Street Spells: Seven Urban Fantasy Shorts

by Aimee Easterling

  A ragged sob broke from my lips.

  A gunshot exploded in the cell, and the kobold’s body jerked.

  Margery swore. “I told you silver bullets, Doug.”

  I didn’t hear his answer.

  Rock, deep soil, ancient granite, gemstones, it all filled my mind. Traveling through a dark tunnel lit with a faint glow, the humming of the earth’s gigantic floating plates of continent-spanning rock deep below me. The kobold’s memories flashed like gold. They were beautiful.

  More gunshots. Ulvonus grunted in pain.

  “That’s better.” Margery said.

  Mana poured through me, a molten white heat that flowed into the Kobold’s stony body.

  He pushed forward, flattening me against the cell wall which became like a gauzy curtain. I was in him, we were one. His spade-like hands swam through the rock.

  Up we went, through the rock and then soil, and then we were in the watch room. Dirt had fallen in a spray from the open hole in the wall. Ulvonous hummed and gestured. The dirt flowed back into the hole.

  Ulvonous waved his hand. Steam billowed from the wall. When it cleared the wall had been restored.

  “There.” He coughed, a deep sound that made my teeth rattle.

  How many bullets had struck him? I stepped toward him.

  Ulvonous raised a hand. “The others are coming.”

  “But you’ve been shot,” I said. Stupid thing to say. Of course he’d been shot.

  “No time to worry about that,” he replied, his deep voice tight.

  I ran to a guard station, typed in the command to shut the hatch below, and seal the prison section of the silo. The indicator light turned to red, and the hatch to the prison stairs closed. It wouldn’t hold Margery or her minions for long.

  Ulvonous stood beside the wall, head down. I ran back to him. His hands were clenched at his sides. His eyes were closed. He’d have looked like a stone statue if it weren’t for his lips moving as he chanted. The words were low. They sounded like Old German, but I couldn’t understand them.

  “Let me check your wounds,” I said.

  At the edge of my vision I saw a scrying mirror show Margery, her puppet Taylor and Doug the Techno-Elf, followed by a horde of freed manifestations surging up the stairs to the sealed hatch. Margery’s face twisted in fury. She pointed at the hatch and the Ogre and Neo Troll rushed toward it. The image flickered to a shot of an empty cell.

  “We have to seal the lower hatch,” I said. “Now. But I’m the only sorcerer here.” There needed to be two sorcerers to command the crustie to unseal and move.

  Ulvonous opened his eyes. “I can assist you.”

  “How? You aren’t a sorcerer,” I said. Master of the obvious, that was me.

  He smiled. “I’ve learned a few tricks in my time. You’ve never heard of manifestations being able to cast a spell?”

  “Well, not as such,” I said. Certainly, manifestations could use magic, but it was more elemental than spell casting.

  “It won’t be easy,” he said. “I’ll be using my essence to do so.” He coughed, weaker sounding than the last one. My heart lurched.

  “You can’t!” I replied. Essence was a manifestation’s life force. He’d become “real,” which meant he breathed and ate, but he was supernatural. His essence was the mix of mana and, as one of teachers at the R.U.N.E. academy had called it, “the elixir of human dreams and fears rendered in magical form,” what was born from the collective human subconscious.

  Metal squealed from below.

  “Are you going to argue while Margery and her allies rip open the hatch?” he asked.

  Mana burn, I swore under my breath. What choice did I have but to take him up on his offer.

  “Okay,” I said. The hatch to above was twenty feet away. I raised my hands.

  “We need to be closer,” he said. He took a step toward it, staggered.

  I wrapped an arm around his waist, steadied him. It was like trying to balance a boulder. He was even heavier than he looked. I nearly fell, but we managed to stay upright. He put a hand on my shoulder. At first, I thought it was to brace himself, but then I felt stronger. He was putting mana into me.

  We stood below the mega-crustie covering the hatch. It had dulled to a stone gray.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” the Kobold said, his voice quiet.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  I chanted in Swahili, beginning a binding spell for the mega crustie covering the hatch to outside. Ulvonous raised his hands and began muttering something low, sounding like Old German. The air crackled with power. Our chants merged together.

  The giant starfish-like hatch ward began glowing blue. The sound of screaming metal echoed up the stairs from the lower level.

  I gestured wildly at the hatch, putting as much force as I could into my spell. Mana came off the mega-crustie in waves. It stirred.

  I willed it to move. Go below and seal the lower hatch, I commanded. Its skin rippled, and its arms pulled away from the hatch. It dropped to the floor, far more gently than I would have imagined, and scuttled quickly to the stairs.

  I followed, racing after it. Down the stairs we went to the lower level, and to the hatch to below.

  The mega-crustie scurried to the buckling hatch, and coiled around it, hardening once more.

  I sighed in relief. My knees suddenly felt weak. I mopped my forehead

  Margery and her pals were going nowhere. I wasn’t, either, since the external hatch above only opened from the inside via the crustie. I’d have to wait for relief.

  I returned to the watch room feeling triumphant, then saw Ulvonous.

  He lay on the floor. Blood stained the floor around him. I knelt beside him. Tears swam in my eyes.

  His great eyes looked at me sadly. “No more time for me,” he said. “But, there is for you. Make it worthwhile.” He gasped. His eyes lost focus, and then he died.

  I sobbed.

  I wished then that I’d known him better, hadn’t been teasing him like I had, had thought more about what he was and about his sense of honor.

  Wisps of smoke rose from his body. It crumbled into smoking pebbles which burst into flame. A moment later, the remains of his body were gone, save for one shard of granite.

  My sobs echoed in the watch room. I had found a friend here, at last, only to lose him and be alone once more.

  His word reverberated in me. Make this worthwhile.

  I was going to honor those words.

  The next day a response team arrived.

  The powers that be were impressed by my actions. They listened carefully as I told them what had happened. I tried to put all the credit on Ulvonous, but they still gave me a new assignment, back out in the wide world, to help uphold the Laws of Magic.

  Margery was locked up in Silo 1 for good. No third chances for her.

  I kept the shard of granite, placing it in a little brass ring box. Whenever I opened the box and touched the shard, I would think of Ulvonous and his deep, great gray eyes and the way his expressive face looked like a cliff, and I would smile.

  END

  THANKS FOR READING! I hope you enjoyed “Siloed.” It takes place immediately before Book 1 of my upcoming urban fantasy series. If you’d like to stay up to date about my writing, learn about my first series, The Empowered, as well as the new one, and receive free stories, you can join my reader group here:

  https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/c2f0h2

  You can also find me at my website: daleivansmith.com and my Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/daleivansmithauthor/

  Alchemy and Destiny

  by Becca Andre

  Chapter 1

  The trigger brushed the crossbow housing, the faint sound spurring James into motion well before the twang of the string carried to him. The quarrel thunked into the wall to his right, the fletching lightly brushing his sleeve as it passed.

  He whirled to face his assailant, instinctively tensing to launch himself a
t his opponent. But even as he spun, he caught a familiar whiff of aftershave, and knew he couldn’t react the way his instincts demanded.

  Henry scowled at him. “Don’t even think about it.” He lowered the bow. “How did you know?”

  James tamped down his anger. It would only end in pain if he gave in to it. “The trigger rubs against the housing,” he answered his brother.

  Henry grunted and studied the crossbow more closely. His dark blond hair fell across his forehead, obscuring his frown.

  “He’s right,” their brother Brian spoke up, stepping out from behind the knife display case. “I heard it.”

  James lifted a brow, attempting to appear surprised as his eyes met Henry’s. He didn’t believe Brian, but he didn’t let that stop him from silently escalating the conflict.

  “You did not,” Henry snapped at Brian.

  Brian took a breath for a comeback but never voiced it as their eldest brother stepped into the room.

  George crossed his large arms and eyed the three of them. “Why is there a quarrel in the wall of my shop?” George didn’t allow horseplay in their family-owned gun store.

  “Henry missed,” Brian answered.

  Clenching his fist, Henry took a step toward Brian. “I don’t miss.” It was an accurate statement. Every one of them hit where they aimed, but that was what came with being part of a supernaturally gifted family of Hunters.

  “James moved,” Henry told George. “You know that all bets are off when dealing with that freak.” He waved a hand at James.

  Like his brothers, James was a Hunter. Unlike his brothers, James paid a price for this gift. In truth, he paid the price for the whole family, but they didn’t see that. All they saw was that his abilities surpassed their own. It was a continual source of envy and contempt.

  George’s angry gaze fell on James. “Patch the hole.”

  James wanted to protest but knew it would be pointless. After all, it was his fault that Henry had missed.

  Brian made a few crude comments about plugging holes, but James ignored him and left without a word. Raised by his three older brothers, James had long ago learned his place. Though they shared the same blood, James wasn’t truly one of them. He was something different, and his brothers made it a point to remind him of it often.

  James crossed the shop and stepped into the side hall. Patching holes and dents in the walls was a common occurrence in the Huntsman household. They even kept a small tub of spackling paste in the workshop upstairs.

  Jogging up the steps, James arrived on the landing and flipped the switch beside the door. The fluorescent lights flickered to life, illuminating the folding tables, ammo boxes, and reloading press. James spent a lot of time up here reloading bullets for the shop, but it was on the other side of the room that James preferred to be. There, he’d set up a makeshift laboratory, complete with a Bunsen burner, a rack of test tubes, and a chipped mortar and pestle. A nearby shelf held a collection of beakers, a volumetric flask, and his alchemy texts. All three of them.

  James gave his little lab a longing glance before hurrying to the closet to retrieve the spackle. Maybe later he would get a chance to study up on the next experiment he was planning. Provided George didn’t find something else for him to do.

  RUNNING THE PUTTY KNIFE along the wall one last time, James stepped back to admire his work. He would sand and paint it later, and it would look good as new. Not that anyone truly cared.

  “About time you finished.” George placed a couple of boxes on the counter beside the cash register. “Take these to the post office.”

  James set aside his putty knife and glanced at the clock. “The post office closes in fifteen minutes.”

  “Then you’d better move your ass.” George turned and walked away.

  With a sigh, James gathered the packages and headed for the side door. He should have known he wouldn’t get to escape to his lab any time soon. Snagging his keys off the table by the door, he hurried out to his car and slid in behind the wheel.

  “Start for me, baby,” he mumbled before turning the key. A brief hesitation, then his seventeen-year-old car sputtered to life.

  James released a breath, then dropped the car into drive. He used to tell himself that one day, he would own a car that wasn't almost as old as he was, but he was coming to realize that such a dream would always remain a dream. How could he expect a normal life when he didn't belong in this world?

  He arrived at the post office with five minutes to spare. Though it was apparent from the glare the postmaster gave him, the man wasn't pleased that James had arrived in time.

  “I hope those aren't international packages. I don't get paid overtime, and those would definitely make me run over.”

  James glanced at the address labels. “They’re both going here in Ohio.”

  The man grunted, then pulled the boxes toward him. “Huntsman,” he said, reading the return address. “I have a package for you. It came in on the truck this afternoon. You want it?”

  “Sure,” James agreed.

  The man stepped away, then returned a moment later with the package and a few letters. “Figured I’d give you the rest of your mail while I was at it.”

  “Thanks.” James pulled the stack closer, his gaze catching on the business-sized envelope on top. It was addressed to the Huntsman Gun Shop. Maybe it was an invoice, or a contract for George.

  James glanced at the return address, and a surge of excitement coursed through him. The letter was from the Alchemica, the country's premier alchemy institute. But why would they send a letter to their shop? No one except his brothers knew that he dabbled in alchemy.

  Unease followed the surge of excitement. What if one of his brothers had contacted the Alchemica on his behalf as some kind of joke?

  James eyed the letter lying so innocently atop the stack of mail. He was tempted to snatch it up and tear into it right now, but he resisted the temptation. It would be better to open it once he was alone. That way, if it was some prank his brothers had pulled, he could let some of his anger out. It would do no good to frighten the postmaster.

  Returning to his car, he got in but didn’t immediately start the vehicle. He set the letter on the console, leaning it against the radio knob. What could it possibly contain? The Alchemica didn’t contact a person out of the blue. Acceptance was by application only, and the requirements were extensive. For one, you needed a bachelor’s degree in chemistry and James was just out of high school. Had his brothers filled out an application for him and lied?

  “Just open it,” he muttered. Open it and be done with it.

  He took a breath, picked up the letter, and ripped it open. A single sheet of paper was folded inside.

  With hands a little unsteady, James removed the page. To his surprise, it wasn't a letter at all. It was a flyer. Apparently, the Alchemica was offering a service to area gun shops involving alchemically enhanced bullets. James had never heard of such a thing, but it wasn't a surprising development after that man in California had started producing magic bullets. But that man hadn’t been an alchemist. He was New Magic.

  Nearly two decades ago, magic had returned to the modern world. A small percentage of the world’s population had developed magical abilities. Those abilities were influenced by the wielders’ personalities—their beliefs and interests—and it seemed there was some new variety of magic user popping up all the time. That was New Magic, but it wasn't the only magic.

  With the open acceptance and fascination with all things magical, it had come to light that another form of magic had always been around. This Old Magic was the domain of mediums, aura readers, and other talents that had been whispered of for millennia, but never openly acknowledged. And then there were the necromancers.

  He frowned at the flyer he held. The Alchemica was in Cincinnati, which also happened to be where the Deacon, the head of the necromancer community, lived. George would never let him visit the Alchemica.

  James tapped a finger on the st
eering wheel, then read over the flyer again. It sounded like this bullet formula was only being offered to a few select shops. George would certainly be interested in the exclusivity aspect.

  The phone number at the bottom of the page drew James’s eye. It was a toll-free number with an extension. There was no street address. Did George know where the Alchemica was located? James doubted it.

  An idea forming, James shoved the envelope into the glove box and started the car.

  GEORGE EYED THE FLYER and James made an effort not to fidget. They were in George's office where George occupied the sole chair, leaving James to stand across the battered desk from him.

  “Magic bullets,” George said aloud, surprising James with his lack of amusement. “That New Magic guy has been on the cover of every gun magazine out there. I hear he charges per bullet and gets something like twenty dollars each.”

  James lifted a brow. “That’s a lot of money.” George liked money.

  “No shit.” He looked up from the flyer. “It's not right that this magical bastard is trying to imitate us. Does he really think he can compete with a Hunter?”

  “It’s pure arrogance,” James agreed, chiding himself for not seeing this angle. If there was one thing that drove George more than turning a profit, it was their family’s reputation. No one out hunted the Huntsman family. In that arena, they had no peers.

  “You know how I've been dabbling in alchemy?” James didn’t give George a chance to answer before hurrying on. “This would be a good opportunity to do something useful with that. If I could learn to make these bullets, it would be you on the covers of those magazines.”

  George studied him for a moment, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Why are you so eager?”