Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  I frowned. “Then why is it such a big deal? If it doesn’t actually change anything . . . ?”

  A bitter laugh escaped from Alexander. “Nejerets depend on the echoes, and we tend to hold pretty high positions, even in the human world. If we base some decision on what we saw in the At, and what we saw was false, then the consequences could be devastating for Nejerets and humans alike.”

  After a moment of thought, he said, “Someone—we have guesses but we don’t know who for sure—manipulated the future At, completely removing all traces of echoes surrounding a certain ambitious member of the Nazi Party. Nejerets in power throughout the world made political decisions based on what they saw in the At, unaware that an entire life had been erased from view. It just so happened that that life would prove extremely influential, but because it had been eradicated from the At, Nejeret seers couldn’t see the potential horrors it might cause.”

  Alexander was shaking his head in disbelief. Was he one of those seers? I wondered as I took in his state of dejection.

  “By the time we noticed the anomaly in the At, it was too late,” he continued. “Events had already been set in motion. We did what we could, but . . .” Alexander suddenly looked at me, into me. “You must understand that we did what we could. You must,” he pleaded. “But the horrors . . . the death . . . those poor humans . . .”

  Reaching across the corner of the table, I squeezed his hand. I had no words, but at least I could comfort him with that.

  “Whoever manipulated the At . . .” He turned over his hand to grip mine almost painfully. “You study history, Alexandra. You know about power and corruption. Our kind walks a very thin, unsteady line. We may feel like them sometimes, we may even be named for them, but we’re not gods. Remember that, granddaughter. We. Are. Not. Gods.” Alexander’s tone was vehement.

  Gravely, I said, “I understand.” After Alexander nodded, I waited, taking a few contemplative breaths. “So which, um, ‘talents’ do you have?”

  His grip on my hand relented, and I retracted my arm, setting both of my hands in my lap. “Let’s see,” he said. “I can see very far into the past At and a short way into the future At, and I can smell in echoes, like you. I’m not tied down—I can view any echo within the past several thousand years from anywhere. Though looking further back, tens or hundreds of thousands of years, does require proximity to the echo’s place of origin.” He leaned toward me as if confessing a secret. “That’s why I was in Antarctica for the past few months. I’ve always wondered what was under all of that ice. Also, I’m a finder—I can search the At focusing on a specific object or individual.”

  I bit the inside of my lip, digesting his response. “So, on a scale of one to ten, one being the weakest weakling and ten being . . .”

  “Nuin?” Alexander supplied.

  I shrugged. “Sure. So on that scale, where would you rank in strength?”

  “Hmm . . . perhaps a seven. My father would be a nine, certainly, as would the rest of the Council. They are all very powerful, just not to the level of the Great Father.”

  Too many questions bounced around in my skull, like my head had turned into a pinball game comprised of flesh, bone, and synapses. “Can you teach me how to be a finder?” There were a few people I wanted to follow through the At, but one stood out from the rest in my mind. The mental image of that person glared deadly daggers at the others, commanding them to wait their turn.

  “I can try. But it’s a rare talent, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he cautioned.

  “Great! Let’s do it!” I said with a small bounce in my chair.

  “Hang on—one step at a time. First you need to learn how to enter the At at will. How have you done it so far?”

  I explained the basics behind my first few unintentional dives into the At, then described how I’d gained some control using my emotions and focusing on what I needed at the moment. I didn’t, however, tell him the subjects of the echoes, especially not the one about my criminal father. I needed to know more about that particular element of my nefarious parentage before I shared it with anyone. If I ever shared it with anyone. It was creepy . . . and weird.

  As I spoke, Alexander nodded, sometimes looking surprised and sometimes proud. “You’ve made a good start of it,” he told me after I finished. “If you can gain control over your ability to enter the At while awake this evening, then I’ll test you for the finding talent before I leave.”

  “Okay. So, what do I do?” I asked eagerly.

  “Aim for when you opened the door yesterday evening and first met your magnificent grandfather,” he said, puffing up jovially as he spoke, which earned a wry laugh from me. He grasped my hand again. “Now, holding that moment in your mind, close your eyes and clear out all other thoughts.”

  It seemed to be an impossible task, but, I needed it to work . . . I needed to track a very specific person. Needed.

  “Open your eyes, Alexandra.”

  When I did, I thought I’d succeeded . . . but then the door burst open. Two unsteady people stumbled into the apartment.

  Oh no! No, no, no! I needed to get away.

  In a flash of colors, the scene shifted to the night with Cara and Annie and the three bottles of wine. The other me was explaining her hesitations about going on the date with Mike, to which Cara and Annie responded with protestations and confusion.

  “Damn it!” I hissed. I felt a hand squeeze mine and remembered that Alexander was with me.

  “Concentrate, Lex,” he encouraged gently. “You’re doing fine. Focus on the night you met me.”

  I remembered opening the door—the stunned moment when incomprehension faded to impossible recognition. The scene flickered.

  The other me hurried to the door, obviously excited. She opened it, and seconds later, was lying on the hardwood floor. I’d fainted from the shock of finding my grandpa, alive and young, standing in the hallway.

  “There must’ve been a better way for you and Grandma Suse to have done that,” I told Alexander. I was watching the other version of him carry my limp form to the couch.

  He shrugged. “At least you didn’t hit me.” After a pause, he said, “Now, do you remember what you did to get here?”

  I nodded, recalling how concentration had surpassed need. I’d felt much more in control.

  “Good. Pick out another moment in this apartment, something that happened further back, and take us there.”

  It was hard to think of anything memorable that hadn’t happened in the last month. Part of me felt like my life hadn’t really started until that devastating conversation with my mom. Finally, I settled on a moment and concentrated. The flicker of colors lasted a tiny bit longer than it had the previous time, but it was nothing like the protracted swirl that had surrounded us when we’d viewed Alexander’s home in Herculaneum.

  Another version of me was sitting on the couch with a cardboard animal carrier on her lap. The creature inside the carrier emitted a rhythmic string of tiny, frantic meows. The other me opened the box and out popped a softball-sized ball of gray and brown fur.

  “Thora,” I murmured as I watched the awkward kitten thoroughly sniff first me and then the couch.

  “The day you brought your cat home. Good choice. The echoes revolving around our loved ones are both the easiest and hardest to view,” he said briskly, shaking me out of my kitten reverie. Baby Thora was stalking a pen that had fallen on the floor, wiggling her little behind clumsily. “Now, I think you’re ready for your finder test.”

  “Really?” I asked, suddenly giddy with excitement.

  Alexander nodded. “Pick someone you know of, but you don’t know, like a celebrity.”

  I frowned, squinting my eyes.

  “Do you have someone in mind?” Alexander asked.

  I nodded, picturing John Jakim, the lead singer of my favorite band, Johnny Stopwatch.

  “Good. Now, this time you’re going to aim for the When, instead of the Where.”

  “The When?
” I repeated.

  “Yes, the When. If we don’t know the Where, we must start with the When,” he explained. “Open yourself up to the At, thinking only about the world thirty minutes ago. Don’t think about a place. Instead, imagine being everywhere in the world at once, at half past nine this evening.”

  It took nearly twenty minutes to enter the placeless At—the When. For someone used to living in the Where and watching the When go by, readjusting perspectives was unbelievably difficult. My very understanding of time and space had to be melted down and remolded into a more malleable thing.

  All of a sudden, I was enmeshed in the targeted When, watching the Where spin around me like a deranged carousel. It was odd to see the colors of the At moving unilaterally, instead of their usual, chaotic swirl.

  “Very good, Alexandra!” my grandpa commended. “Now you must find your focal point, your celebrity. He or she is somewhere in this time, but you don’t know where, correct?”

  “No idea,” I said, nodding.

  “Perfect. This part will be easy if you’re a finder. Just think about the person, and the At will automatically shift itself around you.”

  I did as he directed, and gasped. The endless spinning shifted, no longer circling, but instead moving past me like a headwind. When the movement ceased, Alexander and I were standing in a dim, packed bar. In a booth in a dark corner sat John Jakim with the other members of Johnny Stopwatch, a half-empty pint glass in hand.

  “Is that your focal point?” Alexander asked eagerly, pointing to the musician. At my amazed nod, he said, “Wonderful! You’re a finder, and to some degree, a seer.” His voice was filled to the brim with grandfatherly pride.

  “Well, you know . . . I get it from my grandpa,” I said, bumping his shoulder with my own. I was blushing profusely at his unabashed flattery. “So, should we call it a night? I’m kind of tired after all of this At surfing.”

  “‘At surfing’ . . . I like that . . . like channel surfing. But yes, we can be done for today. Would you like to return us, or shall I?” he asked politely.

  “Done,” I said as the world flickered briefly and we returned to our physical forms. It really wasn’t too difficult once I understood the basics. Stretching in my kitchen chair, I asked, “What happens to our bodies while we . . . or, um, our ‘ba’ is in the At?” According to the ancient Egyptians, the ba was one of the three essential pieces comprising a person’s soul, and I found it immensely interesting that it was what Nejerets called the part of ourselves that could venture into the At to view what has been and what may be.

  Alexander smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that. It really is a remarkable thing. When your ba leaves your body, your physical form enters a state of stasis called At-qed”—I recognized the word “qed” as one of the ancient Egyptian words for “sleep”—“where, to observers, we appear to zone out or become lost in thought. More or less, the body’s functions slow down and it retains whatever position and expression it held when the ba departed. And, as far as we know, we can remain in At-qed indefinitely.”

  “So someone could just come in here and do whatever they wanted to our bodies and we wouldn’t even notice?” I asked, horrified.

  Pressing his lips together, Alexander took a deep breath. “Yes. It’s the major downfall to using our gift. We are absolutely vulnerable when our ba enters the At, far more so than when we’re simply asleep. That is the very reason you should only enter the At in a safe, private place and not spend too much time viewing echoes . . . either that, or have someone you trust to protect your body while your ba is away.”

  “Oh. That’s . . . interesting,” I said, and I meant it, but it came out sounding more like bored disinterest. My head was too full of new information and convoluted concepts: ba, At-qed, the When, the Where, manipulating . . . I needed time to process.

  Seeming to read my thoughts, Alexander said, “I should go; you’ve had a long evening. Same time tomorrow?”

  “I can’t tomorrow.” I have a date with the most enigmatic and enticing archaeologist on the planet. “How about Thursday?”

  “Very well, my dear. I’ll see you then,” he said, giving me a brief hug before leaving.

  After cleaning up the remnants of our Chinese food feast, I considered turning in for the night. It was nearly midnight and I really was tired, but I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t even close.

  15

  Catch & Trap

  He has to be Nejeret, I thought as, once again, I studied the shadowed man in the echo of the incident with Mike. It was the only way he could’ve disguised himself in the echo. But who is he? Something about him, about that night, had been tugging at my subconscious ever since I woke up in the hospital. I needed to know his identity, desperately . . . even if I didn’t understand the reason behind my desperation.

  As I glanced at Mike and registered the absolute terror in his eyes, my need to know the Nejeret’s identity became crushing. I was certain there was a way to unmask him, I just had to figure it out. I need more time!

  The cloaked Nejeret lurked toward my fallen attacker, spitting vicious, incomprehensible syllables along the way. He beat Mike until his need for violence was expended, and then he returned to the unconscious version of me. He picked her up and carried her out of the apartment.

  Again, I thought, and the echo started over.

  I lost track of how many times I viewed the echo, but eventually I realized I didn’t need to keep watching the attack over and over again just to see the shadowed man. Stop, I thought, and it was as though I’d hit a pause button. The shadowed man was frozen, crouching on his heels with his hand outstretched toward the other version of me. He was in the middle of brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

  I circled the figure, studying every shadowed inch of him. I could see that the darkness cloaking him was different—set apart from the echo itself. It was like some foreign At had been layered over the original echo, like a palimpsest.

  I touched the out-of-place At, and it vibrated. Determined, I grasped the shadowy cloak with both hands and tugged. Nothing happened. I tugged harder, and again, nothing happened.

  Apparently I couldn’t strip it off . . . but I thought it was possible I could slip between the two layers of At. I was fairly certain that no two particles could occupy the same space at the same time. I only hoped the same rule of matter applied in the At.

  Gently, as I’d done the first time, I touched the superimposed At. It vibrated, but I was pretty sure the man underneath remained still. I carefully searched with my fingers, following the increasingly strong vibrations, until I found what felt like an edge. It wasn’t an edge in the conventional sense, like the edge of a piece of paper or the hem of a dress. It was more like a sense of something met by a sense of nothing.

  I slipped the tips of my fingers under the edge, and then followed with my whole hand. My teeth chattered with the increasingly intense vibrations, but I reached further. When I could finally slip my head between the two layers of At, the vibrations stopped. The cloak, I realized, was gone.

  Unfortunately, in my At-splitting, I’d maneuvered myself so that I was crouched in front of the man with my face mere millimeters from his black sweater. I stumbled backward, tripped over the other version of me, and fell on my butt. When I’d finally composed myself enough to stand and look at the man’s face, I gasped and dropped back down to the floor.

  “Oh my God . . . Marcus!” I exclaimed aloud. Marcus is Nejeret. Marcus is Nejeret! What does this—

  “Damn it, Lex!” The growling admonishment filled every open space in the frozen echo. It was Marcus’s voice, but the Marcus in the echo, the one I’d just uncloaked and was watching, was still frozen. My stomach dropped as I realized what was going on. Marcus is Nejeret. Marcus, the real Marcus, is here.

  Gripping my upper arms, he hauled me up off the ground and spun me around. I was staring straight in to the very real, very pissed off face of Marcus Bahur, professor, archaeologist, and unde
rcover Nejeret.

  “I was going to explain everything tomorrow night,” he said, articulating each word with exceptional care.

  Instinctively, I punched him in the gut. It was the first time I’d ever really hit another person, and on the whole, it was rather ineffective. He barely flinched.

  “How long have you known?” I shouted. “I’ve barely been able to keep my head above the water and you’ve been sitting by, watching? I thought I was losing my mind!” I punched him again, hoping for a better reaction. I was let down. So, naturally, I began slapping and hitting every inch of his bare torso. It didn’t take me long to tire. I dropped my arms limply to my sides.

  “Are you finished?” he asked, more than a hint of frost in his tone . . . like, a blizzard’s worth.

  I nodded weakly, studying his blue and gray tennis shoes. Marcus never wears tennis shoes. His bare torso finally registered in the coherent part of my mind. Misbehaving, my eyes raised to the golden brown skin less than a foot away. Hard ridges rippled the perfect flesh, defining muscles I hadn’t even known existed.

  I’d seen him shirtless once before—in a dream that had been set in ancient Egypt . . . or what I had thought was a dream. Considering it could have been an echo, I shivered. Marcus would have to be at least three thousand years old.

  “Where’s your shirt?” I asked, picking the least terrifying question I could think of.

  “What?” he asked, surprised. His tone warmed considerably when he continued, “I was in the middle of a workout when I felt you fumbling with my cloak in this echo. If you wanted to strip off my clothes, all you needed to do was say so.” There was a short pause. “I must say, Lex, when you blush, it’s very becoming.” His tone could have melted the polar ice caps.

  I realized my eyes were closed when I felt the feather-light touch of his fingertips on the sides of my face. They traced my cheekbones, jawline, and chin, tilting my face up with the faintest pressure.