Shadow Phantoms

by H. P. Mallory

  The smoke started to congeal. Stone stepped away from the pentagram. I felt his absence like a stiff wind. It chilled me to the bone and left me standing in front of a demon with no idea what to do next.

  Emma Balfour. A voice, but not my voice, spoke from inside my head. On the ground in front of me, the smoke took the shape of what appeared to be an elongated tree trunk.

  You have summoned me. The voice went on. I have come to serve. Do you accept me as your familiar for the Eternity to come?

  I glanced behind me, looking to Stone for reassurance.

  My classmates and Stone squinted at the fog, but they didn’t look confused or startled. The demon’s smoke followed much the same pattern as Stone’s horse. Albeit, with a different animal result.

  No one else can hear my familiar’s voice... I realized. A thrill of panic washed over me. I sought Stone’s eyes again. Looking for answers despite never asking my questions aloud.

  Stone took my frazzled gaze and held it, caressing the fear out of me, anchoring me in the fathomless depths of his eyes.

  Do not be afraid, his gaze said. Shockingly, my body obeyed him and my heart rate slowed down. The knot in my neck loosened, and the tension left my muscles. I turned back to face the transforming demon. The smoke solidified as the demon’s animal took shape. My familiar spoke again, like a harshly out of tune wind chime and repeated her last question:

  Emma Balfour, do you accept me as your familiar?

  “I do,” I said, then for good measure: “I accept you as my familiar.”

  The last tendrils of smoke folded into the solid design. It cleared into the cemetery’s natural mist. I stared, awestruck, at what the smoke had become...

  The emerald green eyes of the biggest snake I’d ever seen bore into my soul.

  Glistening black scales. Black as tar. Five-inch fangs. Moving like oil over water. A forked tongue shot out of its mouth, a sharp pink blur. It hissed loudly and slithered toward me.

  “Ask its name,” Stone whispered so only I could hear. Then louder for the class, “Once you have your familiar’s name—freely given—the contract is sealed.”

  I nodded, raking blond flyaways out of my eyes. “What is your name?” I asked.

  I looked at the snake. Pure muscle, wet green eyes, and razor-wire teeth. She rose up, coiling a base on the ground and stood to meet my eye-line. She opened her maw, fangs bared, and hissed, “Gilda.”

  “Hello, Gilda,” I said. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise, little witchling,” she hissed.

  Her serpentine head bent forward in a little bow of greeting.

  I wondered why she spoke aloud rather than telepathically this time, but I didn’t ask.

  “Congratulations, Miss Balfour,” Stone said from behind me. His smile was beaming. It was proud. It was an expression I hadn’t seen in a long time. Actually, the last time I saw it was in Aunt Bryn’s eyes, when she found out I’d be attending Elmington Academy.

  “You have met your familiar. And your partner in life. That’s no small thing—to Emma and Gilda, first familiar match of the year!” Stone finished.

  The class applauded. Jupiter and Kevin screamed like girls at a boyband concert. They looked and sounded ridiculous. My responding smile could have split my face in two.

  I stepped out of the pentagram blushing. Being the center of attention made me nervous, but I had to admit, it was nice to get something right for once.

  “You know, the Rajasthan Roma people hold the snake in the esteem of an angel,” Stone said. “Their people, Cobra Gypsies in direct translation, emulate the snake in all they do; the way they cast spells, the way they live, the way they dance; it all stems from the cobra’s essence. They channel the snake’s power and sensuality into all they do—a very powerful omen, and a formidable familiar.”

  My classmates muttered among themselves, all trying to stare at me and my snake without making eye contact. The whispers were almost louder than the wind. But I couldn’t exactly say I was surprised. When one thinks of a magical animal companion, snake doesn’t exactly rank among doggies and kittens on the cuteness meter.

  Gilda slithered behind me. We positioned ourselves between Jupiter and Clark. His hand made a rare appearance, leaving his blue jean pocket to clap me jovially on the shoulder.

  “Nice snake,” Clark said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Summoned her myself!”

  Glad as I was to have a familiar, even I had to admit, this thing was fucking terrifying.

  I examined Gilda’s long, sleek form with admiration. She was truly intimidating, and incredibly beautiful.

  Stone picked off students down the semi-circle. Clark went next. His familiar was a sizable lizard named Otis.

  “Seriously?” Clark turned his disbelieving gaze to Stone. The lizard slapped its tongue against its eyeball with a smack. Then its tongue lolled back into its mouth.

  Our professor appeared to be suppressing a smile.

  Clark eyed the lizard doubtfully. “Can I draw again or something?” he asked earnestly, scratching his head with an envious glance at my snake.

  “The familiars do the choosing here, Mr. Kirkwood,” Stone said. “You get what you get and you accept it. Back to the circle, if you please. And don’t forget the salamander.”

  “Ha ha, really funny,” Clark muttered as he picked his familiar up straight away and perched it on his broad left shoulder. Then he frowned at me and I just laughed. I mean, he did look pretty cute with the tiny thing—Clark, this enormous jockish dude and his little lizard companion.

  It took some time, but eventually we circled all the way around to Kevin and Jupiter: their familiars were an orange tabby cat named Francis and a parrot named Perdita.

  In the distance, a bell chimed. The dome evaporated. Cold rushed us from the outside and Stone dismissed us for the day.

  Our class dispersed. Some hung back to kill time in the graveyard—the mist made it a decent cover for the smokers—and the rest of us went back to the dorm.

  “Oh, crap!” I exclaimed, nearly at the cemetery’s entrance as Gilda slid along beside me. “I left my bag back in the cemetery.”

  “No problem,” Jupiter said. “Let’s just swing back and get it.”

  “No, that’s all right.” I waved her off. “You guys go ahead. I know right where I left it. I’ll just grab it and catch up with you at the dorm.”

  “If you’re sure,” Kevin said hopefully. “I’ve got three episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race burning a hole in my DVR.”

  “Ooh, I’m in,” Jupiter said. Then to me, “We’ll catch you when you get back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I saluted them both, wished them luck on their TV binging, and slogged back to the misty pentagram, Gilda right beside me. One thing I could say about the enormous snake was that she definitely made me feel safe.

  My bag leaned limply against one of the tombstones. A few down from where the dome had been.

  Weird, I thought. I don’t remember dropping it there.

  I shrugged and approached the grave. Pulled the bag up by the strap, rustling the old roses in front of the grave. I heard a slight whispering sound but didn’t let it stop me. Instead, I turned around, figuring whatever the sound was, it was none of my business. I took a step back the way I came, closing the latch on my ratty old messenger bag.

  And then I felt a swoosh of air against my face.

  My head snapped up.

  A ghost appeared in the space in front of me. A long beautiful face, sad, empty eyes, and three feet of transparent hair spread out in weightless tendrils behind her.

  I gasped and dropped my bag. It fell against my shoes with a muted thud.

  “Who... who are you?” I asked.

  “A friend, a foe, it matters not. My soul cannot be sold or bought.”

  Her voice slid over me like oil on water. Gooseflesh broke out fresh against my skin. I took a step away.

  “I serve the fates and speak their will... I
will not harm, nor shall I kill.”

  “What the hell…” I backed away from the rhyming specter until I bumped into a tombstone that was covered in dead roses, all made from cement.

  I read the headstone: Marigold Emberlynn, 1670-1713, Prophet to the Carnegies, Seer of all.

  “You’re a prophet.” I looked back to her empty eyes, unsure of the words. Not everyone who called themselves a “prophet” actually had the sight. The magical world had its scammers just like the mortal one. It was possible she was just roaming the cemetery, rattling off rhymes to pass the time. Maybe I had nothing to fear.

  But I had to know for sure. I started to ask, “Do you have something to…”

  “Life and pain are one and the same, for the first daughter born of the Balfour name.”

  My blood ran cold.

  “Wh... what?”

  “A danger lurks beyond these walls; and Emma Balfour... you’re doomed to fall.”

  “I don’t understand...”

  “A danger worse than all you’ve known... they’ll strike you down when you’re alone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’ll come for you when you expect it least…” The ghost floated closer. “Heed my warning, young beauty... or be lost to the beast…” She evaporated, losing her form into the mist.

  I sprinted out of the cemetery with my heart in my throat. Gilda slithered quickly after me. No matter how hard I pumped my legs, I couldn’t get out of the cemetery fast enough. My phone rang. I pulled it out and answered without checking who it was.

  “Hello?” I panted.

  “Hey,” Rowan’s voice crackled over the phone’s poor connection. I didn’t respond right away. I was too busy trying to get the hell out of dodge.

  “Emma?” she asked. “What’s wrong with you? You sound crazy out of breath.”

  “I just…” I caught my breath, the ghost’s words ringing in my head. “I just decided to go for a jog…”

  “A jog?” Rowan sounded dubious. “You don’t jog. You barely even walk. You once said standing was a poor man’s sitting.”

  “Changed my mind,” I said quickly. “You know, I want to get that summer beach body and all that jazz.”

  “Whatever.” I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Anything new besides the jogging?”

  My pulse still raced. Cold sweat coated my skin. I shook a bit, and Gilda curled protectively around my legs, keeping me grounded.

  “Um… no.” My voice shook. I swallowed hard. The ghost had terrified me. I suddenly felt like I had a dirty little secret, like I was a harbinger of doom, bringing bad omens and horrid prophecies to Elmington. And if anyone found out, I would be undone. I was already enough of a lightning rod for unwanted attention: with my dad on the board, my powers stalling, and my tendency to lock horns with professors, I had enough eyes on me to last a lifetime. I didn’t also need to be the crazy girl who talked to ghosts after class.

  “Nope,” I said again, this time to myself. “Nothing new at all—how’s the luck elixir going?”

  She said something about pickled toadstools. I tried to listen, but all I heard was the voice of the dead prophet.

  What sort of beast would waste their time coming after me? I thought.

  This time, no one answered. Rowan mentioned something about an industrial herb dehydrator she found on Craigslist, and the question floated off into the mist.

  ELEVEN

  DUINE

  My mask chafed irritatingly at my face as I entered the Circular Hall of the Masked Magistrates. Frankly, I hated having to wear the damn thing; secret identities always seemed faintly ridiculous to me. Besides, I was proud of who I was.

  The idea behind the masks was that they allowed everyone to speak freely, without fear of retribution. I had no fear of retribution, and if anyone said anything I didn’t like, then I wanted to know who they were. Which was, presumably, why others felt the masks essential. It was nice to be feared, but the mask remained an irritation.

  The table in the hall was circular, like the hall itself. Everyone was equal at a round table, just like at the court of King Arthur—though that was a name I didn’t need to be reminded of right now, after the debacle at Tintagel. The problem with the concept was that everyone was decidedly not equal. Take away the damn masks and every face could have been ranked in order of importance. It would have been a very bold person, indeed, who did not put me at the head of the table.

  The time would come—and in the not too distant future—when the Masked Magistrates would become an irrelevance. For now, they represented the last vestige of the inclusivity and equality of the Underworld, the last place where the magic races sat down and tried to work together—even if we had to be incognito to do so.

  Things had deteriorated, and the field was clear for someone to try and unite the races again under one flag. Under my rule, this Underworld 2.0 would be less equal—Mages at the top, everyone else at the bottom—but it would still be inclusive. I would insist upon it. In fact, if anyone tried to excuse themselves, they would be forced to join, kicking and screaming if necessary. Such are the sacrifices we make for the sake of inclusivity.

  “By virtue of ballot, I shall be chairing this evening,” said one mask, sitting in the red chair. “I welcome you all to this meeting of the Masked Magistrates. I remind all those present to refrain from identifying themselves or their species. We are all equal here, we are all anonymous here.”

  The room was insulated with magic that disallowed any of us to recognize the others. Therefore, a voice we might otherwise know well would not strike any notes of recognition within our minds. Well, this rule applied to the others, though it did not apply to me. I had spent the better part of a week searching for the antidote to such magic and had found it. Thus, I recognized any and all voices in the room. And there was one, in particular, I hoped to hear.

  “Hear, hear,” we all chorused back dumbly, sounding like an AA meeting; ‘Hi, my name is Duine, it’s been two days since I last killed someone’. Such would actually be an improvement on what really happened at these meetings.

  So why was I here?

  Because, while the time would come when the King’s Alliance replaced this ludicrous spectacle, that day had not yet arrived and these idiots could help me.

  The meeting began and I listened in deep boredom as administrative details were discussed with a frustrating vagueness, because to specify the needs of any one Magistrate would be as good as identifying to which faction they belonged.

  I tried to amuse myself by guessing who was who. It seemed likely that I would know at least some of these people. One voice I was sure I would recognize was that of Sinjin Sinclair, Master Vampire, who was supposed to be here as leader of the Vampire Coalition (a name I was relatively sure he had selected to mock the King’s Alliance).

  I listened hard to all those present, but none of them appeared to be Sinjin. Typical. I knew Sinjin and thought it likely he just couldn’t be bothered attending, thus he most likely sent someone in his place. Almost completely lacking in ambition, now that he had safe-guarded his own people, Sinjin was happy enough for the other races to do whatever they pleased, as long as it didn’t affect him or require him to actually do anything. I remembered Sinjin when he still had goals and the energy to accomplish them—it was sad to see what he had become.

  It was also irritating. I needed an ally and I had hoped Sinjin might be it. He could certainly provide the sort of manpower I needed. He might be indolent these days, but the vampire had a dark side that helped him to see a threat when it raised its head. The rest of these fools would be harder to convince.

  “Any other business?” asked the red chair, looking about, and with a tone in his voice that suggested he was already mentally on his way to the bar.

  I raised my hand.

  “The chair recognizes the green chair.”

  I inclined my head and rose, determined to make this a memorable address. It was mainly fo
r the benefit of Sinjin’s representative, but perhaps I could pick up more support along the way. “Members of the Masked Magistrates, I come before you with grave news of a possible threat to this little corner of peace that we have been able to carve out of the regrettable fall of the Underworld.” I had spent some time crafting the speech and I felt it was well-worded. “I have been the subject of an assassination attempt.”

  The whispered shock around the circular table was gratifying to hear.

  “The chair is grateful you appear unharmed,” said the red chair.

  “Seconded,” added the yellow chair.

  “Thank you. But I did not come looking for sympathy.”

  “Are you suggesting the assassin was sent by one of the other factions in this room?” asked the red chair.

  “No. I know it was no one here.” Because no one here had the guts. “But I do know where the assassin came from, and I want the help of the Masked Magistrates to infiltrate and track down the group responsible; The Order of the Templar.”

  There were irritable hisses and an uncomfortable shuffling from the other Magistrates. By revealing who my enemy was, I had effectively revealed my own identity. The attack at Tintagel could hardly have gone unnoticed and, thus, everyone now knew who I was. Not that I bloody well cared, because I didn’t.

  “The green chair will refrain from such specifics in future,” said the red chair. He was trying to admonish me sharply, but now that he knew who I was, his voice quavered with fear.

  As it should.

  “Hardly matters now, does it?” I pointed out.

  “Indeed,” the red chair admitted, then brightened up. “This being the case, I suggest we adjourn this meeting and when we reconvene, we can resume discussions in our customary and mutually agreed upon anonymity.”

  “And how will I raise the subject?” I asked, deliberately mocking.

  “It will be raised by whoever occupies the red chair. Determined, as always, by ballot.”

  “And how will I argue my case?”

  “It will be discussed as every issue is discussed.”