Magic Awakening: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Spirit War Chronicles Book 1)

by Stephen Allan

  “You OK?”

  For a second, I thought about opening up. I thought about telling him about the dream. I considered mentioning the terror that I felt, and how Nuforsa just destroyed my psyche even further. It would help heal what we had.

  “My dream…”

  Pull it together, Sonya.

  “What about it?”

  You want vacation? You need to focus on vacation. You can handle this dream later.

  “I… I can’t talk about it right now,” I said. “But thank you for checking on me. I appreciate it.”

  “Of course,” Brady said calmly, showing no disappointment, just empathy. If he was still pissed at me for earlier in the day, he didn’t show it now. “One question. Worse than usual?”

  “No,” I lied. “Bad, but I’ll be OK. I have to get ready for tonight.”

  I’d expected him to react. But he didn’t, just instead nodding and climbing back up to his bunk. I threw my legs off of the bed and grabbed some clothes that I could change into while in the bathroom. I looked in the mirror once in there and saw my real self now—a strong, healthy woman who took pride in her trademark look: black-rimmed glasses, black jeans, black jacket, and a white or gray tank top. The depressed and suicidal teenage girl was a part of me and my past, but she did not define me anymore. I had to be aware of her presence, but that didn’t mean I had to overly think about it.

  When I emerged from the bathroom for my toothbrush, I immediately knew Brady wasn’t buying what I’d said, even though I lied convincingly, as he had stared at the door waiting for me.

  “What?”.

  “You were shaking horribly,” he said. “So much so that you woke me up. I could feel the shaking on my bunk. It looked really, really bad. Are you sure you OK?”

  “Brady, yes,” I said exasperated, but when I saw that he still didn’t believe me, I motioned him down. When he reached me, I embraced him in the kind of hug I don’t think I’d given him since he saved me from that near-fatal night seven years ago. “I appreciate the concern, I really do. But if I need help, I’ll ask for it, OK?”

  Brady sighed and gave his trademark shrug.

  “That’s the problem. I’m not sure you’ll ever think you’ll need help.”

  I ignored the statement, as true as it was, and made my way to the shower, hoping to wash off the stains of my nightmares and my reality before finally having a small slice of heaven.

  Chapter 11

  On most days, I tried to take as much time as I could with my shower. Back home, it was my chance to unwind from the day, the one private moment I typically got before plopping on the worn-out couch with my brother to watch ESPN or Westworld or some HBO show.

  But today, being alone was a curse. The thoughts of Nuforsa kept invading my mind. The image of the Cerberus bounding after me, with only Ebony and Ivory protecting me, haunted me. I could still see the demons chasing me, the ugly shifters and spiders and dragons giving chase. Only the flow of conversation could distract me. I finished showering in less than ten minutes.

  Plus, I really didn’t want to see Tyrus make a cameo in a bathroom again.

  I quickly put my clothes on, my skin still a bit damp, as I made sure that my black dress was properly fitted, sensually showed off my body, and was the appropriate attire for the evening. I briefly considered wearing a jacket to cover up my new demonic tattoo, but decided it was an ambiguous enough symbol that I could explain it away. It was just the right combination of sexy, classy, and tantalizing. Yes, I recognized that wearing a dress for someone whom I would only “do dinner with” might be giving the wrong signal, but I chose this outfit more for myself than I did for him.

  I slid my red heels on and took one last glance in the mirror. I smiled, gave a nice sexy look, laughed to myself, and felt back to being cheerful and boisterous as I walked out.

  I almost stumbled down the stairs, for I’d forgotten what wearing heels was like. Since I didn’t go out much and I was in comfortable, practical shoes at work, the only time I wore heels was for formal events at the CIA—and I hadn’t been to one in over a year. Fortunately, the experience was like riding a bicycle, but I can’t pretend that those stairs weren’t a bit frightening.

  It also made me nervous to be without Ebony and Ivory, which I had left with Brady, but frankly, there was no way to walk around in that dress without people noticing I had two guns. I could have brought a purse and stashed one of the guns in there, but as weird as it sounds, there was just no way I could do that. My guns worked as a pair and I carried them as one unit—if I only had one gun, it would be like if I only had one arm or the airplane I flew over in only had one wing. It just wasn’t complete. As it was, being without them gave me separation anxiety.

  But I still had my Krav Maga and Muay Thai skills, and I had done a Google search to confirm Grasshopper was a five-minute walk from Durty Nelly’s. If shit really went down, I could easily escape and find my trusted girls before it was too late.

  When I reached the bar, more than a few young guys whistled at me and made terrible catcalls. The bar was far more packed than in the afternoon, as people began their evening drinking. It felt weirdly good being back in this element—perverted men were far easier to handle than what I’d encountered so far. I could easily drop a creepy, aggressive, drunk man.

  I found DJ near the entrance of the bar, looking at his phone. He had on a nice black suede suit, an eggplant colored button down shirt, black pants, and shoes so polished I swore someone had cleaned them literally a half second before I had arrived. For how rich he seemed, that didn’t seem too out of the question.

  “You look fancy,” I said.

  When he looked up at me, he smiled broadly and hugged me close. I was so close that my head rested on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was a little faster than normal, enough to make me glad that I was affecting him. But it wasn’t out of control because of course it wasn’t—when the hell was DJ ever out of control?

  We both have that in common. Or I’d like to pretend that we do.

  “I’m looking like nothing compared to you, darling,” he said as he ran his fingers through my hair. “I love what you did with this. Anything in particular?”

  “Not really,” I said. “And the rule still applies. Don’t call me darling.”

  “Huh, naturally beautiful,” he said, bringing a blush to my face. It was one thing to get enough whistles and “Hey there”’s to know that you weren’t exactly unattractive. But it was very nice to hear a man of this caliber describe me as “naturally beautiful.” “Come, let’s go have some fine food and wine, shall we?”

  Already, I’d forgotten that he ignored my request to not call me darling. I’d fallen right back under his hypnosis.

  After we’d pushed through the mass of people, he offered me his arm, and though I hesitated for a second, given the rocky road underneath my heels, I took it, feeling like a dame from the early 20th century. This is exactly what I needed. A chance to pretend I’m in a world without spirits and get out of my head.

  Of course, thinking “I’ll get out of my head” kind of prevents that.

  “I must say, you really are looking quite beautiful tonight,” DJ said, and I felt my heartrate shoot into the hundreds as I gazed at his smile. Sonya! “I may have to keep you out past dinner just so I can look into your eyes and see your face all through the night.”

  “Oh stop,” I said, but I was almost certain I was blushing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not ridiculous, my dear, just honest.”

  Sonya Ferguson, you are screwed. Just don’t kiss him. Hug him, hold him, but if you kiss him, you’re falling into a trap you can’t get out of without getting hurt.

  “By the way, you do know that you will not be seeing the last of me here in Amsterdam. I have already decided to follow you guys to your next destination.”

  “Berlin?” I blurted before realizing I probably shouldn’t have said that.

  “Berlin now,” DJ sa
id.

  “I suppose you’re into German history, then?”

  “I suppose I am, yes,” DJ said with a laugh. “Is Munich in the plans?”

  “I think Munich will eventually be reached for Oktoberfest.”

  “Well then. Prost!”

  I laughed and inadvertently squeezed his arm, feeling the taut muscle underneath his suit and letting my mind wander to what those muscles might feel like curled up against my body, holding me tight as he—

  “And here we are,” he said.

  I shook myself from the inappropriate thoughts that were about to cross my mind to gaze up at a building much taller than I thought we’d be going to. It stood just on the edge of a canal, about a quarter of a mile from Amsterdam Centraal. I stole one glance at the menu, saw a steak priced at about 40 euros, and about fainted. This was our first date?

  Date?

  Heavens, this was going to set the bar real high for every other poor bastard I met in America.

  DJ opened the door for me and gently but confidently placed his hand on the small of my back as he guided me into the restaurant. I hated myself for getting shivers that went up through my spine and tingling that spread to my extremities. I had to compose myself as we took a seat, but even that was difficult given that he pulled my chair back for me. It was not lost on me how most guys who did that to me got a snide “I can do it myself” from me. DJ just had that charm… that smile… that confidence… that look…

  Some self-composing you’re doing, girl. Are we going to still pretend like we’re not interested or can we let that go?

  The waiter came up to us rather promptly, and before I even could learn his name, DJ raised his finger and got started.

  “Sorry, we just want to get to the good stuff. Can we put an order in of your Montgras Merlot Reserva, please?”

  I was awestruck at his perfect French pronunciation. I probably shouldn’t have been, but it seemed like there was nothing this guy couldn’t do. Our waiter nodded promptly, repeating the drink back to him, and departed.

  “It’s cute if you think you’re going to get me drunk this quickly,” I said, my smirk fixed on my face in what I could only hope looked like sarcasm.

  “Oh, darling, I’m not going to get you drunk,” he said as he took my hand in his. I didn’t even bother to lecture him. “We’re going to each get ourselves into a happy, buzzed state which will enhance our experience tonight. I would not presume that I have the right, ability, or skill to get you drunk myself.”

  What a bastard, I thought as my smile increased when his thumb ran over my hand.

  “Now, Sonya, it should be obvious that I have interest in you, but there is much I would like to know about you. I would like to confirm, once and for all, what it is that you do.”

  I pulled my hand back and crossed my arms, cocking an eyebrow. Boy has a way of getting right to the point, huh.

  “Don’t you think I would have told you by now if I could?” I said, which in itself was probably too much information.

  “So with that kind of coy attitude, you are probably a spy,” he said. “Let me guess? FBI? CIA? NSA?”

  “One of those three-letter agencies,” I said. It’s vague enough.

  “Nailed it. Well, I guess then there’s no point in having secrets since you’ll be able to figure them all out anyways,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “What would you like to know about me?”

  Easy.

  “How it came to be that you became such a successful author.”

  “Ahh, yes,” he said, the coolness in his voice switching to raw passion. “The answer that every journalist asks, but not many get the full answer to. When I’m asked and it’s on the record, I say that I have an active imagination, I spend a lot of hours on my craft, and that I do things that create good stories. Which is true in the literal sense of the word, and it makes for a good soundbite. But not many ask why I have those things. How did I become the type of guy that would take on a career that involves a lot of self-isolation, spilling of blood, guts, and memories, and would tell people that I base characters off of people I meet in real life?”

  I could tell by the shift in voice—ever so subtle, from borderline cocky to measured—that he was about to get into some of his deeper sides. I unfolded my arms and leaned forward, sure that I might be distracting his eyes but not his mind, for he was too sharp and gentlemanly to let mere cleavage deviate him.

  “See, I grew up in Australia and live in Sydney now, but I actually spent most of my time living in Broome, which is this tiny town on the far northwest side of Australia. It’s not quite the outback, but it’s got a population under 10,000 when I was growing up. It’s a famous tourist destination known for its pearls. Thus, when I grew up there, you had this rather odd combination of having people of all nationalities, all walks of life, all cultures coming through, and yet my actual day to day life was confined to the same couple dozen or so people that I grew up with. We came of age after cell phones became ubiquitous, but before iPhones and Androids and all that came around, so we’d hang out a lot without apps. But we needed a way to entertain ourselves—after all, in a town of that size, there’s only so much you can do in your childhood before it becomes ‘the same old.’ So we’d tell stories, ranging from the urban legend type to the true story to the fantastical. And I would notice my stories would garner the most interest. I realized that this was because while everyone else went for whacky, wild things that sounded cool but didn’t have a lot of substance, I went for the granular, the deep, the human—sometimes the beautiful, sometimes the disturbing, but always stuff that got people to say ‘I get that.’ Sometimes I merged it with the supernatural or the religious, but I always reminded myself to keep it grounded. Well, grow up in a town like that, get plenty of practice, don’t have much else to do, and that’s how you wind up an author.”

  “That’s… incredible,” I said.

  It’s like I was getting a side of him that only he and his childhood friends knew. He was letting me into a world that he clearly kept most people out of.

  And that felt really special. I almost don’t care anymore that I won’t let myself kiss him.

  I was already starting to shift from simple dinner to a little bit more. Now, that shifting seemed to be accelerating.

  “I… I—”

  But just then, the waiter came back with the bottle of wine, from which he poured each of us a slightly larger than normal glass.

  “Do you know what you would like to order?” he asked.

  Before I had the chance, DJ spoke for both of us.

  “I’ll have the Irish pride, and she’ll have the New Zealand fillet of beef,” he said, over my curious glance. “Both medium-rare.”

  The waiter bowed and turned around, leaving DJ with a glass in his hand and a rather aggravated glance from me, the feminist, across from him. It was one thing to hold a door and pull a seat back. It was another to order for me.

  “What?” he said innocently. “You might as well learn what beef tastes like from the closest thing to Australia on this menu. I’m pretty sure you would have ordered it, too.”

  “That’s not—”

  “The point? Come now, Sonya, you and I both know you value practicality over all us.”

  That was true only in the basest sense.

  “That beef had better be the greatest meat I’ve ever had in my life,” I said.

  “I have complete confidence it will,” he said as he raised his glass just a bit, encouraging me to do the same.

  “To this date being the start of something magical,” he said.

  You’re ridiculous and cocky.

  But I want some fun. Fine.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my eyebrows and keeping eye contact as I took an unusually long gulp of the wine. “You got an interesting story, DJ. I appreciate you sharing it with me.”

  “But of course,” he said. “You know I must now return the favor.”

  “You want my story,” I de
adpanned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea for an evening that is supposed to be as festive as this.”

  “Mmm, maybe most would say that. But I prefer the most human conversations, even if they arouse emotions that most would prefer to keep under lock and key.”

  Guy sure is an author. Always chooses his words without mistake. I took one last gulp of wine before licking my lips, sighing, and letting my shoulders slouch just a hair.

  “I’m an orphan, actually. Brady and I have been that way since I was seven years old.”

  “I’m sorry, did you—”

  “Know them well? My mother, yes. An absolute angel of a woman, but sick her whole life up to the very end. My father… I never knew him. And at this point, he’s had plenty of time to reach out to us. If he tried to reach out, I’m sure that I would not spend any time with him.”

  “At all?”

  For such a simple question, I’d rarely thought much of it. Of course, I rarely mentioned my family history to anyone, and Brady and I never talked about. We’d lived it—why would we want to go through it twice?

  “Well, to be honest, it’s not really the kind of thing I think about,” I said. “You said it yourself, I am a practical woman above all else. With that in mind, I have to accept that I’ve never met my father, my father has never tried to contact me, Brady barely remembers him—he doesn’t talk about him either—and so why would I think about it? I suppose I would have some questions.”

  Questions, I knew, that would be savage, brutal, and direct. The kind that I would use to pressure a captive for information.

  “But as far as like this? Hanging out, enjoying each other’s company, and all of that? I don’t think I’d much enjoy it.”

  “Fair enough, I’m not one to judge since I’m not in your spot,” DJ said. “But everyone has something to say. You might be surprised.”

  My initial reaction was exasperation, frustration that DJ would suggest such a thing. But that passed quickly in favor of something else.

  I was surprised that DJ was making me actually think about this. No one had ever mentioned it that way—those who knew I never knew my father would always tell me “fuck him” or “forget about him.” But this handsome Aussie in front of me had more than just good looks and a successful author career. He had an analytical, inquisitive mind.