Halfblood's Hex (Urban Arcanology Book 1)

by S. C. Stokes

  Half-Blood’s Hex

  Urban Arcanology: Book One

  S.C. Stokes

  Contents

  A Welcome From The Author

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

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  Half-Blood’s Hex

  Author: S.C. Stokes

  Cover Art By Bewitching Book Covers

  Copyright © Prescient Publishing 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of limited quotations in a book review.

  A Welcome From The Author

  Welcome to Half-Blood’s Hex, the exciting new novel for my Urban Arcanology series.

  Urban Fantasy has always held a special place in my heart. The blend of magic and the modern world, along with a generous rewriting of history to add a hint of the arcane is incredibly addictive for me as a reader. I hope you enjoy the same!

  Are you ready to get lost in an exciting new world?

  Half-Blood’s Hex begins in New York but soon takes the mayhem to the world stage. The key difference between this world and the one we live in, is the presence of magic. Where and how these worlds intersect…well, you’ll have to turn the page to find out.

  Seth isn’t your average hero. Truth be told, he’s more of a thief really and he’s desperate for answers that might lead to a cure for the curse that plagues him.

  I must warn you; this series is no Sunday stroll. It’s a frantic race against time, filled with magic, mayhem and supernatural suspense. Leave the world at the door and loose yourself in a new adventure.

  As you join Seth on his journey, I hope you too can look beyond his shortcomings and see him as I do, a diamond in the rough.

  Sincerely,

  S.C. Stokes

  P.S. Would you like a free urban fantasy adventure set in this same world?

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  1

  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 witches. 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 particu
larly 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.

  Before Lara my life had been chaotic, messy and dangerous. Living with the certainty of the curse hanging over me, I had been adrift. Not wanting to put down roots for fear that having a life only gave me more to lose.

  Lara was not what I’d been expecting. An anthropologist with a gift for languages, she’d turned her attention away from the well-trodden path of her professional peers and was blazing a new trail in the study of the supernatural.

  She was smart, determined and fighting for a place in a world that mocked her interests. Lara never let that get her down though. She was a rock, the calm to my chaos, which made my current intentions with the relic all the more unpalatable.

  For Lara the artifact was a link to what she described as the hidden history of the earth. A history she suspected was shaped by the presence of magic.

  She was closer to the truth than she knew, and while she was mocked by many of her peers, I had no doubt history would one day remember her as a pioneer. In the meantime, other academics, like my unfortunate assembly at the London Academy, were simply unprepared for the unpleasant reality that had been thrust upon them.

  “Neil, are you ready?” I asked softly into the comms.

  There was silence as I waited for the third member of our crew to respond. Neil Matthews was a grifter. A New York City native, born and raised in Brooklyn, he had aspirations that greatly exceeded his wallet’s capacity to accommodate. Relying on his roguish looks and silver tongue, Neil had managed to insert himself into New York City’s high society, or at least he had, until he’d been caught in a compromising position with the governor’s wife. His roving eye and silver tongue were two of the many reasons I’d never introduced the sticky-fingered con man to Lara.

  The precious seconds dragged on and I wrung my hands. Knowing Neil, he was likely flirting with a barista somewhere. Relying on him had been a foolish gambit, one I wouldn’t have made if I had the luxury of more time.

  “Neil,” I whispered again, watching Lara cross th
e hall.

  Ahead of Lara, a mother wrestled with her toddler in a pram. The young boy was throwing a tantrum and hurled his sippy cup as far as he could manage.

  The cup bounced across the tiles ahead of Lara, and she went after it, scooping up the cup and returning it to the mother. As she handed it over, she pointed to the museum’s wing and said a few words. The mother nodded, thanked her and took off in the direction she’d suggested.

  Lara waved at the toddler and headed for the front entrance.

  “Neil, where are you? She’s almost at the door.”

  “Don’t sweat it, I’m here. I just had to help some Swedish tourists find Broadway,” Neil replied. “I’m out front now. But I just don’t get why we have to rob your poor fiancée.”

  I ground my teeth. I didn’t like the thought any more than he did, but I didn’t see any other way. I couldn’t risk telling her the truth and I certainly didn’t want her to pay the price for my actions.

  “If I swipe her security pass at home, it will be pretty evident who took it, and I don’t want to torpedo our relationship, her career, or both.”

  “Might I suggest you are going about this the wrong way then?” Neil replied.

  The suggestion grated on my nerves. My dating life, until Lara, had been one failure after another, but given Neil never slept in the same bed twice, I doubted he could help me.

  I silently counted to three, and fought the urge to raise my voice. “Your relationship advice would carry a lot more weight, if I hadn’t just had to bail you out of jail for your little soiree at the governor’s residence.”