Black Magic - An Urban Fantasy Colleciton

by SJ Davis

  ©2017 CHBB Publishing and the Individual Authors

  CHBB Publishing

  Novi, Michigan 48374

  Edited by Elizabeth A. Lance

  Cover Design by Rue Volley

  Interior Formatting by Dreams2media

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PINS AND NEEDLES BY FAITH MARLOW

  AIRSHIP COFFINS BY LILY LUCHESI

  THE CHOSEN BY ELAINE WHITE

  A FAIRY’S MIGHT BY LAURENCIA HOFFMAN

  I STILL MISS SOMEONE BY NICOLE THORN

  TODAY, SHE WILL BE HAPPY BY SARAH HALL

  DEMON HUNTING BY ELIZABETH LANCE

  THE MIRROR WITHIN BY SJ DAVIS

  AN AWAKENING BY HOPE DANIELS

  DEVILS IN THE DETAILING BY LILY LUCHESI

  PAPER DOLLS BY RUE VOLLEY

  PINS AND NEEDLES

  BY FAITH MARLOW

  Senator Tom Bateman quickly slipped through the crowd of roaring constituents. They had lined up early, some there in support, but for the most part in protest. He didn’t mind it, had expected it. Someone had to make the tough choices, say what nobody else had the guts to say. He was not afraid to be that man.

  Flashing cameras, screaming faces, and flapping signs surrounded him. The crowd had pressed in on the fencing that was supposed to keep them back, keep them in their place, but of course that had been ignored. The security suit in front of him held tight to his forearm, essentially dragging him through the increasingly constrictive crowd. He was being heckled, booed, and pushed. The agent placed his finger to his ear, pushing in the earbud further in to hear above the now almost riotous crowd. He looked back and forth up the street, the faces of the raging crowd reflected in his aviator sunglasses.

  “Where’s the car?” Senator Bateman shouted, shaking the suit’s arm. He could feel his blood pressure rising, his cheeks getting red. Perspiration dampened the back of his shirt and underarms. He had to make a conscious effort to maintain his calm. The last thing he needed was for the press to snap a picture of him that reflected anything than cool confidence. Just then, a splatter of spit hit the left side of his face. He gasped in disgust and shock. He reflexively attempted to wipe his face, but the security detail had no intention of letting go of his arm, his other hand fiercely clutching his attaché case. He desperately tried to wipe his cheek on the shoulder of his jacket, leaving behind wide streaks of the makeup that had been applied before his television interview. “Where is the goddamn car?”

  “It will be here any moment, sir.” The suit stated with military precision and detachment. He was a man on a mission.

  “Senator, please allow me to assist you,” a soft, feminine voice cut through the noise. He turned his head to follow the voice as the rest of the clamor seemed to quiet. A young woman, no older than her early thirties, smiled quietly at him. She was unaffected by the screaming crowd that pushed and shoved behind her. She was as serene as a monk at meditation, and Tom found it impossible to pull his eyes away from her perfect ebony complexion, full glossy lips, or the mass of dark braids that framed her face. Slowly and carefully, she wiped the spit and phlegm from Tom’s face and jacket with an embroidered handkerchief before tucking it into his breast pocket.

  “This way, sir.” The security detail instructed, yanking him toward the limo. Tom staggered away with his head still turned behind him, the starched collar of his shirt digging into his droopy, double chin, pushing up his jowl. The whole moment had lasted no longer than fifteen seconds, but it had felt like a five-minute escape to Tom. The mystery woman disappeared into the churning masses just before security pushed his head down to pass through the car door. As they sped away from the chaos, he reached for the silk pocket square in his small breast pocket. Surprisingly, he discovered that only the mysterious woman’s delicate handkerchief remained

  ***

  Day One

  Tom slid out of bed, drawn to the kitchen by the savory scent of breakfast. He knew it would be sitting on the table waiting for him. Nona, his housekeeper, knew he liked his scrambled eggs just a little shy of firm, bacon crispy, and his orange juice in the small tumblers with one piece of ice. To his happy surprise, Nona had also made pancakes this morning. He shuffled to the table and sat down with a huff, tucking the linen napkin into his collar. His wife, Meredith, was not an early riser so she would eat later.

  He slurped down his double portion breakfast, careful that the syrup did not drip on his mountainous belly in transit from his plate to his mouth. He retreated to his office with a stuffed stomach and a cup of coffee, giving no concern to the trail of spills that he left behind him on the floor. He paid good money for housekeeping to take care of such things.

  Tom leaned back in his leather office chair and clicked on the television to his favorite news channel, peeking at the screen from behind the morning paper. He wanted to see what was being said about his interview. It had been a highly advertised event, his first public appearance in three months, since the changes included in the bill he had pushed so hard for had gone into effect. The “Bateman Buster” had not been popular amongst certain members of society, but that was to be expected. It was a no frills, unapologetic budget cut. Nobody impacted by these sweeping policies would have liked it, but that’s life. It was all for the greater good, and by greater, he was never referring to the majority. The “greater” in Tom’s eyes, were those who never depended on these programs in the first place. It was well past time for people to start taking care of their own problems and stop looking for a handout.

  Flipping through the channels, one station supported him but most vilified his interview. He heard references comparing him to Hitler and Stalin. They said he was evil, hateful, out to get the little man. He hated the poor and championed the rich. He brushed it off as propaganda. Flipping through the paper, he finally spotted something that riled him. A caricature was drawn of him at the filming of his interview, his plump face purposely given a pig-like appearance, was colored an unnaturally bronze skin tone and sweat raced down cheeks that were nothing but hog jowls. They made him look like a cross between a melting snowman and Jabba the Hut. He laughed it off, knowing the artist who drew it was probably just upset because his free lunch had been taken away.

  As Tom read his email, gloating at the numerous messages congratulating him and applauding his outstanding job, his stomach rolled. He grimaced, the knot in his stomach growing larger, chest tight. With a frown, he beat on his chest and a rolling burp erupted, decreasing the pressure. He wondered if Nona had prepared his food differently because the longer he sat, the worse he felt. A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck and forehead, mouth watered. Scrolling through his emails made him feel motion sick, causing his head to swoon and his stomach knotted tighter. A shiver rippled up his spine; hot spit drained down his throat. Before he had a chance to grab the wastebasket or look away, Tom projectile vomited onto his desk. His ribs ached as wave after wave of acidic chunks and fluid spewed out of him, more than he could have imagined possible. His laptop and everything on his desk were completely coated. He thought he would suffocate before he was able to get a breath. Finally the reflux subsided, and he collapsed into his chair, covered in his own mess but too winded to do anything about it yet.

  Meredith walked into the office, still wearing her nightgown, sleep in her eyes, and a shot of whiskey on the rocks already in h
er hand. “Rough night?” She looked at him in disgust before returning to her bedroom.

  Six hours later, Tom had still not recovered from his morning. He laid in bed, his bedroom dark and silent. If he opened his eyes, the entire room seemed to ride on an ocean wave. He could still feel it with his eyes closed, but at least he could not see it. He dared not roll over or even turn his head. Eating or drinking was not an option he wanted to entertain. Since his ordeal, the only thing that had passed his lips was enough water to brush his teeth before he showered. He had thrown his pajamas in the trash. He would never want to eat pancakes again.

  Unable to ignore his bladder any longer, he drug himself to the en suite bathroom. He flipped the switch, and the harsh light overwhelmed his eyes. He squinted hard, his watery vision struggling to focus on his reflection. Leaning close to the mirror, he barely recognized the man looking back at him. His complexion was ashy, eyes hollowed by dark circles that stretched to his cheekbones. His lips were cracked. He knew he had been sick all day, but he looked like someone with a disease, not a twenty-four hour stomach bug. If he didn’t get some fluids down soon, he would have to go to the hospital. An inconvenience to say the least, but if he did have to stay overnight, he would receive the best level of service and care. Private room, personalized menu, anything the staff could do to make his stay more comfortable would be available. It was just another perk of being a public servant.

  Having finished his business, Tom shuffled back to the bed. He didn’t have the heart or the energy to do anything else. The last thing he remembered was the back of his head touching the cool Egyptian cotton pillowcase before he passed out.

  Tom knew he was not experiencing reality. The rational part of his mind that still held its ground reminded him that the interview had been the night before, but despite this knowledge, he could still feel the hot breath of the angry mob. So far as every one of his senses were concerned, he was there, in that moment, waiting on the car. True to life, he could feel tension tightening his chest and the sneak attack of spit landed on his face. I wonder if I caught something, his rational mind pondered.

  Then he remembered her, the enchanting young woman that had come to his rescue. He heard her voice, melodic as a harp. Her baby blue dress contrasted perfectly against her dark skin, glowing like a heavenly creature. Again she asked to assist him, and he felt her gentle touch wipe the filth from his face and jacket. She smiled and the world around him stopped once again. He wanted to speak, but he was lost for words.

  Then without warning, the enchanting woman’s face of serenity contorted. She opened her mouth, now three times larger than it should be, and Tom knew he was staring down into the deepest pit of Hell. She belched and vomited the foulest of substances, nothing a living being could create. It was in his eyes, soaking into his shirt, in his mouth. Everything that could rot, any foul fluid a human body could produce, half digested food, pus, things he could not comprehend were pouring over him by the gallon until he was saturated. He feverishly wiped his eyes, sputtered and gagged, before looking back to the angel that had just revealed herself to be a demon. She was just as perfect, just as peaceful as she had been when he truly met her but now a sinister smile curled her lips on one side.

  “Get ready, Tommy. I’m just getting started.” She hissed and grabbed two handfuls of her braids. She yanked them from her head, tearing bits of her scalp away and laughed as a trickle of blood crawled down her face.

  ***

  Day Two

  Senator Bateman woke with a start, disoriented. He didn’t know if he had been asleep for two hours or two days. He reflexively wiped at his face but found nothing but a thin mist of perspiration. Finally able to focus, he looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand, six thirty-seven in the morning. He had not held down a sip of water or a bite of food in almost twenty- four hours, and he was certainly feeling it. His throat was so dry that he choked trying to clear it.

  Shambling back to the bathroom was still as far as he dared to venture. Normally, he would call for Nona and instruct her to bring him a bottle of water, maybe some toast or fruit to ease his stomach back into eating. For now, he was content with sticking his head under the tap for a few test sips. Warming the water, he allowed it to puddle in his hands before washing his face. The heat soaked into his eyes, aching in a good way. He dried his face with the fresh, plush towel from the rack, rubbing the back of his neck with the moisture that remained. Returning it to the rack, he paused and took it back for closer inspection. He pulled one silver hair from the threads, then another. Holding it closer to his eyes, he saw it was covered. He ran his fingers over his scalp and inspected his hands. His hair laced between his fingers like spider webs. The more he brushed, the more fell out.

  Tom Bateman gasped as he stared in the mirror. He looked like a cancer patient suffering the side effects of chemotherapy. His thick silver hair that had always styled perfectly without effort was now straggly and limp. He could see his scalp. That was the final straw. Tom grabbed his housecoat from the hook on the back of the door and found his slippers by the bed.

  “Nona,” he called through the house, hoping his hired help would be able to hear him. After a few moments, he decided she was out of earshot.

  “Meredith,” he cried out to his wife, waddling out of his bedroom, leaning against the wall. “Meredith, where’s Nona?”

  The house was silent. He could not imagine where they could be so early. He had not known of his wife waking up before eleven in the morning in the last fifteen years. Now that it was evident that he was getting no help at home, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He plodded back to the bedroom and grabbed his cell phone from the dresser.

  “Good morning, Senator. How may I help you?” His usual driver’s attentive voice answered.

  “Get here as soon as possible. I need to see a doctor. Call the hospital on your way over and let them know our ETA. I don’t want to wait.”

  “Yes, sir. I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Relaxing in the hospital room with the lights dimmed and soaking up intravenous fluids provided Tom with the peace of mind he needed to rest and heal. Whatever was going on with him, the doctors would figure it out. He had been given medications to combat the nausea and cold aches that rolled up and down his body. He had been feverish when he came in, obvious by the hallucination nightmare he had suffered. Now getting the care he needed, he was certain the worst was behind him. He leaned back into the pillows to rest his eyes.

  “Shit, you scared me.” Tom jerked, suddenly realizing a nurse was standing beside his bed. She had her back turned to him, reading his chart. He resettled himself, finding comfort in the chemical cloud he had been administered. “You should knock before walking in a patient’s room. Is bedside manner not being taught in nursing school these days?”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Bateman. I did not intend to scare you.”

  Tom smirked, pleased that she had accepted his scolding with a well-worded apology. She had a relaxing tone to her voice, comforting. Familiar. At that moment, a sinking feeling settled over him, chilled him to his core. He did recognize that voice. Terror’s icy grasp clenched around his heart and threatened to squeeze the life from it. He didn’t want to see, but he had to look.

  The woman from the crowd, the woman from the nightmare, stood by his bed in the flesh. She was wearing scrubs and held a small plastic cup in her hands, smiling that same crooked smile. She looked like a porcelain doll that had taken on a life of its own, fearfully perfect. Her braids were swept up into a knot, but there was no denying it was her.

  “Who are you? How did you get in here?” He babbled, pushing himself away from her. The bedrail stopped him from spilling off the side. “What do you want?”

  “Where ya think you’re going, Tommy?” She whispered, grabbing him by the throat and holding him in place with one hand. He struggled against the pressure, astonished and te
rrified that this petite woman possessed such strength. He was twice her size. His face filled with blood as his oxygen was cut off. She held the cup in front of him, rattling a single red pill against its sides and waited. He held his breath as long as he could, but reflex took over and he gasped. She dropped the pill in and covered his mouth and nose with her other hand as he flailed, scratched and kicked. “I told you, Tom. I’m just getting started.”

  Tom could feel the pill dissolving on his tongue, eating into his flesh and the insides of his mouth like acid. Foam that smelled of melted electric wiring bubbled out from between his lips and ran between her fingers and down his throat. Searing pain and lack of oxygen darkened his vision, her face the only thing visible at the end of the tunnel. He was doomed. She would not stop until he was dead.

  ***

  When Tom woke from his suffocation blackout, he was still in the hospital. Everything was as he remembered, save the absence of his diabolical, angelic nurse. He refused to stay there another moment, not with that homicidal bitch on staff. He hastily began to pull the girth of his body from the bed, wrapped so thoroughly in his sheets and the sides of his open- back gown that it required more effort than he had expected to get into a sitting position. He was still tethered to the bed by his IV line. Without a second thought, he started to peel the tape from his elbow bend and pulled the catheter from his arm. He just had to get some clothes on, and he was gone. He would call his driver from the street if he had to.

  “Senator, what are you doing?” another nurse asked, dropping his dinner tray as she rushed to him. She attempted to get him back in bed, but he was having none of it.

  “I’m not staying here another minute. I know who works here. She’s crazy.” He exclaimed while pulling his pajama pants on under his gown. “That crazy bitch will kill me if I stay here. Are you in on it? You probably are.”

  “Mr. Bateman, I have been the only nurse caring for you since you arrived.”