A Mix of Magics (Arucadi: The Beginning Book 3)

by E. Rose Sabin

  I have the power to give gifts and I have the power to take them away, the voice warned.

  He wanted more power; he didn’t want to lose the power he had. But that desire warred with the thought of being a hero by rescuing Leah and thus winning back the favor and trust of the Community. And what did Jerome care about Leah? She wasn’t gifted. She was no threat to him or anyone.

  If he could be sure that Jerome would be the victor in his struggle with the Community, Lore would cast his lot with him unhesitatingly. But something—someone—had bound Jerome, and when Lore had come back here, the last sight he’d had of Jerome had shown him unable to move or speak. He could still mindspeak, obviously. Could he use other powers? Lore rather thought he could, but the fact that someone in the Community had been able to bind him proved that he was not invincible.

  Lore preferred to keep his options open. But the voice in his mind persisted. If only he could block it out!

  “Something bothering you, Lore?” Renni asked, casting a shrewd look his way.

  “Just thinking about what we’ll do when we’re face-to-face with this Isham.”

  “Were you? I wouldn’t think it would worry you that much. I mean, he’s not gifted. It should be easy to get Leah away from him.”

  “Not if he has friends with him and they have guns pointed at us,” Lore said, although until he spoke the words he hadn’t given that possibility a thought. It did deserve consideration though. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, giving him a sidelong glance as she marched along beside him. “I have a plan, but you have the power, so the plan depends on you. That means I have to be able to trust you, but I don’t.”

  “Hey, I’m here with you, aren’t I, putting myself in danger? So you’d better tell me this plan of yours.”

  “Fine. It all depends on our being able to talk to Isham without his cronies being there. You need to stand by and let me do the talking. I’m going to tell him I understand how upset he is and how he wants revenge. I’ll say that we can take him to the person who killed his wife. I’ll persuade him to let us do that. Then you whip us to Jerome’s world. Just him and us, not any of his friends. And we let him deal with Jerome—or let Jerome deal with him. However it turns out, it will distract Jerome and maybe let us marshal our powers while they confront each other.”

  It wasn’t a bad plan, Lore reflected. It could work except for one major flaw. Renni had no idea that Jerome could listen in on their conversation, hearing everything that Lore heard. If Renni’s plan worked, Jerome would be prepared for their coming. He would not permit the Community to marshal their powers.

  Lore took care not to react when Jerome’s voice spoke in his mind. I can fit those plans into mine, the now hated voice said. By all means, tell Isham you are taking him to confront his wife’s killer. That will be delightfully amusing.

  Lore felt trapped. He could confess to Renni his bondage—he now thought of it as that—and beg her to call off her mission and return to Kyla’s house. But if he did, Jerome would strip him of his powers. Probably not only the ones Jerome had given him but also those he’d had before encountering Jerome. He’d be left with no power at all. He could not endure that. So he merely nodded his assent to Renni’s plan, not trusting himself to speak.

  Renni didn’t trust him, and that gave him pause. Her plan probably involved more than she’d told him. She’d have held something back. He would have, were he in her place. So far as he knew, her only power was that of removing memories, but she could, like him, have powers the Community didn’t know about. It would be like her to conceal a special power. Lady Kyla had been distracted enough since Marta and Ed’s arrival that she wouldn’t have suspected anything.

  “Here we are.”

  Renni’s announcement brought him to a sudden halt. He’d been too deep in thought to pay attention to his surroundings. They stood in front of a small house of weathered brown wood, its slate roof slanting sharply upward to a peak that defined the house’s center. It would be, then, one of those houses of probably no more than four rooms arranged one after another in a straight line from front door to rear door.

  In front of the house a child’s wagon reminded him that Isham and Mayzie had a young son. A son who would be orphaned if Jerome killed Isham, as Lore expected. What would happen to the child? Lore thrust the nagging thought aside. Renni had stepped up to the door and knocked.

  “If Isham opens the door, be ready to grab him and go,” she whispered.

  He got no chance to respond. The door swung open, and Isham stood in the doorway holding a rifle.

  He grinned. “Figgered I’d be seeing some of you filthy witches before long.” He cocked the hammer and aimed the gun directly at Renni. “I mean to pick you off one at a time. See, I found the perfect bait for hooking witches.”

  Renni stood perfectly still and spoke with a steady voice. “You can kill every member of the Community of the Gifted, and you still won’t have touched the man who killed your wife. He isn’t a member of the Community, and without our help he isn’t anywhere you’d be able to find him.”

  “Hah! Good story, but it won’t save your life.” Lore saw Isham’s finger tighten on the trigger.

  Renni must have seen it too, but she didn’t flinch. “His name is Jerome,” she went on. “He’s our enemy just as he is yours. He’s a ruthless killer. He wants to kill the members of the Community, just as you do, and he used Mayzie as bait to bring us to him, just as you are using Leah. If you kill us, you’ll be playing right into his hands. You’ll be carrying out his plans. I understand that you want to avenge Mayzie’s death, but the way to do that is to kill Jerome, not us.”

  Lore took a deep breath. Isham had listened to Renni’s speech. But his scowl made Lore doubt that he would believe her—that and the fact that Isham’s finger had never relaxed its pressure on the trigger.

  “At least hear our offer,” Renni said. “We’ll take you to Jerome if you take us to Leah.”

  Isham shook his head. “I’m not falling for your tricks. If this Jerome is your enemy, you’d use your witchcraft to defeat him. You wouldn’t need me to kill him for you.”

  “We may have what you call ‘witchcraft,’ but we don’t have guns. We’ve used our power against him, but he has power of his own with which to counter it. He can stop our powers, but he couldn’t stop your rifle just as we can’t.”

  The fool girl was practically daring Isham to shoot her. She was right—she had no power against his rifle. But Jerome did. And if he’d let Lore use that power, even for just a few moments, he could grab Isham and take him to Jerome. He sent Jerome a frantic thought to that effect.

  I’ll lend you the power to stop a bullet, but there is a price.

  A price. That sounded ominous. But it would save his life. And probably Renni’s too, though that was incidental. I’ll pay the price, Lore sent. Just do it.

  He felt an immediate surge of power flow through him. But for how long? No time to waste! He jumped in front of Renni and reached for Isham. The gun went off. Renni screamed. Lore lunged for Isham, grabbed his arm, and held his hand out for Renni to take.

  She’d either thrown herself or fallen to the ground when Isham fired. When he saw the blood pouring from her arm, he guessed she’d fallen. The bullet had struck her in the arm. Not a fatal wound, surely. But he couldn’t wait for her to rise. Isham was struggling to get free from Lore’s grasp while holding firmly onto his rifle.

  Lore sent the mental request for power to Jerome, and the next moment they stood before him. Lore gasped at the sight that his eyes took in as he gazed around. He didn’t see Lady Kyla—or many of the others who should be here. He saw only Trille, Winter, and Camsen Wellner. Trille, whose magic required water, was helpless in water’s absence. Winter remained seated a considerable way off and still hunched over his drawing pad, his hand grasping the stick of charcoal but not moving across the paper. Apparently he’d left off his foolish sketching. Wellner knelt on
the hot sand, his head in his hands, probably praying to Ondin. Sand covered his clothing, Trille’s, and Jerome’s too. Sand had piled in some places and in others formed mounds that resembled graves.

  “We had another sandstorm while you were away,” Jerome said, his gaze following Lore’s. “I’m afraid it’s too late to help those who were lying on the ground when it happened. They’ve surely suffocated by now.”

  Lore released his hold on Isham’s arm and stepped back, putting a greater distance between him and Jerome. Could the rest of the Community be under those mounds, dead? He hadn’t believed Jerome would really kill so many. Marta. Marchion. Gorvy and Darnell Mack. Professor Morence. Winnie. And Lady Kyla? Surely the leader of the Community couldn’t be dead.

  “Where is this? What have you done?” Isham asked, his voice trembling. “What kind of evil magic brought us here?”

  “I told you I’d bring you to the one who tortured and killed your wife,” Lore said, suddenly hoping Isham would kill the monster who’d slaughtered so many. “There he is.” He pointed at Jerome.

  Jerome laughed uproariously. “Do you believe this lie?” he asked. “You must know that the enemy of your enemy is your friend. Look around you. See how I’ve reduced the number of the so-called powerful.”

  “What I see is another worker of witchy magic.” Isham punctuated the statement by spitting forcefully on the ground, where with a small puff of steam his spittle vanished into the dry sand. He raised his rifle, cocked it.

  The barrel of the rifle melted. With a shout Isham dropped it and shook his hands as though he’d been burned. His eyes filled with fear. He backed away from Jerome so fast that he collided with Lore. “You’re demons, all of you,” he shouted, turning in a circle, his eyes wide with terror. “Well, know this. If anything happens to me, my friends have sworn to kill Miss Leah. So nothing you do to me will save her.”

  Lore grabbed Isham and tried to restrain him, but it was like trying to restrain a rabid dog. Kicking, striking with fists and feet, Isham burst free of Lore’s grasp and ran, blindly it seemed to Lore, blundering into stumps of long dead trees and tripping over stones, only to rise and keep going until he was only a moving dot in the far distance.

  “The fool!” Trille exclaimed. “He’ll run himself to death in this desert.”

  Rubbing his face and arms where Isham had struck him, Lore gazed around the group, taking stock. “Where’s Lady Kyla?” he asked. “And Miss Marta?”

  “Miss Marta collapsed like the others,” Trille said, her eyes filling with tears. “She’s under the sand along with the rest. We don’t know about Lady Kyla. She caused the sandstorm. Sang it up. It stopped all of a sudden, and she was gone. But the storm had already done its worst.”

  That was odd, but Lore wasn’t given time to think about it. Trille grabbed hold of his arm and said, “Take me home. I can’t bear this another moment.”

  “You’ll have to bear it, little lady,” Jerome said with a cruel grin. “He doesn’t have the power.”

  Even as he said it, Lore knew it was true. His power wasn’t just exhausted. It was gone. Jerome had taken it from him, leaving him utterly helpless. He had been a fool, and he would pay for that folly with his life. He had little doubt that he would soon occupy a mound in the sand along with the rest of the Community.

  But was it his fault? No! Lady Kyla was the real cause. The blame was hers, not his. She had led the Community to their deaths. Not intentionally, no. He didn’t think that. But carelessly, without having a plan. And now he, along with the rest of the Community, would die because of her carelessness.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve merely suspended the power to teleport yourself and others. I can’t have you bouncing back and forth between worlds, now can I? But I can restore it if you continue to cooperate with me.

  Renni hoped she’d done the right thing in avoiding going back to what was now Jerome’s world with Lore. She’d intended to go with him, but only after they’d rescued Leah. They hadn’t even found her. Lore should have waited.

  Lore wasn’t to be trusted. For that reason, it may have been a mistake to let him return to Jerome with Isham. But she’d really had no way to stop him, short of wiping out his recent memories. That could have had fatal consequences for him and for her and probably for Leah too. And he had saved her from getting killed. The wound on her arm was only superficial. Isham’s bullet had just grazed her. Already the bleeding was stopping.

  She got to her feet. Isham’s abrupt departure had left the front door of his house standing open. Cautiously Renni stepped inside and peered around. She saw no one, heard nothing.

  “Leah?” she called softly.

  No response. She hadn’t really expected one. She ventured further into the house. Where was Isham’s son? She saw a few toys scattered about, but no sign of the little boy. Sleeping perhaps?

  She went from the front room into a bedroom, then another, both empty. The child was probably with a neighbor. But where was Leah? Finally she came to the kitchen and dining area—one long room with a door leading outside at the far end.

  She walked to that door and put her hand on the latch, but paused and went to the window instead. Carefully she pulled aside the curtain and peered out—and quickly ducked back in. A rifle shot shattered the window. Glass slivers peppered the arm closest to the window. She threw herself onto the floor.

  She’d seen her assailant in that quick glance through the window, and unfortunately he’d seen her. She didn’t recognize him, but he had to be one of Isham’s cronies. He’d been guarding the outhouse and watching the house at the same time. So Leah had to be imprisoned in the outhouse.

  He probably wasn’t alone. There could be others outside whom she hadn’t seen. She wasn’t safe in the house. But she had to find a way to reach Leah.

  She scuttled to the other side of the door, got to her feet, and ran into the next room. As she closed the door to that room behind her, she heard the back door open. She raced through the next room and into the front room, footsteps now thundering through the rooms behind her. She burst out the front door—and collided with Abigail.

  “Where’s Leah?” Abigail demanded, disentangling herself from Renni.

  “A man’s coming,” Renni panted, pulling Abigail off the walkway. “He has a rifle. Leah’s in the outhouse. It’s guarded.”

  As if to reinforce her words, the front door swung open, and the gun-bearing man stepped outside and swung his gun toward them. Abigail shoved Renni behind her and shouted words Renni didn’t understand. The man stiffened and stood still as a statue. Abigail must have cast a spell from that book prized by Kyla.

  Abigail started toward the front door, but Renni called out, “Not that way. There may be more armed men. Go around the side of the house. Be careful.”

  Abigail turned and ran the way Renni had advised. Renni ran to the man Abigail had bespelled and pried the rifle from his hand. A repeating rifle. Good! Her father had one, and she knew how to use it. With it, she followed Abigail, proceeding more cautiously than the older woman. As she rounded the back corner of the house, she saw Abigail race toward the outhouse.

  A man stepped out of the shadow of the outhouse, a shotgun in his hands. “Stop!” he yelled at Abigail. “You want your friend? I’ll get her for you.”

  He reached for the handle on the outhouse door. Abigail stopped. He swung the door open. Leah, bound hand and foot, her mouth gagged, her eyes wide with fear, perched on the edge of the outhouse seat, away from the hole from which a noxious odor poured.

  Abigail shouted, “I’m coming, Leah dear, hang on.” She’d taken her eyes off the man with the gun.

  He raised the gun and aimed it as she hurried to the outhouse door. Renni shouted a warning. Too late.

  The bullet flew past Abigail and struck Leah. She toppled forward, falling into Abigail’s arms.

  Renni raised her purloined rifle and fired at the man who’d shot Leah. Her aim was good. He fell and would not rise again. Renni
looked around, checking the shady spots, the corners of the house, the area around the outhouse. Seeing no other assailants, she went to where Abigail now sat on the ground, cradling Leah’s head in her lap. Blood poured from the wound in Leah’s chest. Abigail was trying frantically to heal her. Renni could see it was already too late.

  Ed had been talking to Petros while Zauna rocked Dreama. Suddenly Zauna looked up and said, “Abigail—where is she?”

  Ed looked around, but instinctively he knew exactly where Abigail was. He rose from the chair he’d been sitting in, relaxing just a bit. A bit too much, he thought now.

  “Stay here and protect Dreama.” He gave the order as he headed for the door.

  He had no idea where Isham’s house was, but that was where Abigail had gone and probably where Renni and Lore were. He fixed the image of Abigail in his mind and willed himself to be at her side.

  And he was there. In a back yard cluttered with a child’s toys and carelessly abandoned gardening tools. Standing beside Abigail, who did not seem to take note of his presence as she rocked, keening, crying, “Come back to me, Leah. Come back. I can’t bear life without you.”

  The deep wound in Leah’s chest told Ed that Abigail’s pleas were futile. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off without so much as glancing up to see who was there. Ed had not felt so helpless since he met Kyla and Marta five years ago. He wished he could go to his special place. But it wasn’t his any more. It was Jerome’s now. It was ruined. Ruined as their lives would be if they couldn’t defeat Jerome. And they weren’t having any success at doing that.

  He looked around. A man’s body lay on the ground not far from the outhouse. Ed was certain the man was dead, shot he believed. “Who shot him?”

  He wasn’t aware of having asked the question aloud, but he had, and someone answered, “I did. Too late.”