Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  A title had been scrawled across the top of the page: Releasing The Captive Spirit.

  She took their hands again and nodded up at each of them. Together, they chanted the releasing spell. As each word was spoken, it glowed upon the ghostly page, lifting up and swirling in a gentle vortex of golden shimmer that spiraled down and surrounded the amulet. Caught in the magical embrace, the amulet lifted up, hovering above the box. With a tiny snick, the relic popped apart in slow-motion, its components expanding and floating in a gravitational field around a tight sphere of white-hot power.

  Aerie lifted their clasped hands and they continued the chant. The white sphere expanded, thinning out and lengthening into a pale apparition. Slowly, it developed into the semblance of a slender woman, with hair like sunlight on a wheat field, eyes that twinkled with remembered joy. Eilis drifted on the honeyed breeze and gazed back at her family, united at last.

  “Thou art released, gentle spirit,” the family chanted in unison. “Thou hast exhausted thy duty and hath earned thy rest. Seek thou peace.”

  A cool touch glanced over Aerie’s brow, just a moment. The apparition turned away as if called and gently faded away.

  “Goodbye,” Aerie whispered.

  Jim squeezed her hand. “You did well.”

  She blinked rapidly, trying to quell the tears before he could see them. “Did I? Because I never said goodbye to anyone before.”

  “Maybe because it hadn’t yet been your time.” Jim put his arm around her and clapped his free hand on Finn’s shoulder. “And, hopefully, the next one is a long way off.”

  Cara and her family came over for hugs, which Aerie returned with surprising grace. With a little more practice, she just might get good at this hugging thing. Even her brothers hugged her, albeit a little reluctantly. Oh, well, she thought. They’ll get good at it, too, in time.

  “Hey, guys” she said. “I think there’s watermelon over there.” She gestured toward a large picnic spread, which had already drawn the attention of most of the other guests. “Think you could get me a slice?”

  The pair flashed impish smiles at her before darting off.

  Cara squeezed Aerie’s arm. “I’ll see you over there.”

  Aerie nodded, shyly. The attention would take a lot more practice getting used to.

  “I got something for you,” Finn said.

  Aerie gave him a quizzical look, grateful for the distraction. “I didn’t know this was an occasion for gifts.”

  “This one is just because I know you needed it.” He handed her a gift bag. “Go on. Look inside.”

  Curiosity getting the best of her, she looked inside. A flat brown paper bag, its top folded. She slid the object out. A rectangle of heavy paper. “Ooh, cardboard. You must have peeked at my Christmas list.”

  “Flip it over, goof.”

  She scowled at him, thinking a punch in the arm would do him good.

  It was a HELP WANTED sign.

  Whoa. Mixed feelings. Too many memories. She was still figuring out where everything fit in the new order of her life. She looked at him, wondering what he was up to.

  He jutted his chin toward the bag. “There’s more.”

  She dug down inside, riffling through the wadded tissue paper. Whatever it was, it was heavy. When her fingers made contact, she broke out in a huge grin. She knew exactly what it was.

  Withdrawing, the treasure, she gazed down at it, smiling so big it hurt. A Persian Shield Spinner, the same one he’d shown her in his workroom.

  “You’re the boss now.” Finn ignored the play of uncertain emotions that flashed across her expression. “I figure you need to get hiring.”

  “An Acquisitioner?” She glanced up at him, wondering where the punchline would come in because, so far, it wasn’t funny.

  “No. A repo man.” He lifted his chin and gave her a sly look. “Unless, of course, you have different plans for the Collection?”

  Did she have plans? At the moment, the shop was shuttered and closed. The vault, cleaned, warded, and reinforced, had a new artifact within, the sole occupant of what had once been the Restricted Section. On an iron shelf, under unbreakable barriers and innumerable layers of magical restraints, lay a shiny amulet bearing the name of a terrible mage, a name she swore to never utter again.

  No one but those closest to her knew about that artifact. Hopefully, no one ever would. The shop would go on, selling candles and amulets, offering workshops and lectures, perhaps offering space for a college intern or two.

  Right now, workmen were hauling away down the signs and shingles that had once read “Pathering’s”. The outside marquee read OPENING SOON UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT.

  Lots of things were under new management, herself included.

  Surrounded by her friends and the family that had never given up hope of finding her, she knew that, finally, for the first time, nothing stood between her and her goals, her dreams, her happiness.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She tugged him toward the picnic table, where their friends and family waited for them. Oh, yes, she did have plans. “The real question…how solid are your references? Any previous experience?”

  He made a big show of pretending to have to think hard about it. “I’m fluent in seven languages—”

  “Except Italian.”

  “Except Italian,” he conceded with a grin. “I’m top of my class at Wilkes-Barre Mage University and on track to graduate in the spring. I took first place in the District XI Wizarding Tournament when I was a senior in high school. And I did evade a dragon once…”

  Their laughter melted into the sun and the birdsong and the sounds of an ordinary day, in an ordinary world, where magic came in all shapes and forms.

  But no matter how powerful the ley, or how intricate the artifact, or how strong the mage, there was one thing that was evident, to wizard and non-wizard folk alike: Nothing was more powerful than the magic of family.

  * * *

  The End

  Check out Ash Krafton’s other books…

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  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Ash Krafton writes speculative fiction for upper YA and adult audiences. Fan favorites include her urban fantasy trilogy The Books of the Demimonde as well as The Demon Whisperer series. She’s also the author of the Victorian fantasy THE HEARTBEAT THIEF, which is a little bit Jane Austen, a little bit Edgar Allan Poe, and a whole lot of stealing heartbeats in order to stay young and beautiful forever.

  * * *

  She also writes speculative poetry and short fiction. Find Ash online and see what she’s making up next…

  Read More from Ash Krafton

  www.ashkrafton.com

  Ink

  SJ Davis

  Ink © copyright 2017 SJ Davis

  * * *

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Prologue

  The icy sadness of winter leaches the color from my life. By the summer, even my dreams are in black and white. The imagery in my sleep lures and repels me. I run through rooms painted in intricate, earthy patterns. I see faces w
ith faded, yellowed eyes peering from behind blackened masks; thorny vines crawl across my arms and legs. These dreams set my nerves on edge, except for one. And it happens every night, so I know it has meaning for me: an owl sits on my windowsill, a white feather floating above my bed, while four swirling, smoky circles rotate above the floor of my room as they coalesce in the middle.

  Something whispers in my ear, “That image is not for you”.

  He saunters down the street with a slow, agitated gait; his eyes dart from side to side under the umbrella of his long lashes. Stopping in the shadows outside of the 9:30 Club, his gaze never leaves mine as he leans against the bricks to finish his cigarette. I remember him from last night’s dream, where his warm breath had blown on my neck as he whispered in my ear. “I’m here, Sparrow.”

  His golden eyes, unblinking, hold still in the night air. Somehow, I am not afraid.

  “He can’t help you.” Again, who whispers?

  Later that night, he comes again in my sleep. Smiling, his eyes glow as if hot embers lurk inside. His black hair skims his collar and shimmers like liquid. Tall and smooth, his ochre skin reflects the moon while the dampened scent of pine envelops me. I can feel him too. His presence bleeds warmth as his hands twist gently into my hair. I miss him when I awake.

  The next night, another strange voice echoes in my ear. This time, it’s from a girl lurking in the corner of my room. “This one seems not afraid.”

  My eyes, half open, squint to see her. Her form gradually develops, like an old Polaroid photo. Her pale, blanched skin accentuates her pointy features. She looks like a newly hatched baby bird, all angles and bony white.

  “She’s strong, Istowun-eh’pata.”

  “I hope so.” Comes another voice, just out of view.

  “Her mother passed it to her. It’s almost time.” A violet haze surrounds the girl. Vines and flowers creep up her arms and snake through her hair. “You come here every night. You must be sure.” She walks closer like a predator, her hands clasped together with twisted fingers.

  “I think Sparrow could be ours, but it’s too soon to tell.”

  “Yes,” says this bird-like girl. “But she is changing already. See?”

  See? See what? I wonder.

  “Fire.” She disappears into my wall. “She has the fire inside.”

  1

  You wouldn’t expect the turn signal to work, but it does. Clicking like a metronome, the sound indicates a right turn that will never be made. The metal sides of the car are peeled back, the doors are crumpled, and the windows are shattered. Wheels and hubcaps are either twisted or missing along the roadside as gas leaks from the car. The smell of gasoline and blood hang in the air. Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” is still blaring on the radio—piercing through the dust, the horror, and the blood-stained seats.

  Yes, it would be a nice day to start again.

  I look across the asphalt at my mother and see the whites of her eyes are almost completely red. Her mouth is frozen, lips parted. She looks at me, but there is nothing. No maternal softening in her eyes, no smile forming at the corners of her mouth. Her blood seeps through her shirt and makes a small puddle underneath her, becoming thicker and darker as it mixes with the dirt and dust alongside the road. One of her legs is unnaturally crooked and I can see the bone in her right upper arm. Her tattooed skin is skewered back from the impact.

  This must be a dream; this can’t be right. This cannot be my mother. She had just been driving me to school, like every other normal day.

  The air is humid for February, yet I feel cold as the blood dries in my hair. Sticky, matted, damp. My left arm is contorted, but I can’t feel it as the wind covers me with a veil of sandy dirt. I lay back, waiting to wake up. Please, wake up!

  * * *

  “Is she alive?” I ask the paramedics as they hurry from their ambulances. I can’t move, but I need to be next to her. I claw at the ground in her direction, and my agitation makes the younger paramedic nervous.

  He looks at the older man beside him. Their eyes lock. Finally, the older man says, “The mother is in cardiac arrest. Severe internal bleeding. Bring the girl over, this might be it.”

  Two other paramedics work frantically over her body, putting in intravenous lines and bandaging her deepest cuts. Her shirt is ripped open, and all I want to do is cover her.

  My mind races back to earlier in the day. It was morning, and we had both raced to her old Firebird.

  “Do you want to drive?” she asked.

  “No thanks, Mom. I still need to put on mascara.”

  “How about some BBC News?”

  “Oh, come on,” I whined. “How about something to get us going? Maybe hip-hop? A little alternative?”

  I don’t remember exactly how, but the Wave of the 80’s station became the compromise. We buckled in and I made my lashes as long as humanly possible. When I was satisfied, I glanced into the passenger side mirror at the road behind me. The lines on the road hypnotized me as they whizzed past.

  The rest, I am not sure about, because afterward, the only thing I clearly remember is death.

  As I look up at the sky from where I lay, I realize truth is like the bright sun beating down through the holes in an old rusted tin roof. Part of it shines on you, but you have to go outside and search for the rest. One day, when you feel the blunt force of it, you can own it. Or maybe it owns you.

  * * *

  I am brought next to Mom on the side of the road. Her eyes are dull, her lips pale, and her shiny hair is dusty. I can see her hand reach out for mine. “It’s a good day to die,” she whispers, holding my arm fiercely. “As you grieve for me, listen for the voices. Then, you must get the ink.”

  “Ink?” I sputter in confusion. “What—a tattoo? What voices? Mom, I don’t understand. I love you.”

  “Istowun-eh’pata packs a knife. Trust him.” Then nothing. There will be no more from her.

  I can’t bear to look at her anymore. I wonder what the moment between life and death was like. Is there a choice? Is there a sudden spark, or does everything simply go dim? Now her words are all I have. I look up into the bright sky as the sun shatters into a million shards of brightness. I pray, for her sake, that it is a good day to die.

  * * *

  Nobody ever sleeps in the hospital. The lights stay on, the monitors beep, and nurses are always whispering, typing, and checking. Plastic bags drip liquids into my body. Cuts and bruises cover me. A cast is wrapped around my arm, from wrist to shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I wake up to hear Aunt Shelby next to me, her hand resting gently on my thigh. She must have flown in from Washington, DC. The fact she is here signals how dreadful things must be.

  “It’s so bright in here,” I whisper. The lights hurt my eyes, and my eyelids feel like a cat’s tongue is scraping over my corneas with each blink. Aunt Shelby gets up. I suddenly feel alone. “Please, don’t go.”

  “I’m just turning off the lights. You had me so worried, Sparrow.” The light dims and she appears over me again, squeezing me affectionately as she intertwines her fingers with mine. “She was so strong, your sweet, brave mother. But she will always be with you, and you know if you look for her, you will find her.”

  “I wish I were more like her,” I answer with hoarse difficulty. A sob rises in my chest.

  “You are very much like her. You will see that soon enough. But right now, focus on getting your strength back. You need to heal. The rest will take care of itself.”

  I’m not sure I know what she means, or if I really want to know. Her short, small fingers fidget as she pushes back her cuticles. “Am I going to be okay?” I can muster no more words.

  “Yes, love. A bad concussion, bruised ribs, and a nasty broken arm. Nothing permanent. Do you remember anything?” she asks slowly. Her face morphs from a sympathetic smile to serious concentration.

  I grimace with the memory.

  “Never mind. Just get some rest. I don’t mean to
upset you.” She pours some water into a pink plastic cup and holds it up for me to drink. While stroking my legs, she straightens my blanket. “Your mother was strong for a very long time. She kept our reservation strong, too. No matter the forces that want to destroy it.”

  “I want to destroy you.”

  I shake my head to clear the strange voice of a girl. “Did you hear someone say something?” I look around my aunt, searching for the source of the sound. Swallowing a yawn, my eyes fill with tears.

  “No, darling. I’m the only one here. Now, get some rest.” She leans in to kiss me, and her eyes stare at me as she comes closer, trying to find a place on my face that isn’t swollen or bruised. “I’m interfering with your recovery. We’ll chat later, love.”

  The nurse comes in and breaks the stillness. Her cheerful scrubs and bouncy shoes lighten the mood of the room. “You can have some pain meds now, honey.” She checks my pulse and oxygen levels, then peeks under my bandages.

  “No,” I mumble, trying to keep the stress from my voice. I am tired of being sleepy and confused.

  “Okay, but push this button on the side of your bed when you are ready, the one with the silly nurse’s cap. You’ll be first on my list.” The nurse turned to leave and pulled the curtain behind her, revealing a young man standing in the corner. The one from my dreams.

  “Aunt Shelby?” I ask groggily. “Who is he? Behind you, over there.”

  She looks behind her and shrugs. “No one is there, love. You’re tired. Close your eyes.” She makes to leave. “I’ll be back later.”

  His presence agitates me. The way he stares is unsettling.

  One of my monitors beeps and the nurse rushes back in. She checks all the leads connecting me to the machines. “You’ll heal faster if you rest. Pain causes inflammation, which will slow your healing.” Her voice sounds slightly annoyed. “There aren’t any awards for getting better without meds.”