Death Magic

by May Dawney

  THE VEIL CHRONICLES

  Death Magic

  MAY DAWNEY

  CHAPTER ONE

  I am the Chosen One. There are none like me, although many pretend they are. I have spread my art and teachings wide. Fear me, bow down to me, and submit your will.

  I control the dead, defy the laws of nature, and pierce the divide between Earth and Heaven.

  I am not yet God, but I will be, once I understand the workings of the Veil.

  – Simon Magus, “The Fundamentals of Magic”

  CLAIRE HAD ALWAYS wondered why deer froze when caught in the headlights. Now she knew.

  The driver of the semi never lit up on the horn. The truck’s wheels fought for traction on the wet asphalt as the breaks squeaked and groaned under the strain.

  Her heart stopped. The cacophony short-circuited her brain. For seconds that seemed like hours, Claire stood in the middle of the road and watched the truck come closer.

  Did deer know they were about to die? Claire did, but her feet didn’t move, despite the screaming terror that tore up her spine and made her head swim. She was going to die, and she didn’t even know how she’d ended up on Baton Rouge’s busiest road.

  There was enough time for a shallow breath. Enough to—

  Move!

  She couldn’t.

  Seventeen was far too young to die.

  The high whine of a motorcycle engine cut through the fog of heart palpitations and unavoidable death. It appeared out of nowhere, with its rider bent down low to become more aerodynamic.

  As a science major, Claire knew all about the relationship between aerodynamics and speed. Even bent low, pedal to the metal, there was no way the motorcyclist would overtake the truck.

  And yet, it did.

  A second before impact, the motorcyclist ducked between Claire and the semi, struggled for balance, then took a hand off the handlebar.

  The impact of that hand with Claire’s chest felt like a sledgehammer blow, but it did what it had been intending to do: Claire stumbled back and fell.

  She lost track of the motorcycle as it swerved into the second, then third lane before it disappeared behind the semi that raced by.

  The driver hadn’t let up on the horn.

  Claire fought for breath. Her ribs hurt. She pushed herself across the asphalt until she felt the edge of the curb against her back.

  Hands took a hold. They yanked her out of the danger zone. Someone yelled for an ambulance. Another person patted her down to check for wounds—or to cop a feel.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Were you trying to kill yourself?”

  Claire curled up into a ball. The cold that seeped into her body from the tile below served as the sweetest reminder that she was still alive. Alive! She sucked in a breath that tasted like motor oil and gasoline. “N-No.” She couldn’t stop shaking. “I-I don’t know how I got here.”

  * * *

  An hour later, after the sobbing had stopped, the ambulance had been cancelled, and people had left her alone, Claire dragged herself up the steps to her apartment. She wrestled her key into the lock with hands that hadn’t stopped shaking since—No. Claire swallowed the thought. Tears pricked in her eyes, but she blinked them away. Not yet, not here.

  She managed to open the door and slipped into the hallway. Claire struggled to open the door to her apartment, then closed it behind her, locked it, checked if it was locked, and gave the key another jiggle to make triple sure. Then, she sank down against its reassuringly thick wood and gave in to the tears.

  The ordeal played on repeat in her mind, like a horror movie she couldn’t turn off. Calm serenity, headlights, motorcyclist. Calm serenity, headlights, motorcyclist. Her ears still rang from the volume of the truck’s horn. She was sure she’d wake up to the ghost of that sound for many nights to come. This was, after all, the stuff of nightmares.

  The backs of her elbows stung, and her hip was sore. Breathing still hurt as well. She was battered, bruised, but alive. Alive, because a motorcyclist had risked their life to save hers.

  Did they make it?

  Dread filled her veins with ice. What if the motorcyclist had swerved into oncoming traffic? What if they’d been hit?

  What if they were dead?

  Claire didn’t fight the sob that tore up her throat. Could she live with knowing that her…her…illness had killed someone?

  Now it was the image of black leather and an equally black helmet that played on repeat. Claire hadn’t been able to see more than her own reflection in the helmet’s visor in the split second the motorcyclist had turned their head to place their shoving hand on her chest.

  Through a haze of tears and with shaking hands, Claire fumbled for her phone in her bag. She had to wipe her eyes before the screen came into a semblance of focus. She navigated to the Google Chrome app and glanced over the icons that indicated she’d missed messages, calls, and she had a voicemail.

  Her fingers trembled as she typed in her search terms: “Baton Rouge Essen Lane traffic accident collision.”

  Return key.

  Bated breath.

  Galloping heart.

  Her search turned up old stories only. She couldn’t rest easy yet.

  Claire navigated to the tabs and selected “News.” She scanned the timestamps. Still, only older stories. Her breath shuddered down her throat.

  Maybe her savior was all right.

  Maybe the news was just late in reporting.

  Maybe she had the wrong search terms.

  She put the phone down beside her and wrapped her arms around her pulled-up knees. “Deep breaths… Deep breaths…”

  Rocking helped. It always helped.

  Ten minutes could have passed before Claire managed to get herself off the floor, or it could have been an hour. Long enough for her back to cramp up and for the light in her apartment to diminish. She wiped her nose and looked around.

  Her home was the same one-bedroom apartment it had always been. The faded wallpaper left behind by the previous tenant, the second-hand and mismatched furniture, the brightly colored accents coming from lamps, pillows, and rugs; all were familiar. The hardwood floors creaked under her feet as she dragged herself to the couch. It should feel like home, but instead, she felt as alien here as everywhere else.

  She eyed the chair with the brand-new burn marks on the armrest and tried to relax.

  Messages.

  Bree, asking where she was and “Omfg, where did you go?”. A heated discussion about weaponizing sound waves in her Uni group chat. John, asking her to call him back.

  She didn’t answer any of them.

  The calls were from Bree and the café landline. That was never good.

  One voicemail.

  She had to steel herself before she subjected herself to that one.

  “Claire, I like you. You know I do. The first few times, I suspended disbelief and gave you the benefit of the doubt when you said you had emergencies to take care of, but you can’t keep wandering off in the middle of your shift. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go. Please come in tomorrow to sign the paperwork and hand in your work clothes. I really am sorry, Claire. You were a good barista before all this.”

  Right. That was that, then.

  She tried to shake the anxiety that threatened to buckle her ribs and choke her. She needed that money—badly—but she also couldn’t blame John for firing her. To be honest, he’d given her far more leeway than any other employer would have.

  Now she really didn’t feel like answering the rest of her messages.

  The sound of a motorcycle tearing through the street and slowing down drew Claire from her pondering thoughts. Could it be “her” motorcyclist? No, that was stupid thinking; they’d seen each other for a se
cond and she hadn’t exactly gotten a chance to give out her address. The motorcyclist wouldn’t know where she lived.

  And yet…

  Claire got up, moved to the window, and pulled the curtains away far enough to glance down the road. The rain that had haunted the day—a dull and soft drizzle that made the outside world feel even more distant—had persisted. The sheen reflected the light from the streetlamps that had come on.

  The motorcycle and its black-clad rider were nowhere to be seen. Claire checked the shadows, then parted the curtains wider to take in more of the street.

  The doorbell rang.

  Claire jumped as if stung and let go of the fabric in her hand. Her heart leaped to her throat as she regarded the door that led to the outside world. Her gaze flitted back to the window. She wished she could see who was on the other side of the door, but the lay-out of the building made that impossible.

  She stood rooted to the spot until the doorbell rang a second time and forced her to move. With hesitant steps, Claire walked over to the door and turned the key, which was still in the lock.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Claire jumped, then pulled the door open.

  The obscuring yellow glass in the front door showed the outline of a figure on the other side of it, but no more detail than that.

  Claire turned the key and pulled the door open a crack.

  The motorcyclist was a woman, somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties, with hair so dark it was almost black.

  “You do know it's raining, right?”

  * * *

  The stranger studied her from her spot on the couch. Her leather jacket and dark helmet lay beside her.

  Claire had been forced to sit in the chair, and it made her feel even more unsettled than she’d already felt.

  The sound of the electric water heater filled the oppressive silence between them, but only barely.

  Claire struggled to make sense of the situation. A stranger had saved her life, and she hadn’t mentioned it. She had made no excuses about knowing her address. She hadn’t talked about the incident on Essen Lane, but it was clear she knew that Claire was the woman she’d saved. She seemed familiar with Claire in a way that was downright creepy. Yet, nothing about her screamed “serial killer weirdo.”

  The water heater clicked off.

  “Excuse me.” Claire stood and filled two mugs with boiling hot water. She added a tea bag to both. It occurred to her that if push came to shove, she could always throw her tea in the woman’s face and make a run for it.

  “Thank you.” The stranger had an accent, something between mangled posh English and southern European.

  Claire nodded and sat down once more. She forced herself not to look at the cigar burns on the armrest of her chair. Instead, she watched as the woman brought the mug to her lips and blew.

  She kept her gaze on Claire. “You know, I can see why she picked you. You are gorgeous, in that innocent, ‘come save me’ kind of way.”

  Her words weren’t exactly a compliment, more a statement or observation. Claire dipped her head, regardless, and fidgeted with the hem of her work apron.

  It was a compliment she could have easily returned, even though the woman wasn’t exactly pretty in the traditional sense. She looked like an athlete, with developed muscles that showed underneath the top that had been revealed once her jacket had come off.

  “Thanks?” Claire hated how her cheeks stung.

  The woman nodded as if she had done Claire a favor. Silence filled the small space again.

  Claire could no longer take it. “So, I don't mean to sound rude, but who are you, and why are you here?”

  The woman observed her over the rim of her mug. Then, she leaned forward with a sigh, set the mug down on the coffee table Claire now realized was too worn to show to a stranger, and rested her elbows on her knees. She inhaled and seemed to stall for time to gather her thoughts. Then, she spread her hands a little apart. “So, cliff note version: congrats, you've got a special brain. It's highly susceptible to anyone beyond the Veil with the ability to reach through.”

  Claire blinked, brow furrowing as her mouth opened to question the stranger’s words.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Did I sound like I was done?” She sounded more tired than annoyed.

  Claire licked her lips and shook her head—a head that was reeling already from the blunt and ridiculous answer her question had provoked.

  “Didn't think so. Okay, so, special brain, you've been noticing a certain tendency for time to go missing, right? Blackouts? Gaps in your memory? A newly acquired habit of smoking Cuban cigars?”

  Claire froze. Her gaze flitted down to the armrest, then back up.

  The stranger smirked. “Ahhh, see, there you go. Now you aren't looking at me like I'm crazy anymore. Good. That'll make this a lot easier.”

  The stranger was so at ease, so gleeful at Claire’s confusion, that Claire couldn’t imagine this was the first time she’d had this conversation. Worse, she was definitely getting a rise out of her discomfort.

  “Who are you?” It sounded more like a plea, which was, quite possibly, worse than the hope she knew she was emoting—the hope for answers, the hope for understanding.

  “My name is Alena Sanna, and I’m with the Society for Psychical Defense.”

  Claire racked her brain but came up empty. It sounded like the name of a steampunk theater troupe, or worse, a modern-day coven of witches, pretending magic was real. “Is that a real thing?”

  Alena snorted. “Yeah, it’s a real thing and it’s been around for a long time.”

  “How did you kn—”

  “Patience, young grasshopper. If you’d let me finish, I’m sure you’ll get the answer to most, if not all, of your questions and it’ll be a lot quicker than you taking stabs in the dark in the hope of stumbling upon information that’s relevant to you. You don't know this yet, but we are on a rather tight schedule, in that I need to get you on the nine-thirty flight to London tonight.”

  This time Claire only needed a pointed look to shut her mouth again. As a safety precaution, she placed her mug next to her on the side table where it would still be within reach as an emergency weapon. Alena had already seen her walk into the middle of the busiest road in Baton Rouge. For now, it was more important to her not to make her second chance of making a first impression worse by spilling hot tea all over herself.

  Alena didn’t pay attention to her movements, she just kept their gazes locked.

  Claire swallowed as she stared into brown so deep it was nearly as black as Alena’s outfit and hair. Finally, she nodded. Because Alena had known about all the things that had been happening to her, Claire gave her the benefit of the doubt.

  “You've been experiencing blackouts for the last month or so.”

  Claire nodded.

  “You aren’t mentally ill, you’re being possessed.”

  “Possessed?” It was more of a squeak than a question.

  Alena nodded. She offered Claire a little smile. “Sorry to break the news to you, Claire, but I’m about to turn your world upside down.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Question everything but my intellect. I will make you pay. Yet, not all questions put to me are borne out of ignorance. Peter questions the nature my abilities, but he’s a slave to he who they call the Savior. I laugh at their claims but let them have their moment. I will prove them wrong.

  Jesus is but one man, and his powers are far less than mine. His ability to heal is pitiful, and he seems content not to improve. The dead are beyond him. If anyone should be honored as the Son of God, it should be me, but I bide my time.

  I have gotten closer to understanding the divide between our world and Heaven, where I will one day meet God Himself and overthrow His reign.

  People scorned me, but I will condemn them to Hell for their disrespect.

  – Simon Magus, “In Search of Heaven; Treaties of the Veil”

  “UPSIDE DOWN?” BILE ro
se up Claire’s esophagus. “H-How?”

  Alena nodded slowly, as if she agreed that Claire’s question was a fair one. “Back in the late eighteenhundreds, there was a world famous medium, Madame Petrovna Stravinsky. She was one of the best, the real deal, very interesting life story.”

  Alena spoke as if she dealt with these things on a regular basis and much the same way as Claire’s fifth grade math teacher had talked about trigonometry: they couldn’t imagine anyone not being as well-versed in the subject matter as they were. Claire felt like she had been handed a book, opened in the middle, without explanation about what had happened previously in the story. She had no reply. Instead, she waited, with her heart in her throat. All of this was insanity, right? She blinked a few times, but Alena was still there.

  “Anyway, when she died—influenza epidemic, she was so mad—she discovered that she could reach through the Veil between the living and the dead. If she found someone open enough to being manipulated, someone with a special brain like yours, she could take possession of them.” Alena was quiet for a moment, then raised an eyebrow, as if daring Claire to ask questions.

  Although her head swam with them, Claire couldn't formulate a single one; it was all noise.

  After a short chuckle, Alena moved on. “A very long story—that we will get to later—and here we are. You are Madame Stravinsky's newest sock puppet and you are expected in London tonight. Why Madame Stravinsky couldn't pick someone local is beyond me, but here we are. I suspect it has something to do with your looks. You’d be surprised how many models have a special brain like yours.”

  “Oh.” Claire thought that over. “Are you…are you being sarcastic?”

  Alena grinned, picked up her tea, and sipped. She winced and ran her tongue along the roof of her mouth and then her lips. “I could tease, but no, I wasn’t.”

  Claire shook her head. Alena was obviously delusional. As crazy as this was, there was comfort in the way Alena spoke. The certainty with which she told the story gave Claire a tiny amount of hope that Alena might not be entirely wrong. At least, about the reason for her blackouts. The model stuff was clearly insane.