Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  “Yeah,” I said, cringing on the inside. Damn, I hate lying to her!

  “Well, I know I can’t tell you no. You’re an adult. But promise me you’ll come home right away if you feel yourself getting worn out.”

  I smiled, feeling like a worthless piece of donkey crap. “Of course, Mom.”

  After breakfast, I gathered a few necessary items into my messenger bag, including my wallet and bus pass, a black spiral-bound journal, and my hospital release papers, and then left the apartment. I crossed the street to the Burke–Gilman Trail, which circumscribes the southeast edges of the university, and followed it straight to the hospital at the south end of campus—Dr. Isa owed me some answers.

  Unfortunately, when I reached the hospital’s info desk and asked the stick-thin nurse manning it where I could find Dr. Isa, the results were anticlimactic.

  “Dr. Isa? Do you know the doctor’s first name?” she asked.

  “Um, no. But she was my doctor in ICU last week.”

  The receptionist narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing me. “Are you sure you were in ICU last week?”

  Glad I’d come prepared, I pulled the release papers out of my bag and set them on the counter. “I was. See.” I pointed to the release date just in case she missed it.

  “Hmmm . . .” She turned to her computer screen, her skeletal fingers clacking the keys rhythmically as she searched the database for my records. “Ah, yes, I see your Dr. Isa. What do you need?”

  Barely suppressing my excitement, I said, “I need to ask her some questions. About some personal medical diagnoses she made.”

  The nurse tapped her keyboard a few more times before responding. “Well, she’s not here. Your records show you had another doctor assigned to you. He is in the hospital right now. Do you want me to page him?”

  I frowned. “Er . . . no. I really just need to talk to Dr. Isa. Do you know when she’ll be working again?”

  The nurse’s smile was condescending. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here anymore. I’m mean, at the hospital . . . she no longer works here.”

  Instantly, the hope-filled balloon that had been expanding inside my chest started to deflate as frustration and despair poked little holes in its surface. What about my answers?

  Trying not to sound too defeated, I thanked the nursed and left through the automatic sliding doors, hurrying to the bus stop. I had one more lead, and I wasn’t ready to give up all my hope.

  Miraculously, one of the many buses heading to Capitol Hill, my current destination, was just opening its doors as I reached the stop. I waited in line behind a bearded man who desperately needed a shower, a tired-looking woman in blue scrubs, and a young punk-rocker with spiked, electric-blue hair, multiple facial piercings, and heavy black eyeliner.

  The last smiled at me while nodding to the beat of whatever music blared through his earbuds. I assessed my reflection in one of the bus’s windows, wondering what exactly had endeared the young man to me, and found a surprisingly flushed version of myself staring back. The rosiness in my cheeks and lips paired with my dark mahogany hair and alabaster skin made me resemble a modern-day Snow White. I hadn’t really looked at my reflection in days, and this was a vast improvement from the skeletal stranger I’d seen the last time.

  Smiling slightly, I stepped onto the bus, showed the driver my pass, and found a solitary seat in the middle. Astonishing me further, my eye-catching admirer sat beside me and removed his black and purple earbuds.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice unexpectedly deep.

  “Hi?”

  “Your eyes are really cool. Are they, like, contacts or something?”

  “Uh . . . no. They’re just my eyes,” I said, confused.

  He laughed, his smile wide and his pale eyes earnest. He was really quite adorable, if I looked past the many holes and markings modifying his appearance. “They’re practically red . . . and they’re like that naturally? That’s way more awesome than contacts. Natural’s cool.”

  I nearly snorted, thinking my new friend and natural didn’t belong in the same room . . . or even the same country. I thought back to the reddish tint to my brown eyes I’d noticed several days earlier, and wondered if the red had become even more prominent. Can a person’s eye color even change like that? Why hasn’t Mom said anything?

  “Yours aren’t too bad,” I said, wanting to take the attention off myself. “They’re so pale.”

  He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “They’re fake.”

  “Oh!” I said, laughing. “What’s their natural color?”

  “Hazel. Boring.”

  I nudged his shoulder with my own. “Hazel’s not boring—it’s multicolored. Besides, I read that it makes people seem more approachable because hazel’s a warm eye color.”

  He barked a laugh. “Oh, you’re funny. I doubt changing my eye color would do much to improve my approachability.” He stood and flashed another brilliant smile as the bus slowed to a halt. “This is me. See you around, red-eyed girl.”

  “Sure.” I watched him disembark, his demeanor reverting to the expected—sullen and angry—but I knew better.

  After three more stops, we reached mine at Broadway and Thomas. I pulled the cord and waited for the bus to stop, then exited through the rear door. Emerald City Fertility sat tucked inconspicuously between Harold’s Body Art and an adorable Irish pub aptly named The End O’ The Rainbow. Depending on my luck in the clinic, I thought I might end up sitting on a stool in The Rainbow in an hour or two.

  Taking a deep breath, I approached a glass door stenciled with Emerald City Fertility in clean, white lettering and pulled it open. I had to climb a narrow set of stairs to reach the fertility clinic’s nearly empty, second-floor waiting room. Only a young couple occupied two of the cushioned chairs, holding hands as they nervously examined their surroundings.

  “Can I help you?” a young, blonde receptionist asked. I wondered if she ever had issues with her hair sticking to the pink lip gloss smothered on her lips.

  “I hope so,” I said, approaching the desk. “I’d like to talk to Dr. Lee. I don’t have an appointment, but I can wait if he can squeeze me in between patients.”

  She smiled indulgently, looking like an all-American cheerleader, and explained, “Dr. Lee doesn’t usually see anyone without an appointment. If you’d like to make an appointment for a later date, we can schedule that now. We usually start with a two-hour consultation that includes both partners.”

  Partners? Consultation? “Oh! I’m not here as a patient,” I clarified. “My mom was. I guess you could say I wouldn’t be alive without Dr. Lee. I’ve been meaning to stop by for years, and I was in the neighborhood, so . . . I guess I thought I’d just come in and thank him.” Lying was becoming as natural to me as breathing. It disgusted me.

  The receptionist’s expression transformed as I spoke, turning from fake warmth to genuine excitement. “Really? We rarely get to see the children as adults. I’m sure he’d be delighted. Can you wait here while I check with him?”

  “Sure.”

  She hurried down the hallway and disappeared around a corner, returning less than a minute later. “If you’ll follow me, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Larson. Alexandra Larson.”

  “Ms. Larson. I’m going to put you in the consultation room. Dr. Lee will join you in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sat on a comfortable couch set against the wall on the left side of the room and took out my journal. I started writing down questions that might give me some hints about my biological father. I had nearly a dozen listed when the door opened, admitting a dignified, middle-aged man with gray-winged hair and a kind face. His slacks and dress shirt made him appear more like a lawyer than a doctor.

  “Alexandra Larson. I’m Dr. Lee.” His tone was friendly, his voice deep.

  Standing, I accepted his outstretched hand, noting its dry warmth, and smiled. “Hello, Dr. Lee. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Well, we’v
e actually met, but it was a long time ago and you were about this tall,” he said, holding his hand less than two feet above the blue carpet.

  I laughed and sat back down. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. I remember your parents well . . . lovely people.” He sat down in a leather chair across from me, a medical file resting on his lap. “So, what can I do for you, Alexandra?”

  “Well, I wanted to thank you for helping my parents and . . . I guess . . . helping me.”

  He smiled modestly. “You’re more than welcome. Helping young families is my passion.”

  I hesitated, holding my breath, and then expelled it in one long question. “Dr. Lee, is it possible for you to tell me anything about my biological father even though, you know, there are privacy agreements and whatnot?”

  His smile widened a little. “I have yet to meet a child created through artificial methods who didn’t wonder that very thing. Unfortunately, as you’ve already pointed out, there are privacy and confidentiality issues.”

  I slumped against the back of the couch.

  The doctor held up a hand with his index finger extended. “However, I can tell you a little bit about him, just not his identifying information.” He opened the file and began reading. “Twenty-five at the time his sample was collected. He had light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pale complexion. He was six feet tall and had a lean body type.”

  My eyes were wide with surprise at the sudden flow of information, but I still felt unfulfilled. “He sounds just like my dad . . .” . . . who I don’t resemble at all.

  “Yes, that’s the point. We try to match the surrogate with the legal father. I can also tell you . . .” I could hear the doctor’s voice continuing on as he further described my supposed biological father’s attributes, but I was distracted by a sudden blurring of my vision.

  The man in that folder is not my father, I thought. I knew it with absolute certainty, like I knew the sound of my mom’s voice before she started crying or the smell in the air before it snowed.

  For several nauseating seconds, the world disappeared into a swirl of colors before resettling.

  I was standing in the center of the fertility clinic’s dark waiting room. It must’ve been the middle of the night, as the only illumination came from the glitter of city lights through the windows. I was pretty sure I was having another one of the weird dreams . . . but I was also fairly certain that I hadn’t fallen asleep. Did I faint? I had no idea what the hell was going on.

  A click sounded, and the door from the stairs to the clinic creaked open. A tall, sleek man with pale skin and black hair entered the room.

  I rushed to the receptionist’s desk, searching for anything with a date. A calendar taped to a lower cupboard caught my eye. The office staff, bless their little administrative hearts, crossed off the days as they passed. It was almost exactly nine months before I was born.

  The intruder headed down the hall to the furthest door. Its polished wooden surface bore a golden placard with DR. JAMES LEE etched in black. The man entered the office and headed straight for the doctor’s desk. Remaining standing, he looked through a short stack of files, pulled one out, opened it, and ran his finger down the top page.

  Joining him at the desk, I was baffled by his ability to see well enough to read in the darkness. I took out my phone and flashed its light on the file. It was labeled LARSON, ALICE—my mom’s name. I frowned.

  Having evidently found what he was searching for, the man replaced the folder and snuck out of the room.

  Following him, I couldn’t help but wonder how common alarm systems had been two and a half decades ago. Obviously the clinic hadn’t been equipped with one.

  The man approached another door, this one designated LABORATORY. After he entered, he turned on the lights and headed for two glass-doored freezers on the opposite side of the lab.

  I peeked over his shoulder as he opened one and searched its contents. He removed a small, round glass container and replaced it with an exact replica. On the side, there was a white sticker with “F.C.M. 08-12 for Alice Larson” written on it in black permanent marker.

  I was getting the uncomfortable feeling that the sample-swapping man was my actual biological father. I was really trying not to acknowledge that I was staring at his semen in the replacement container. Gross . . .

  Abruptly, the man turned, and nearly black eyes stared out from strikingly familiar features. My eyes—aside from the color—high cheekbones, and square jaw were reflected on the stranger’s face. Oh my God . . . I was absolutely certain that the breaking-and-entering semen-replacer was my father.

  Within seconds, he was trotting out the lab door. He hurried back to the waiting room, out through the clinic door, and was down the stairs and vanishing into the night before I could fully process what had just happened.

  “ . . . and I can tell you with certainty that he’s successful in what he does now. You most definitely received the best genes available. You’re a lucky woman, Alexandra,” the doctor stated, finishing his description of a man I wasn’t remotely related to.

  I blinked, clearing the remnants of the vision and steadying my shock. “Dr. Lee, thank you so much,” I said, hoping my gratitude was appropriate for the words I hadn’t heard. “I really didn’t expect you to be so generous with your information. You’re a very kind man. Thank you.”

  “Oh . . . well, thank you, and you’re welcome!” he said, sounding a little flustered.

  I smiled, hoping he couldn’t tell my heart wasn’t in it. “I should go. You have a sweet young couple waiting for your help, and I don’t want to keep you from them any longer.” Did I really just see my biological father in a dream? While I was awake? I need to get the hell out of here!

  “Well, you’re right.” His smile was genuine as he stood. “I’m glad you stopped by. It’s nice to know one’s work is appreciated.”

  “Oh, believe me doctor, your work is appreciated as much as any can be.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  He escorted me out of the clinic, shaking my hand again at the top of the stairs. My heart rate was nearing Olympic sprinter levels by the time I stepped out into the damp midday air. Adrenaline was coursing through my bloodstream, fueled by the excitement and insanity of what I’d just seen—my biological father . . . breaking into a fertility clinic . . . replacing sperm samples . . . in a goddamn vision.

  It can’t be real, I thought. But the dreams—visions—had proven true multiple times before. It can’t be real, but it has to be real. People believed contradictory, even hypocritical things every day, but this was really pushing the boundaries. I wish I could talk to Dr. Isa. She knows something, I know she does!

  Feeling like a crazy person, I headed for the bus stop across the street. A painted shop sign behind the stop caught my attention: The Goddess’s Blessing. Based on the items displayed in the wide front window, it specialized in the unexplainable—from the mysterious to the magical—and of course, fortunes. Well, it just so happened that I was dealing with something pretty unexplainable at the moment.

  Maybe someone in there can explain it, I thought as I veered around the bus stop, determination lengthening my strides. It was either that, or accept that I’d flown so far over the cuckoo’s nest that I’d mistaken it for a rainbow. After all, the dreams that I dared to dream really were coming true.

  11

  Discovery & Acquisition

  A crystalline chiming punctuated my entrance into the cluttered shop. I’d been expecting a dark and mysterious space with shadowed nooks overflowing with eerie objects and ancient leather tomes . . . but I was surprised by its warm, welcoming atmosphere. Bookshelves lined the walls, many filled with shiny new paperbacks. A rainbow of crystals and tiny glass bottles decorated several bookcases from floor to ceiling, each item with its own sign proclaiming this or that mystical property. Tables were arranged close together throughout the shop, displaying spicy incense, aromatic candles, and a variety of odd i
tems I would have been hard-pressed to identify. The cheerful atmosphere was somewhat of a letdown for my first venture into an occult shop. Is it too much to ask for a few shrunken heads and some eye of newt?

  “Can I help you, Miss?” a woman asked, her voice husky.

  I nearly dropped the statuette I’d picked up—a beautiful, carved representation of Thora’s namesake, the powerful Egyptian goddess, Hathor. “Um, yes,” I said, gently placing the pale, beautiful woman back on her pedestal.

  “Are you a practitioner?” the shopkeeper asked as I turned to face her. She fit the shop perfectly with her flowy, ankle-length skirt, layers of clattering gold bracelets, and wavy, black hair that nearly reached her waist. She wasn’t overtly attractive, but her curves in all the right places paired with her rich voice and graceful movements gave her an air of sensuality and mystery.

  Am I a practitioner? Of what? Witchcraft? “Not exactly. I’m here on research . . . for a graduate project. I’m a PhD student in the archaeology department over at the U.”

  She studied me with eyes so dark they were nearly black before saying, “Mostly true, but I don’t think you’re here for a project.”

  I frowned, wondering how she had guessed that.

  “Many people come here under the guise of some other purpose,” she said, seeming to answer my thoughts. “I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability if you tell me why you’re really in my shop.”

  I weighed my options and decided it wouldn’t hurt me to divulge my story. Or at least some of my story. After all, it was the reason I’d entered in the first place. With a heavy sigh, I nodded.

  “Alright,” she purred. “Follow me.”

  Swaying, she led me through a curtain of multi-hued glass beads and into a cramped back room that had clearly been decorated with fortune-telling in mind; there was a small, square table of polished oak, several dim antique lamps, and a short bookshelf filled with tarot cards, leather-bound books, and other tools of the trade. A teenage version of the shop owner was sitting at the table, rapt attention on her phone. She cocked her head inquisitively at our arrival but didn’t look up.