Creation Mage 4

by Dante King

  Creation Mage 4

  War Mage Academy 4

  Dante King

  Copyright © 2020 by Dante King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

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  About the Author

  Chapter One

  All was chaos, revelry, and excess. Ice clinked against glass. Shrieks of laughter and drunken shouts permeated the smoky atmosphere of the giant hall and spacious low-ceilinged kitchen.

  Outside, on the edge of the cliff on which the frat house stood, the recently constructed swimming pool cascaded over the precipice like a waterfall-cum-infinity pool.

  Music thumped and thudded from what looked like a mid-century record player. Igor Chaosbane had brought it with him on the back of a horseless cart. He had levitated both himself and the record player to our new outdoor entertaining area.

  “Where did you come across the record player? Fall off the back of a magic carpet, did it?” I asked Igor, who was standing beside me. Thankfully, we were standing far enough away from it so that we could still hear each other speak.

  The curious thing about the music was that it seemed to seep into my skin, giving me an electrifying sensation not unlike the subtle buzz one got after consuming a few alcoholic beverages.

  “Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no lies, old sport.” Igor tipped back his head and squirted a stream of liquid into one eye and then the other with a delicate glass pipette. “Ah!” he said. “Much better. Now, in about four and a half minutes, you can ask me all the questions you like and all you’re likely to get in return is complete and utter nonsense.”

  “No change there, then?” I said.

  “Hm?” Reginald Chaosbane’s cousin asked me absentmindedly.

  “What was that stuff anyway?” I asked.

  Igor exhaled a gust of potent alcohol fumes in my direction, which sent his flyaway mustache fluttering in all directions. It looked like a cross between the head of a broom and a possum that had died in a savage fray.

  “They’re just regular off the shelf eye-drops,” Igor said. “But coupled with the formidable jackalope tranquilizer orbs that I just slipped into my rectum, my neurons will be sent into outer space with delightful alacrity.”

  “You’re a madman,” I said. “And I can’t say I’m disappointed to have you as my first sponsor.”

  Even as we talked, I saw Igor’s pupils separate into eight clearly definable segments, like those of an orange.

  “Who better than me to guide you in this rather inhospitable environment?” he asked me. “After all, is it not my cloak which now sits upon your shoulders?”

  I ran my hand over the fabric. This evening, the cloak had taken the form of a smoking jacket that would have put Hugh Heffner to shame. I was about to thank Igor for the umpteenth time, but he was already dawdling off, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like Christine Aguilera’s song, Dirrty.

  I shook my head and grinned. I loved my life.

  My gaze wandered around the party. It truly was astounding what a handful of talented mages, some great alfresco decorating, and a buttload of magic could do when it came to renovating a house.

  With Reginald Chaosbane dictating proceedings, the other dozen members that had been involved in the battle against the Death Mages at the Eldritch Prison—myself, Cecilia Chillgrave, Rick Hammersmith, Enwyn Emberskull, Damien Davis, Ragnar Ironskin, Janet Thunderstone, Alura the Gemstone Princess, Madame Xel, Odette Scaleblade, Bradley Flamewalker, and Nigel Windmaker—had transformed the previously empty backyard of our fraternity house.

  Where there had only been a jumbled mass of tangled weeds, we had worked together to excavate a pool. Rick had used his Earth Elemental magic to line the pit with smooth, draining stones. Cecilia filled it with ice, which Enwyn and Damien melted into crystal-clear water with their Fire Magic. Along with the pool, we’d put together a small beach that merged seamlessly into a decking area, complete with a gazebo.

  We had the backyard looking like a miniature offshoot of Miami Beach in the same amount of time that it took Bradley to marinade the enormous hippogriff leg he had carted out for the occasion.

  “There’s nothing better than a good fraternity party, is there?” said Nigel Windmaker, my halfling friend and brainbox Wind Mage extraordinaire. He strode up and patted me on the small of the back.

  I feigned a jump of surprise and peered down at the four and a half foot tall halfling. “Shit, Nigel, what did I tell you about wearing a bell so that I’d know you were coming?”

  Nigel punched me in the ribs, and I laughed.

  “I yield!” I said, putting my hands up. “But you’re right about there being nothing better than a good fraternity party. And there’s no better reason for holding one than celebrating the fact that you, me, and the rest of our merry band of miscreants just survived a near-death encounter with a small army of Frost Giants and Death Mages.”

  I grabbed a pair of empty ale horns from where they rested beside a keg and filled them both to the brim. I handed one to Nigel, then knocked my ale horn against his in a toast, and we drank. The two of us gazed around with the content and beneficent eyes of two people who had imbibed precisely the right amount of alcohol.

  “That’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” I nodded in the direction of the new pool.

  “Oh, y-yes, engineering-wise the pool is a marvel,” Nigel stuttered with enthusiasm. “I mean, the w-w-way that everyone was able to combine their magic and the way that the Headmaster then knitted that m-m-magic together to erect…” His voice faded as he saw the bemused expression on my face. “You weren’t talking about the pool, were you?”

  “Nope,” I said. “No, I wasn’t, Nigel. But it’s fitting that you should use the word ‘erect’, because I was in fact referring to what is taking place in the pool.”

  Cecilia and Janet, who had been close friends before they had even arrived at the Academy, were fooling around in the pool. They were splashing each other and giggling in a way that would have been cliched enough to make into one of those terrible movies with a name like, Spring Break: Piranha Attack! or Halloween Skinny-Dip 4.

  They must have sensed us staring because the two women suddenly looked over in our direction. The grins on their faces broadened, and they jumped up and down, urging us to join them.

  The sight of their taut bodies in their minuscule bikinis only made the evening
feel more right. I waved nonchalantly back, while Nigel did his best impression of a pubescent teen who’d just been hit by a gorgon’s death stare.

  “You know,” I said, turning back to the halfling Wind Mage, “there are plenty of random ladies from the Academy here tonight, too. Word must be getting around Nevermoor that us guys up on the hill are throwing a party.”

  “You’re correct in that appraisal,” Nigel said, taking a hearty gulp of ale. “There are, indubitably, some fine female strangers present.”

  “And I saw you eyeing off that half-pixie chick over there, paddling her toes on the edge of our new private beach.” I motioned toward the woman.

  “And your point, Mr. Mauler?” Nigel asked.

  “My point is that, if there was ever an evening to use that big ol’ halfling schlong of yours to do some taco-smashing, then this would be it,” I urged him.

  Nigel grinned and drained his cup. “Is this your idea of a pep talk?” he inquired.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied.

  “Taco smashing?”

  “Taco smashing, pelvic polka, clam clonking, whatever you want to call it,” I said.

  “Love-making?” Nigel suggested.

  “Urgh, Nigel, that’s fucking disgusting,“ I said, an expression of feigned pain on my face.

  “That’s more distasteful than taco clonking?”

  “What are you, a forty-five-year-old character from a Nicholas Sparks novel?” I asked. “My point is that you’re hot property tonight. You’re one of the benevolent hosts of this party. And you’re one of a small group that went into the goddamn Eldritch Prison and had a scrap with a bunch of Death Mages! There’s no way that you couldn’t get laid after that.”

  Despite the half-naked women surrounding us and the drunken bedlam that was slowly gaining more and more traction, Nigel looked a little crestfallen.

  “Maybe, you might be right, ordinarily,” he said. “However, this is one of those things that I doubt Chaosbane will want us bandying about, you know. This is a secret that we have to keep under our hats.”

  “I’m not suggesting you tell anyone about what we did. But it should fill you with confidence. We’re badasses. You’re a badass. That kind of thing has to rub off on a guy.”

  Nigel chewed on my words before he puffed out his chest and put on a stern expression that was almost adorable. “Yeah, it does make me feel at least a foot taller.”

  “It should make you feel two feet taller, buddy,” I said.

  “So, you think that I’d have a good shot with the pixie girl?” Nigel asked me.

  I poured the rest of my ale into Nigel’s ale horn to give him a little more liquid courage, then I patted him on the shoulder. “Nigel, you should be asking yourself whether you think she deserves a shot with you.”

  Nigel drew himself up to his full height, which was somewhat anticlimactic, and fixed his eyes on the half-pixie on the artificial beach.

  The woman was small and slight with bright blue hair cut short and a pair of translucent dragonfly-esque wings protruding from her back. Nigel pushed his spectacles up his nose, a move comparable to someone else cracking their knuckles or sending up a silent prayer before charging into battle.

  “Yeah,” I said, “you go get ‘em, tiger.”

  As Nigel strode off, I felt something twining about my legs. I glanced down and saw the purple and mauve striped sabertooth cub that had followed me home from one of my first adventures. The little animal was staring up at me with big, soulful, predatory eyes. I knelt down and ran my fingers through the luxuriant fur, noting that the cub had definitely grown in recent weeks. The animal gave a little mewl and looked at my drinking horn.

  “This isn’t for you,” I said, “but I reckon I have something else you might like.” I snatched some kind of sausage from a nearby table and fed it to the little beast, careful that she didn’t inadvertently chomp off a finger.

  “And now,” I said, “I think I need a little refreshing myself, although maybe with something that has a smidge more backbone.”

  I walked past the pool, my gaze lingering on the figures of Enwyn, Odette, and Madame Xel, who were floating lazily around the pool in a giant inflatable cauldron. The sight of the three teachers dressed only in bikinis hit my self-control like a blowtorch, threatening to melt it on the spot. It was all I could do not rip all my clothes off and dive in to join them.

  “The night is still young, Justin,” I told myself.

  I maneuvered my way past a couple of foxy-looking nymphs—quite literally foxy; they were forest nymphs and had black-tipped, pointed ears poking through their bright orange hair, startlingly beautiful amber eyes, and canines that protruded over their lower lips. I strolled into the backdoor of the house and into the cavernous kitchen.

  The delectable smell of roasting meat, basted in some aromatic marinade, hit me as soon as I walked through the door. There was a flash of flame that illuminated the scene, followed by a chorus of squealing cheers.

  I looked over toward the stove at the back of the kitchen and saw that there was a gaggle—Nigel had previously assured me that this was the correct terminology—of females gathered around none other than my frat bro, Bradley Flamewalker.

  Bradley was in the middle of doing something tricky—and, apparently quite sexy—with a couple of feathery dead things. They were neon green and had legs as long as those of a flamingo. As I watched, Bradley twirled the avian corpses around his arms in a fair imitation of a mixologist flipping bottles of liquor just before he delivered you a Whisky Sour.

  The birds suddenly flipped up into the air, and there was another flash of flame as Bradley let loose a couple of bursts of fire from his hands. The feathers of the cartwheeling birds were reduced to a fine ash. As they spun like a couple of charred gymnasts coming off the back of a vaulting horse, Bradley impaled them deftly with lethal-looking rotisserie skewers. Bradley’s female audience oohed and aahed appreciatively, and I was sure that I heard just a few pairs of panties drop to the floor.

  I snatched a bottle of something called Olde Naylor’s Rotgut from a sideboard nearby, pulled a clean glass from the dresser, and poured myself a hearty measure. As I did so, I kept my eyes on the women surrounding Bradley and his head of perfect hair.

  Bradley wanted more than anything to shake off the oppressive chains of wealthy aristocratic privilege and become a chef. What it seemed like he didn’t want, however, was to recognize the way his cooking had enthralled the surrounding gaggle. Looking at his intent face, I guessed he didn’t even realize he’d enraptured them. Bradley was more concerned with everyone trying his cooking and telling him what they thought.

  As I made my way past the crowd of fine young women, I spotted one of my other fraternity brothers, Rick Hammersmith. He was sitting at the large, homely wooden table, around which we had planned so many of our ridiculous adventures. It was to our fraternity house what the clubhouse table was to the Sons of Anarchy.

  Rick was locked in an arm wrestle with a curvaceous woman. I knew I had seen her somewhere before but couldn’t quite place her. She had a pale, heart-shaped face and skin the color of a paper birch; gleaming white and smooth. Her eyes were the same deep, emerald green as Rick’s. She was leaning forward as she strove with Rick, and her low-cut dress revealed a pair of voluptuous breasts divided by cleavage that could have had its own label on Google Maps.

  It was this cleavage that was going to be Rick’s downfall in this competition of strength—his Achilles’ cleavage. My brawny frat bro just couldn’t keep his eyes off those wonderful pale globes. They surfaced like a couple of breaching whales over the rim of the woman’s shimmering red velvet dress. It was obvious that the Elemental chick knew exactly the effect they were having on Rick because she stuck out her chest even more.

  Rick’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he caught sight of the edge of one dark nipple. His hand wavered down toward the tabletop, and his opponent laughed a rich chocolatey laugh.

  It was then
that I recognized her as an Elemental from Alura’s sorority house.

  Shit, Rick’s going to have his hands full with that one, I thought.

  I meandered out into the entrance hall, which was big enough to host a game of women’s beach volleyball if you had the mind to truck in the sand. I sipped my drink and winced. I fought down the urge to fling the glass from me like a hot coal, which was something that I should have remembered about this particular drop. The warmth of Olde Naylor’s Rotgut filled me, and I let out a sigh.

  I felt absolutely content just then, the very embodiment of human flourishing, a man entirely at peace with the world.

  Which was the complete antithesis of Damien Davis. My Fire Mage frat brother came pelting down the stairs at an impressive speed. He was half-wrapped in a bedsheet, like the world’s laziest approximation of a toga. He dashed past me and was followed by a series of incoherent, but clearly angry, screeches from a lady who was in hot pursuit of him.

  I took a step backward so that the young lady, wearing nothing but her underwear, would have a clear field to launch herself over the banister at Damien. Privately, I hoped that idea would occur to her. It’d really top the party off.

  “What did you do to my hair!” she howled.

  It was only then that I realized that half her head of brown curls had been shriveled almost down to her scalp.

  “I told you, it was an accident!” Damien shouted back over his shoulder. “I lost control! You should take it as a compliment; it’s a mark of a truly exceptional blowjob!”