Wizard Hall Chronicles Box Set

by Sheryl Steines

  Alone, scared, and reduced to hiding in the dilapidated warehouse, Jordan believed he’d be better off caught by the FBI or Wizard Guard. At least in prison, Rathbone’s men couldn’t get him.

  While he packed, Jordan’s thoughts turned to Saturday night: the party in the bar, the romantic evening Amelie prepared that never took place. The candles. So many candles that he thought they’d burn down the bathroom. The thought for a moment made him smile, and then Jordan pictured Amelie. His hands shook.

  Long locks of hair fell across his face, but he ignored them and shoved a pair of pants inside his bag. Jordan could almost feel the chill of the champagne as he pulled it from the refrigerator, the anticipation of Amelie beneath him, the sounds of shuffling coming from the bedroom.

  Jordan ran, but Amelie lay across the bed already dead, her face frozen, her life gone.

  How do I fix this?

  Jordan barely escaped the ambush and the lopsided duel, teleporting away from the hotel suite with limp, weak magic. He spent the rest of the night walking until he finally found a quiet street and this abandoned warehouse, the only building with an unlocked door.

  Loose air ducts rattled above him. Jordan turned and stared into the darkness.

  I’m getting paranoid.

  The rattling stopped, leaving the silence to ring in his ears. Jordan shoved his fake passport and the last of his money into the false bottom of his duffle bag. His fingers trembled, missed the opening and bills slid out of the pocket.

  “Damn it!” Jordan wrapped his fingers around the rest of his money and thrust them inside the pocket.

  His fingers grazed against one of four candy bars he managed to steal the night before, and he realized he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. His stomach rumbled between hunger and nausea. Taking the bar out, he took a bite; it tasted bitter in his mouth. He threw the rest in the bag.

  With most of his possessions now abandoned in the hotel suite, Jordan only had one thing left to pack. He plunged his hand into the dirty sink drain and fumbled for the soggy wad of newspaper until he pulled it out, grateful no one found it. Unwrapping the saturated tabloid, he felt his stomach lurch when he saw Amelie’s face smiling back at him. Carefully scraping some old food off of the sodden paper, he did his best to clean off the pristine glass.

  Removing the debris revealed a perfectly shaped sphere, five inches in diameter. The glass, smooth and clear, devoid of nicks, cracks, bubbles, and dirt, sparkled in the low light of Jordan’s flashlight, sending points of light around the room.

  The object, known as the Orb of Eridu, had been created centuries ago by an ancient coven of witches who used the orb as a bridge for souls to enter another plane of existence. Until now, the orb had been a myth; today, as it lay in the palm of Jordan’s hand, it was something much darker—an object used to trap souls. At least, that’s what Rathbone bragged at the party.

  He sure likes his dark magic. Jordan shuddered from fear and glanced around the empty warehouse, squinting to see in the shadows.

  Fear and paranoia gripping him, he rushed to clean the orb of the remaining grime and glanced at the fine mist floating inside the sphere.

  “Who are you, trapped in there?” Stealing the orb was nothing but boneheaded and stupid, but telling Amelie no was nearly impossible: whatever Amelie wanted, Amelie got.

  “I don’t like him,” Amelie whined as they hid in Rathbone’s office. The rest of the party progressed to the patio where a four-piece band played and a champagne fountain gurgled. “Why can’t we leave? That ass won’t care.”

  Her breasts rose high inside her strapless dress; anxious or annoyed, she tapped her foot quickly against the plush carpet.

  “We can’t just leave. He’s a powerful man.” Jordan didn’t want to have this argument with her again. “The party will end before ten. We’ll be at the bar by eleven, and you’ll never remember this.”

  “But he’s rude and mean. I can’t listen to him talk about himself anymore. Please…” She ran her hand down his chest and to the top of his pants, hoping to persuade him.

  “We’ll leave soon, I promise.” He removed her hand from his waist.

  “I think that man should pay for his bad behavior.”

  Her wicked smile, lined in deep red, sent heat racing to his core. Jordan knew that look. An idea had formed in her head, and nothing would stop her once the cogs started moving. He acquiesed.

  “What did you have in mind?” he asked, feeling a sudden need to leave the party.

  “Oooh, Jordan. I want that glass ball, the one the orb of… of… Iredu…”

  “Eridu,” he gently correctly. His shoulders sank with his sigh.

  No. The answer didn’t escape his lips; it bounced around the inside of his head screaming at him to wake up and leave the party. They should have just left. Jordan regretted asking her to wait.

  You don’t steal from Wolfgange Rathbone. The consequences were swift and unyielding. Amelie, determined and stubborn, grabbed his crotch and smiled. Jordan, weak and without a backbone, gave in.

  Amelie reached into the clear box and pulled the stunning ball from inside, slipping it carelessly into her bag.

  It didn’t matter now. Jordan’s palm contained immense power, and knowing what could be accomplished with the tiny glass ball left him in awe. He hoped to save himself by returning the orb.

  They won’t let me off that easily.

  Carefully wrapping the orb in fresh paper, he heard a noise echoing from the hallway, and he nearly dropped the package. With no more time left, Jordan shoved his future in the secret compartment at the bottom of his bag and zipped it up.

  A spark flew from his hand, carefully placing a protection spell on the duffel bag in an attempt to keep his possession out of the hands of others. As he held tightly to the handle, a long, thin, chilled hand appeared from the darkness and tugged at his sleeve. Jordan jumped backward, dropping the bag on the table, just out of his grasp. His heart hammered in his chest.

  “They’ll find you, you know.”

  The tall, ghostly pale man smiled. Impeccably dressed in expensive clothing, he appeared out of place in the abandoned warehouse. His long thin fingers ran through thick ebony hair. Though his face turned upwards in an attempted smile, his eyes were black pools of nothingness.

  “Who? Who’ll find me?” Jordan stuttered as fear and bile rose in his throat. He found himself cornered in the warehouse, and teleporting wasn’t an option without the bag.

  The man glanced at the bag with a look of longing. “Actually, they’ll find us both here if we don’t leave now, and I don’t particularly want to be found. I assume you don’t want to either, Jordan.”

  The man stepped between Jordan and the duffel bag.

  “How do you know me? Who are you?”

  The man wielded no weapons, but Jordan thought he must be Rathbone’s goon coming to kill him. His fists clenched, resolved to fight, but the man made no move. Jordan looked again and noticed his pale skin that almost glowed in the low light. The man’s lips were purple from cold, and though the summer temperatures were cooler than average, they weren’t cold enough to turn lips that particular shade.

  His hand had been icy cold. A vampire. Jordan felt numb and sick.

  “My name is not important, and yours is all over the news. So shall we get you out of here?” The vampire grabbed the duffel bag, creating a large flash that burned his palm. He growled. “I suppose that means we’re going to be attached for some time, seeing as I need what’s in that bag.”

  He knows the orb is there!

  The vampire smiled a real smile, revealing a set a fangs. Jordan, unskilled in the ways of fighting demons, vampires, and various other monsters, shuddered at the possibility of having to fight.

  “I’m a wizard, and I know what you are. I can kill you, you know.”

  Anxiety filled Jordan’s voice, exposing the truth about his fear. The vampire didn’t need to hear it; he sniffed the scent in the air. The warehouse
reeked of it.

  “You can’t kill me, Jordan. Not without a stake, anyway. I’d kill you long before you got close enough to finish your spell. Besides, your magic isn’t strong enough to take me down. No, I’m not after your blood or your soul, but I am definitely interested in that orb you’ve so cleverly stowed away in your bag.”

  “What do you want?” Jordan’s eyes darted between the vampire and the bag; trying to sort his tumultuous thoughts into a plan. But the vampire was correct. Jordan’s magic was off, and he’d be dead before escaping from the demon.

  “I want the orb. I’ve already told you that.” The vampire ran a long, thin finger over the handle of the duffle, receiving another shock. As he pulled away, smoke drifted from his fingertips, which he placed in his mouth, sucking on the burnt flesh while eyeing Jordan with a ghostly gaze.

  “It’s not for sale. The owner wishes to have it back. That’s what’s going to happen.” Jordan’s mop of dark hair clung to his face, drenched with sweat. Nausea ripped through his stomach.

  “That’s why I’m here. The owner wishes to have his property returned. I’ve come to collect it. It seems we have the same goal.”

  “You can’t have it.” If I can get the bag, I can teleport away from him. He can’t follow me then. But for Jordan, that seemed hopeless with the larger, stronger creature standing between him and his bag.

  “I’m sorry you see it that way, Jordan. But I’m far more deadly than whoever you’ll be giving the orb to. I suggest you remove the spell and give me the orb.”

  “And when they come after me, I have nothing to protect myself? N-no way.”

  “That’s not my problem. Remove the spell.” Sturtagaard’s smirk revealed his fangs, which extended on their own.

  In a moment of sheer terror, one of those where the body reacts before the brain processes the plan, Jordan ran at the vampire and shoved him out of the way. Caught off guard, Sturtagaard lost his balance and fell against a less-than-stable wall. Jordan summoned the duffle bag and teleported. When Jordan had almost phased out, the vampire lunged and grabbed him around the ankle, attaching himself to the teleport.

  The extra weight dragged down the already weakened wizard, who crashed to the cement floor in the warehouse loft. Pinned by the grip on his ankle, Jordan kicked out, making contact with the vampire’s head. While scrambling away from the beast, he kicked him again on the side of his temple.

  “Boy, I’m warning you!” growled the vampire as he secured his grip on Jordan.

  “No!” Jordan stomped against the vampire’s chest. Sturtagaard yanked the wizard toward him; Jordan’s scrawny body slid across the dusty floor, leaving a trail. When he was close enough to reach the bag, the usually shrewd vampire grabbed the handle, shocking himself again.

  “Damn it, boy! Remove that protection spell now!” he roared.

  “Go on and bite me, you son of a bitch!”

  Jordan’s kicking and thrashing angered the vampire, who tightened his grip on the frightened wizard. Jordan twisted, releasing a hand, and scratched the vampire’s cheek, drawing blood. Like a drug to an addict, the smell of iron overwhelmed the demon; he let go of Jordan to wipe his face with the back of his hand. Almost gleeful, the vampire licked his hand. Horrified, Jordan grimaced, and his stomach churned.

  Below them, the door squeaked open and scraped the cement floor.

  “They’re here. We must leave now,” the vampire hissed.

  Tired and scared, Jordan blinked in confusion. The vampire grabbed him and pulled him close.

  “It’s time. Teleport now, or it will be the end for both of us,” he hissed as footsteps roamed through the first floor. His hands tightened around Jordan’s arm, cutting off the circulation to his hand. Without any more choices, Jordan summoned his bag, closed his eyes, and disappeared with the vampire.

  Chapter 10

  Landing on the same street days apart felt like déjà vu. Annie and Cham teleported to the same location and followed their previous path to the warehouse. The pre-dawn was eerily quiet as a grayish blue light engulfed the street and the buildings. It seemed so gloomy, as if the people here had given up on work and their properties.

  Nothing living except for the Wizard Guards walked the streets; even the mice and rats were currently elsewhere just before the sun rose above the horizon. Annie’s boots clicked against the cracked cement, her breath heavy.

  The warehouse felt just as unoccupied as the rest of the street, except for the partially open door.

  Someone was definitely here.

  With quiet confidence Cham examined the entrance with his crystal, tracking any magic and a possible trap. Still and silent, his crystal remained dull and cold. Cham mouthed, “Okay.”

  Annie nodded, placed her hands up and ready to cast spells as the door swung in, scraping against the cement; a loud squeak echoed in the warehouse. They stood at the entrance and listened.

  “I think it’s empty,” Cham said softly.

  “So why are you whispering?”

  Her partner chuckled quietly. They both summoned flashlights to re-examine the boxes, some now smashed flat. The walls, windows, and furniture were still covered in grime and still had that waterlogged, dusty smell.

  Annie manipulated the light across the floor where several shoe prints crossed the filthy cement. They began at the front door to the pile of boxes and back again. She knelt down for a closer look, examining the two sets of shoes. “Sturtagaard’s about six feet, so I’m guessing the larger ones are his. These smaller ones look a little cleaner. Maybe a little newer.”

  “I’m sure he’s gone. I’ll check upstairs, just in case.”

  The kitchen in the back of the warehouse was no dirtier, no cleaner than the last time Annie examined it. The overflowing garbage can contained old food wrappers, an empty packet of blood, and mismatched socks, but without sticking her hand inside she found nothing pertaining to Jordan.

  A pile of clothing covered the kitchen table. Discarded items had been left here for decades, she guessed as she pulled out a pair of bell bottom jeans, the pattern rather geometric and very avocado and orange. They hid another pair of jeans, modern and—based on the label on the backside—expensive. As Annie unfolded the pants, her nostrils were assaulted by the stench of burnt fabric. The left knee consisted of a large hole, the edges of which were scorched and crumbled at her touch.

  Putting the pants aside, Annie sorted through the pile, finding an expensive collared shirt that was stained with what looked to be blood.

  “Jordan left,” Cham said, jumping from the pile of junk. “You need to come see.”

  “He left something. Look.” Annie held up the pant leg. “He might be hurt.” She folded the pants and shoved it into an evidence bag.

  “I saw blood upstairs. There was definitely a struggle of some kind.”

  The loft, though empty, revealed several things.

  “Drag marks here.” Cham highlighted the shoe imprints across the floor. Based on the dirt patterns, they appeared to start at the center of the room, as if a person had been pulled toward the stairs. Halfway between the middle of the room and the stairs, the dust was wiped away, possibly by a fight. “Blood droplets here and here.” Cham squatted beside them, collecting samples.

  A second set of drag marks, thinner than the other pair, wandered off in a separate direction, catching Annie’s attention. She followed the lines to the wall beside the stairs, where the marks abruptly ended five inches from the wall. A large mark in the dirt was beside her as if something heavy had been dumped there and moved.

  Seconds after coming to the wall, the smell of death knocked Annie over. She grimaced, backed away, and bent over to catch her breath. The odor hung in the air, a reminder that Jordan was still missing and just might have been found… but not by the Wizard Guard. Annie trained her flashlight on the wall; the dim light made it difficult to distinguish colors and shades. It appeared to be nothing but a standard wall covered in sheetrock.

  Holdi
ng a deep breath, Annie touched the wall, hoping for a hidden latch or handle. Her hands glided across the textured surface, feeling for inconsistencies. Sure enough, the middle section of the wall felt slightly different. Annie tapped the wall. A hollow thump answered her knock.

  That’s so weird.

  Curious now, Annie ran her hands across in a wider section, checking for a crack, an edge, or any indication a door existed.

  “Find something?” Cham asked.

  “Take a whiff.”

  With raised eyebrows, he sniffed the air and backed away. “Jordan?”

  Annie smacked the wall, and the hollow sound rang out. Cham nodded in understanding and joined her search.

  “Got this side.” Annie’s fingers grazed every inch of the wall as she searched for any separation or crack that could be a door. Finally, her fingers found just a hint of difference in thickness. She ran her fingers up and down the minuscule crack, in search of a lock or handle. Cham followed; guessing the width of the door, he easily found the opposite edge with his strong fingers.

  The stench of the dead body worsened by the minute, so they worked quickly. Annie, on her hands and knees, took to examining the bottom edge for another diminutive flaw in the wall as Cham, finding the top of the makeshift door, moved his hands across the fissure.

  The lock, a tiny button near the floor, was well hidden. Annie found the depression and pushed, springing open the door. The body of a woman tumbled to her feet, bringing with her a greater smell.

  The woman, a petite girl, couldn’t have been more than 20 years old, based on her smooth-as-glass hands. But her face, full of caked-on makeup too light for her natural skin, gave the victim a much older appearance. Her short miniskirt and skin-tight shirt, plus the five-inch heels still on her feet caused Annie to guess the woman was a prostitute.

  “Sturtagaard?” Cham guessed.

  “Probably. Damn.” She knelt beside the body and removed long blonde hair from the neck to reveal small puncture wounds. Annie didn’t bother to test the body with holy water.