Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  I grab the woman’s wrist. “What are you afraid of? You aren’t strong enough. Fine. But we might be strong enough together.”

  She sighs, almost as if conceding with me. “Yes, yes. We might be strong enough together,” she says, though it sounds more like she is trying to convince herself than agreeing with me. Her sad face stares into mine. “We might.”

  I nod encouragingly. She bites her lip, staring at me for a long moment. Then something changes in her expression. Apprehension turns to determination. To urgency.

  “We need to hurry,” she says, pushing my hand back down into my lap. Before I can react, she reaches up and yanks out a small chunk of my hair.

  “Ouch,” I hiss. “Why did you do that?”

  She looks at me in a silencing way. “We don’t have much time before the guards return.”

  I open my mouth to speak again, but she presses her hand to my mouth and shakes her head. Then she closes her eyes, rolling my hair into a rope between her fingers.

  “A knot is not a useless thing,” she whispers, tying a knot in the hair she’s ripped from my scalp. I am about to respond when she shakes her head, as though even with her eyes closed she knows she needs to silence me. “It keeps in place with rope and string.”

  The tone of her voice settles over me. Her words are rushed, but I realize this is some kind of spell.

  “Not all kept is hard or soft. Knots can keep wishes, hopes, and thoughts.” She ties a second knot in the cord she’s made of my hair. “Held by magic knots we make, for life and love not to forsake.”

  Now a third knot is tied. Her words seem even more rushed now than before. “And this ladder be imbued, with the Mother Goddess to end this feud.”

  A fourth knot.

  “Give this woman the third sight, and grant her the magic to make things right.”

  After the woman ties the fifth knot, she pushes it into my palm. “It’s a witch’s ladder.”

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “But—”

  “Shh!” She nods toward the creaking door at the end of the hall. “Just use it.”

  After that, she disengages. It’s almost as though she is going out of her way not to look at me, not to make eye contact with me, and all I have is a burning spot on my scalp from where she ripped my hair and something she calls a witch’s ladder that I don’t know how to use.

  Somehow, though, it’s supposed to help me control these Morts, and I intend to use it to get out of here. Perhaps this woman was not strong enough, but if I can figure this out, I will be.

  I have to be.

  A guard throws open the cell gate. Two more stand behind him. I glance behind them to the empty hall, then back at Vanessa. I could come back for her . . .

  The first guard walks past me and grabs the woman who made the witch’s ladder by the arm. I can’t save her now, and I can’t risk that her gift to me will be useless. I brace myself, take a deep breath, and dart for the space between the two guards waiting outside the cell.

  Without moving from where they stand, they hook me around the waist and toss me back into the cell. Wind rushes from my lungs, and I ache everywhere from my chest to my stomach. The room dims. I try to suck in some air, but nothing comes. I’m suffocating.

  Through the blur of my vision, I see the woman who helped me being dragged away and the cell gate closing. A guard locking it. She let the protection of her magic down for such a short time, and now they’re taking her away. How long have they been overlooking her, and what’s to become of her now?

  Two of the guards escort the woman away, while the third sits on a crate and stares at me. He grins, his teeth yellow, a few missing. But, most importantly, he’s human. At least there’s that. But with him watching me, it’s a matter of time before they drag me off next. Using magic risks drawing more attention to myself, but I’m in a race against time and I don’t know when my time will be up. There’s no room for trepidation anymore. No more room for caution.

  I’ve made it this far, I’ve survived this long, but that’s not enough anymore. I need to use the witch’s ladder, but the only thing I know to do is hold it while I chant something. Chant what, though? I try writing one in my head. How hard can it be? Just something that sounds good and intends to get the Morts to do what I want. There are three in the room that I can see and perhaps more hiding in the shadows.

  Place me in the head of those in control of the dead.

  I think the chant, but nothing happens. I whisper it as quietly as I can. Still nothing, although now the guard is smirking, surely amused by my apparent insanity.

  My palm and fingertips itch where the witch’s ladder, hidden at my side, touches my skin. I rub my thumb over the knots, chanting quietly to myself over and over, waiting for something, even just some small spark to let me know this damned thing works and the lady wasn’t just a lucky, crazy old woman. I fail in my efforts to still my shaking hands, but I don’t give up. I repeat the chant again.

  Please, let this thing help me. What do I do? Tell me what to do.

  Then I hear it—a voice that’s not my own.

  . . . realize it is not strength in numbers we need. Competence. That is all it takes. A few strong warriors . . .

  They aren’t talking to me, I don’t think. I’m not incompetent. Everyone has to learn. What I need right now is help getting out of here, though, and I hope listening to this voice will help me figure out how.

  Who are you?

  The voice is demanding, but there’s an edge of fear there that makes me think they weren’t expecting my company. I admit, I didn’t expect them to hear my thoughts. And this person clearly isn’t a Mort.

  Of course I’m not a Mort!

  It’s another Ankou! One much older than I, or even William or Tess. I sense it in the same way William said I would just know how to handle Morts.

  Get out of my head.

  I need answers first.

  Answers to what? You have come uninvited.

  I wasn’t trying to, but—

  Then leave!

  I don’t know how, and I wouldn’t even if I did. Where are you? Can you help me? I’m trapped in a prison in Salem and I need to get out of here but the guards are possessed by Morts.

  That has nothing to do with me. Go away.

  I’m not going anywhere until I get out of this cell. You don’t get anywhere in life by giving up, right? The Morts certainly aren’t going to give up and neither are the Cruor.

  That’s not my problem.

  Isn’t it, though? Just tell me what to do, and I’ll leave you alone.

  The older Ankou growls. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, but if it will make you go away...it’s quite obvious. Move the good Morts into the guards.

  I’d forgotten there is such a thing. How am I supposed to do that when I’m trapped in an iron cell, though?

  With compulsion magic.

  Oh, right. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Compulsion magic...What on earth is compulsion magic?

  You get into my head but can’t figure out compulsion magic? Get in the Mort’s head, visualize them moving into the guard, that’s it.

  I was trying to get into the Mort’s head when I ended up here.

  Well, you messed up. Try again. It’s easier to get a Mort in a host than to get one out.

  Thank you.

  I try to leave their head, but instead the connection lingers while I try to figure out how to sever our ties. Finally, I let go of the witch’s ladder. That does it. Now I know that thing isn’t worthless, but figuring out how to use it the way I need to...that’s another story.

  What if the advice that Ankou gave me was inaccurate, or worse, intentionally harmful? I hadn’t even considered that their advice might not work or might get me into more trouble. Right now, it’s all I have. Trying couldn’t possibly make things worse.

  Could it?

  I don’t have time to think about that. It won’t be l
ong now before the guards catch on to what I’m trying to accomplish.

  17

  Late February, 1692

  I spend several hours observing the Morts, trying to determine the good from the bad. While I know they aren’t all bad, it’s hard to see them as anything else—hard to let go of reservations that they all, deep down, might be evil. It’s all part of my new role in life, though, and now, more than ever, I need to refine my skills as an Ankou.

  The chanting didn’t so much work out for me, so now I’m holding the witch’s ladder and just trying to envision what I would do if I weren’t trapped in this iron prison. Somehow I need to utilize my magic without physical contact. And all I really have is this witch’s ladder right now, because my Ankou abilities are disabled. At least I know it’s possible, though. If that raven-haired woman could do it, so can I.

  Unfortunately, most of the Morts here are undoubtedly evil. Each time I connect with one, cold dread swims beneath my skin, and my mind is flooded with the memories of their lives before their spirit separated from the preternatural bodies. Strigoi that once ripped the entrails from an Ankou; Cruor that have drained small, innocent children. I can only witness so much rape, torture, and murder before I break. Perhaps they have stories of redemption beyond that, but I disconnect from them before I finding out. If the things they did can be redeemed, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see any more.

  And then I see her. A Mort I immediately trust before a connection is even made. The spirit of a young Strigoi that died before she grew old enough to shift. A child, really, maybe eight or ten years of age, with mouse-like features. My heart aches that she has somehow ended up trapped here, and it pains me that I won’t be able to help move her spirit, that this time I need her to save me.

  At least it will get her out of this place.

  I look at the yellow-toothed guard I plan for her to possess, and guilt squeezes my stomach. He’s just doing his job. It violates the right over his own body to put a Mort there against his wishes. At the same time, how many times has this guy forced his will on someone else? Mama always said two wrongs don’t make things right. But this time—just this time—maybe it makes things even.

  I wrap both my hands around the witch’s ladder and rest my head against my fisted hands, sending my energy out to her. I feel this new ability struggling to break free, and I know this iron jail has made me weaker in more ways than one, but I can’t let that stop me. I envision my fingers prodding gently on her scalp, my nails piercing into her skull...

  There’s no cold. Instead, flutters rush through my veins and spark in my mind. I urge her into the guard sitting on the crate nearby. My abilities feel more otherworldly now—not part of me. Borrowed. And I wonder how far gone my Ankou abilities are, if they play a role now or if they only lend me knowledge of what to do with this new magic I have acquired.

  The Mort girl’s fear rumbles through me, but I send a calming energy to her. It’s amazing how natural this process feels, as though I’ve done it a million times before.

  I move energy around the room as naturally as my human form breathes air. The witch’s ladder seems to be my only allowance to use magic in this place, and I say a silent prayer for the woman who gave it to me, the woman who I will not be able to save. She sacrificed herself for me. Maybe William was right. Maybe it is worth sacrificing ourselves to save this world.

  Compelled by me, the Mort girl enters the guard. Her panicked form trembles, and guilt stabs through my lungs, and I know then that my escape will not be so easy because I cannot leave this girl behind.

  I rouse Vanessa from her troubled sleep and help her to her feet. Her brows pull together and she looks around frantically.

  “It’s all right,” I whisper, squeezing her hand gently. “We’re leaving.”

  Her body has already healed; perhaps the iron cell has no effect on the Strigoi; it wasn’t put there to slow them down the way it was intended to slow down the Ankou, because Strigoi can’t kill Morts and they can’t travel through time and space. The prison alone is enough.

  Right now, Vanesa is stronger than I am physically but weaker than I am emotionally. Or maybe I’m just numb. Either way, I’m counting on Vanessa to carry her own weight in this escape. It’s hard to see her as a strong woman, though, when her body—now returned to its human form—is so pale and her dress is soaked in blood. I try not to look at the stains and try not to remember where they came from. I hope she can manage the same, or that remembering can drive her the way it drives me.

  The young Mort has already grabbed the keys from a hook at the end of the hall and is hurrying back toward us. I subtly raise my hands to her, urging her to slow down. We can’t give ourselves away. This needs to be done carefully and quietly.

  The Mort girl, inside the body of this bulky, filthy guard, shuffles down the hallway. I hold my breath, wishing she would just move at a normal pace. I slowly exhale as she approaches and fumbles with the lock. Something creaks at the end of the hall, and I hear the banter of at least two other guards.

  The sky outside the cell window is lightening, but the sun must still be tucked away as no beams of light are breaking into the room just yet. We really needed the night, but daylight can only be minutes away now.

  I swallow around the knot in my throat, staring intently at the keys, willing the process to speed along, until finally the lock pops open. She eases the cell gate open. Half of the inmates are still sleeping, but those that aren’t look at us with wide, fear-stricken eyes. I expect them to follow, but instead they cower away.

  I bite my lip as I step out of the cell with Vanessa, stealing another glance back, trying to will these people to get up and fight for their freedom. To try to save themselves while they have the chance. But I can’t save us all, and I don’t have time to persuade these men and women.

  Vanessa and I creep down the hall with the Mort that possesses the guard close behind us. When we reach the end of the narrow hallway, I peek through the barred window of the exit, trying to determine where we will go from here. The other guards aren’t far off. The hall outside this door stretches in both directions. We either have to wait for those guards to leave or try to outrun them. But if we wait it out, and they come in our hall instead of leaving, we could get trapped in here all over again.

  “Vanessa,” I whisper, “do you know which way we need to go?”

  She shakes her head.

  I clench my teeth and peer out the small window again, trying to decide which way we should run. My instincts tell me to veer right, but my mind screams at me to go the other way, because if we go right, we’ll run into the guards. That doesn’t give us much chance to make any ground before they start after us.

  A fragment strikes me, and I try to fight it. I don’t have time for it, but the fragment won’t let up. Soon, I am in the woods with Pa, camping, sometime before the Morts ruined our lives. Sometime back when Pa was still Pa.

  We hiked too far. Pa doesn’t remember the way back. We hadn’t marked our trail. For over an hour, we walk around hopelessly. I slide on steep ground. My shin bleeds and my ankle won’t support my weight to walk. Pa scoops me up.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he soothes.

  He sweeps stray hairs away from my face. I’m crying, but I don’t let out a sound. It’s getting dark, and Pa always said you have to stay quiet at night or you will attract the wrong kind of wildlife. I press my lips together, trying not to let the trembling whimper escape my lips.

  “Come on, buttercup,” he says, “You know the way home, don’t you? Tell me which way to go.”

  “I don’t know.” I bury my face in his shoulder, wetting his shirt with my tears.

  “Sure you do. Just tell me what feels right.”

  “I—I—don’t know.” I simper, then shake my head. I’ve always worked well under pressure. “Maybe that way.”

  I point toward the small creek, and he starts hiking that way.

  “I hope you’re right, bu
ttercup. I hope you’re right.”

  And I am. We find our path twenty minutes later. Pa rushes us home and the doctor comes to bandage my sprained ankle.

  “We saved each other, huh, buttercup?” he asks, and I smile up at him.

  Now the guards have strolled a couple feet closer to the prison door. We need to move, now. And, as much as I dread it, we need to go right. Knowing which way to go...it’s always been a sixth sense of mine—even now, even while completely disoriented.

  “Follow me and move fast,” I whisper.

  I push the door, gently at first, but the wood creaks, and the guards shift their focus in our direction. With a deep breath, I throw the door open and run with everything I have in me toward the guards. Once we’re through the door, my strength begins building from my core. These halls are not protected by iron the way our cell was, but recovery won’t be instant.

  We are past them before they can react. There’s lots of shouting. Their footsteps clamber behind us, but I don’t look back. I’ve always been a weak and slow runner, probably because of my wiry arms and thin legs, so with my Ankou abilities being suppressed by this jail, I’m relying on Vanessa’s speed to carry me along. I run my hardest on shaky limbs and ignore the pain shooting through my body as I push my way through the shortness of breath.

  The walls are crowded with Morts, and I’m reminded of running through the woods, the only other time I’ve ever run so fast. Hadn’t it been running that landed me here, away from my daughter? But I had been running toward her, to save her. Both physically and emotionally I had wanted to be closer to her. I would certainly never run away from her, not even to get away from Pa.

  Vanessa yanks my arm and points with her other hand at another door at the end of the hall. That door is the only thing that exists right now. We’re a bit faster than the guards and reach the door first, but it’s locked. The young Mort girl tries one of the keys without success. As she tries another, one of the guards grabs me by the hair and yanks me back.

  I twist toward him, swing with everything I have, and connect my fist with his ear. The large man stumbles back, now half his height as he hunches over—but just as soon, another guard lumbers at me with his bloody knuckles. He misses. I duck out of his way, consequently into the path of a third guard whose stomach is bigger than his chest. He wraps his arms around me, but before he can get a good hold, I elbow him swiftly to the gut, then again in his face. The blows perhaps hurt me more than him, but it gets him off of me.