Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  I was stunned. This enigmatic, visiting professor had spoken with my advisor and completely altered the next year of my life before he’d even met me . . . at least, officially. I felt a twinge of irritation that he hadn’t consulted with me before rearranging the next year of my life, but the results were amazing enough that I ignored it. “Yes, I think so. Thank you . . . again, Professor Bahur.”

  “You’re welcome . . . again, Ms. Larson. I expect your participation will invigorate the excavation.”

  Invigorate the excavation—what the hell does that mean? Along with uncovering the secrets of a long-dead queen, I anticipated uncovering the mysteries behind the confounding man sitting across from me.

  We discussed some of the more technical details of the excavation over the next several hours. During a lull in our conversation, Professor Bahur glanced around and then said, “I’m afraid our meeting lasted longer than I’d anticipated and night has fallen. I’d hate for you to have to walk home alone in the dark. Might I walk with you?”

  Gazing through the narrow, floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall, I found that the sun had indeed set and twilight had come and gone. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Although the idea of a companion on my trip home was tempting, I didn’t want to impinge on Professor Bahur’s undoubtedly valuable time. “You really don’t need to walk me home,” I told him, but for a reason I didn’t understand at all, I wanted him to. I should have been running for the hills after what happened with Mike, but I felt an overwhelming amount of trust for the professor. I shook my head the barest amount. Yep, I’ve officially lost it.

  Professor Bahur lifted his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged into it. “Really, Ms. Larson, there is a great deal of difference between want and need. I’d expect someone of your advanced academic experience to be familiar with the disparity.”

  Standing, I blushed at the idea of him wanting anything non-academic from me and used arranging my coat and scarf as a shield. “Alright, but only if you want to,” I said, attempting to keep the teasing tone in the friendly range.

  “I assume, then, that a combination of want and need are acceptable,” he said with a severely polite air, the sharp sparkle in his eyes the only hint of playfulness. “One must always keep a watchful eye on those he needs in matters of business, and I couldn’t possibly turn down the chance to spend more time in the company of such a lovely, knowledgeable colleague.” He indicated the crooked path toward the door with a negligent gesture. “After you, Ms. Larson.”

  Baffled again by his strange behavior, I slipped between the tables and headed for the door. I made sure to smile at Cassandra as I passed the counter.

  She glared back, her sour expression turning to honey as she looked at the man following me. “Goodnight, Professor Bahur,” she chirped.

  “Cassandra,” came his emotionless response, and though I wasn’t looking at him, I pictured him giving her the slightest nod of acknowledgement.

  Once the door closed behind us, I smiled and glanced at the professor. “You know, I think you might have just broken her heart with a single word.”

  “Yes, well . . .” he said as he looked up into the cloudy night sky, a tired smile playing across his lips. “I can’t waste time and effort on every woman who desires my attention, Ms. Larson.”

  “A curse of the beautiful, I suppose.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished for them back. I was sure I’d just crossed a line in our newly-established, mostly professional relationship.

  Professor Bahur chuckled and casually placed his hands in his coat pockets. “A curse whose effects you must suffer from every day,” he said before turning to walk toward the nearest concrete path.

  I stood in place, dumbfounded. Does that man really think I’m beautiful? I was more of a shrug and a “Yeah, she’s pretty” kind of woman, and I was perfectly comfortable with the fact that I would never turn many heads or stand out in a room full of people. And then I remembered my current appearance, that I looked like I was suffering from some ghastly wasting sickness. He’s just being nice, I realized.

  “Ms. Larson, are you coming? It is most difficult to walk you home when I neither know the way nor have you beside me,” he called over his shoulder.

  I caught up quickly, noticing he’d been heading in the correct direction without my assistance. “You seem to be doing just fine on your own. I live in the Malloy—do you know it?”

  “Ah, yes. How nice that you’re able to reside in such a lovely building.”

  I snorted. “I don’t know about that. I think it lost most of its loveliness half a century ago.” After a moment, I said, “Professor Bahur, how—”

  “Please, call me Marcus,” he interrupted. “It seems inappropriate for such an accomplished scholar to address me as a student would a teacher.”

  “But that’s what we are,” I countered.

  “Ms. Larson, your status as a graduate student is a flaw that I’m certain will be corrected by the end of our excavation.”

  Bristling, I recalled how neatly he’d rearranged the next year of my graduate career and stopped in my tracks. “You know, I can earn my PhD, just like everyone else—with hard work and years of research. I don’t need you to do me any favors, and I’d never accept a degree I haven’t earned.”

  When he turned to face me, his lips were parted in surprise. He retraced his steps until he stood so close that the condensation in his breath nearly touched me. “You misunderstand me,” he said evenly. “I merely meant that I have great belief in your ability to use the excavation to finalize your degree. After the discoveries we’ll make over the next twelve months, I can’t imagine the university could hold back on granting your doctorate of philosophy.” His nearness and height were slightly intimidating when paired with the chill in his voice.

  “Oh.”

  “Might we continue on?” he asked.

  Embarrassed and worried that I’d damaged any possibility of friendship, I blurted, “I’m so sorry . . . I overreacted. I shouldn’t have, Profess—”

  “Marcus,” he corrected. “And it’s already forgotten.”

  “Marcus,” I agreed with a shy smile. “You’ll have to call me Lex, then.”

  “Very well, Lex. Now, I believe you were going to ask me something,” he reminded me as we continued along the path.

  “Oh, yeah . . . I’m sure you already have a plan for this, but how are you going to clear Hatchepsut’s mortuary temple of visitors for months? The SCA will lose a ton of money.” The SCA, short for the Supreme Council of Antiquities, was the organization in charge of pretty much everything relating to ancient Egypt. “I can’t imagine them agreeing to give us exclusive access for the sake of scholarly discoveries.”

  For the first time, Marcus smiled fully, and the beauty of his joy nearly made me stumble. “Well, Lex, let’s just say that I have friends in high places.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Across the street from my building, we stopped, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. “You don’t need to cross with me. I’ll be safe inside in less than a minute.”

  Marcus turned to me, searching my face for something only he would recognize. “Need and want, Ms. Larson. Need and want.” No hint of humor pervaded his words. He’s certainly an odd one, I thought, but the sense of safety—of trust—had only increased during our walk.

  Seconds later, as we crossed the street, I grew increasingly curious about the man beside me. Who is he, besides an archaeologist? How did he make friends in such high places? How have I never heard of him? It was as though he’d simply appeared on the archaeology scene last month. That just doesn’t happen.

  We stopped in front of my building’s glass door, and Marcus waited while I fished through my bag for my keys. I felt a flash of anxiety as I remembered the last time I’d been standing in front of the same door. Seeming to sense my unease, Marcus took a few steps away. Miraculously, with the breathing space, calm returned.

  I unlocked the doo
r and held it open with my body, half in and half out of the building. “Thanks for keeping me company . . .”

  “Anytime,” he replied with a quick bow of his head. “I’ll see you bright and early on Monday.”

  I smiled and nodded, retreating into the warmth of the building. For the briefest moment, I wondered what Marcus would have done if I’d invited him inside. My mom was still there, so the thought was purely hypothetical. Unfortunately, it triggered more memories of Mike, of being helpless to him, and I shuddered.

  Silently, I vowed never to date again.

  10

  Asleep & Awake

  Marcus lurked in my thoughts throughout my mom’s delicious dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes, as well as our evening screening of a covert ops action flick. Though I’d only been out of the apartment for a few hours, the exercise and excitement had exhausted me. From the looks my mom kept flashing me, my weariness was poorly hidden.

  “Why don’t you go to bed, sweetie?” she suggested after she turned off the TV. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep, and you’ll be more comfy in your room.”

  Stretching on the couch, I yawned. “Good idea.” It didn’t really matter that it was only nine o’clock. I gave her a hug, stood, and headed to my room. “Goodnight, Mom,” I said before closing the door.

  I had just enough energy to wash off the light makeup I’d donned for the meeting with Marcus, brush my teeth, and change into flannel pajama pants and a lavender T-shirt displaying a cuddly cartoon version of the UW Husky. I slipped under the covers and fell asleep almost instantly.

  I was standing in a dark study filled with mahogany tables, built-in bookshelves, and rich, leather furniture. I was surrounded by the spicy scent of cigars and Cognac mixed with the musk of aged books. In the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp, a dark-haired man was leaning over a desk, his back to me. I moved closer, suspicion growing with each step.

  As I rounded the desk, my instinct proved true. Marcus Bahur. His face was taut with concentration as he studied photographs of hieroglyphs. I recognized most of them, but one specific set stood out beyond the others—the lion’s head above a half-circle paired with a full circle and two vertical parallel lines, one with a flag-like protrusion. It was the same set of symbols that had been evading my deciphering abilities for months.

  “Makes sense,” I mumbled, dismissing the pictures. My brain was just mashing together a bunch of the things that had been occupying my mind lately.

  Marcus leaned closer to one of the images, his expression changing. Two fine lines creased the space between his eyebrows, and his lips puckered minutely. For a moment, all I could think about was how much I wanted to truly know the mesmerizing man sitting before me—the same man who was handing me the career opportunity of a lifetime.

  Without preamble, the scene shifted in a dizzying swirl of colors. Marcus was the only constant in the chaos, remaining seated as the frenzied colors surrounded us. I became nauseated and had to close my eyes as I waited, hoping the endless swirling would stop. When I opened them again, I gasped.

  Marcus was still sitting in front of me, but on a short, gilded stool instead of an oversized desk chair . . . and he was shirtless. His golden-brown skin glowed in soft firelight. Smooth lines of muscle led from his shoulders down to an intricately woven belt, which was holding up some sort of white linen garment.

  He stood suddenly, displaying his odd attire—a calf-length skirt. After seconds of confusion, I realized it was the Middle Kingdom royal kilt. I laughed out loud, accepting that my imagination was getting the best of me, combining my new fascination with the professor and all of the recent excitement about the excavation.

  I took one last, lingering look at the immaculate physique my mind assigned to Marcus, then closed my eyes for a long moment, willing my consciousness to move on to another dream.

  Again, when I opened my eyes, the scene around me had transformed. I was in a long, arched stone corridor. Narrow, glassless windows lined the left side, letting in silvery moonlight. I almost screamed when I looked down at the floor. In the square of light coming through the nearest window lay a man, eyes open and sightless. There was a very deep gash cutting across his throat, and blood soaked the front of what could only be called a once-pale doublet.

  I looked up, away, anywhere but at the dead man. My eyes landed on a second body further down the corridor . . . then another, and another. Shadows and moonlight had tricked my eyes at first, but once I started seeing them—the dead—I couldn’t look away. There were so many. A dozen? More?

  Behind me, there was a masculine shout, closely followed by a grunt and a loud thump. It sounded like a fight. Is it whoever killed these people? I took several hasty steps in the opposite direction and promptly tripped, sprawling on the uneven stone floor. At first I thought I’d caught my toe on one of the stones, but when I looked back, I realized it had been the dead man—the one with the cut throat. “Ugh!” I exclaimed, skin crawling.

  Carefully, I stood and started picking my way down the hallway, away from the sounds of men fighting. I’d just stepped over the sixth body—a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a burgundy and gold gown whose neck was bent at a very unnatural angle—when I heard a guttural gasp, and the sounds of fighting stopped. I froze.

  The sound of rusty hinges preceded footsteps and two low, whispering voices. They were behind me, and getting louder. I found the alcove of a door a little further down on the right side of the corridor, and hid in its shadows, pressing myself into rough planks of wood. As the voices drew closer, I realized that one of the whisperers was male, the other female. I held my breath as they neared my hiding place.

  “ . . . too quick. I don’t know how he keeps finding me,” the woman whispered. She let out a harsh sob. “Oh God . . . Jane.” I could just see the top half of her cloaked and hooded body as she dropped to her knees and bent over the woman with the broken neck. Her shoulders shook and she rocked back and forth, murmuring something to the dead woman.

  “No, it’s his fault, not yours,” the man said fiercely, and I suddenly recognized his voice. Marcus. He gripped the woman’s shoulders and raised her back up to her feet, then wrapped his arms around her middle, drawing my attention to her swollen belly. She was incredibly pregnant, which was pretty much the only thing I could tell about her under the cloak.

  She placed her hands over his on her belly and whispered. “I don’t know where to go. I thought this would be my last stop, but—” Again, her body shook with the strength of her sorrow. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

  “Shhh . . .” Marcus’s voice was soft, soothing. “You must trust that you will find me.”

  The woman turned in his arms and reached up a pale hand to cup the side of his face. “I will always find you, my falcon, but for now, you must forget.” As she said, “forget,” the look of adoration slipped off Marcus’s face, and the woman withdrew her hand.

  A door banged open further down the corridor, and I turned my head to look. When I glanced back at Marcus and the cloaked woman, she was gone. There was only Marcus and a hallway filled with dead bodies.

  It was barely seven in the morning when I woke, well-rested from a long night’s sleep. I spent a few minutes lazily thinking back on my dreams, unsurprised that nearly all had featured Marcus. He was such a beautiful conundrum . . . my mind had been bound to latch onto him.

  Moving on to more practical matters, I stretched, dislodging Thora from her cozy position by my thigh. I had tired too quickly the previous day, and I needed to get back into active scholar mode by Monday—only two days away. My worthiness as a team member on Marcus’s excavation was at stake. As I rose from bed and readied myself for the day, I set out a plan, fully aware that the first part would be the hardest.

  “Morning sweetheart,” my mom said when I emerged from my room. She didn’t turn away from the stove as she spoke. “Breakfast’s just about ready.”

  “Is there coffee?” I asked, giving her a hug from be
hind.

  She patted my forearm. “Yep. In the pot.”

  I kissed her cheek and pulled away, saying, “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best ever!”

  “Oh, stop it, Lex. You’ll make me blush.”

  Smiling, I fixed myself a cup of coffee with milk and sugar and shuffled to the table.

  “Hold on, sweetie. Come carry these plates over.”

  Acquiescing, I helped my mom load the table with our fourth breakfast of way too much food. I’d pretty much accepted that my ability to gauge my own appetite had gone wonky, and I was content to let my mom fatten me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The current layout included blueberry muffins and a small mountain of breakfast burritos, most of which I would probably end up consuming.

  “Are you going somewhere?” my mom asked, setting her coffee on the table and sitting in her usual spot.

  “What? How’d you know?”

  “Your clothes, Lex—you’re already dressed. Usually that doesn’t happen until at least noon, if ever.”

  Laughing, I shook my head. “Yeah, I have some errands I need to run on campus. Some books to renew at the library, a little research to do . . . you know, the usual,” I lied.

  “I thought the quarter hadn’t started yet.”

  My heartbeat sped up, and I felt guilty for the coming lies . . . necessary lies. “No, you’re right, but that’s the life of a grad student—working on research projects even though the rest of the school’s on break. Plus, with the excavation . . .”

  She sighed, clearly preferring that I stay on the couch for another day of mom-monitored relaxation and recuperation. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “While I’d love your company, Mom, you’d be bored to death. Plus, I’ll be able to do everything faster on my own.”

  “You’ll just be on campus?”