Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  Reza

  Fuck. Fuck.

  I wish to hell I could sleep, but every time she moves, she sweats a little, and the smell wakes me up. There's excitement. I should be watching. Protecting myself. Maybe her, too, since I don't want her to come to harm for having sheltered me. But waiting the worst of the pain out is something entirely different than watching the lithe woman slithering her way up and down a pole, topless and completely nonplussed by my presence.

  Of course, why should she be shy? I'm a dog to her. Her pet, if she wants to get possessive about it. At least for however long I'm here.

  I'm an animal. Not a voyeur. Not a red-blooded man who would otherwise love the excuse to savor her lean curves, the shape of her muscular legs and ass, the swell of her breasts, and the way those curves soften as she hangs upside down, those flushed areolas and perky nipples—

  I can't watch. It's rude on so many levels. Yet again, I turn my head away and strain to ignore her light gasps, her womanly musk, and the rustles and noises of her feet on the carpet. Perhaps it's the balance of canine senses that makes them so much more consuming, makes it impossible for me to just avert my eyes and think of baseball.

  Evan was a lucky man to have had her. If he knows what's good for him, he'll be back in the morning with flowers and dog biscuits, begging her to take him back. She's beautiful, kindhearted, and not afraid to stand up for herself.

  And in danger because of me. I've got to get away from her. If the Reapers come after me again, track me here... I don't think I could live with myself, seeing her become collateral damage.

  She puffs slightly, and her skin squeaks against the pole. It takes everything I have to keep my eyes shut.

  The morning can't come fast enough. I'll see how I feel then and get my ass away as soon as fucking possible.

  “Oh! I almost forgot.” Her voice is a cute, little chirp. Automatically, I turn to look. She's breathing heavily, those round breasts heaving, her smell permeating my nostrils. Goddamn it. I'm a cur chasing a bitch in heat. And I can't even truly chase her. I curse myself for not being able to completely shed my manhood. Who'd have thought so much sexuality would be shared between my waking self and my bestial one? The swing of her arm casts shadows over her chest as she walks past me. In a moment, I'm taken to the view of her ass, no less heart-stopping than when she first reached for the shirt's hem.

  I could transform, let my true self shape my body, take her into my arms, and—

  This is torture. I'm her fucking pet. If I revealed my true form, she wouldn't fall into my arms. She'd be scared to high hell to have a strange, naked man in her home. And if she saw the change, it would definitely make her a target. It's gotta be the painkillers making me feel floaty and fixated.

  She picks her way through a bag on the counter and tugs something out: a collar with a tag. “Until I know that someone else is taking care of you, it makes sense for people to know you're mine. Don't want to end up in a shelter, do you?”

  The light catches on the tag as she kneels in front of me: The Big Guy. If Found, Please Contact Alisa Swanson. And her phone number. The gesture feels all the more possessive as she reaches around my neck to fasten it, bringing her breasts to my face inadvertently.

  Up close, her fragrance is even more intoxicating. I can't hold myself back from a desperate lick. “Oh, kisses,” she says and laughs, and there's a little click as the fasteners lock into place.

  The collar's weight is alien on my neck. I think my ideas about what it means to this canine body are dulled, otherwise, I'd want to chew her out for that kind of casual dominance. I barely know her, and the collar symbolizes her ownership. That means something to me—the man part. Even if the meaning is warped to high hell by her casual nudity and gentle touch.

  I turn around, ignoring the creaking and soreness in my bones. She rubs my ribs and stands back up. “Sleep well, big guy.”

  Her fragrance grows softer, and there's only the noises of her dancing again.

  6

  Alisa

  Rory sits next to me on the couch. “So what're you gonna do with the lug?”

  “Well, if you can help me,”—I wink at her cheekily and flutter my hands by my face—“and put up a few of these, it would help.” I offer her a sheaf of papers with Ballad's face printed on them, as well as my info and the location where Evan and I found him.

  “The things I do for you, girly. If you weren't so damn cute…” Rory winks back and pinches one of my cheeks. “Like a Cabbage Patch Kid doll. I just want to put you in my bag, bring you home, and set you on Lily's shelf.”

  “Yeah, but I'd feel creepy watching your kid sleep.”

  “You're her godmother anyway, why not be her fairy godmother, too?”

  “Because my butt's too big for me to wear the wings?”

  She snorts. “Liar. Seriously, though. That is a big dog. He looks like a handful.”

  “I tried, one Halloween. Pinky swear. The bottom edge of them kept hitting—” I fidget and swat at my rump, patting the offending curve. “And, I'm still hoping someone'll pop up to claim him. But—” I can't take my eyes off the burned patches of skin marring Ballad's bulky frame.

  “But someone who does that to such a handsome fellow probably doesn't deserve to get him back.”

  “Heh, yeah.” I shake my head, relieved I don't have to justify it to her.

  She snaps her fingers. “I know what you should do. What’s ‘isname? The doctor. The financial sub.” The one who pays me to let him watch me futz around on my errands. “Tell him you're bringing the new dog home, and get him to buy you some stuff. Bones, Frisbees, that kind of shit. Maybe handle the vet bill. Then, you can make him carry it all in for you, and tell him he's lower than the dog and doesn't deserve to see the dog play with the treats he bought. Let him clean up the shit, though. He'd love that.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” I laugh. “Still, you might be onto something. Maybe I can tell him the dog chewed all my shoes and clothes, too. Still, I'd feel a little bad making that one the villain.” I scratch the dog's ear. He must still be feeling really crappy. He hasn't so much as looked at me all day. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's mad at me. But animals don't really behave that way. And he hasn't eaten, either. “Maybe I'll text Pete to set something up. I can pick up some wet food on the way home. He hasn't eaten anything since he's been here except for a little peanut butter, so maybe I just need to offer him something yummier. He licked at a little bit of my leftover stroganoff, but I only let him have a bite, so—”

  “Really? You were feeding him off your own plate? Gross.”

  “Pffft. You live with an animal, you live with their germs.”

  Rory shudders. “And that's why, when I got the urge to bring home another puppy, I got knocked up instead. If I'm handling someone's poop, it damn well better be someone who can eventually say thank you for it. Rox is bad enough, and at least she's learned where the pads are for when her bladder craps out. Think that guy'd soak it clear through in one piss.”

  “Oh, come on. I know he's kinda out of it now, but maybe, eventually, he'll perk up and be fun—”

  “Yeah, and you'll ride him like a pony when you get those fairy wings, spreading hustler magic through all the land.”

  “He's practically big enough for it,” I have to admit. I stretch out a toe to stroke Ballad's shoulder.

  “And you don't want me to make Derek talk to his friends?” Rory bites her full lower lip, knowing that the question might piss me off. “One of the guys at the factory might know someone who can take him off your hands.”

  “That's okay. I want to see how this all shakes out.”

  “Well, so long as you're happy, girly.” She shrugs, bouncing a multitude of twisted braids against her shoulder. “I've gotta get going—Cara's only watching Lily for a few hours before her class.”

  “Yep. I'll let you know how he settles in. Give the rug rat a kiss for me.”

  “Will do. I'll see you
at work, Alisa. Have fun with your new friend.”

  7

  Reza

  Alisa grabs her purse when she leaves to show the other woman out. On the assumption she might be gone a while, I let my humanity take over, heaving gasping sighs as I take stock of the damage. It's a relief having the run of the place, even if I shouldn't enjoy it for too long, lest I get caught when she returns. Or the other possibility that I can't dwell on right now, that Barrett is waiting for me to shift back, and that even now, I'm tempting fate—both mine and Alisa's. But if they are gonna catch me, I'd rather die in my preferred body as my most comfortable self. Plus, I've got more of a chance fighting as a man.

  I get myself a glass of water, down it, and refill it again. When I've finally drunk my fill, I empty the remainder of the water into the sink and tuck the cup back into the cabinet. Next, I walk into her bathroom to use the mirror. My ribs and face are a mess of bruises, and the skin's burned off my neck and one of my shoulders. I should be glad the damage isn't worse.

  My legs don't seem to be broken, though it's tough to move and the bruises are almost black. I definitely can't run. I should probably try to eat something, but even the thought makes me want to hurl.

  I may as well use the bathroom and get comfy. I'm gonna be here at least another day or two, until the aches fade. It's a risk, but I'm not sure what the alternative is. The Reapers will have an easier time finding me if I'm in a crowd, and I have no money to try to take a cab or bus. The last thing I need is scrutiny from the human authorities, so I shouldn’t try to steal a vehicle.

  Why has it taken the Reapers so long to look for me? They should've easily been able to track me by now. I dig my nails into the raw skin on my shoulder until I can touch one of the shards of dragon bone implanted into me to connect me to the Mantel. I beg it for dragon senses, remembering my grandfather's distinct smell and the sound of his voice. It helps me focus, helps me connect to the source of the claw's power, the old man who loved me despite my being a mutt. And when I open my newly-slitted eyes, Alisa's bedroom is bathed in a gentle glow emanating from the floor.

  I walk, finding the glow's epicenter, and squint as I pick apart the pattern traced into the carpet by wear: a sigil for exclusion. One of the few things that can keep a true incubus away. So long as I'm here, I'm safe. They won't even be able to get close enough to sense me. If they know where I am, they can send a reaper, one of the incubi's cousins who specialize in possessing corpses. Morena's Reapers use both, although the corpse riders are the group's namesake. But them sending an attention-getting, obviously undead assassin after me is a big if when I'm practically invisible.

  This brand of magic, it's used only by a very particular bloodline of witches, a familiar one. How the hell did it come to be in Alisa's home? Was a previous tenant the witch who laid it down? Or is there more to Alisa than simply the jaw-droppingly beautiful wisp of woman who twined around that pole?

  It takes me a minute to figure out how it's there. The carpet smells familiar. Like Alisa. Moisture and skin oils from her feet. And parts of the carpet have been tamped down along the sigil's curves. She paced the pattern into the floor, and the connection her sweat provided sealed the spell. It's a roundabout way of doing it—did she even know what she was doing? It would be so much stronger if it was etched in blood or spit.

  I shiver as the thought hits me—what if she's in on it? I doubt the Reapers would have recruited her, but Morena has her informants. But if she was helping Morena, I'd already be dead. That and the incompetence of the spell reassures me. I doubt she'd be using such rudimentary craft if she was on Morena's radar.

  The door cracks open, and I hurriedly focus on dog thoughts and let the world shrink away from me. She sets down a bag and raises an eyebrow at me. “Hello again, big guy. Good to see you, too.”

  She looks uncertain. Was I a moment too slow in transforming? But then she blinks the confusion away and shrugs, turning to open a can and upend it into a bowl: wet dog food. She places it next to the dish of untouched food on the floor.

  When I don't show any signs of eating, she sighs. “That can't be normal. Aren't you hungry? Maybe you do need a vet.”

  If she takes me out of this house, the protective magic won't shield me. And more scrutiny might let her know I'm no dumb animal. I've got to eat.

  It wouldn't be my first time eating raw meat, though I've never understood how the humans' animals can stomach the food they give them—too bland. She's got a granola bar in her own hand, half eaten, so I put my paws on her leg and tug it out of her hand. I've wolfed it down before she's managed more than a startled laugh.

  “If the chocolate makes you shit everywhere, I'm kicking you out.” She punctuates the harsh words with a scritch to soften them.

  I heave a sigh of relief that her first search on her tablet isn't for a vet, but for information on canine food allergies. It could take a while for the aches to fade, for me to be ready to outrun or outfight an incubi trained to kill. As much as every second feels like it might kill me—or Eren—I know it's better to make my plans slowly and deliberately. Alisa's place is safe with her magic protecting it. I don't dare leave her radius until I know I can handle the next fight.

  Her phone vibrates with an incoming call, and she glares at it and hits the ignore button: Evan. Still, her lips are tight. I lick her hand, trying to distract her. If she decides I'm not worth the trouble and kicks me out while it hurts to walk, let alone run…

  She rubs my neck vigorously. “Don't worry about it, big guy. He was kind of a prick anyway. Don't trust a man who won't tip 15 percent. And he was getting pushier about work, too. Even if you hadn't come along, I'd give it a fifty-fifty chance I'd have dumped him within the month. He was never really gonna be okay with the entirety of my life, only feigning tolerance. And I was never gonna put up with that long-term.”

  I drop my chin to her leg, uncertain of what else to do. She pets me and eventually dozes off with her hands still draped over me.

  My skin itches fearfully, the burns Barrett left on me healing so much more slowly than every other injury. I roll my head on my shoulders, trying to pull the skin taut enough to ease the itch. It wakes her up. “Okay, big guy. I'd better sleep if I'm going in tomorrow.” She pats my ribs and slips into the bedroom.

  Through the open door, I watch her go through the motions of getting ready for bed. As I'd suspected, her feet follow that worn pattern in the carpet, and her entire body's a conduit for the magic pouring through her. All while she obliviously combs her hair, brushes her teeth, and stretches. It's an accidental work of art, how precisely she moves.

  I can't help but bask in gratitude. Out of all the places I could have wound up, I ended up with someone who's capable of protecting me, in her own way. No doubt, once I've evaded the Reapers, no one will be able to track me to her with the strength of her protective shield. She'll be okay, so long as she keeps up the ritual to keep it whole.

  She flicks the light out, and the sheets crinkle. I lay in my own little mattress. The warming tingle of her power subsides—a little too much for my liking. She's not skilled at all, is she? The power flared up like a fireball, but it's already dying down to embers. What if it dies further during the night? I should be able to feel it from in here. If I can't, how am I supposed to know it's still strong enough to cloak me?

  Lashing out against my better instincts, I make my way cautiously into the bedroom and lay on the floor near her. The increased tingle of the power in the air is reassuring already. She shifts when she hears me. “You okay, big guy? You can come on up.” She pats the mattress beside her. “C'mon…”

  Grudgingly, I obey, not really wanting to pick the fight by ignoring her. She needs to think I'm a dumb animal. I curl up at her feet on the soft bed, reassured to be near the center of her protective power.

  “There you go,” she murmurs and pets me again, curling around herself to be closer to me. Her lashes drift shut, and her breathing evens out.

 
I lay awake most of the night, calmer, feeling safer but thoroughly unnerved by the woman wrapping her arms around me and burying her face in my fur. I'm not cut out to be a house pet, and there's no telling whether the soporific effect of her magic might have other consequences, like dulling my reflexes or slowing my thoughts.

  Still, it's comforting. Her body heat, her soft breathing, and her aroma—they all combine into a whole that makes me lethargic and content. I'm not in a hurry to leave. Not at all.

  And maybe that's the problem.

  8

  Alisa

  I sleep in and leave Ballad napping in the bed when I can't procrastinate on waking up any longer. I've gotta run to the bank, and then there's lunch with Lesley, one of my sugar daddies, before it's time to come back and get ready for work.

  It's nice having someone to come home to. I've never really been the domestic type, so pets, live-in partners, all of that seemed like stuff for some hazy future that I never really wanted to contemplate. But having Ballad around, having a reason not to get drunk at work, go home with Rory to sleep it off, and deal with it all later—it's a pleasant sense of responsibility.

  It's not that academia isn't fun and all, just that I don't really want all the student loans weighing on me. And half the work felt like make-work, rather than honest labor. Sometimes this does, too, talking to lonely men and making them smile, dancing in cute clothes…but at least I don't have to pretend to take myself seriously when I do it.

  With my hair pulled back and a thin layer of makeup on, I look ready to face the world. And just in time—Lesley's not known to be patient. I throw on a well-tailored sundress and heels and hurry the few blocks to the bistro he usually meets me at.

  Lesley looks up at me when I arrive, a marginally disapproving yet relieved look in his eyes. “Good. I was worrying about what kept you.”