Table of Contents
IN MAGE WE TRUST
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
Chapter 17
IN MAGE WE TRUST
Of Mystics and Mayhem Series
HEIDI VANLANDINGHAM
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
IN MAGE WE TRUST
Copyright©2019
HEIDI VANLANDINGHAM
Cover Design by Taria Reed
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-930-9
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The idea for this book began
as a writing prompt I saw on the internet.
The picture was so intriguing,
the first 1,200 words wrote themselves.
I sent it to my critique partner who wouldn’t let it go,
so this entire book is dedicated to Silver James.
Without you, the most persistent, stubborn,
pushy, and amazing CP in the world,
In Mage We Trust, would have never been more
than a simple writing exercise.
Prologue
Present Day
Demon Realm, Dark World
Niki
For the hundredth time that morning, I tuned out the argument going on behind me between my boss Lucien, the current demon king, and his mage, Gerard. The two or three times I’d tried to interject a valid point—valid in my opinion, at least—I had been ignored, so I kept my mouth shut. For now.
I stared through the window separating the castle’s conference room and the Well of Souls. The white light on the other side of the window glowed brighter as several coconut-sized orbs floated to a stop. Hovering in the middle of the glass, the two pearlescent souls suddenly turned and floated away. As I watched them disappear into the mass of souls in the background, an idea formed.
“Lucien, Johnna’s my daughter,” Gerard pleaded. “I can’t just sit here and let him kill her.”
The fear and frustration in his voice bored a hole into my thoughts.
Lucien shook his head. “This fight goes beyond just your child, Gerard, but you already know this. Too many demonkind have died already. We need to focus our energy in finding and trapping the dark mage before he kills anyone else—including Johnna.”
I turned to face the two men, my gaze drawn to Lucien’s hard expression. At the appearance of his horns on top of his head, I realized how frustrated he was. Lucien’s horns rarely showed.
“Before you took one step from this room, the mage would know you’re coming after him.” Lucien placed a heavy hand on Gerard’s shoulder, the small garnet ring on his finger blinking as the firelight flickered over the gem’s faceted surface. “I would never let any harm come to those you care about, but the killing must end. I’m telling you this as your king and your best friend.”
“Then let me go get her. I’ll bring her back here where I know she’ll be protected.”
I leaned forward in my chair and placed my elbows on my knees. “I’ll go.”
Both Lucien and Gerard turned to stare.
“If Gerard must remain here, I can go get his daughter,” I added.
“As I told Gerard—” Lucien began.
“Why, Niki? You’re as susceptible as I am,” Gerard interjected, his frustration drowning out Lucien’s objection.
I quirked one brow. “As head enforcer of Dark World, I had hoped centuries of experience would lend credence to my plan. Your faith in me is overwhelming, Gerard.”
Gerard glared, his silence oppressive.
“All realms in this multiverse are in danger, the longer the dark mage is allowed to live.” I quickly ran through the impromptu plan I’d devised and hoped they would think it as sound as I did. “I will go in disguise. And, if you ask me, it’s a perfect one.”
Gerard crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. “Fine, I’ll bite. What is this perfect disguise?”
“A zombie. I will use the zombie spell. It’s the only way we can get to your daughter in time without anyone but the three of us knowing I’ve even left this realm. The dark mage has stayed one step ahead of us because he can track our magic. While under the influence of the spell, my magic will seem as dead as, well . . . a zombie. If he can track me, both your daughter and I will die.”
I held Gerard’s worried gaze. “I will guard Johnna’s life with my own, old friend.”
Gerard’s face flushed and he let out a frustrated growl. “Neither of you understand how bad this is. Johnna doesn't come into her powers until she's twenty-five. Do we know for certain he's acting alone?”
“We'll figure everything out once we get her safely out of the Mortal Realm,” Lucien said. “You know as well as I, Niki would give his life to keep your daughter safe.” Lucien focused his sharp stare on Gerard. “Don’t lose faith in us now.”
Gerard let out an uneasy breath and nodded quickly. “I know you'll do whatever it takes to protect Johnna. And you're not wrong about getting caught. The dark mage will kill you too.”
I gave him a knowing smirk. “I’m not so easy to kill.”
With a stoic expression erasing his worry, Gerard straightened his shoulders. “As soon as you’ve retrieved my daughter from the Mortal Realm, I will join you here so we can retrieve the key and, hopefully, end this ridiculous war. Now go—save my daughter.”
Chapter 1
Present day, Alexandria, Virginia
The Mortal Realm
Johnna
I raised the white disposable cup and glanced down to make sure I didn’t miss the small opening with my mouth. Spotting the name on the side of the cup, I let out an annoyed huff. Instead of ‘Johnna,’ the new barista had sloppily written in black marker the name ‘Jonah
.’
Taking another sip of my latté, I swished the rich pumpkin-infused coffee around my aroused taste buds. Who knew a drink could be so life changing? Coffee was one of the few things I enjoyed. Life didn’t suck as bad when I had a cup in my hand.
School seemed to be my current problem. Well, it wasn’t my sole problem, but it was the only one I wanted to acknowledge at the moment.
My young life had been filled with problems. Strange things happened to me all the time. After my mother’s mysterious death ten years ago, they got worse. Growing up without a mom to guide me had been difficult, especially through my teenage years. But when my workaholic father forgot he had a daughter, it became the icing on the proverbial cake.
When good ol’ Dad did happen to make an appearance, my first standard question had always been where had he disappeared to. The second question was about the magical weirdness, like the way people popped in and out of his workroom or the bloated creatures floating around bringing him vials and whatever else he hollered for. Of course, he never gave me a truthful answer about any of it, so after a while, I quit asking.
I’d never been close to my father. But my mother . . . damn, I missed her. She made life fun and not the boring ho-hum it was now. Don’t get me wrong, I loved college and Virginia was a history lover’s dream, but it wasn’t the same.
For the last week or so, though, learning had been the last thing on my mind. A strange feeling had settled in me, like at any moment the bogeyman or something equally disturbing was going to jump out and grab me. I was damned tired of being so jumpy.
I continued sucking down my coffee and not paying attention to my surroundings. I didn’t need to. King Street, close to the Potomac, was my favorite place to be. I knew every dip and slope of each sidewalk brick and had window-shopped so often, the storeowners knew me by name. And I practically lived inside the coffee store, which back in colonial times had been George Washington’s favorite tavern. I loved this town.
I turned my thoughts back to my dad and had an epiphany. Maybe the reason he didn’t want to be around me much was because I resembled my mother. Even down to the flaming hair and temper. My figure wasn’t as curvy, but it was fine with me. The one thing I hadn’t inherited from my mother, though, was my sarcastic mouth. The mouth I got solely from my father, who made sarcasm an art form. It happened to be a good way to keep people away. And, believe me, I’d mastered it.
If no one got close, there would be no pain when they left. Because the people around me always left. The track record of my own life proved the point.
I took another sip and choked as something rammed into my back, pushing me a couple of steps forward. Coughing as the liquid cleaved my esophagus in two, I juggled my book bag and cup, trying without success not to spill the remaining coffee inside after what seemed like half the cup sloshed over the side and onto my shoe.
With an irritated scowl, I spun around to see who had bumped into me. There was no one there. I glanced up the street, confusion erasing my anger. The cool autumn afternoon had turned into perfect shopping weather; however, for some unknown reason, the brick-paved sidewalks were empty. Definitely not the norm for the touristy Old Town District.
A movement across the street caught my attention. The window dresser in a children’s boutique jumped up and down inside the narrow display window, frantically waving at me. I waved back, prompting her to begin a strange dance, which looked suspiciously like a pee dance. She slapped the window and pointed. I followed the direction of her finger, and my jaw dropped.
Hovering like a dark cloud beside me were the multi-colored, bulbous bodies of the creatures I’d seen helping my father when I was a child. I had two options: play dead or run for my life. I chose to run, but the extreme panic rushing like a tidal wave through my veins forced me to do something I would never have done before this moment. I pulled back my arm and threw my precious cup of coffee at whatever the flying jelly belly-looking things were, then took off in a dead sprint.
Another hard thud hit me between my shoulder blades and knocked me off-balance. My old soccer coach would’ve been proud at my quick footwork as I stayed upright, using the momentum to careen around the corner. Before I could congratulate myself for not falling on my face, I plowed into a green plastic trashcan. The force of my hit knocked the air out of my lungs, and I lay there a moment, catching my breath.
I raised my head and realized I’d landed in a trash-filled alley. The nauseating stench of rotting food burned my nose hairs.
A loud squawk pulled my attention back to the street. The fat, bat-like creatures charged, shoving me against the trashcan again. I raised my arms and, with a crazy yell, attacked them. A lot of good it did me as they dodged my flailing arms. Reaching down, I picked up a broken fence slat and added it to my weak arsenal. I missed several times but finally hit one, slamming the dark blue swollen body against the brick wall at the end of the alley. I waited until another creature flew into the piece of wood, hard enough to fling itself into the wall without any help from me.
I let out a loud whoop and turned to hit another, my stick raised above my head. Staring at what should have been the brick wall to my left, about one foot above the ground a thick black oil slick swirled, coating the red bricks as it made its way up the wall. A light gray mist poured into the alley and covered the trash and gunk lying on the broken concrete ground.
A movement in the center of the darkness held my gaze. As the patch grew, I retreated, uncaring I was still being dive bombed by the small flying ticks.
Suddenly, a black boot appeared, followed by a jean-clad leg, then the other leg. The edges of my vision blurred as the rest of him followed. My eyes widened as I stared into the swirling gold eyes of what looked like a zombie. Not even Hollywood’s best makeup artist could replicate the desiccated skin sloughing off his face or the thin strands of stringy hair hanging in patches from his scalp. As I watched, several strands dropped to the ground.
Seeing both my parents do a few bizarre things—magical things while I was growing up—I was a firm believer in the supernatural. However, the sight before me went way beyond that. I backed up, only to be stopped by a couple more shoves from those hateful pests behind me.
The zombie raised his hand and my world turned black as stupid me fainted.
~ ~ ~
I slowly came to, lying on wet brick pavers and trying to recall what had happened. A chill crept over me. Even with the clammy sheen of perspiration coating my skin, the fine hairs on my arms stood at attention, although I couldn’t remember where I was or why I should be afraid. My main concern at the moment was the fact I couldn’t see anything. With the world around me as black as the deepest cave in the world, I focused on staying positive and not panicking, failing as my heartbeat tripled into heart attack levels.
Ditching my microeconomics class this morning had been a no-brainer. Until now. Losing my coffee, fat bats, and now a zombie?
Karma bites.
I tried to sit up but couldn’t seem to make my arms or legs move. Was I dead? I didn’t think so, although with the way my luck seemed to be going today . . . I’d always figured the first thing I’d see when I died would be the legendary white light. But, me? Hell no. I got a zombie with a face resembling month-old, moldy, pockmarked cheese.
Like a mask had been torn from my face, my vision returned. I blinked several times, swirling my overworked eyeballs around in their sockets for an escape, without luck. In my current position, seemingly attached to the ground, fighting was not one of my options.
What had the zombie done to me? Why couldn’t I move or, at the very least, talk?
I gave myself brownie points, amazed at my calm demeanor in light of the situation. I glanced down to where the creature knelt beside me and noticed he wore a dark gray shirt tucked into tight-fitting black jeans. At least they looked tight in his current
squatted position. His clothes were awfully clean for a zombie.
I watched the mesmerizing motion of his bobbing head. His gaze, however, seemed focused on my bare stomach. I now regretted my decision to wear my favorite midriff-revealing, pink tank. Panic welled inside my chest, my recently eaten honeybun helping it along.
I’d read the right stories growing up. Zombies ate people. I tried to recall more details from the tales my brain had purposely shelved under childhood fantasy and found nothing. My brain was empty. Wait a minute . . . Oh. My. God. He already ate my brains.
Now was as good a time as any to panic.
“You ate my brains, didn’t you? I’m brainless!” I now had something to be thankful for. I could speak again.
The zombie stared at me. The cold, dead sensation disappeared from my body, and in its place raged an inferno, burning through my veins and tightening my skin until it felt as if it were going to split apart in a thousand places. Great. Not only was I probably dead, I was internally combusting. Well, at least I could talk again.
“Could my day suck any worse?” I muttered.
A scratchy, snuffly noise dragged my attention back to my immediate problem; fixing to become a zombie appetizer. I refocused on his cheesy head sniffing around my stomach.
“I should warn you—when I’m stressed, I’m not nice.” I frowned, my thoughts drifting away though I forced my brain to refocus. “Or so I’ve been told. Just so you know, whatever you’re doing down there is starting to piss me off.”
I scowled, giving him my best badass look, but was more afraid I just looked constipated. His eyes never left my midsection as his withered hands moved in a strange pattern above me. The burning sting of my building frustration settled down, slowing to curiosity. I felt the same as I had before having my tonsils removed, weightless and relaxed. His movements reminded me of something I’d seen my workaholic, forgetful father do when I was a child, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was exactly.
In Mage We Trust (Of Mystics and Mayhem Book 1) Page 1