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

by Melinda Kucsera

  She nodded, gathering herself enough to sit up.

  “They’re not dreams,” Ionia said. “They’re memories.”

  She glanced at Relle who lifted a hand to her mouth, a dawning expression falling over her face. “But I never lived those things.”

  “Obviously. Those experiences belong to the pixie.”

  “Simith?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’m not seeing any of it through his eyes.”

  “It’s bizarre, for a certainty. You appear to be more of a witness. Perhaps it’s because you’re a creature without magic. I’ve never seen this reaction before.” She shrugged. “But then, I’ve never risked my own life to heal someone else. He might not even realize what he’s done, though I’m sure he will soon.”

  Katie threw up her hands. “Can someone spell it out here? How can she be dreaming memories that aren’t hers?”

  “The pixie used more than magic to save Jessa’s life,” Ionia said. “He split his own life force in two, giving half of that spark to her. It spared her from death, but magic can misbehave when pushed to its limit like this. There are consequences.”

  “What kind of consequences?” Jessa whispered, a deeper chill settling over her.

  “It’s simple.” Ionia wheeled away from the bedside, pivoting at the foot end to face them. “You share a single life force. Separation from each other will have grave effects. First, you’ll feel ill. Weakness will follow, worsening as time passes.”

  Jessa thought of the scar on her leg, the way it had burned when Simith left.

  “So, you’re saying, if we aren’t reunited…”

  “You’ll both die.”

  Chapter Three

  He dreamed.

  He thought he did, at least. It felt too real for dreams. Simith stood outside the house he’d seen by Jessa’s gardens, the vibrant scent of her many flowers wafting on the night breeze like the fragrance of spilled perfume. A large window looked in on a dining space within the home. She sat with five others at a table laden with steaming dishes he didn’t recognize.

  His brow furrowed, recalling her sharp insistence that her house was empty. It was filled with people now. The scene was a boisterous affair, though the outer wall muffled what they said. The meal held a loving disorder he remembered from his own boyhood. An older female stood, scooping spoonfuls of cooked white grain onto Jessa’s board.

  Rice.

  The word wandered through his mind. She didn’t like it, whatever rice was, though the elder female proved adept at evading Jessa’s tries to shield her board with her hands. She shook the spoon at Jessa in the same way his own mother once wielded tongs of hateful cabbage in front of his face. Jessa finally slumped back in defeat, laughing in exasperation along with the others.

  She loved them, but they always insisted she should appreciate the same things they did. It made her feel like an outsider among them, a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

  Simith rubbed at his temple. Such strange thoughts. He couldn’t possibly know that. A younger female seated beside her leaned close and muttered something behind her hand. Jessa’s smile brightened. The sight of her joy pleased him. Her smile came easily here. He felt his own starting in response.

  “Rouse him.”

  The harsh order awakened Simith, but not quickly enough to defend against the boot that rammed into his stomach. Curling around the bruised throb in his guts, he managed to discern he was on the ground, grass pressing against brow. When the boot came again, he seized it with both hands, rolling with the kick’s momentum to drag his attacker down. He snatched a dagger from their belt and lunged for their throat. Flix’s startled eyes looked up at him, and he stopped just in time.

  “Forgive me,” Flix whispered.

  Hands tore Simith away and hauled him up. Helm Capal and another fairy secured him between them, magic in their grip. They torqued his wrist and shook the weapon from his hand. Simith struggled, drawing from his conduit, but strength abandoned his limbs quickly, leaving him winded. He slumped in their hold.

  What was this weakness? Capal had bound him to her horse as they rode toward the fairy camp, but he’d struggled to keep his eyes open and passed out at some point along the way. She must have spelled him. He could think of no other reason for the occurrence. The cold was worse as well. He tried not to shiver overtly, though it felt as if the chill had settled into his bones like grave dirt.

  “Well,” a male voice spoke. “This is far from the outcome we’d hoped. It gratifies me to see Firo was able to at least tire you before you destroyed him and his soldiers.”

  “Yes,” a female voice intoned. “What a pity we must lose such a capable fighter. It’s a shame you aren’t a fairy, Sun Fury.”

  Simith lifted his head. He stood in an enormous tent, many times the size of the ones the legion sheltered in on the field, and far more comfortably appointed. Braziers at each corner brightened and warmed the space, while ornate pillows and furs offered soft places to rest. Set to one side, food filled a table carved into the shape of a leaf; platters of meat and fruit and bread, and crystalline carafes of water and wine.

  Seated before him in high-backed chairs of white wood, its cushions upholstered in indigo velvet filigreed in silver, was the triad—the three heads of the noble fairy houses that ruled the Thistle Court. Ladies Caraway and Florian, sisters of the west mountains, and Lord Jarrah, of the eastern glen. They’d dressed in the iron, smoke, and ash-colored tunics of field commanders, but the soft drape of the fabric bespoke silk instead of leather. Embroidered at the collar in scarlet thread, thorned vines traced the length of their shoulders, their gemstone conduits sparkling in the amber glow of the braziers. As did the malice in the smiles they gave him.

  “Have you no excuse you might offer for your betrayal?” Lord Jarrah queried, the fine, silver goblet in his gloved hand the same shade as his long, platinum hair. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

  Simith steadied his legs and drew himself up. “I resign my commission and withdraw from your legion.”

  The sisters laughed. “His audacity would be charming if it weren’t so inconvenient,” Lady Florian observed, her golden eyes, like her sister’s, a match for her golden skin.

  "Inconvenient,” Lord Jarrah nodded without mirth. “Yes, you are inconvenient. All of the pixies, in fact. We intended to elevate your race once we obtained dominion. Yet, despite what the trolls did to your homes, despite that at last we are close to victory, all you've done is buzz in our ears about the cessation of the war. You don't deserve to be elevated. You need to be put in your place."

  “And so, they shall.” Lady Caraway leaned forward. “There is no withdrawal from our service. With your true name, we own you. You will serve us until you are of no further use.”

  Simith said nothing. If they intended to use his true name, they had better make certain of their specificity. They’d never had to compel him before. Their arrogance and lack of practice leant him hope he could find a way around whatever orders they had in mind.

  “Quiet, isn’t he?” Lady Florian observed. “Though his eyes say much.”

  Lord Jarrah gestured. “Flix Foxglove Fell, come forward.”

  Simith tensed as Flix moved past him, readying himself for a charge if they intended to threaten the boy’s life again, but Jarrah merely handed him a parcel of rolled parchments.

  “Distribute these among the Helms. Tell them to be certain to memorize all names listed there by tomorrow night.” He smoothed down the collar of Flix’s leathers. “You will say nothing to anyone of what you have seen and heard here. If you try in any form, take your dagger and put its blade in your heart.”

  Flix stood there trembling with the command. Then he turned, casting a horrified look at Simith as he departed.

  “What happens tomorrow night?” Simith demanded.

  “The troll king has accused you of oath-breaking,” Lady Florian said. “And you intend to defend your honor.”

  The pieces fit together in
his head. His hands closed into fists. “You want them to gather here to witness the fight so you could surround their army and destroy it. Under a flag of truce.”

  “By the time they realize what we’re about, the net will have closed around them.” Lord Jarrah clicked his tongue. “It’s a wonder that a race with such rudimentary tacticians managed to fend off our advances this long.”

  “Why do you do this?” The depth of his outrage nearly choked his voice. “Do you not recognize in yourselves the same treachery that inspired you to revolt against the Fae?”

  “If our cousins taught us anything, it was to survive,” he said. “The twilight diamonds the trolls hoard in their grotto would ensure we are safe from any threats against us. They know this. It’s why they won’t let us have them, and there’s only one reason they would do that.”

  “Because they don’t wish to mine their homes?” Simith suggested dryly.

  “Because there’s opportunity in weakness. Even the trolls know it when they see it.”

  “You bring ruin to us all with your mad paranoia.” He inclined his chin. “You can use my name to compel me to fight and kill the troll king, but I will resist it. I’ll make certain all those watching know my will has been usurped.”

  “Oh, Sun Fury,” Lady Florian rose and approached him. The fairies flanking him tightened their grip. “We do intend to use your true name, but not to have you kill King Drokeh.” She touched his cheek fondly. “Rather, to have him kill you.”

  He stared into her hard, golden eyes. Surprise stole his words away.

  “Victory leads to carelessness,” Lady Caraway said from her bone-white throne. “And what a victory it will be for them, to see you cut down by their sovereign. They will linger and they will celebrate. Then they will die.” She gestured. “Put him on his knees.”

  His legs were kicked out from under him. Simith’s mind raced to come up with a plan. He would perish in that arena, that he couldn’t avoid. Yet, it was a chance to get near the troll king. They could force him to fall on Drokeh’s blade, but before that, he could tell Drokeh what the fairies had done. He could let him know the danger, and that the pixies were being controlled by their true names. There was still a chance he could spare his people from what was coming.

  From the folds of her tunic, Lady Florian extracted a slender vial. Pale green liquid filled it, along with a tiny gem that glowed as bright as a star. Simith leaned away from it, a dark forewarning filling his heart.

  “Now then,” she said. “We each have our part to play, and there are only so many commands a true name can hold at one time. This,” she dangled the vial before his face, “will ensure you don’t think of some clever way to betray our plans. For our purposes, you won’t need to speak.”

  Simith recognized it then. A geas, a magical prohibition that would steal his voice. He lurched against his captors’ hold, channeling his magic down his arms to scald their hands. They must have anticipated the move, for they hissed in pain without letting go. Capal grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head back.

  “It will go easier if you don’t fight it,” Lord Jarrah counseled.

  Simith strained to speak. “This world lived thousands of years under the cruelty of the Fae. They used the fairies as their objects of play more than any other. How can you condemn us to this?”

  “Survival comes from power,” Lady Caraway said quietly. “We learned that lesson well.”

  They forced his mouth open and Lady Florian upended the contents of the vial, the bright stone flashing. It wedged itself into his esophagus, the magic wrapping around his neck. It burned as it stripped Simith’s voice from his throat. Smoke poured from his mouth. Ash coated his tongue. He gagged on it, and they released him to wretch onto the ground, staining the grass black. In utter silence, he gasped and heaved. Through the pounding in his ears, he heard them recite his true name, listing commands his body would soon obey. Afterward, he was bound, both wing and hand, and tossed into a hole concealed by a rug at the back of the tent.

  Simith tucked his head against his knees. He lay in the cool darkness, the geas lodged in his throat like a jagged pebble, and tasted despair.

  Chapter Four

  Jessa stuffed an extra pair of socks, a light rain coat, and her toothbrush into her backpack before heading to the kitchen. Katie followed her, just as she had when she left Relle’s house that morning, only now she was waving her hands around.

  “You can’t seriously be planning to go there,” she exclaimed. “You don’t have any magic, you can’t ride a horse, and—You’re packing crackers, for God’s sake!”

  Jessa scowled at her friend and kept moving, adding items as she went. A lighter. A flashlight. Scissors. Dried fruit and beef jerky. It was almost like one of those shipwreck exercises in which one had to decide what was most important to bring along.

  Katie blocked her path. “You’re going to run into some horned creature that’ll turn you into a tomato plant. Going to this magicky place is insane.”

  Bandages. She should bring some of those too.

  Jessa zipped her backpack and turned to stride toward the bathroom. Katie followed, blessedly falling silent.

  After Ionia’s diagnosis, Jessa had straggled her way home and went to sleep in her own bed. It seemed a small comfort, but if she had to confront her own death, she’d rather do it from a familiar place. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t considered all the things Katie said. Finding Simith in an entirely different world, one that, according to him, suffered from a war that covered most lands, was hopeless. Then, she’d come home and dreamed of him again, a reminder that if she did nothing, he would die too. She couldn’t bear that.

  It was hard knowing the things she witnessed in her sleep had really happened. She watched him in battle, unhinged by blood lust, the sound of his rage and his pain loud in her head. Almost as loud as the voice of the pixie who fought beside him, the same one who’d called his brother her love. Rimthea. In his mind, Simith didn’t see his hands slaughtering trolls even while they fell and called for mercy. He saw only Cirrus as he burned and bled. He saw his homeland in flames and his people displaced. It was a terrible tragedy, watching Simith’s grief transformed into violence. To see death drag him inexorably farther from the joyful person he’d been.

  Jessa paused with a roll of gauze in her hands. She wondered what Simith saw of her memories when he closed his eyes. Had he seen the way she had shut everyone out after the funerals? How she made those who tried to come close soon regret it? Words had been her sword before she lost them, the false catharsis of inflicting pain on others—as if she could transfer some of her own pain by lashing out. Only Katie had seen through it.

  Jessa eyed her friend where she lingered in the hall outside the bathroom, arms crossed over her chest, annoyed expression in full force. She’d changed out of the sorceress costume into a shiny-metallic pink top, torn jeans, and flip flops with an enormous daisy by the toes. Her red hair hung long and wild over her shoulders, the bruising on her cheek adding a hint of danger. She still looked like a sorceress to Jessa’s eye. Weekend-casual sorceress, maybe. Jessa felt a smile twitch by her mouth.

  Katie’s gaze narrowed. “I’m worried you’re going to be killed and you think it’s funny?”

  “I’m not going to be killed.”

  “That’s just something you can decide, huh?”

  “I have to go, don’t you see? If I don’t, I’m dead anyway.”

  Katie flung a hand behind her. “That old bat is not a doctor. Just because she says there’s magic at work, doesn’t mean modern medicine can’t help you.”

  “It’s not only what Ionia said. I don’t feel the same.” She considered how to explain. “It’s like something’s missing and every second it’s gone I’m getting worse.”

  The worry in Katie’s eyes deepened. “It could be the pregnancy. We should have someone make sure things are all right in there.”

  “After everything you saw last night, do you real
ly think an ultrasound or some anti-biotics are going to solve this?”

  Katie bit her lip. She threw up her hands. “Fine, but I’m going with you.”

  Jessa stiffened. “No, you’re not.”

  “You’re pregnant and sick. I’m not letting you go alone.”

  “Something could happen you.” She squeezed her backpack. “There’s no point in both us risking our lives.”

  “Well, somebody has to carry your pre-natal vitamins.”

  “You’re pregnant?” Both of them jumped. Relle stood on the threshold to the house, the kitchen door leaning against her arm. “That might explain how this link happened if he had to restore both of you.” Her silver eyes went from Jessa to Katie, and landed on the backpack. “Are you going somewhere?”

  Katie took the pack from Jessa’s hands, sending Relle a disdainful look. “So, you’re not just secretly Fae, you’re an eavesdropper too.”

  “The one doesn’t preclude the other,” Relle said wryly, though her shoulders drooped an inch. “And our hearing is better than a human’s, so don’t lie to me. You’re planning on going to the doorway.”

  Katie scoffed, drawing breath for what had to be a sharp remark. Jessa touched her arm to stop her. “I have to go,” she said, holding her gaze. “Did you come here to stop me?”

  “You don’t know what you’re facing. Magic is like electricity. If you’re careless, it can hurt you. Or others,” she added softly.

  Jessa drew a deep breath and gathered her nerve. “I have to try. There are three lives at stake.”

  Even if she didn’t know exactly what she intended to do about the baby—she wasn’t certain she was in the best mental shape for that responsibility—Jessa felt compelled to fight for both their lives. She hadn’t yet found the answer for how to live after all she’d lost, but she knew she didn’t want to die.

  Relle regarded her in silence. “I’m not here to stop you,” she said finally, and retrieved something tucked into the waistband of her jeans. “If you’re determined to go, you’ll need this.”