I approached Mordon and laid one hand down on the book. Then I reached up and I cupped his nose and mouth in my hand. I stopped the airflow.

  Mordon looked confused at first, then his eyes widened. I pulled my hand away. He coughed. Then he shut the book, his eyes clouded in thought.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “There is that. Doesn't take much, but it would take some time.”

  I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. I shrugged. “I thought you should know.”

  Mordon slid the book back in its place, and gave me a long, considering look that I couldn't place.