Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4)

by Melinda Kucsera

  He didn’t answer. With nothing else at hand for a compress, she tore the bunny tail off her costume and pushed it against the bleeding. The touch elicited a strangled sound from him.

  “Take…that…off,” he panted.

  “I have to do this to stop the bleeding.” At least, she thought so. Her medical knowledge extended to hazy memories from her high school CPR class, and whatever she’d gleaned from dramatized emergency room scenes on TV.

  “Just give me a moment,” he gritted out. “The iron will diminish and then I’ll heal it myself.”

  “That makes even less sense than all the other gibberish you’ve said so far.” Where had her phone been? She cast her gaze about. “What were you even doing by the Neverstems’ fields?”

  “Would that I knew, pooka. Do you think I’ve a desire to be in the Michigan instead of my own lands?”

  The Michigan. An incredulous sound pushed up her throat. “You didn’t come from Katie’s party, did you.”

  “Is Katie-party a name or a place?”

  A shuffling to their left silenced the exchange. Something moved at the base of the tree where he’d been shoveling dirt. The mound of soil there shifted and scattered. A hand reached through.

  Jessa leapt to her feet and skittered back a few steps. “What is that?”

  An arm followed the hand, then a hulking shoulder. In the pale wash of the floodlights, she could’ve sworn the skin was dark green.

  The winged stranger struggled unsteadily to his feet. “That,” he said, “is a troll. More will follow.”

  She could only shake her head at him. “Trolls aren’t real,” she whispered, yet with a pair of fangs jutting from its lower jaw, and eyes like yellow flashlights, the figure emerging from the ground was definitely not human.

  He touched her arm. “Go, pooka. It’s me they want.”

  “For what?”

  “Retribution.”

  His meaning didn’t sink in at first. “Wait a minute,” she held up a hand. “You mean they’re here to hurt you?”

  Resigned determination filled his face. He pulled free a pair of knives from his bandolier.

  Jessa’s breath thinned with mounting horror. “You can’t.” In his condition, confronting that monster was suicide. “You need to run, not fight.”

  “Find the Thistle Court and tell the Helms where Simith of Drifthorn fell. Tell them to lay what’s left of me beside Rimthea of Hazelglen.” He turned away, his voice low and hopeless. “Maybe there I’ll find peace.”

  He gave her no time to reply. A knife in each hand, he rushed headlong toward the creature that had come to kill him, leaving her behind to watch him die.

  Chapter Three

  Simith dispatched the first troll easily. He plunged both blades into his bulbous eyes and pressed him back into the ground until the dirt swallowed his screams. By his count, that cut his pursuers’ number down to three.

  With one foot, Simith scraped the soil back over the hole. Just as before, he couldn’t seal it closed. With the iron removed, his magic slowly returned, but his many injuries siphoned it away. Wincing, he redirected the magic toward the hole. His conduit burned hot on his chest.

  An arrow punched through the cavity of dirt, narrowly missing his head. Simith reared back, shaky muscles almost pitching him off his feet. Before he could recover, another troll leapt fully from the hole, as if boosted by his fellows below. Simith hurled the pair of knives in his hands, but the troll spun out of their path, and charged.

  He retreated into the lanes of sunflowers, drawing his crystal sword. Forged in sun-kissed waters, the blade glowed, an amber-gold spike of daylight. The shallowest of cuts could petrify a troll’s limb. The creatures usually avoided direct combat with those who wielded them. Watching as the last two trolls emerged from the ground, he deemed that would not be the case tonight.

  Simith moved farther into the lane, sunflowers standing alongside him like a sentinel army. The trolls fanned out into adjacent lanes, skirting his blind spots to flank him.

  “Withdraw.” He brandished his sword, flaring its light. “I came in peace and have no desire to cut you down.”

  “Your body weakens,” the troll in the row to his left said. The clink of chains reached his ears, the scent of iron on the air. “You cannot fuel magic to your blade for long. We like our chances.”

  “I won’t be taken so easily.”

  “Yes. You will.”

  In unison, they attacked. The one to his right burst into his row. Simith ducked the swipe of his broad blade, rolling past him and coming up with a thrust. He missed, the troll moving quicker than anticipated. A footstep whispered behind him. He dove, evading a blow intended for his head and turning to strike. Something impacted his injured shoulder—the chain—making his vision swim and throwing him against a bank of sunflower stalks. How stealthily they moved, these trolls! If only his wings were not so tattered, he could fight from above.

  Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself up, shadows in the light of his blade revealing two silhouettes. Where was the third? He whirled, swinging his sword in a wide arc that decapitated a trio of sunflower heads. No troll stood there. Simith realized his mistake as two pairs of hands gripped his sword arm. A kick slammed the back of his knee, sending him to the ground. The weapon was knocked from his hand. Chains went around his other arm and his neck. Two trolls pinned him on his back while the third approached.

  “Now, we have you.” He gave a cruel smile. Tossing down his broad blade, he reached for the straps of Simith’s chest leathers.

  Simith kicked out, clipping the troll’s head. He stumbled, then with a growl came forward to stomp on Simith’s injured wing. His whole body seized, tunneling his vision. By the time he came back to himself, the troll he’d kicked had already straddled his torso and opened his leathers. Simith’s conduit, a raven’s feather tattooed in evergreen ink, glowed a dull emerald against his skin.

  “You’ve fled too far to drag you all the way back for our fun.” The troll grinned down with a maw full of pointed teeth. He pulled something from a sheath at his hip. “Not to worry. We’ve other ways to go about this.”

  In the bleached light from the strange torches on metal spires among the sunflowers, Simith recognized the ice-blue metal of the knife in the troll’s claws. His breath shortened. Terror burned through his veins.

  A Sorrow Blade.

  “The accord,” Simith managed to press out. “Both sides agreed to never use those. Do this, and your own will suffer against them.”

  “Only if it’s discovered, and we are far from home.” The troll leaned close, hatred filling the yellow glow of his eyes. “For you, Sun Fury, it’s worth it.”

  Simith struggled in panic then. To die alone was one thing, but to fall to this weapon meant his torment would never end. Forged with the blood of the heartbroken, three strikes from the weapon would pry his soul from his body and keep him locked in a realm of eternal despair. He fought with all the strength left in him, the iron links cutting into his skin.

  His enemies held him fast. The troll set the Sorrow Blade’s edge to his flesh and sliced into him. The first stroke loosened a wail from his throat unlike any he’d ever made. A wild, animal-like howl of agony. The worst followed in its wake. Memory bit into him like a nightmare: Rim’s disappointed eyes. Her grey face when they brought her remains back to camp, those final words ringing in his ears:

  Your brother would be ashamed of what we’ve become.

  The Sorrow Blade shimmered bright at Simith’s agonized cries, drinking them in greedily. He wasn’t fully aware of when the odd sound began, only that the trolls had stopped. He lay shaking as the shrill noise filled the night. Up and down it went, a terrible warbling screech interspersed with the blast of an unfamiliar horn. The trolls startled off of him.

  Drums pounded, a noisy collision that reminded him distantly of the music he’d heard upon emerging into this world. A tinny voice chanted words to its beat.

  “Enchantment,”
one of the trolls growled.

  “Do we battle it?”

  Flashes of white light came from off to the side, and the screeching howl started up again.

  “Retreat to the trees.”

  “What of the Sun Fury?”

  “Later. He won’t get far with those wounds. We can’t be recognized.”

  Their boots tromped rapidly away. Inclining his head, he caught a glimpse of them fleeing into the dark tree line. The screeching whine and flashes of light ceased. Simith forced himself to move. He couldn’t assume this spell-caster wasn’t a threat to him too. He shook the chains off his wrists rubbed raw by the iron, and got into a sitting position. The shallow cut on his bare chest blistered with magic, and his head spun as if perched on a wheel.

  A branch snapped nearby. He tensed. The trolls? Were they coming back already? His mind flashed to the Sorrow Blade, choking him with fear. Without a thought, he hurled a knife in the direction of the sound. Something gasped, followed by a frail cry and a thump. Not a troll.

  Simith struggled to his knees, praying he had not done what he suspected. The fuzzy legged feet sticking out between sunflower stems confirmed the worst. The pooka.

  He crawled to her side. Dark, frightened eyes looked up at him. She clutched a strange, glowing device in her hands.

  “The light and noise,” he realized. “That was you?”

  “I was trying to help.” She’d begun to shake, soft features pinched with pain.

  “I didn’t mean this.” He cursed. “Why didn’t you call out before coming near me? Have you no sense?”

  Her brows ticked down before creasing with hurt again. Simith loathed himself more than ever for that comment, which was saying something indeed. This brave creature had removed the iron from his back and distracted his enemies when they would have stolen his soul for the Sorrow Blade. She was not at fault here.

  “Let me help you.” He lifted a hand to look for the wound but she shrank from him. Guilt burned in his throat. “My knives are spelled,” he explained. “You can’t draw the blade without me.”

  She stared back with the same bewildered look she’d given him since they’d met. He quelled his frustration. Pookas knew nothing of a pixie knight’s magic.

  “Where did it land?” he asked.

  “My leg.”

  Her hand drifted to her right inner thigh. His knife had buried itself to the hilt there, her fur matted with blood seeping from the wound. He took hold of the hilt with one hand, pressing the palm of his other flush against the velvety skin.

  “Be fast with your magic once I remove the blade,” he told her. “An injury at this spot will bleed you quickly.”

  “My magic?”

  “Yes. Is your conduit ready?” He glanced at her and found her paw wrapped around the end of a necklace. He caught the glint of a metal pendant between her furry fingers. Unusual. Pookas typically had an ornament of carved wood for their conduits. He ignored the oddity. Her face grew paler with each passing moment. There could be no delay. “Make ready.”

  “No.” Terror widened her eyes. “Don’t!”

  Simith jerked the blade out quickly and cleanly. The pooka gasped, then sobbed. She curled in on herself, releasing the pendant to clutch at her leg. He stayed close, casting an eye toward the trees to watch for any movement. Once the pooka recovered, he’d return to the tree that delivered him here. It was his best chance of escape. He wouldn’t survive another battle with the trolls. If not for the pooka, he wouldn’t have survived this one.

  Turning his attention back to her, Simith started at the amount of blood still pouring between her fingers. It took a moment to realize the reason.

  “Why aren’t you using your magic?” he demanded.

  “I need…an ambulance.” Her voice was barely a breath. With one bloodied hand, she reached for the device she’d dropped. Had he been wrong? Was that her conduit and not the pendant?

  Simith plucked it from the dirt and placed it in her paw, then startled back when she removed the fur to prod at it.

  No, not fur. That was a glove. She had skin. She was not a pooka?

  As she tapped on her device, he examined her more closely. The long ears had slipped back, revealing they were tethered to a decorative band. She wore a disguise. Why? He drew her dark hair away from the side of her head, and blinked. Her ears were round, not pointed. No creature had round ears.

  “The numbers. I can’t see straight.” Her gaze became unfocused. “I need help…”

  The device fell from her hands. He reached forward to cushion her head as she slumped back. Her eyes fluttered shut. The ground under his knees was warm with her blood.

  She couldn’t heal herself. She had no magic. He could scarcely believe it. Even the smallest, most innocuous of beings could repair their wounds.

  But he wasn’t in his world anymore. The Jaded Grove had brought him through a doorway to a place as unlike his world as the sky was to the earth. He looked down at the pooka—the female. He didn’t have the strength to both heal her and escape. His own body trembled with injury; his magic still weak from the iron. He ought to leave, go back to his world while he still could.

  Her breathing grew more labored. Simith’s gaze lingered on a spray of freckles high on her cheekbones, dark points against her too pale skin. He hadn’t even thought to ask her name. A favor for a favor, he had promised, so long as it was within his power. There were ways around that oath, of course. He hadn’t sworn when he would repay her help.

  He firmed his jaw. No, if he had learned anything from turning his back on Rim, it was that living with another’s death on his shoulders led to a calendar of endless grief. He would not do it again.

  He slid one palm over her brow, and clasped her hand with the other. “Hold fast,” he told her. “Follow me back from the darkness.”

  His conduit warmed on his chest as he drew on his magic. It was slow to react. He pressed harder, clenching his teeth at the sting of iron still polluting his body, forcing the power through his hands into her flesh. She inhaled sharply, fingers twitching against his. Her eyes remained closed. Simith shut his own eyes, concentrating. With his magic running through her small frame, he sensed the wound on her leg. He focused his efforts there, willing it closed, but couldn’t seem to get a grasp on it. Magic flowed into the injury, but her body didn’t absorb it. His healing drained away as quickly as it arrived, as if he tried to fill a bucket with a hole on the bottom.

  Sweat rolled down his temples. Ceasing the current of magic, he took a moment to catch his breath and think of a different strategy. Even a broken bucket overflowed if enough water poured in at the same time. The question was whether he had enough left in him to do it.

  Simith gathered himself. The trolls did not call him Sun Fury for nothing. He had once fought for three days without rest, surrounded and stranded on the battlefield with only the stench of blood and death for company. If he had not faltered while cutting down lives, he refused to do so while saving one.

  Her breath became strained again by the time he was ready. His conduit burned hot on his chest; his body filled to the brim with enough magic it was a wonder it didn’t leak between his pores. Bending over her, his hands gripping tight, he unleashed the flood. The sudden drain nearly knocked him unconscious. Her body vibrated beneath his touch, her skin warming. Simith sought out the wound. Magic still slipped away, but it was working. The gash began to close and her heartbeat grew stronger. Two heartbeats, actually, the second a tender, rapid pulse. Round ears, no magic, and two hearts. What was this creature?

  He didn’t have time to ponder it. The well of magic he’d pressed into her emptied rapidly and the wound was only partially healed. His conduit cooled on his skin; the magic he’d stored nearly exhausted. Simith pulled from it anyway. The strain made his ears ring. Memory chorused the clanging in his head.

  “Is that all you’re good for, Sim? Is that all you are? A blade for the fairies to wield?”

  “The trolls attack the
lands of our home and the Thistle Court. I defend them.”

  “You go where they tell you to go and kill who they tell you to kill.”

  “As I swore to do. That is honor, Rimthea.”

  “That is obedience. Honor demands that you question your actions, not swing blindly.”

  Simith cracked open his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he’d toppled over, but he lay close to the female, his cheek against the grass. The barest hint of pink touched her complexion, the breath steady between her parted lips. The gash in her leg had almost closed while he worked to replenish her blood. He should stop. His own life ebbed away from him along with the last of his magic.

  He pulled himself closer instead. This choice at least had a clear right and wrong. No muddled greys to confuse what should be done. Not like the war. It was strange to think how certain he’d been at the beginning. Rimthea had found him after they buried his brother, their homes still smoldering from the trolls’ attack, soot still staining her face. His brother’s betrothed had held out her hand, and in the false certainty only grief inspired, they left the moorlands and pledged themselves to the fairy legion. The Thistle Court made good use of their rage. They’d bathed in the violet blood of their enemies. A revel of vengeance that had no end.

  Until the day Rim changed. Until she came to him and said what they did was wrong. The anger had devoured him. Such words he had thrown in her face, words he could never take back.

  You will tire of blood, she’d told him, just before the scouting mission she never returned from. She was right. If only he’d listened then.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as his magic collapsed and the darkness pulled him under.

  Chapter Four

  Jessa awoke to an unfamiliar taste in her mouth. She couldn’t place the flavor. It was as though she’d swallowed a piece of summer, like tart apples and a garden in full bloom. She didn’t want to move for fear of losing the sensation.