Unus (Stone Mage Saga Book 1)

by Raven Whitney

  Unus

  Stone Mage Saga, Book One

  Raven Whitney

  Raven Whitney LLC

  Contents

  Copyright page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Also By Raven Whitney

  Preview of Duo

  Unus

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016, Raven Whitney

  ISBN: 978-1-939359-18-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and/or reviews.

  Cover design by The Killion Group

  (http://thekilliongroupinc.com/)

  Editing by Jessa Slade and Tracey Govender

  (https://redcircleink.com/author/jessaslade/)

  (http://traceyedits.blogspot.co.za/)

  Proofreading by Proofreading by the Page

  (https://www.facebook.com/Proofreadingbythepage/)

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank both of my parents first for being so incredibly supportive of their starving artist as I pursue my dreams. Also, for letting me and my kitties live in the barn. My mom, in particular, deserves a bear hug for passing on the writing gene to me and showing me how to use it.

  My friends— who've been with me since before any of us had boobs and read every draft of this book and assured me I wasn't a total hack— deserve a medal. Since I'm too broke to get any made, this'll have to do. I love you guys. Truly, madly, and deeply.

  Finally, I'd like to thank one very special teacher who helped spur me to become the writer I am today. She is only English teacher I ever really learned anything from. By challenging me when I needed it and literally threatening to beat me with a stick, you whipped my writing skills into shipshape. You are a paragon of teaching.

  1

  “I can't see a thing,” I worried aloud, squinting through my windshield. The lines on the road were barely visible beneath the deluge, never mind the trees and houses encroaching alongside the pavement. In this weather, I was now regretting taking the shortcut through the suburbs around Newport. At least if we were on the highway it would be more open. We were going to have to park somewhere and wait out the worst of it or we would end up wrapped around a power pole.

  I repeated myself, half-shouting this time so Lexie could hear me over her caterwauling to the pop song that was booming through the car.

  She stopped dancing in her seat and looked over at me. Turning the volume down from jet engine to vacuum cleaner, she asked, “Did you say something?”

  “We need to pull over.”

  She peered around, just now seeming to take note of her surroundings. Sometimes, she could be so spacey it scared me. She nodded, her platinum blonde bob bobbing with the movement. “We can just hang out in somebody's driveway for a little while.”

  A small neon yellow plastic sign passed by on the side of the road, barely visible through the downpour. “There's a garage sale just up the block,” I pointed out. “That ought to at least give us something to do while we wait.”

  I didn't have to look at Lexie to see her grimace, but garage sales sometimes had cool things at cheap prices and if we were going to spend the rest of the day at the ritzy Cherry Creek Mall, she could tolerate a little bit of thriftiness. I might have promised a shopping date with my best friend, but that didn't mean my wallet had to die.

  Seconds later, a small single-story brick bungalow came into view with an open garage and a few other cars parked in the driveway. I pulled my red Escape next to a minivan and made a mad dash for the dry haven with Lexie on my heels.

  Fluorescent lighting and the scent of mothballs surrounded the discolored cardboard and plastic boxes that lined the old brick walls. There were worn buffet tables with peeling wooden veneers set up along the border of the garage, each with a different category of items on them—books, old toys, holiday decorations, and odds-and-ends. A handful of other people milled about, examining the dusty wares under the eagle-eyed gaze of a lanky, greasy teenage boy standing in the corner who looked vaguely familiar.

  I made an immediate beeline to the book table as Lexie wandered around aimlessly, uninterested. The pile of ragged and musty books that had probably been sitting in another one of those water-stained cardboard boxes for years held nothing of interest that I didn't already own. With a disappointed sigh, I turned to the other tables and began to sift through old lamps, albums of baseball cards, and CDs.

  As I was digging through a box of hand-me-down clothes, a tiny white hand was suddenly thrust into my field of view.

  “You want this,” a youthful, cheery voice chirped from the opposite side of the narrow table.

  I looked up to see a child who was maybe twelve years old, smiling broadly at me. He… or she… had a completely androgynous face with plump cheeks that was framed in layered, nearly white curls that went to the ears. His/her skin tone was a papery pale that stood in stark contrast to limpid, Mediterranean blue eyes that held—despite his/her age— a depth of wisdom and knowledge that looked foreign in such a childish face. Clothing was no discerning factor, either: he/she wore a shapeless white linen shirt, matching pants, and leather sandals.

  For some reason, not being able to tell what gender this child was kind of weirded me out. I didn't know how to respond to that, so I made the assumption that he/she was a little boy.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “This is what you want.” He picked a small, dark brown wooden box from beneath an old jacket and shoved it into my hands. It was roughly the size of a jewelry box and had a surprising amount of heft to it for something so small. Intricate carvings of obscure symbols covered every surface of it, inlaid with some kind of silver metal, so that it gleamed subtly even in the dull light. A small, metal pin held the latch firmly shut.

  For some reason, this little box held my complete attention. It was lovely, but from an objective standpoint there was nothing particularly special about it. Still, it had a gravity to it that kept me entranced. I ran my fingers along the smooth, silvery grooves and stared at the arcane, swirling patterns. I would have to go to the library to find out what kind of markings these were. If somebody had taken the time to carve them out and inlay them with metal, they must have some sort of meaning.

  “Um,” I mumbled, transfixed. Gingerly, I shook the box and heard a faint, tinny sound like there was some kind of metal object inside.

  The child traipsed around to my side of the table. The same little white hand tapped rhythmically on the box in my hands, regaining my attention. He walked around me, inspecting me like a cow at auction. He pinched the nascent love handles above my hips, inciting a yelp of surprise from me. Walking around behind me, he gave a firm slap on my behind.

  “Hey,” I protested. This kid was getting really creepy, but there wasn't anything that I could do to stop him. I looked around for his parents, but there was nobody in the room except Lexie, me, the greasy teenager, and a balding man with a comb-over who was paying zero attention to the kid and was too old to be his father.

  In a
darkened corner across the room, there was a perfect double of the child standing before me. The second child was perfectly identical down to the haircut and linen clothes. This child stood leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a perfectly neutral facial expression. His eerie blue eyes were fixated in my direction. Whether he was staring at me or his twin, I couldn't tell.

  Clutched to his chest, there was a peculiar, chubby garden gnome with a slightly chipped nose that was wearing a bright pink mankini stretched up over his shoulders, sunglasses, and an ear-to-ear grin. The cheery object was so starkly at odds with his demeanor, it almost looked Photoshopped.

  “You'll do perfectly,” the closer twin giggled from behind me.

  Giving the child a dubious look, I asked, “For what?”

  He burst into laughter, making me feel as though I was on the outside of an inside joke. “You'll find out.” He smiled mysteriously and gestured to the box in my hand. With a commanding, confident voice, the child ordered, “Buy this.”

  Just like that, he spun around on his heel and sashayed out of the garage and into the freezing cold and still pouring rain, snagging the hand of his twin still standing in the corner on the way out.

  “Huh,” I murmured, left reeling a little by the weird, overly familiar children.

  “Who were they?” Lexie inquired.

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  My attention drawn back to the box, I nodded, curiously investigating every groove. Without looking up, I walked over to the teen. “What is this?”

  He scoffed and gave me a look like I was crazy to have even picked it up. “A piece of junk that's been in my grandma's basement for as long as I can remember. Can't tell you how many times I used to cut my finger on that latch, trying to push the pin out. Not even a hammer could budge it. It must be welded in or something.” He snorted with disdain. “Good luck getting the ugly thing open.”

  “I think it's pretty,” I argued quietly, just a little offended. “How much for it?”

  “Three-fifty,” he sighed. Even though I was still looking down at the box, I could almost hear his eyes rolling.

  I fished through my worn denim purse for the change and handed him the amount.

  “Knock yourself out,” he muttered, his tone full of clichéd teenage apathy and cynicism as he turned to the comb-over man holding a VHS player.

  I walked over to where Lexie stood in the middle of the garage, watching me. “What did you get?”

  “I don't really know. I like the box on its own, but it has to have something in it.”

  “I've never heard of a box existing for a box's sake,” Lexie agreed, trying to sound philosophical. “Why don't you open it?”

  “The guy over there said it's impossible to open. I may need to borrow my dad's tool kit to try to push this pin out.” I gestured to the thin rod. “I don't want to be too rough with it, though. It'd be a shame to damage it.”

  “It is sort of pretty, if you're into that kind of thing.” She shrugged. “Anyway, the rain is starting to let up and there's nothing here, so why don't we get back on the road?”

  “Sure.” I looked outside at the now drizzling sky, with a smile spreading across my lips. As much as I— and my wallet— didn't like shopping, I'd been working every day for the last who-knew-how-long and really did need to take a day off before my hair started to fall out.

  The imposing metal gate bearing the Baxter family crest creaked open on its automatic wheels as the computerized system at the gate recognized the magnetic pass sitting on my dashboard.

  Lexie stopped me from going any farther down her driveway. “I'll walk the rest of the way up from here. I need to work off that Cinnabon if I'm going to fit into my costume for later.” She turned and gave me a very pointed look. “You are still coming to Luke's week-early-Halloween party, right?”

  Inwardly, I cringed just a little bit, even as I reaffirmed that I'd be going. Lexie's boy-toy-du-jour and sleazy, spoiled, scum nozzle could go lick the gum off the bottom of an old diner table for all I cared, but I promised her I'd go with her weeks ago.

  “Great,” she chirped, climbing out of the car with her haul. “I'll pick you up at eleven. Later gator!” With that, she spun around and began skipping down the driveway with her bags.

  The trip home from Lexie's house was even shorter than normal since rush hour had long since passed. Minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home and saw that no lights illuminated the windows of the taupe and navy blue Victorian that had been passed down through my father's family for more than a century.

  Quiet as a church mouse, I crept up the sun-bleached and worn wooden stairs, being sure to avoid the one that creaked loudly enough to set the neighbor's Chihuahua barking. Since she had just completed another round of chemo, Mom needed as much rest as she could get.

  I lifted the front door up on its hinges to keep it from squeaking. In the pitch darkness inside the house, I never would have been able to see him coming. Two saucer-sized paws knocked me against the wall, pinning me in place under their weight. Foul, hot breath wafted over my face before a sloppy, wet tongue bathed my face.

  “Some guard dog you are,” I griped, shoving the over-sized chocolate lab back down on his own four paws. I couldn't really complain when it was me who was trying to sneak in. “Go back to bed, Goliath.”

  Being a dog, he didn't listen and followed me upstairs to my room. He jumped onto my bed, rolling onto his back to get more brown fur on my faded blue quilt. I idly rubbed his exposed belly, inciting him to beat my white-painted foot board with his tail. I set the bags next to him and went to change into some pajamas.

  The expedition to the shopping mall had been just as painful as I'd imagined. I glared at the new pair of Manolo boots and Coach purse that sat across the room. Aware of my money problems, Lexie had refused to let me pay for anything. Though I dearly loved my best friend and soul-sister, she could be the most stubborn human being on the face of the planet when she had her mind set on something.

  Usually, when Lexie made purchases for me outside of Christmas and my birthday, I'd steal the receipt, return the item, and sneak the money back into her wallet. This time, however, Lexie had flushed the receipts down the toilet in the mall bathroom with exaggerated, maniacal laughter right in front of me. While I appreciated her generosity and understood that she was just trying to make me happy, what Lexie didn't understand was that every time she did that, it made me a little bit depressed. Not only did it affront my deep-seated sense of working-class pride that the only nice things in my possession were purchased for me by my friend, they were also symbols of things that I would probably never be able to earn with my own two hands.

  Goliath decided to roll over again, drawing attention to his dire need for scratches. However, it wasn't his belly that drew my attention; it was the odd crumpling sound from underneath him.

  I scooted him out of the way to see that he was lying on another pile of bills, some emblazoned with bright red “Final Notice” stamps. Business loans and invoices, the mortgage for the shop, the bill for fixing the transmission on my car, and the whopper of them all— student loans.

  Originally, I had intended to go to a community college close to home. The tuition was cheaper and I could save money by living at home. When Lexie showed me her acceptance letter from Brown, I was so excited for her. But when I showed her mine, she'd been heartbroken, not only because it would mean we'd be separated, but because she said she wanted better opportunities for me.

  The next week, she dropped by the house beaming with a piece of paper in her hands. She'd pulled some family strings and gotten me admitted without me filling out any paperwork. It was just my luck that my mother was home at the time and had overheard that I'd gotten into Brown before I could tell Lexie that I couldn't accept. It goes without saying that Mom was exhilarated beyond words and there was no way that I could take that joy from her.

  While we wer
e in school, Lexie had tried numerous times to pay my tuition, reasoning that since she was the one who wanted me to go there, she should be the one to pay for it. After several arguments, we reached an accord where she would pay for our apartment and forty percent of the tuition. Sixty percent of Brown tuition was still a truckload and I was certainly feeling the weight of it, but it was worth it. Despite the fact that she was very insistently offering, there was no way I'd take advantage of our friendship for personal gain. Even if it meant I'd go bankrupt….

  Forcibly changing my train of thought, I picked up the pretty wooden box that I'd bought at the garage sale. I examined it closely, marveling at the fine detail in the carvings and silver inlays of the elegantly arching and twirling arcane symbols that covered it. As I flipped it around in my hands to scan every square inch of it, I came upon the latch which held it shut. Despite what Greasy Boy had said earlier, it didn't look too complicated: a simple pin was all that held it shut. Unless it was welded in, it shouldn't be difficult to remove. If the box was so lovely, I wondered, what was hidden inside?

  I probed the little latch with my fingertips, carefully pushing at the pin.

  “Ouch!” I yelped, jerking my hands from the box and dropping it back on the bed. A tiny prick of blood welled from my finger. Huffing an exasperated breath, I went into the hallway bathroom between my room and my parents' room to rinse it off. Greasy Boy had warned me that it was sharp.

  After a moment of running it under cool water, my finger stopped bleeding and I went back to the bed. Determined that I would push that pin out, I picking up a small stone carving of a rabbit from off of my dresser on the way. That box would be opened tonight.

  It was only when I sat down on the bed that I noticed that the latch was open. Odd, considering that even though I'd pressed hard enough to prick my finger, I could have sworn that the pin hadn't budged. Shrugging it off, I eagerly opened the box.