Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
MR. DEATH GOES TO WASHINGTON
NETHAN’S MAGIC
TOUCHING FAITH
THE HORSES OF THE HIGH HILLS
AN END TO ALL THINGS
AFTER SCHOOL SPECIALS
TITAN
SHADES OF TRUTH
THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT
THE RUSTLE OF WINGS
BASIC MAGIC
FEVER WAKING
STARCHILD WONDERSMITH
FAR FROM THE TREE
THE WEIGHT OF WISHES
THE TRADE
SHAHIRA
“It’s a poltergeist.”
A sudden burst of noise stopped them outside the music room. Side by side, they carefully peered through the glass at a choir practice.
“It’s in there.” Brianna muttered as one of the altos reached out to turn a page. Her music stand fell, and the whole row went crashing down.
“I think you’re right.”
The choir mistress’ baton snapped.
Brianna snorted. “I know I’m right.”
“Come on, I’ve seen enough. It’s a poltergeist,” Tony told her as they headed back to Ashley. “They like to hang around the uh . . . emotional turmoil of young girls.”
“So it’s not here because of me?”
“It might have come to this school instead of another school because of you. Your power might have attracted it.”
“Like you attracted that girl who tried to kill you by sucking your . . .”
“We aren’t going to talk about that,” Tony interrupted, ears burning. “We, you and me, we aren’t ever going to talk about that.”
“Not even when I grow up?”
“Not even.”
—From “After School Specials”
by Tanya Huff
Copyright © 2006 by Tekno Books and Kerrie Hughes.
eISBN : 978-1-101-10989-2
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1366.
DAW Books is distributed by Penguin Group (USA).
All characters in this book are fictitious.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introduction © 2006 by Kerrie Hughes
Mr. Death Goes to Washington © 2006 by Thranx, Inc.
Nethan’s Magic © 2006 by Jody Lynn Nye
Touching Faith © 2006 by Alexander B. Potter
The Horses of the High Hills © 2006 by Brenda Cooper
An End to All Things © 2006 by Karina Sumner-Smith
After School Specials © 2006 by Tanya Huff
Titan © 2006 by Sarah A. Hoyt
Shades of Truth © 2006 by Jana Paniccia
The Winter of Our Discontent © 2006 by Nancy Holder
The Rustle of Wings © 2006 by Ruth Stuart
Basic Magic © 2006 by Jean Rabe
Fever Waking © 2006 by Jane Lindskold
Starchild Wondersmith © 2006 by Louise Marley
Far From the Tree © 2006 by Melissa Lee Shaw
The Weight of Wishes © 2006 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman
The Trade © 2006 by Fiona Patton
Shahira © 2006 by Michelle West
INTRODUCTION
Kerrie Hughes
WHEN I WAS A CHILD I thought I was magick. I tried to move objects with my mind, change the color of crayons and transform my cat into a cougar. As an adult I still believe in magick and when I saw the first Harry Potter film I was enraptured. Surely this is the way life was meant to be for me! Learning the mysteries of sorcery in a castle, away from parents and reality. Better yet, I could be a professor who taught the little prodigies how to use their talents! My son was with me at the movie and patted my hand in sympathy; he knew I longed to be a wizard. He also knows he is the best magick I have ever made and does his best to entertain me.
But what if children really were magickal in our normal world? What could they do and how would they learn to use their powers? With this anthology I asked my writer/magicians to create a story about a child with magick. In this world or one of their own making I wanted to know, how does the gifted child develop their skills? Perhaps the craft is forbidden or secret? What if the child has no teacher or one with malice in their heart? Intriguing.
They have, in my opinion, risen to the challenge and I would like to thank them all for their enchanting stories.
Alakazam!
MR. DEATH GOES TO WASHINGTON
Alan Dean Foster
Alan Dean Foster’s writing career began when August Derleth bought a long Lovecraftian letter of Foster’s in 1968 and much to his surprise, published it as a short story in Derleth’s bi-annual magazine The Arkham Collector. His first attempt at a novel, The Tar-Aiym Krang, was bought by Betty Ballantine and published by Ballantine Books in 1972. It incorporates a number of suggestions from famed SF editor John W. Campbell. Since then, Foster’s sometimes humorous, occasionally poignant, but always entertaining short fiction has appeared in all the major SF magazines as well as in original anthologies and several “Best of the Year” compendiums. Six collections of his short form work have also been published. His work to date includes excursions into hard science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. In addition to publication in English, his work has appeared and won awards throughout the world. His novel Cyber Way won the South-west Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first work of science fiction ever to do so.
PERHAPS UNSURPRISINGLY, Melody encoun tered Mr. Death at the memorial to the veterans of the Vietnam War. He was standing there staring at the smooth, polished black wall, studying the inscribed names as if a relative of his own had been memorialized therein. In a sense, they were all his relatives. He had not killed any of them; no, not a one. But he had taken them all; lo, every one.
She recognized him immediately, of course. Death is a hard entity to miss, even on a late winter’s day in the nation’s capital. There were plenty of ordinary folk about who trailed behind them the aspect or aroma of death. They entered or emerged from buildings that were heavily if cunningly guarded, and to which a teenage visitor and would-be political intern like Melody Johannsen from Minnesota was denied access. Being sensitive, and unusually schooled, she was able to recognize many of these people. Not only because they could not shake from their spirits the unpleasant odor of death and dying, but because they usually had the fashion sense of a parade of slugs.
Death himself, now—that was another matter of matter indeed.
Her widowed mother had always taught her to be straightforward and curious. “Doing nothing is safe, but that’s not how you learn about the world.” Melody was not afraid of Death. He looked like a lonely old man, albeit one badly in need of a good home cooked Midwestern meal. He was tall and slender, with a mournful expression, but far from intimidating in appearance. He wore, as one would have thought, a black suit, though from the cut of it she could not tell if it was a casual outfit meant for daily wear or a uniform. None of the other people
who were wandering slowly back and forth in front of the memorial, many of them sobbing quietly, noticed him. Perhaps, in a place of death, Death himself is harder for most people to distinguish.
More likely, identification came easily because Melody was a sorceress.
Well, to be entirely truthful, an apprentice sorceress. They were scarce in Minnesota, though shamans were plentiful. Being of Swedish descent, her source for serious sorceressness was Norse, arising from the myth and mystery of ancient Scandinavian legend, of tales of great gods and goddesses. Melody was blond and very pretty, but no goddess. Not even the boys on the football team who kept trying to date her thought that, though some of their false compliments approached it in presumption.
Thanks to her mother’s patient instruction, Melody had gumption, if not presumption. So after watching the lanky figure inspect the sweeping black stone litany of loss for several minutes, she took a slightly deeper breath than usual, walked up to him, and as soon as she had attracted his attention, inquired straightforwardly but not innocently, “What are you doing here?”
Death looked down at her and smiled. It was not an attractive smile, but it was tolerable. Although it might well have sent a non-sorceress (all right, just an apprentice) to screaming.
“I beg your pardon?”
Taking the notion that Death might beg anyone’s pardon as encouragement, she pressed on. “You’re Death, and I’m interested to know what you’re up to here in the capital on this very fine day in March.”
The smile widened slightly, but became no more pleasant. She took no umbrage. It wasn’t his fault, she knew. We are who (and what) we are. “You are a very perceptive young woman. I am Martin Mulvaney, of 435 East Delaware Way, in Chevy Chase. Apartment 8B.”
“You may very well live at 435 East Delaware in Chevy Chase. No one knows where Death abides. At least, not on a daily basis. Besides, I’m from out of town and I don’t know the local neighborhoods. But I am sure that you are not Martin Mulvaney, or any of the Mulvaney clan. You are Death.”
The angular shape looked around, craning to see if anyone was watching them. No one was. Everyone else’s attention was on loved ones, be they living or locked in marble. He turned back to the girl confronting him, and this time there was a depth and a darkness to his eyes into which a careless soul could plunge and drown.
“If I am Death, then shouldn’t you be a little afraid of me?”
“Why should I be afraid of you? You’re a component of everyday life, as natural and as a part of it as the air and the water. I wasn’t raised to be afraid of Death, though I really never thought I’d get to meet him. At least, not until time.”
The polite smile turned to a disapproving frown. “I am no entertainment celebrity, to be gawked at and casually mocked.”
“Am I being flippant?” she inquired.
He pursued his lips, which when he did so turned very, very white. “No, you are not being flippant. I perceive, somewhat to my astonishment, that you are being quite serious, as well as friendly and respectful. Respectful is advisable.” The voice dropped to a dangerous rumble that hinted of dimensions unknown. “Friendly is dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she repeated unflinchingly. Cocking her head slightly to one side, she eyed him intently. “You don’t look like what I’d imagined.”
“A lot of people say that. Just before the end.” That grim smile again. “The face of death is not blank. My job isn’t to scare people. Quite the contrary. I dislike a fuss. My work is taxing enough as it is.” He leaned toward her then, and Melody found she could smell him. Like his appearance, it wasn’t especially foul. Not when it was this fresh, anyway. She had an aunt in St. Paul whose attic smelled much the same.
“You’re charming and pretty,” Death told her. “Would you be interested in coming to work for me? Good help is always hard to find.”
“No thanks,” she replied. “I already have enough homework. I want to come to work here and represent my state. I want to be a senator and help people.”
“Oh dear,” he hissed softly. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.” As if that concluded the conversation, he turned away from her.
Absently, she noted that he cast no reflection in the wall of polished black marble. That was to be expected from a specter. “Why are you here?” she asked quickly, repeating her initial question before he could fade to a shade.
He paused and turned back to her, his expression a knowing scowl. “You really are a bold little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl,” she snapped. “I’m fifteen.”
A different sort of smirk this time: still ominous, but also slightly wistful. “I am somewhat older. Listen to me, um, young lady: you’d best mind your own business. Even though it’s not your prescribed time, I am allowed a certain leeway in these things.” He inhaled audibly, but not of air. “Since you seem determined to discover that which you would be better off not knowing, I am here to pick up a number of people.” Turning, he raised an arm and pointed. “In a short while there’s going to be quite a dramatic crash just over that way involving a pair of tour buses going too fast in opposite directions. By coincidence, I believe that several elderly couples from your state are on board one of the vehicles. For a moment or two thereafter I expect to be quite busy.”
Death’s remorseless description of what was poised to ensue did not upset her. It was his indifference that got her small-town dander up.
“No,” she said.
It’s not easy to surprise Death, but she succeeded. Heavy eyebrows rising, he eyed her evenly. “No?”
“No.” She made sure her purse was securely slung over her shoulder, the better to keep her hands free. “I have nothing against death in the course of things, but I’m dead-set against these kinds of unnatural tragedies. Especially when one of my possible future constituents may be involved.”
“Dear me,” Death murmured sardonically. “Should I be afraid? What are you going to do if I proceed? Kill me?” Death might not be proud, but he was affluent with irony.
“Stop you,” she replied calmly. “If I’m going to be a worthy senator, I have to be able to stop bad things from happening.”
The pale death’s-head nodded slowly. “A sensible observation. In that case, I suggest you prepare to begin with protecting yourself. As I am not constituted to brook any interference in my work, I expect I’d better start this afternoon’s work with you.” He glanced briefly southward again. “I have a little time yet.” And with that, he extended a long, skinny arm in her direction, the fingers of the hand opening toward her like the white grapples of a cargo crane. One touch of those cold, cold digits, and she would pass immediately and irrevocably from the realm of the living.
No one seemed to be looking in their direction. It was as if the two contending figures had suddenly entered into an isolated pocket of reality where only they existed: Melody Johannsen, of Remsburg, Minnesota (pop. 2,342, and static), and Death, of the Hereafter (pop. unknown, and ever-growing). Remembering everything she had studied over the past several years in the course of her desire to become a senator as well as maintain her family tradition, she raised both arms high, inclined her fingers forward, and proceeded to intone with solemn force.
“An objection may be made to the consideration of any original main motion, and to no others, provided it is made before there is any debate or before any subsidiary motion is stated. Thus, it may be applied to petitions and to communications that are not from a superior body, as well as to resolutions. It cannot be applied to incidental main motions, such as amendments to by-laws, or to reports of committees on subjects referred to them.”
The reaching claw of a hand halted, the grasping fingers stopping more than a foot from the front of her neatly starched blouse. Death blinked. A bemused expression came over his face. It took a few seconds and a violent shake of his head to clear the cobwebby enchantment from his mind. Any suggestion of a smile had vanished from his face, that now ass
umed a thoroughly grave and grim expression. It was the look of imminent demise, of incipient destruction, that would brook no turning. Once more, he reached for her.
Holding her ground, Melody modulated her tone so that it became as monotonous, as boring, as entirely enervating a dreary drone as could be produced by the otherwise captivating human voice. One could properly and accurately call it deadly dull.
“Incidental motions are such as arise out of another question which is pending, and therefore take precedence of and must be decided before the question out of which they rise; or, they are incidental to a question that has just been pending and should be decided before any other business is taken up. They yield to privileged motions, and generally to the motion to lay on the table. They are undebatable, except an appeal under certain circumstances as shown in section 21. They cannot be amended except where they relate to the division of a question, or to the method of considering a question, or to methods of voting, or to the time when nominations or the polls shall be closed. No subsidiary motion, except to amend, can be applied to any of them except a debatable appeal. Whenever it is stated that all incidental motions take precedence of a certain motion, the incidental motions referred to are only those that are legitimately incidental at the time they are made. Thus, incidental motions take precedence of subsidiary motions, but the incidental motion to object to the consideration of a question cannot be made while a subsidiary motion is pending, as the objection is only legitimate against an original main motion just after it is stated, before it has been debated or there has been any subsidiary motion stated.”
Letting out a cry of pain, Death staggered backward. For a third time he raised his hands—only now they were employed not in trying to reach her, but to cover his ears. If it had not been Death uttering it, the cry of pain expressed by the tall figure would have been truly pitiable. Following up her advantage, Melody advanced relentlessly, lowering her arms and shaking one finger portentously at the gaunt figure that was trying to stumble away from her.
Children of Magic Page 1
