A Brush With Death

  Kasey couldn’t answer her. She was already focusing her mind and will on the truck's tires as she called after it, “Ffrwdrad!”

  The tires exploded. The truck skidded a little but continued forward, its rims grinding against the ashpalt.

  Kasey ran after the vehicle. She couldn't let that poison out onto the streets. Ignoring the pain that thrummed through her entire body, she pushed herself harder. She reached the warehouse door as the truck was grinding around a left-hand corner a few yards away.

  It wasn't trying to escape at all. Not into the city, anyway. It made straight for the Brooklyn Marine Terminal.

  Kasey reached the corner as the truck approached the facility’s gates.

  Drawing deep, Kasey tapped into the power coursing through her soul and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Piler O Dân!”

  A pillar of fire erupted in front of the truck.

  The truck tried to slow, but there was no avoiding its fate. As the truck ambled through the intense heat, it was reduced to molten slag, taking everything with it: the venom, the last of Marius' minions, and the entire rig itself.

  In moments, there was nothing left but molten slag and charred cinders.

  Kasey walked up the street, Strang, Bishop, Cal and Abbey following in her wake. She was confident she had done the job well, but she had to be sure.

  As she reached the gates to the marine terminal, she found them deserted. What remained of the truck rested in a heap before them.

  Kasey let out a sigh of relief.

  It was finally over.

  She had the Libro Sanguis back in her possession, her family secret was safe, the vampire Marius was dead, and the vampire’s new drug was destroyed.

  No doubt his father Rhain would be furious—he’d lost another son—but the vampire had already set an army of bounty hunters after her. What more could he do?

  Kasey took a deep breath and let it out.

  From nearby came voices. A lot of them, speaking in a language she didn't recognize.

  Looking up, she realized the voices were coming from the marine terminal.

  “What is it?” Bishop asked.

  “People talking,” Kasey replied.

  “Kind of strange for after midnight, isn’t it?” Strang asked.

  “Ships come twenty-four seven,” Bishop replied. “’Tis the city that never sleeps, and the busiest port on the east coast.”

  “Yes, but something isn't right,” Kasey replied. “I don't see any workers anywhere. I'm going to take a look.”

  Kasey walked through the abandoned guard post and into the marine terminal. It was a concrete jungle, laden with shipping containers bringing commerce from around the world.

  Heading toward the water, Kasey reached a promontory and looked down at the wharfs themselves.

  A large container ship was in the process of being unloaded. The name stenciled on the vessel's hull read 'Cosmar'.

  Next to her, Abbey gasped

  “What is it?” Kasey asked.

  “Cosmar means Nightmare in Romanian,” she whispered. “It is the flagship of the Feudal Court.”

  Kasey watched as a pitch-black shipping container was lowered to the dock. A mass of people raced around it, guiding it into place. Two of them swung open the doors of the container, revealing what looked like a stateroom.

  A shape appeared at the door, over six feet tall. It was difficult to see as a dark mist swirled about it, obscuring their vision. The shape stepped out of the container onto the wharf, and the assembled figures dropped to their knees.

  A malevolent presence filled the air as the creature surveyed rank upon rank of kneeling subjects as more containers were unloaded from the ship.

  Kasey’s guts twisted themselves in knots. They weren't people on the wharf at all. They were vampires, and they were kneeling for their king.

  That was why they were here at midnight. Rhain might have been able to withstand the sunlight, but his minions would not have.

  Dozens more containers waited on the ship to be unloaded. Another container on the dock was opened and a mob of vampires streamed out of it.

  Rhain, King of the Feudal Court, had come to New York City, and he'd brought an army with him. Kasey looked at what was left of the battered strike force and shook her head. There were far too many foes to do anything tonight.

  “What do we do?” Bishop asked, looking at Kasey.

  “We run,” Kasey replied. “We run like hell and warn the others.”

  “And say what?” Henley said, staring at the swarm of vampires beneath them.

  “That New York City is going to war. Normal or wizard, it doesn't matter anymore. We'll all be fighting for our lives.”

  Kasey tore her eyes away from the dock, gripped the Libro Sanguis tight against her chest, and ran.

  The End

  Kasey will be back in A Dance with Death. You can get your copy here.

  In the meantime, I’ve included a preview from my Urban Arcanology series below. It’s set in the same world as this series. Scroll down and check it out!

  Thanks For Being Here

  I hope you enjoyed A Brush With Death. I’ve really been having a blast expanding Kasey’s world, and I’m glad to have you to share it with.

  As you can see, we are paused on the edge of the abyss. The Feudal Court have come for Kasey and New York City. Kasey might be 2 and 0 with princes of the Court but Rhain has brought an army.

  Kasey will of course be back in A Dance With Death, so get excited. We’ve also launched a new series set in this same world, so if you’re looking for your next adventure you can find it here. Seth has a knack for getting himself in all kinds of trouble. If you loved Indiana Jones or Tomb Raider, it will be right up your alley.

  In the meantime, I’d love to ask you for two favors:

  First. If you love Kasey and want to see more of her, share her with a friend. I don’t have a mammoth publishing engine behind me. It’s just me, my laptop, and a love of writing. So, every time you share a post, or tell someone about one of these adventures, it makes a difference. Thank you for your support.

  Second. If you have enjoyed this book, I would greatly appreciate if you could spend a minute or two to leave a review for me (it can be as short or as long as you like), all that matters is that it’s honest. If you loved it, great. If you didn’t, let me know.

  Review This Book

  Thank you, your support makes all the difference!

  Until next time!

  S. C. Stokes

  P.S. I love to hear from you. So feel free to reach out, on Facebook or email anytime. You can also join the fun in our private group. It’s full of Urban Fantasy fans, just like you and me.

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  You can also visit my website where you can join the VIP’s for free, you’ll get the Kasey Chase prequel and a bunch of other goodies!

  Scroll on for a preview of the fun waiting for you in Half-Blood’s Hex

  Half-Blood’s Hex Preview

  The line dividing archaeologists and thieves was a fine one. Sure, archaeologists would have you believe that their university education and mountain of student debt set them apart from the common criminal, but when you got down to it, there was really only one distinction.

  Archaeologists had the good sense to only steal from the dead.

  Don't get me wrong, it was a safer career path, to be sure. But there were times when one just could not wait for history to bury or uncover the arcane trinket that might save a life. Particularly not when that life was mine.

  Time, that fickle mistress. I had always been acutely aware of how valuable it was. Mine had been running out since the day I was born. For us mere mortals, death was always inevitable, but for an unfortunate few, fate had decided to give it a helping hand.

  For my family, our die was cast generations ago, when my forebear stole something from a coven of witc
hes. My ancestor’s choice may have saved his life, but magic always came at a price. His price was the undying hatred of a witch cult and a curse that would follow his lineage until they drew their final breath.

  On days like today, I could almost feel it, our familial curse, clawing at the edges of my mind. Testing, probing, searching for any sign of weakness so that it might take root and bear out the bitter vengeance of a long dead priestess.

  Most families passed down a name, and perhaps if you were lucky, a fortune. Mine had done both, and more. Born Seth Ryder Caldwell, heir to the Caldwell dynasty, I had inherited the future most longed for, but with it enough familial obligations and baggage to make one want to run for their life. I had.

  In the supernatural world, your family determined a great deal. It was your bloodline, your lineage. One’s bloodline divided the supernatural from the normals. It also determined the nature and extent of a wizard's power.

  Thanks to a particularly hateful hag of a witch, that same bloodline was also the vehicle for my family’s curse: an arcane malady that literally pulsed through my veins. I had spent my life trying to cure it.

  It was that very affliction that drove me here, to New York City's Museum of Antiquities. Through fate or happenstance, the museum had acquired an artifact I was hoping might lead to my salvation. All I had to do was liberate it from its current owner.

  My earnest attempts to purchase the artifact using an intermediary had been rebuffed by the current curator, even when accompanied by a generous donation to the museum. Rumors surrounding the relic and its bloody history had caused quite the stir. There were things, it seemed, that money simply could not buy.

  Times were changing. The attack on New York City had been the catalyst. The supernatural world had lurked out of sight for centuries, magical beings hiding from the scrutiny and prejudice of normal society. The advent of smart phones had hastened the inevitable, and a murderous wizard marauding through downtown Manhattan had been broadcast live over social media to the entire world.

  Now the secret was out, and like Pandora's Box, closing the lid wasn't going to do a damn thing about it.

  The world itself was in commotion. Many panicked; the revelation of witches and wizards in their midst was more than they could handle. Others lashed out in fear against a power and presence they did not understand.

  Then there were the few, like the museum’s curator, whose curiosity for magic was as infectious as it was insatiable. They were entranced by a world of opportunity they had never known existed.

  The relic was her concrete connection to the supernatural world. She would not be parted from it, no matter the price.

  Bereft of more civilized paths for acquiring the relic, I was left with only one option. Like my forebear, I was going to have to steal it.

  It was a crisp day. The city teetered between the last breath of winter and the first taste of spring. Cool but not freezing, the breeze drifting off the Hudson managing to offset the sun that was beating down between the city’s skyscrapers. All in all, it was as good a day as any for a heist.

  The Museum of Antiquities was a newly established institution that was located on the corner of Columbus and West 66th Street. The structure itself was a simple affair, with a brick facade and a set of concrete stairs that ran between a pair of Corinthian pillars to an entrance hall. Inside, it featured a large central exhibition hall and two adjoining wings.

  The main hall was dominated by an exhibit titled ‘Magic and Mankind,’ featuring row after row of display cases loaded with trinkets, each accompanied by a placard explaining the item’s significance or supposed supernatural connection.

  As I lingered past the glass cases, I could sense they were largely worthless. I’d bought, sold, crafted, or stolen more enchanted artifacts than most wizards would handle in a lifetime.

  Half the reason I spent my life hunting for traces of history was to learn what we wizards had forgotten. Relics from the golden age of magic were particularly valuable. Most of them had been lost, hidden, or stolen. For most wizards, Arcanology was a theoretical exercise, study conducted in universities and schools of magic. I preferred field work. Most of my ‘training’ had been on the job, so to speak.

  Potent relics exuded the magic of their creator; they were infused with it. The exhibit was full of household goods and trinkets from suspected wizards. An ancient Greek urn bearing the image of Hera, a flintlock musket, and a set of china.

  A tremor shot through my hand as it passed over the display case. Pausing, I noted the placard by the dinnerware. If it was to be believed, they bore an enchantment that rendered them all but impervious to destruction. Indestructible or not, it was difficult to tell. They certainly had a lingering whisper of power about them. Intriguing.

  Not all were worthless trinkets, it would seem.

  At the center of the exhibit rested a grimoire. The tome bore a worn leather cover, covered in runes. Its pages had yellowed with age and the display suggested it had once been the property of Nikola Tesla. Scholars asserted that it contained many of the inventive wizard’s more supernatural experiments.

  Bending over the glass, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” a voice to my left asked.

  Turning, I found Adaeze had sidled up beside me while I’d been distracted with the exhibit. Adaeze Alasa, Dizzy for short, had been one of the few constant companions in my life. As students, we’d both attended the London Academy, a school for the gifted. Or at least the horrendously wealthy supernatural elite who could afford the highway robbery that was the Academy’s annual tuition.

  I had been enrolled until an incident with Peter Chalmers, perhaps the greatest knob of my generation and an insufferable git to boot. He had thought it a delightful prank to vanish my clothes while I was speaking at a school assembly. I had been left naked, in front of five hundred students.

  Unfortunately for poor Peter, I was born without the good sense of a proportional response. I used the same spell to vanish his motorbike while he was still on it. Peter spent two weeks in the infirmary, and suddenly I was no longer welcome at the Academy.

  My parents, members of London’s high society, exiled me to a finishing school in New York. Fortunately, Dizzy managed to persuade hers to send her as well. Partners in crime until the end.

  Pointing down at the leather-bound grimoire, I whispered, “I was just wondering if they knew that the centerpiece for their exhibit is a forgery.”

  Dizzy bent over to examine the tome, her jet-black hair almost touching the glass as she got a closer look. “What makes you so sure? It looks authentic enough to me.”

  “The paper,” I whispered. “In the 1800s most paper was made from rag, rather than pulp. Over time the edges should have worn, lending an uneven appearance. This paper has been weathered to look the part, but lacks the right texture. It’s made from pulp. It can’t possibly be old enough.”

  “Nerd.” Dizzy shook her head. “You can tell all that from here?”

  “Sure.” I cracked a grin. “It also helps that I have the original in the vault.”

  I was rewarded with an elbow in my side. “That’s cheating!”

  “I never said otherwise,” I replied, rubbing my poor ribs.

  “I guess not. That’s my Seth. The most honest thief there ever was.”

  I winced, worried that her voice had carried to the other patrons.

  “Relax, Seth, no one is paying any attention to us. Not yet anyway.” She shot me a knowing look. “Speaking of attention, what are you wearing? Who shows up to a heist in a suit and a fedora? Are you looking to be the most memorable thief since those clowns tried to rob a Barclays in the nude?”

  Clowns. There were three things I truly feared. Clowns, heights, and creatures from beyond the veil. On any given day the order might change, but I did my level best to avoid any of them, at all times.

  An involuntary shudder coursed through me and Dizzy grinned.

  “You’re too easy.�
��

  I shoved the images from my mind and touched the brim of my hat. “The hat will help prevent the cameras getting a clean shot of my face, and the suit, well, it never hurts to be well-dressed. Are you ready?”

  “Just say the word,” Dizzy said. She shot me with a finger gun before she headed into the crowd. At five foot five, she vanished into a gaggle of passing school students and was gone. People often made the mistake of discounting Dizzy on account of her stature, but such ignorance brought with it a world of hurt. When it came to my crew, Dizzy was the muscle.

  “Might want to get a move on, lover-boy. She’s coming,” Dizzy said, her voice emanating from the ear-piece in my left ear.

  My body tensed up and my heart skipped a beat. Fighting the urge to look, I turned away and wove through the crowd toward the west wing of the museum. Once I cleared the room, I stole a glance back into the exhibition hall, and spotted the museum’s curator descending the stairs from the second-floor office suites.

  Lara Stiel, the formidable curator of the Museum of Antiquities, and the best thing to ever happen to me. Lara’s reddish-brown curls barely reached her winter jacket, but seemed to bounce just a little with each stride as she crossed the hall. Always the anthropologist, Lara rocked a set of black combat boots that would have been more at home on a dig site than a museum, the perks of being the boss. The dress code didn’t apply to her.

  Dizzy let out a low sigh. “Seth, my friend. You are so far out of your league, you may as well be on a separate planet.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I replied, letting out the nervous breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  I’d met Lara last autumn at the Museum’s grand opening. As an arcanologist and a purveyor of enchanted goods, I had wanted to stop by the new museum at least once, if for no other reason than to chuckle at everything the normals got wrong. Instead, I had been sucked into her world and a whirlwind engagement that had turned my life on its head, in a wonderful and terrifying way.