Myths and Magic: An Epic Fantasy and Speculative Fiction Boxed Set

by K.N. Lee

  Mathilde stood at that center of their certainty.

  Then lifting her hand to the sky, Malakhian called the living earth to her side, to the people of the Geisprom.

  Before the golem moved too close, she whispered two words and pointed to one particular pile of stones. The golem obediently dug within the pile of rocks until it found what she wanted: two ruined train cars.

  Then, the golem turned to where she waited, holding one broken mug handle and the hopes of a thousand people.

  As the massive mountains moved in answer to her call, Captain held her hand. Fritz held his. And Edgar held Fritz. Tomas held Edgar’s grip. And then he extended his hand to a woman he had never met. Who looked up at him with shining tear filled eyes and clasped his fingers with her own.

  And then, she gave her hand to the next vidaya. On and on it went, the circle joined as one.

  When the enormous living creature bent its head down from the clouds and offered its help. Placing one palm face up on the scattered, cracked land, Emet waited.

  Climbing up the incline, one thousand starving, exhausted people finally rested in the hands of Magic.

  Mathilde whispered to the creature. “Rodak,” she said, Find.

  “Achiezeer.” Protectors. “Vidartan.” Priests.

  Her commands moved mountains.

  Without a backward glance, the towering giant held all the believers in his hands. Striding down the mountain range, the golem took them far, far away, beyond the second sea.

  Home.

  The rains came.

  And then, the months-long snowstorms. Foot by foot, deeper and deeper, the mountain valley was hidden under a snowfall that went on forever, one flake at a time.

  The sun hid most of the winter, sullen and low on the horizon.

  By the time spring came, the world had spun on.

  Loyal Hollyoaken soldiers rode the rail line from Saint Gillens to its jagged end at the foot of the mountain range. There was nothing left above Malines. Not one single rail survived the brutal storms of the high altitudes.

  It took almost a month for Hollyoaks to send horses and supplies to the end of the ruined train tracks. Another month to climb up the mountain passes.

  There was no landmarks anymore. Nothing existed after the avalanche. Entire chunks of land had moved.

  No maps reflected the rough, mountainous landscape they encountered. There was no trace of a single, living human being. Not one. And the secret Gelshiesen train, loaded with confiscated gold, artwork, furniture, and money?

  Vanished.

  Generals privately cried but tried to be publicly brave. “We will never stop looking for our national treasures!” they declared.

  ‘Our’ being the operative word used by pirates everywhere.

  Special battalions were sent, scouring the ground, the upturned rocks, the cracked open heart of the mountains.

  The war against the trash continued. They were almost completely gone now. The cleansing had been done as well as Madame Yaga promised. For that, the generals and the prime minister were grateful. No one had time to deal with troublemakers and thieves.

  “Unity is all.” That’s what they said every time they caught a glimpse of red hair around the farthest corner of their dreams.

  Sunlight streamed in, warming her shoulder.

  Her red hair sparkled in the light, she didn’t notice though. She no longer worried who might see the color of her locks. Mathilde sat at a chair by the window, sipping a perfect cup of hot chocolate.

  “You’re right. It’s the cinnamon,” he agreed. “Adds a bit of kick to an already perfect drink.”

  Captain took another gulp. His eyes looked everywhere, watching the shadows, waiting for an attack. But his attention stayed on her.

  Mathilde bit her lip, trying to read the bit of linen page she held in the sunlight. Her father’s glasses perched on the end of her nose. Layer by layer, the magic she held in trust unlocked the linen’s hidden meanings.

  “By the hills of San Ruine, where still water waits, the worthy will find the amulet of Saragasso. With this power, a cove-”

  Mathilde couldn’t see anything more. Maybe with the amulet, I will finally find where the Yaga witch sent Johan? That would be worth any sacrifice for me, for Fritz, for Edgar…

  She asked the magic, “Rodak,” holding the image of the long-lost amulet that Melchen had drawn on a napkin.

  Find, Mathilde asked.

  Like a pebble thrown into the edge of a pond, the waves of energy flowed from her palms, outward and into the open land. Magic sought what the wielder asked. Mathilde got only a general impression. A direction that tugged at her heart, one as strong as the birds’ will to migrate. Go there.

  The ancient power sent her to that specific point.

  “I know where we need to go, Melchen,” she said, a little in awe. “After all we’ve done, after everything we’ve been through, are you sure we need this amulet?”

  “I am,” he reassured her, touching her hand. “If we don’t find it, they will.”

  That was enough reason to begin the search. “If the dogs find it first…” she shuddered at the thought. “They and the government of Hollyoaks will own the magic’s origin. And all vidaya will die.”

  Melchen winced but he nodded.

  “Then, we have to go,” she completed the thought they both shared. “Together,” he replied.

  All around them, magic sung their heartsong. We are vidartan.

  ~The End~

  About the Author

  Caroline A. Gill Lives in the Northern California Redwoods, high up on a branch with several owls and squirrels. Writing since she learned to read, Caroline enjoys chocolate, peppermint, and stories that fall off the beaten track. With her husband Lathe and five children, life is never slow or boring. But she saves all the wonder and magic she collects during the day and writes the surprises of life and family into her novels.

  Join the mailing list to keep updated on my upcoming work: https://www.authorcarolineagill.com

  Also By Caroline A. Gill

  To read another story in the Lost Spellbook collection follow this link to my novella The Amulet of Saragasso which tells the backstory of the very artifact that Mathilde and Melchen must locate in the second book of the Lost Spellbooks: Never Magicians (Spring 2018)

  My Book

  Wielding His Scythe

  She Becomes Death Book Two

  Alledria Hurt

  Melina never expected to become Death’s replacement.

  1

  The Man Called Grimm Disappears

  The clock was striking 2 am when Grimm's phone began to ring. He rolled over sleepily and picked up the object before sliding out of bed. Phoebe murmured and turned, but didn't rise. The front porch was chilly when he stepped out, but he already knew he couldn't take this call in the house.

  "What do you want?"

  Hello would have been too friendly. Instead, he settled for slightly demanding on the edge of petulant at the interruption. The voice which responded was cold like the late night air.

  "You owe us."

  "I don't owe you anything else," he responded immediately. His voice rose for a moment. He looked back at the house, none of the windows were lit on the first floor, everyone had already gone to bed. At least so it seemed. "I have given you everything you asked. The Book of Curses I traded for was the last thing."

  "It's only the last thing when we say its the last thing, Grimm, dear," she purred. "So you are going to come meet us and we'll talk about maybe letting you out of your debt. Maybe."

  Maybe. His whole world hinged on one word. Taking a deep breath, he let it out as smoke and tried not to imagine his life, his family, everything he had never known and truly cared about, going up in a cloud of nearly colorless smoke.

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow evening at the Mausoleum, bring what you know we want."

  Sunset found Grimm leaning against the wall of a crumbling mausoleum, looking at the yello
wed and sparsely growing grass around the edge. The gray cement wept white from the years of rain and grew green from the moss attaching. Grimm had chosen not to rub up against the moss. He'd probably still find some of it on his jacket after this.

  He'd slipped out of the house just after lunch, knowing it left him with plenty of time to make it to the cemetery. Mostly he just didn't want to have to explain to either Melina or PhoebePhoebe where he was going. If they asked, he wasn't sure he would have the strength to lie. His arrival before sunset gave him time to look around. A scan of the immediate area told him they weren't there yet. That was a blessing. He wasn't quite ready to face them.

  In the seat next to him was a package, the brown wrapped piece of the Kumon he and Melina had liberated from the strange temple in the book the Melesan had shown them. Perhaps they never would have been able to get that if the pair of them hadn't gone there and gotten it. Maybe the twins would have still been looking for it. Picking up the package, he stepped out of the car and found himself a place to wait. They would be along soon enough. Far, far sooner than he truly wanted to deal with them.

  As he stood waiting, a veil of sweat beading on his forehead, Grimm opened the package. The pages were luminescent with a soft purple glow and felt like safety under his hands. The pages weren't attached to one another, but simply all held together by the package wrapping. Selecting a page from near the center, he folded it up and put it in the pocket of his jacket. Treachery was no new companion, no reason to behave as if he didn't already have some idea of the score.

  The sun was gone from the sky when they finally appeared, the two of them together in the twilight, she fire made flesh and him nothing more than smoke.

  "At least we know you can still follow directions." Cassandra moved close enough to touch and smiled, her fingers moving to caress the collar of Grimm's jacket. He flinched back, all too aware of the closeness of the mausoleum wall.

  "I don't owe you anything further. We did business. Our business is long since concluded."

  The smoke of Canenda, the silent partner, took on the odor of corpses as the suggestion of a face contorted with a frown.

  "You're right, we did business," Cassandra mocked. "However, our business is certainly not concluded." She pulled back and turned toward her other. His face had returned to its unmarked state. She continued. "Who's the brat holding Death's ring?"

  "Brat?" Grimm's heart fluttered a little in his chest, threatening to cut off the words.

  "Yeah, the girl. She's still alive. The ring won't come off."

  "Melina Camp. She's Death's protégé. That's probably why the ring doesn't want to leave her. It knows her."

  Canenda's comment was the slow hiss of escaping vapor."I know he's not telling us everything. There's something else about the girl, and that woman, he's not saying."

  "What chance have I got of keeping something from you at this point? You've got me by the balls. What do they even matter?"

  "They matter to you. Therefore, they are of interest to us. After all, wouldn't want you to forget where your real loyalty lies, now would we? Besides," Cassandra said as she turned to her brother, turning her back on Grimm. "That brat still has the ring."

  A wind began to rise, a low moan through the tombstones seemingly in response to way Grimm's heart settled low in his stomach. When Cassandra turned to him again, he stood up straighter, keeping eye contact.

  "Did you bring us what we asked for," the woman purred.

  "Yes."

  He brought the packet out of his jacket all too aware of the single folded sheet he held back and how sweaty his palms were. Cassandra snatched it from him and held it to her chest as if he would come to take it back.

  "Good, good," she crowed. Canenda echoed her sentiment in the movement of the smoke making up his face. A suggestion of a cruel smile slipped forward then away. "Are you sure you don't want to tell us about the girl? Or her Mother?"

  "Why would I have anything to say about them? You know everything that's important."

  "You're lying to me, Grimm, and I'm not appreciating it." With a breath, she ignited the air before her face throwing sinister shadows along the bones of her face. Her beauty transformed into something terrible when the only thing he could see were her eyes amongst those moving shadows. "Tell the truth now and perhaps things won't go so poorly for you."

  "I don't have anything further to tell and you've got your damn book. Business over."

  The woman grabbed him by his collar. He leaned back hard, his head contacting the concrete of the mausoleum. Her fingers in the fabric felt unnaturally warm, like coals shaped into a hand covered by only the thinnest of cloth. Was his skin starting to burn underneath, he wondered.

  "You do not get to decide when our business is concluded."

  The slow burn of her temper flared up into something like a wildfire, consuming her face starting from her lips and crawling into her hair. Her voice rose and Grimm struggled not to choke on the smoke now coming from between her lips. In her anger, Cassandra was much more like her brother; smoky and noxious. And where was the other? Standing quietly by as his sister attempted to choke Grimm to death on her breath. Roses appeared in his vision, first the color of wine, then black as they swallowed more and more of what he could see. In a fit of coughing desperation, he whispered,

  "Fire."

  His hands lit and he grabbed her wrist, twisting hard. Something beneath her eldritch skin gave way and Cassandra screamed. Still trying to catch his breath, Grimm stumbled away. Only to find himself at the feet of Canenda who looked far less than pleased at Grimm's treatment of his sister.

  "I should kill you," she sneered.

  Trapped between smoke and fire. Grimm turned around once, then again, and finally shook his head.

  "Just let me go, please. I've done everything you asked."

  "But we're not done with you yet."

  Cassandra started to chant and Grimm stared, disbelieving. Mortal magic. She was using mortal magic. Unthinking, he ran, dodging to one side of Canenda and under a spectral air before he reached open ground. Cassandra didn't move but her voice followed him, slipping in his ears. The graveyard fence was within reach when Grimm collapsed, a deafening ringing in his ears. His shoes dug troughs in the soft ground as he curled into a ball, his hands over his ears, face in the dirt.

  Canenda smelled of wood smoke when he breathed out over Grimm's head though the man below could smell none of it. The smoke man looked to his sibling and shook his head.

  "I know. I know. Should have killed him, but you never know when he might be of some use to us even in his current state."

  The woman reached down and tugged on Grimm's hair, dragging his face up to see his blasted empty eyes. When she dropped him, his head thudded against the hard ground. "When you wake up, you'll disappear. Just like you always do." She stepped across him and kicked dirt back on him as she did. Canenda watched her and then moved to pick him up.

  "Leave him. He'll be fine and whomever finds him will get a nice little surprise." At a slow saunter, she moved toward the front gate of the cemetery. Both she and her brother faded into the coming night before they reached the high iron arch.

  2

  Bearer of the Ring of Love

  Mother Skya brushed long silver strands away from her red face. It had been a long day full of the smell of bread and the mending of broken hearts. Her bakery was a tiny place, the kind of place the locals knew that never made it on those shows meant to help tourists figure out what they wanted to do in any particular town. Off the main road by a street or two, she had the usual items: croissants, bagels, and cookies, but that wasn't what she was known for. Mother Skya, her first name long since forgotten by those who lived nearby seeing as she had been there longer than any of them. In fact, she had silver hair already by the time any of those currently living there had been in short pants. Now, she was simply Mother Skya or Mother to those who needed her help. She lived above the bakery so that her house and her always
smelled of flour and herbs. When she hung out her sign at dawn, she still used a metal and wood sign which she took down each evening when she closed her formal business and went up the stairs. However, Mother Skya, known as she was for her baked goods was also known for one other very important thing: she could match make like no one's business.

  She counseled those whose hearts were failing them. The ones who were turning their eyes from hope and giving up on the idea of a connection with another. They came to her, often skeptical, on the advice of a friend of friend, someone who had gone to see the Mother themselves and wound up in the grandest love affair of their lives.

  Twilight was falling across the floor of her living room, leaving strange shadows behind the bodies of the little china animals decorating her coffee table, when her door sounded with that hollow sound of a visitor who had braved old metal stairs to reach it. She levered herself up from the chair and called out.

  "Just a moment."

  "Thank you," said the visitor. When she opened the door, a young man stood outside, his coat pulled close to his body and a shiver under his skin. He looked as though he had spent his day wrestling with his conscience and had come out with only a draw. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to see everything about her at in one long glance. Mother Skya smiled and shook her head.

  "Come in."

  Why he was there was too obvious for words. He followed her into the living room where she beckoned him to have a seat on the far side of the coffee table. The chair he settled into puffed a cloud of flour and cinnamon into the air around him. He smiled and said,

  "Sorry."

  "No use in being sorry about something you can't control. What's her name?" Mother Skya sat down in her chair again and turned the television off completely. Jeopardy would simply have to wait for another night. A night when more urgent things weren't happening. She didn't offer him coffee or tea. She had neither in the house at the moment. Shopping was a question for tomorrow when the shop below was closed for the day.