Trickskin

by Amelia R. Moore

  Trickskin

  By Amelia Moore

  Text copyright © 2018 Amelia Moore

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art © SelfPubBookCovers.com/mad-moth

  Chapter image © Kaiya Brown

  To my husband, parents, and friends for their love and support. Many of them have helped in some way or another with the creation of or editing of this story. Thanks, everyone!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Prologue

  Falling.

  He was falling through an icy, endless darkness, experiencing fleeting bouts of consciousness that caught minimal detail. There was a moment of peaceful acceptance. If he were to die fleeing—well, better to die free than shackled like the criminal he was. He’d accepted the risk before he’d attempted this spell, but he was almost disappointed that it hadn’t immediately backfired. He’d been prepared for the end, for the reprieve from self-derision and despair, but now he was alone with his thoughts and without an idea of how long he would drift.

  The ground met him without warning or mercy, and then there was nothing.

  The steady beep...beep...beep, like a mechanical bird, roused him, but his consciousness was swimming through molasses.

  His hands held outward, his magic straining as he tore a hole in the very fabric of space itself.

  “Lailoken! No! Stop!”

  His eyes snapped open, and he was alone. The white-themed room with decor so incomparable to home startled him into sitting up. A shooting pain in his chest answered the abrupt movement, but it was far from crippling and went unheeded. It settled into a dull ache as he scanned the room. He was in a rather uncomfortable bed, wearing a thin robe. The clean, sterile look of the place told him nothing. It was all so foreign.

  Without a doubt his ploy had worked; Loken was no longer on Rellaeria.

  He stood with some difficulty, and the tug on his arm drew his attention. When he noticed the metal machines that he was connected to, vexation welled inside of him. He ripped the needle out of his arm, pleased to see the small puncture begin to heal before his eyes. Proof that his magic, his maedir, was not crippled in this world. Relieved, he removed the less invasive patches stuck to his skin and searched the room for better garments. The flimsy, half-open robe would not do. He could craft a set from magic, but he had no certainty of what the life forms on this planet looked like, let alone what they wore.

  Before he could consider slipping through the door, it swung open. Rather than disguise himself, he stared at the creature before him. Human, the scholar part of his mind supplied. He wanted to laugh bitterly, overwrought with self-abasing thoughts. He’d truly done it. He’d worldwalked across systems. One of the greatest feats of magic a sorcerer could accomplish, and he’d only managed it while mad with the longing for death.

  The human, wearing a plain blue shirt that matched her pants, gave him a startled look. “Sir, you shouldn’t be up yet. I’ll inform the doctor you’re awake, but you need to return to your bed. ”

  Already losing patience for this conversation, Loken used his maedir, his magic, to encourage her to answer a question. “Tell me why I was brought here. Am I a prisoner?” It responded sluggishly, and he knew he’d need time to fully recover from worldwalking. Currently, what magic remained was being used to knit his body back together. He remembered falling, so he had to assume his pains were from hitting the ground at high velocity.

  “You were brought in with three broken ribs, a shattered arm, and a concussion,” she replied. “This is a hospital, not a prison. There are police here to speak with you, but you need to return to bed. We need to perform a cognitive—”

  Police? The foreign word sounded forbidding, and the fact that they wished to speak with him gave him plenty of reasons to evade them. “No, that’s quite alright,” Loken replied curtly, filing away her words. “I really must be going. Thank you for your aid, healer. Tell me, where are we?”

  “Akron,” she replied.

  Loken stared, not knowing if that was the name of this building, land, or planet. Useless. “And where, pray tell, is Akron?”

  “Ohio.”

  This was getting him nowhere, so he disregarded that line of questioning. “Tell me, is your attire appropriate for everyday affairs?”

  She blinked. “No, these are my nursing scrubs.”

  Nursing? Scrubs? Still, her answer implied that copying her raiment would be a waste. Probably for the best. It was hideous. “Where is my property?”

  “In that cabinet there.”

  She indicated a wooden cabinet in the corner. “Excellent,” he praised her like one might a child. “You’ve been ever so helpful. Why don’t you take a break from your hard work and destroy all records of my stay here?”

  “Oh. I can try, I suppose. I...”

  Loken left with his belongings, confident that his orders would be followed, and slipped out of the so-called hospital without incident. With a minor spell keeping eyes from lingering on him, he was able to gaze upon the city with scrutiny. Tall buildings of metal and glass, reaching aspiringly towards the sky. Paved roads and little greenery. It was all so...underwhelming, but he had to make the most of it. This was the location of his exile, and though he’d been eager for death before, unexpectedly living had rekindled his basic survival instincts.

  Pausing in front of a window display, Loken stared at the poster of a man modeling what he assumed was a stylish outfit. With his magic ensuring the humans walking the street paid him no mind, he considered how best to blend in. The humans seemed to physically resemble the Evoir of Rellaeria—minus their shorter builds and odd styles—so he would be able to keep his skin the same. The information Rellaeria had on Earth was likely outdated, but Loken couldn’t remember much of it anyway.

  Pulling on his magic, he adapted the dark green dress shirt of the model and completed the outfit by mimicking the black pants. Then he changed his footwear into a pair of boots styled after those in the poster. Even this small feat of magic left him exhausted, like a man returning from a day spent on the training fields.

  He stared at his reflection, judging his new attire and feeling disconnected from the stoic Evoir staring back at him.

  (Because you aren’t Evoir, are you?

  Traitor. Defector. Monster.)

  It was the same face he’d worn all his life. His sharp features and narrow face were distinguished, but he wasn’t likely to come across anyone from his home world—(not your home world)—so he clung to the familiarity. Even if it was a falsehood. He’d never been heavily muscled, but he was almost too-thin now. Dark circles shadowed his forest green eyes, and his midnight hair was disheveled at best. Judging by the models in the window, short hair was more common for men here, but it wasn’t a change he was willing to make.

  Loken adjusted the sleeves of his shirt, turned, and began his journey.

  Chapter 1

  Tossing his keys onto the counter, Loken shut his apartment door, summoned an apple from the fridge, and dropped down onto the old sofa, his nose already buried in a book. He’d been skeptical when his coworker at the bookstore suggested he try Shakespeare, but he had to admit he was enthralled. Reading had always been a passion of his, and having an entire world’s history worth of reading material usually provided s
atisfactory entertainment. Today, nothing seemed to stave off the tedium.

  His thirst for knowledge was insatiable. Back home, he would spend hours in the library, studying even the most obscure spells and rituals. Yet, back home, he’d always had duties to attend to, such as—

  He strangled the thought and tried to focus on the book, but concentration eluded him. His eyes roamed, as if expecting to find more than his sparse studio apartment. All of his belongings had been gifted or forced upon him by the well-meaning women who’d taken an interest in his life. Such as all of the books that sat on a small shelf near the couch. As far as he was concerned, there was little point in decorating. This arrangement was temporary; he was a wanted man.

  The first time he’d been found, he had indulged his curiosity and embarked on a mission to get to know his enemy. The humans had been kind enough to answer a few questions (with a little magical suggestion), but when he’d discerned that the organization was government affiliated, he’d lost interest in interacting with them. It was too dangerous. After spelling them to believe they were on a romantic vacation touring the country, he’d begun taking precautions to remain hidden. Luckily, the city was vast.

  A knock at the door had him glowering. There were many reasons that he didn’t have a phone, but his hatred for being disturbed was top of the list. When a glare at the door did nothing to silence the intrusion, he stood to answer it.

  Nora Foley stood in his threshold. Her thin lips pursed at the sight of him, and then her hazel eyes peered past him into the apartment, looking for something. Despite being Rosalie Naiara’s niece, they looked nothing alike. Her skin was far lighter, and her hair—which curled across the tops of her shoulders rather than being pulled back as usual—was a soft brown. Another deviation from her norm was the sweater she was wearing. It appeared thick and looked, at best, like a poor imitation of a rainbow. If rainbows were only shades of green and red.

  “Don’t worry,” Nora said flatly, commenting on his stare. “I’m sure Aunt Rosie already has plans to knit you one for next Christmas.”

  As usual, he only understood half of what she was saying. By now, he’d learned that Christmas was a winter festival (that had just passed), but was sweater-knitting a common part of it? He resisted the urge to scowl and settled for saying, “I don’t recall requesting an escort to dinner.” Of course, he’d forgotten about dinner entirely, but he had no intention of admitting that.

  She sighed. “Please tell me you remembered dessert.”

  The two of them were responsible for providing dessert on Thursday nights. Nora had done it herself for a month straight, but last week (after he proclaimed that it was simply sad for a woman to be merely proficient in baking) she’d demanded he prove he could do better. He’d countered with a simple ‘no’ and apparently hadn’t been taken seriously.

  Now they were without a dessert, and that simply wouldn’t do.

  Rosalie Naiara was not only his employer; she was his landlord and had been fretting over him since they’d met. She’d generously given him work despite having no documents, which was apparently something required by law, and she’d even provided him with a place to stay. It wasn’t honorable to let debts accumulate, so he joined her and her family for dinner every Thursday night as requested—though he couldn’t fathom how it benefited her.

  As for their current problem… “If I can accrue the items required for a pie, can you make it in a timely manner?”

  “First off, dinner is in fifteen minutes.”

  He took that to mean she couldn’t. “Very well. I’ll simply purchase one.”

  Nora’s eyes narrowed. “If you bring a store-bought pie to dinner—”

  Loken teleported, cutting her off because he knew it would frustrate her. He enjoyed provoking her. As a scientist, she detested displays that defied her understanding of the universe. It infuriated her every time he reminded her that her knowledge was, at best, limited, but rather than dismiss what she’d seen, she would hound him with questions.

  He could still envision her shocked face all those months ago—when she’d peeled back his torn shirt to find that he was already rapidly healing the knife wound he’d sustained while saving her life. The night before that, he’d happened across two men assaulting a woman and had dispatched them almost reflexively. Monster he might be, but a woman in distress still invoked his rage. His crash-landing induced injuries had still been healing, and one of them had managed to land a blow before being struck down.

  Unable to retreat quickly enough, he’d allowed himself to be caught by the woman’s gaze. He was so tired, still drained from worldwalking, so although he was weary, he’d acquiesced and allowed her to drag him into a building to be tended to. Allowing repayment for services rendered was safe, he’d assured himself.

  The home, it turned out, belonged to Rosalie Naiara.

  He’d remembered being mildly impressed when the short, dark-skinned woman had met his eyes and called him a fool for refusing to be taken to the hospital. Then Nora had told her of his heroic actions, and her gaze had softened. She’d tended to his wound and silenced his protests when she insisted he at least stay until morning.

  Intending to slip away in the middle of the night, he hadn’t bothered informing them that the medical care was irrelevant. The knife had missed vital organs, so the wound would heal quickly on its own. Faced with the rare gift of a warm place to sleep, a haven where he needn’t look over his shoulder all night, he’d slept for nearly twelve hours before being stirred by the most delectable scents.

  “Hey. You awake?”

  He’d recognized the voice of the young woman and decided that pretending to sleep would be childish. He’d met her gaze but maintained his silence, hoping that if he didn’t speak, they might forgo questioning him until he left.

  “Food is on the table. Afterwards, my aunt can take a look at your side.”

  ‘Breakfast’ had been delicious little flatbreads called pancakes, smothered in indigo fruit syrup. By that time, it had been a few days since he'd eaten, despite needing to do so to refuel his magic. Disorientated in a new world, he hadn't quite managed to figure out how to obtain what passed for food on Earth. Being freely given food had been a blessing.

  “You were stabbed! We tended to it last night!” Nora had insisted as Mrs. Naiara hovered over him after the meal.

  When she'd then traced the mostly-healed cut, he’d snarled to warn her off of ever attempting to touch him again.

  Rather insulting to his pride, neither of them had been intimidated. What sort of fools took in a stranger off the street? Didn’t they realize he was dangerous? Loken should have left town that day. He should have enspelled or threatened them into silence and fled, but he hadn’t. They’d chosen to keep his secret of their own free will, and day-by-day he’d found new reasons to put off departing.

  Focusing on the task at hand, he picked out a flavor of pie that would most satisfy Mrs. Naiara’s grandchildren, paid the woman who owned the bakery, and headed to dinner on foot. Teleportation was faster, but he used the time to clear his head.

  Intellectually, he knew that the longer he stayed put, the easier he would be to track, but he was comfortable with his self-appointed Earthen guides. He knew that despite his appearance, he didn’t quite blend in. He had virtually no cultural awareness in this strange land, which led to near-daily puzzlement and frustration.

  They’d taught him about their country’s currency, introduced him to the sweet treat called chocolate, and otherwise helped him learn how to navigate this strange new world. Every day held new lessons and kept him busy, distracted from the events that had led him to Earth. Despite the benefits of keeping him ignorant and thus dependant, they seemed determined to educate him.

  Another month. He’d stay another month, and then he’d move on.

  His instincts had him pausing in front of Mrs. Naiara’s apartment door before his brain caught up to what he was seeing. The door was slightly ajar, and the silence
was deafening. Dropping the dessert, he quietly nudged the door open with one foot and pulled out his daggers. As small as the apartment was, it didn’t take him long before he stumbled across Nora who was bound and gagged on the floor. He cut her free, trying and failing to contain his rage.

  “Lyall!” she exclaimed, using the alias he’d given her. Her eyes were wide, pale cheek smudged with blood that may have been hers. “They’re gone! They took the kids!”

  He hadn’t a clue who ‘they’ were. Focus unflinching, he held her gaze and calmly asked, “Who?”

  “I don’t know! They left a note! Oh, God.”

  He followed Nora’s gaze and found her aunt collapsed in the kitchen. The rise and fall of her chest was the only indication she was alive.

  Nora hesitated. “They said if we called the police, they’d kill them.”

  Keeping his voice steady and authoritative, he said, “Listen to me very carefully. I’ll take you both to the hospital. After I retrieve the children, I’ll meet you there.” A necessary lie. After he reunited the children with their grandmother, he’d need to leave.

  He snatched the envelope off of the counter.

  The Vineyard. Come alone.

  The only thing he enjoyed more than a good book was a good battle. Pity that humans weren’t very capable of the latter, but he’d settle for what he could get.

  He knew the location of the restaurant, so after teleporting the women to the hospital, he chose to arrive on foot to keep his enemies at ease. Two guards waited at the backdoor of the building, and Loken approached them without hesitation. To their credit, they didn’t pretend not to know who he was or why he was there. Though he didn’t recognize the goons, he knew who awaited him inside. Ilario Rossi was a proud and generous businessman, but he also led the Romans, a criminal organization that had its roots firmly planted in much of the city’s infrastructure.

  Loken cared nothing for them either way, though it was Rossi’s men he’d killed for assaulting Nora. Their pitiful attempt at recruitment upon recognizing his potential had been dismissed, and he’d made it known that he desired to remain a neutral party.