Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  The other woman comes back, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt on her arm. “I missed drama?”

  Abel's jaw clenches when he looks at her, and he backpedals. “Nope. Nothing, Gene.” I'd put money on it that he's doing his best to avoid rubbing her noise in our earlier quarrel because he'd rather not cause friction with the girlfriend. And if he tamed her, he's a lucky man, and certainly a better one than I gave him credit for. Hearing her name again makes me realize how I know her. She's with the Reapers. A goddamn prodigy, at that. Had she been on my trail from the start, I wouldn't have made it to Alisa's. What's she doing here?

  “Reza, you know Abel. And this is Gene, our new security. I had to beef it up with you gone.” Eren laughs at my expression. “Where the hell were you?”

  I get dressed as I answer. “Morena threatened me and set one of her bitches on me.” It occurs to me that that's a shitty thing to say in this company. I thought I'd heard Abel joined with the Reapers, too. And I certainly don't need Imogene raking me over the coals. “No offense intended, and present company excluded.”

  She grins recklessly. “You're right. We aren't Morena's bitches. Anyone we know?”

  “Barrett?”

  “Shit. I owe that guy a good kick to the groin.”

  I wince. “Sidetracked. At any rate, he followed me, and on my way back to the gate, I was hit by a car. Alisa here rescued me. She has protective magics. I sheltered with her until I was strong enough to make the trip home. By then, they'd found out where I was hiding and knew who she was, so it made sense to drag her along.”

  “And when he says drag, he means literally. Kicking and screaming,” Alisa quips but gives me a glare. At least she's getting her feet under her enough to speak for herself.

  Once I'm clothed, Eren tugs me close for a hug. He can't decide whether to be pissed or relieved, and that confusion makes him more pleasant than normal. As my mom would say, he got the “miserable prick” from my dad's side of the family: the dragons. Lest I look like I'm bragging, here, she'd also say that I got the “simpering paws-and-tails puppy” from her side—though she'd insist it must be a recessive gene. Mom was always the alpha bitch, to a degree that surprised everyone. It takes a strong personality to bend a dragon demon to your will. And she was ornery as hell, too.

  I always loved her for it. She was an outsider, outwitting and bludgeoning others into falling into line as needed when we were still pups getting teased for our unorthodox appearances. Seeing her subvert what people expected of a woman in the pack hierarchy gave us the courage to take pride in our own crossbreed idiosyncrasies. Maybe that's why I enjoy Alisa's no-nonsense sarcasm so much. Or maybe it's just a relief knowing exactly what she thinks about me, not having to focus very hard to guess.

  “It's good to have you back,” Eren mutters to me. I can't think of a response; after the events of the last week, I can hardly believe I'm home again.

  “Glad to be back,” I finally manage and offer my arm to Alisa. “Let's find you a room.”

  25

  Alisa

  As much as I don't want to make an ass of myself in front of so many new people, I think I'm entitled to a little standoffishness. I have no clue where I am, I was just held hostage—maybe I still am, since it's not like I can go home anytime soon—and the strangers surrounding me obviously aren't human. Two of them, Abel and Gene, look mostly human, except that from some angles, the whites of their eyes turn black as sin. Eren and Reza are obviously twins, but Eren's the wild one, with longer hair, as though he might wolf out at any moment. Maybe it wouldn't unnerve me so much if I wasn't convinced Reza had the exact same wildness in him, just concealed better.

  I'm beginning to conclude that I got fucking lucky things played out the way they did. Reza seems reasonable-ish—but I have no clue about the rest of them. It seems to be a busy bar; there were a number of other inhuman silhouettes tucked in the shadows, sitting quietly and watching Reza's reunion. I don't like the idea of these nightmares gossiping about me.

  Reza leads me up a flight of stairs to a hallway. When he's found a door near the end of the hall, he stops me. “Put out your hand. Press it against the door. It needs to know you.”

  I stare at him with narrowed eyes but obey. The cool wood heats up under my hand, almost burning me, and I yank it away, startled. He puts his hand over mine, closing all but one finger. He tugs my hand up, fingertip pressed to the wood, drawing a straight line. Then, he curves the line into a snail shell spiral, cutting it off after overlapping past a third of the original curve. My finger leaves a glowing trail on the wood, bright enough to sear my vision. I can hardly see the sequence of lines that follows, nor the dots that punctuate it.

  “That's your key,” he says. “Draw that to get in. I can remind you if needed.”

  The door clicks and opens, leaving my hand still outstretched, joined with Reza's. He edges me forward into the room ahead of him.

  I wrinkle my nose and tug my hand away from his. manwhore, his brother had said. I never got that sense from him. At least, not when he wasn't kissing me. Though maybe I should give his kisses more weight in that balance.

  My one connection here is probably staring at my ass. That's not a pleasant thought.

  I want to turn to glare at him, but I'm far more taken with the view from the windows. The landscape out there isn't really a landscape. Shifting clouds, as though I were floating in the night sky.

  He steps into the line of my vision, his eyes on my face. “I love that panorama. It's something, isn't it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The bar's been here for generations, but we built this part from scratch.”

  I swallow, hard. I can't even see ground for it to be anchored in. This world isn't mine, and yet I'm here. Now what?

  The silence stretches longer, and Reza shifts uncomfortably. “I'll get some clothes and such for you. Anything else you need? Food? Books?”

  I don't know how to answer. I need to be home. With my friends. In my bed. I need to be safe.

  But I'm not. I'm here. With Reza standing just a little too close and my wrists and ankles still sore and sticky from the tape he restrained me with. I turn back to the view, staring intently. It's beautiful, like being in a spaceship furnished like an old-timey dive bar, one that catered to sailors and ruffians. I can't help but chuckle at the decorations.

  He notices me staring at an antique-seeming lantern sitting on the nightstand. “Many of our guests are ancient. I update it as I can, but this comforts them. Makes the world feel familiar. And trust me—you have a room full of demons, you don't want them on edge.”

  “You've really got…something…here.” I'm struggling, unable to reconcile any of what I know about Reza with everything I've learned about him in the past day.

  “So…this is good-bye, then? Or hello-in-passing?” He puts his hand on my shoulder, his fingers draping over the back of my neck as his thumb tilts my chin up toward him.

  “Yeah. I guess. Hello-in-passing.”

  He sighs and kisses my forehead. “I'm glad you're safe.”

  “You, too.” It's the polite thing to say, and I've never been the type to cause unnecessary harm. I'm not gonna say what's on my mind—that I wish he'd never come within fifty feet of me.

  I put my back to him so I won't have to consider how strange, how fucked up this all is. His footsteps recede.

  I'm alone again, in my new home, at least for the moment.

  26

  Alisa

  I meander back to the bar area. The space feels so empty, so alone. I can't call a friend to hang out, I can't practice my pole dancing, I can't go take in any sights. I don't know where the fuck I am or if there's even any kind of a space to walk in.

  I could ask Reza, but I'd rather keep my distance. After all we've been through, my blood hums whenever I see him. It's gotta be anger at him endangering me.

  Eren looks up when I approach. His brows knit together, and his lips tighten momentarily. Maybe I should have tal
ked to Reza. “What is there to do around here? Somewhere to go walking?” I can't keep a little of my strain from my voice; Eren and Reza are identical. If it wasn't for the scars on Reza's shoulders from whatever injury he sustained when we met, I wouldn't be able to tell them apart.

  He sighs. “Reza didn't give you the full tour?”

  “No. He was…in a hurry to get back to things.” It's a little white lie, but I'm not in a terribly talkative mood.

  He jerks his chin at Gene and steps out from behind the bar. She walks toward us, likely to take his place. “Come on, then.”

  I follow meekly, scrambling to keep up with his long steps.

  “Main bar area. Keep your mouth shut, and don't stare at people. Kitchen's back here—” He leads me through a door next to the bar. “You're welcome to help yourself. You're under Reza's wing, so no one will bother you.”

  Except that bothers me. “No, I'm not. Under his wing. I've got my pride.”

  “Trust me. You're under his wing. At least until you get your feet under you. Otherwise, you're gonna get killed in a minor dispute before the week's out. Mortals don't usually last too long here; you've moved too far from your primal urges to be as aggressive as you need to be. Sometimes, you've gotta throw the first blow, and it's gotta be a knock-'em-out punch. It's dog eat dog.”

  I shudder; that seems a little on the nose coming from a man who likely spends quite a bit of time as a dog.

  In the back of the kitchen, there's a set of stairs. “You wanted somewhere to walk, it's through here.” The stairway spirals downward into darkness, though I can see far enough my legs ache just looking at it. I'm gasping by the time we get to the bottom.

  He opens the door, and I blink. Out here, it looks like a perfectly normal culinary garden. Rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, and some other plants I can't identify, along with herb bushes like lavender and rosemary. It's expansive, with plenty of room to walk.

  “This is a pocket world—it only extends as far as we make it. If you want something else, you'll have to talk to Reza about shaping it—or make him an offer to get his attention. He was always better at that shit than me. There's enough work to do maintaining it that you better give him a damn good reason for putting another task on his plate, though.”

  It seems polite to take an interest. “So what are you better at?”

  “Organizational things. Keeping the place running smoothly and maintained. And cracking skulls. Reza's the architect; I'm just a hard-bitten beast who enjoys keeping the other animals in line.” His voice is a little sarcastic—it's impossible to tell what he thinks of that. “I'm the mouthpiece and the muscle. You don't need to know more than that. Just come to me if Reza's not around and someone's testing you.”

  “So he's the reasonable one,” I tease. “Good to know.”

  “On that note, stay away from Reza.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He's gotta keep his wits about him. And I know him; he falls hard and fast. And he's got his eye on you.”

  “Oh, I know that. I was more giving you the chance to back down and think about it logically. He held me hostage. I appreciate that I'm still alive and all, but you're delusional if you think I want to be near someone I have to mistrust that much. I think you underestimate the degree to which your brother is in the doghouse, in my eyes.”

  “Good,” he says emphatically. It's unnerving being treated so coldly, since as we walk, it's more and more difficult to remember that I'm not walking with Reza. “Moving on.”

  He leads me back inside, away from the garden, and back up the stairs from hell. Through the bar area is the main set of stairs Reza took me up to my room. “You're on the second floor, but if you go up to the third floor, we have the library. Now that Abel's here, he maintains it.” He glances at me. “Abel's got some skill as an e-ink; an incubus with access to manipulating digital information. It's a hobby of his, translating novels from the codes, and creating physical shells for them. If you want something in particular, you might have to make it worth his while. Mainly, he just does a variety.” He grins, cheekily. “Lots of smut, though. You can take an incubus out of the bedroom, but you can't take the bedroom out of the incubus.”

  I blush furiously. He leads me through the third floor hall to the first door. He sketches out that same symbol that Reza used on mine. Shit. I am gonna have to remember it.

  The room inside is massive; despite the fact that I know there's a ceiling above it, I can't actually see the ceiling. Only the night stars above us. And even though it must be directly above my bedroom, there's stairs down. However this place is laid out, it's not laid out in simply three dimensions. It doesn't make architectural sense.

  Reza made this? It's strange considering him to be capable of producing such beauty. I'd thought him at least somewhat of a brawler, solving his problems with fists.

  The walls are lined with books, the sort of old-school, leather-bound tomes with gilt edges that no one realistically reads anymore. Wouldn't it be easier for Abel to build paperbacks? I think I'd be terrified about bending a page in one of these.

  The more I see of the Well, the more surreal it seems. The sweeping, non-linear architecture, the dizzying heights, the old-world opulence mixed with a mishmash of other things that must've been chosen from other worlds.

  These fantastical surroundings bring one thought crashing down on me—there's no place for me here. I don't belong in his carefully laid out world. I shouldn't be sketching magical shapes to open doors or keeping company with shapeshifters and demons.

  God, I want to go home.

  “That's the gist of it. I've got to get back. Do you want me to walk you to your room, or are you okay on your own from here?” Eren looks absolutely thrilled at the idea of staying with me. I'd rather not antagonize him.

  I put on a brave smile. “Yeah. I'm good. Can you show me the unlocking drawing again?”

  “Sigil. It's called a sigil.” He walks to the wall and skims through a few shelves before he finds the book he's looking for. He opens it to a specific page and passes it back to me. “It's right there. You shouldn't have any issues learning it.”

  “Thanks. I'll practice it. Thanks for your help. And your hospitality.” I can't quite sound sincere, but I have to make the effort to stay on his good side.

  He nods, even as he's already walking away. I sit on a plush chair to look at the book he's given me: Basic spellcraft Even A Demon Can Do: A How-To Guide To 100 Simple Spells.

  Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore.

  27

  Alisa

  About three hours into my reading—the first book long since set to the side in favor of a more advanced tome on obscure regional spells—a sigil makes my eyes widen.

  The Mother's Love Ward

  Nicknamed such for its most common presentation, carved into cradles or embroidered onto christening dresses, this protective spell originated with an Icelandic coven around the 1800s, specifically the family of the renowned norn laeknir Ársæll. It's a variety not often used, despite its ease of execution, in part due to its limited practical utility. It draws on a connection between the caster and the subject it's intended to protect. The stronger that connection, the stronger the spell. Because of this, it has limited utility commercially and can often be broken, except when done between individuals who are lovers or blood relatives. It can generally protect a home, in its weaker incarnation, however, for maximum efficacy, it must be repeated to keep up its strength. Why expend so much time and energy learning, executing, and maintaining such a spell when you could devote that energy to a more all-purpose protection? However, for those struggling with precision in their spellcraft, particularly kids or those with less articulate hand movements, this spell can be a particularly useful teaching tool.

  Despite that, it has fallen into disuse since the clan who pioneered it was wiped out. After all, if it couldn't protect them, what good was it? The knowledge of it was all but eradicated, and particulars of how to execute
the ward are not known. Our records of it mainly exist through the discovery of physical goods it was imprinted upon, from children's clothing, to talismans, to illustrations of women with their hair braided to shape it in their coils, in astral worlds known to have been frequented by Ársæll.

  And the picture. The little doodle my mom taught me. The one Reza said was a protective ward.

  I had no idea about any of this. I thought Reza was lying or misleading me. But he was right. There is some piece of me here, even if I don't know where or how it fits.

  Footsteps startle me. I glance up into Reza's mismatched eyes. There's a spark of warmth in them. “You were right,” I concede, pricked by at least a little guilt over disbelieving him. Saying it makes it real, and the loss of equilibrium is almost enough to make me cry.

  “Hmm?”

  I offer him the book. His fingers brush mine as he accepts it and turns his eyes to the page. I draw my feet up onto the chair and wrap my arms around my knees. He skims the page and passes it back. “I ran into one of Ársæll's great-grandkids when I was young. She had your eyes.”

  I shudder. I don't know that I'll ever get used to feeling eternally the baby.

  “We were toddlers at the time. I was just beginning to discover how to shift. We were roughhousing. I got startled when her father saw us, and I changed back to human. He thought I was biting her. I wasn't allowed to play with her again.”

  I smile tightly, not sure how to respond.

  “I'd hoped to apprentice with them to train; I had an interest in spellcraft, even young. Though more from a historical perspective than a practical one. But by the time I had persuaded my mother it wasn't an attempt to abandon the Pack, the clan had made some enemies. They were attacked. I'd thought no one survived the massacre. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “So what'd you do?”