Stolen Magic (Shadows of the Immortals Book 1)

by Marina Finlayson

Anders’ wall of flame flickered and faded out as Jake staggered from the car, pale as a reanimated corpse.

  “Run,” he snapped.

  Joe and Tegan ran, not waiting to be told twice, but I stayed where I was.

  *Come on.* Syl was nowhere in sight but her voice in my head was clear enough. *Do as the man says.*

  *He can barely stand,* I objected. *Anders will kill him.*

  A little bubble of panic rose in my throat. I couldn’t leave Jake to face Anders alone. Anders would never have been able to take him under normal circumstances, and I wasn’t letting the backstabbing little snake beat him now, just because Jake had tried to help me. It had nothing to do with the fact that my heart beat a little faster every time I saw Jake, or that his presence seemed to light up a room. I was just protecting a friend. I would have done the same for Syl, or Joe, or Holly.

  Anders hurled a fireball, which Jake somehow turned and sent hurtling back at him.

  *He seems to be doing all right,* Syl pointed out. *Get out of there and let the shaper bastards fight it out.*

  But she couldn’t see the way Jake’s raised arms were trembling, or how the sweat trickled down his pale face. Maybe he was a shaper bastard, or maybe there was more to him than that, but I couldn’t just leave him.

  I edged closer to Jake. “Distract him.”

  “Trying.”

  He shot a series of fiery thunderbolts at Anders that sizzled in flight. Mason was up again, crawling towards their car. He seemed no threat; I could deal with him later. I waited until Anders was busy deflecting the bolts, then whipped out my first knife and hurled it at him. Anders yelped as the blade lodged in his shoulder. Mason crawled faster. Score one for me.

  Jake sagged against me as I released the second knife, sending it veering off course. It clattered against a building. And then his flames winked out as he collapsed to his knees.

  “Jake!” I grabbed at him before he could topple onto his face, kneeling on the street by his side.

  “Very touching,” said Anders, a vicious satisfaction in his eyes as he watched me struggle to support Jake’s weight. “But you should have run when he told you to. Who’s going to save you now?”

  He sent a pillar of fire blasting into the sky, and I hid my face in Jake’s hair, waiting for the end.

  And so I didn’t see the doors of the pub burst off their hinges and fly across the street, although I sure heard the boom, followed by the clatter of the door frames and the odd brick hitting the ground. When I looked up, Alberto stood there, dapper as ever, not a hair out of place.

  “Actually, that would be me,” he said.

  My mouth fell open. Brick dust and darkness boiled around him, and I glimpsed shapes in the smoke—strange, distorted figures. Eyes glinted, appearing and disappearing like visions as black tendrils writhed outward, reaching toward Anders.

  I coughed, choking on dust. My eyes watered. Surely I was seeing things? Alberto was cloaked in night, black as the pits of hell—at ten o’clock on a bright sunny morning.

  Gunfire shattered the air. Mason leaned on the open door of the four-wheel drive, firing at Alberto across the top. The gun must have been in the car. Anders, shrugging off his shock at Alberto’s dramatic entrance, joined in, pelting him with fireballs.

  Alberto stalked toward them. Neither bullets nor fireballs had any effect on him. He simply kept walking.

  Jake cocked an eyebrow at me. “I thought he was a vampire?”

  His voice held a hint of accusation, as if I’d been keeping things from him. Well, I was keeping things from him—the ring in my pocket burned like a guilty secret—but nothing about Alberto.

  “Yeah, me too.” I put an arm around his broad shoulders, suddenly more hopeful of living through this experience than I’d been in quite some time.

  Alberto stopped in front of Mason, who couldn’t seem to stop squeezing the trigger though he’d long since run out of bullets. His face was frozen in a mask of horror as the black tendrils swirled languidly around him. Alberto raised his hand and plunged it into the lion shifter’s chest. There was no sound, no blood—but when Alberto withdrew his hand, Mason collapsed at his feet, deader than dead.

  I caught my breath; it seemed the whole world stopped breathing. Alberto looked at Anders. Just looked at him, nothing more, but it was enough to send Anders spinning away, running for his life.

  It made no difference. Alberto flowed after him, wreathed in living darkness, and engulfed the fleeing figure. A scream choked off and I turned away, hiding my face again in Jake’s neck.

  He smelled of smoke and tasted like salt. His arms came around me and I felt myself truly relax for the first time since the night Syl and I had fled the city all those months ago. Anders was finally dead, and those encircling arms felt like a promise.

  “Did you just lick me?” Jake asked, lazy amusement in his voice.

  “Of course not.” I pushed him away. “You must be delirious.”

  His blue eyes smiled down at me from a face covered in grime and sweat. “You have that effect on me.”

  Suddenly, I had trouble breathing. Probably all that smoke in the air. Despite the dirt, he was the best thing I’d seen all day. We’d made it. I gazed back at him, aware I was grinning like an idiot, but somehow unable to wipe the smile from my face.

  Behind us someone cleared their throat. It was Alberto, minus the scary writhing blackness. The smiling Alberto I was used to, except that …

  “Alberto, how are you still standing there?” I asked. “It’s broad daylight. Shouldn’t you have burnt to dust by now?”

  He looked almost embarrassed as he helped me to my feet. “I suppose I can’t hide it anymore,” he said. “I’m not actually a vampire.”

  “Yeah, I’d kind of figured that.” Looked like some of the more outlandish rumours about him had been true after all—though he’d certainly done a pretty convincing vampire impression, that night in the bar when he’d attacked Mason.

  Mason. I shuddered at the memory of Alberto’s hand disappearing into his chest. No, definitely not a vampire. But then why pretend? Why spend all day in his cellar if he didn’t have to?

  “Then what are you?” Jake asked. “Some kind of airshaper?”

  Could an airshaper do what he’d done with the billowing darkness?

  “No. But that’s not a bad idea. I could work with that.”

  I rolled my eyes. Fine. Whatever. If he didn’t want to tell us, he didn’t have to. I was beyond caring.

  “Alberto, thanks for saving us. I’m really grateful, but it’s been a rough couple of days, and if I don’t get to bed soon I’m going to lay right down here in the street and go to sleep.” I leaned in and kissed his smooth cheek, suddenly unutterably weary. “I don’t care what you are. Or who. Do I still call you Alberto?”

  “You can call me whatever you like. But my real name’s Hades.”

  My head spun. Surely he didn’t mean—? “As in, Hades, the god of the underworld? That Hades?”

  I guess that would explain a few things. It certainly seemed to settle the question of whether or not the gods were real.

  “The very same.” He grinned. “At your service.”

  ***

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  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Twiceborn, the first book in The Proving trilogy.

  EXCERPT: TWICEBORN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Glass is right up there with mankind’s great inventions, like the wheel, penicillin and chocolate. Not only ca
n you see through it, but you can look into it, and a shop window, even tinselled-up and sprayed with fake snow for the silly season, gives a great reflected view of what’s behind you. In my case, that was Centre Court in all its Christmassy glory, and two guys showing way too much interest in a pregnant woman.

  Giant baubles hung from the ceiling behind me, and a dozen white kangaroos hauled Santa’s sleigh across the back of a temporary stage area, the only concession to the summery reality of Christmas in Australia. Santa himself had retired to the North Pole for another year, and his throne with its posse of photographers had been replaced by racks of bargain swimwear, much more suited to the season than snowmen and furs. The place was jumping with people, all out to find a great deal in the post-Christmas sales, as if they hadn’t had enough of shopping before Christmas. Madness. Throw the word “bargain” around a few times, and people will swarm the tiredest old dreck like bees in search of a new hive. Or maybe locusts, ready to strip the place bare.

  They even buzzed like swarming insects. Voices raised in conversation and laughter, plus the occasional shrieks of a tired child, formed a background roar that still failed to drown out the tired tinkle of Christmas music piped over the top. I’d only been here ten minutes and already I’d heard White Christmas twice. Two times too many in my book.

  Without turning I scanned the reflected crowds heaving behind me, one hand on the small of my supposedly pregnant back. My two tails still followed.

  One stood in front of a big touch-screen centre directory, pretending to be absorbed in locating the shop of his choice. Did they have a shop for spies here? Spooks “R” Us, maybe? He was a smallish guy, mid-thirties, receding brown hair. His mate was taller, a little younger, and too cool to take his sunnies off indoors. He was outside the jeans shop opposite me, pretending to talk on his mobile phone. Or perhaps he really was talking to someone.

  Yeah, we’ve got her in sight. She’s checking out the shops. Doesn’t know we’re watching her. Sure, Boss, I’ll let you know as soon as she meets her contact.

  Bet Boss wouldn’t be pleased about the sunnies thing. Making yourself look like a tosser was a personal choice, of course, but it meant Sunnies Dude stood out from the crowd. Despite the heat and glare outside, no one else in here wore sunglasses. What did they teach these guys in spy school? Didn’t he know he should be trying to blend in?

  I meandered away, dragging my tails behind me. Beats me how I always managed to acquire them on these jobs. As if they had a sixth sense or something. You’d pick up the package with no one in sight, but before ten minutes had passed, hey presto! Someone would be following you.

  Being stalked by strangers is an odd feeling. Guaranteed to get the adrenalin pumping, at least, so that’s something. The old fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, bypassing the brain altogether, so for a while I remember what it’s like to feel alive. Not that they ever do anything but watch. They only want to find out where the package is going.

  It’s my job to make sure they don’t.

  Don’t ask me what’s in the packages. Ben won’t tell, though he promised me it’s nothing illegal. I figure there’s just some super-secretive people around. If it floats their boat to sneak secret messages around Sydney, well, good luck to them. As long as they pay me I really couldn’t give a crap.

  One time I peeked. I didn’t mean to, but they’re these thick beige envelopes, nice quality but kind of lacking in the glue department. They’re always sealed with a blob of red wax. Fancy, but not terribly practical—sometimes the whole blob of wax comes right away from the envelope.

  So I had a look, in case it was full of white powder, or hundred dollar bills, or something equally dodgy. I may not care about much any more but no money on earth would get me to deliver drugs. But I couldn’t even tell what it was—a roughly disk-shaped piece of shiny hard something. It didn’t look like any plastic I’d ever seen, and there was nothing written on it, nothing to explain why anyone would give a toss who received such a thing. But clearly someone did.

  I threaded my way through the crowds. Some of them saw my enormous belly and gave way for me. The trick was remembering to walk like a pregnant woman instead of striding out in my usual fashion.

  The food court lay ahead, tucked behind two monstrous escalators. The aroma of hot chips and deep-fried everything wafted toward me and my stomach growled, reminding me I’d forgotten lunch again.

  “Mum!” a child’s voice screeched.

  Instinctively I turned toward the sound, and my heart clenched as I glimpsed a mop of light brown curls through the swirl of bodies. Only for a moment, but it was enough to set my pulse hammering in my throat. I stopped, and a woman bumped into me, apologising when she saw my pregnant belly, though it wasn’t her fault.

  When would I learn? I drew a deep, shaky breath. Lachie was gone. It would never again be his voice calling Mum in a crowd, never be his curly head I glimpsed from the corner of my eye, yet still I saw him everywhere. The turn of a head, a piping childish voice, even a T-shirt in his favourite blue and white stripes—anything could stop me with a hammer blow to the heart, even now, seven months after the accident.

  I’d dreaded Christmas in my empty house. It’s not good to spend Christmas alone, Ben had said. You’ll feel better if you come up and see the family, Katie, Mum had said. Maybe they were right. I’d gotten as far as booking a flight, but in the end I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch my nephews and nieces opening their presents when this time last year Lachie had been with them, tearing the wrapping off yet another box of Lego with squeals of unholy delight. Look, Mum, it’s the Dark Fortress! His bright curls had bounced with excitement, his mind already leaping forward to the thrill of the post-lunch construction even as he reached for the next present in the stack.

  Turned out, Christmas was no worse than any other day. Pain was pain, regardless of the date on the calendar. I pushed away the memory of his glowing little face. Deep breaths. Okay, focus.

  A sign beside the escalators pointed down a service corridor for toilets, phones and lifts. I threaded my way through rows of bright yellow tables filled with munching people and entered the corridor, pursued by the smell of Chinese takeaway. Skirting the crowd waiting for the lifts, I headed for the toilets. At the door I stopped for a woman coming out and threw a casual glance back the way I’d come. Sunnies Dude had stationed himself at the entrance to the corridor. His partner was coming my way.

  I slipped inside, my heart stuttering a little. Surely he wouldn’t follow me into the ladies’ toilet? I waited in line—there was always a line when the sales were on—and watched the door.

  I had nothing to use as a weapon, and a quick glance showed nothing useful in the gleaming white room either. The soap dispensers were secured to the sinks and the hand dryers to the wall, their roar muffling a saccharine rendition of Silent Night. No respite from the Christmas schmaltz anywhere, not even in the bathroom.

  Geez, what was my problem? These clowns never did anything. No need to be jumping at shadows. But when the door opened, I had my handbag ready to swing.

  A tiny Indian woman entered, a little surprised to find me glaring at her. No sign of a marauding bald guy. I turned away, letting out a breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding. He must have gone to guard the other end of the corridor, in case I went out that way.

  As I reached the head of the line, one of those mother-and-child stalls with two toilets, one big and one small, opened up. It smelled strongly of pine air freshener and something much more toilet-y that the freshener couldn’t quite cover up. Little people don’t have such good aim and they tend to get distracted at critical moments. At home I still had a ping pong ball bobbing in my toilet, from the days when I’d been encouraging Lachie to focus on aiming properly.

  I hung my bag on the hook on the back of the door and got to work.

  First off was the curly black wig. Thank God for that. The shops were air-conditioned, but the wig was synthetic, and wearing it felt like
walking around with a hot water bottle on my head. It had been hot as hell outside in the bright summer sun. I unpinned my sweaty hair and fanned it out, letting the air circulate.

  Next came the dress, floral and tentlike. I wadded it up and shoved it into my handbag after the wig, then reached round to the straps that held the prosthetic belly on. The rip of velcro heralded sweet relief as I eased the heavy thing off.

  In the hollow of the fake belly nestled a big roomy carry-all containing my new outfit, a short denim skirt and a black top that revealed my own flat stomach, the taut abs a new feature. Had to do something to help me sleep at night, and in the end Ben had convinced me that exercise was a better option than alcohol. Smart guy. I sat on the toilet seat to strap on the red stilettos that completed the outfit.

  Maybe the shoes were a mistake. Ben had looked worried when I’d picked them out of our stock. But then, “worried about Kate” was a pretty common expression on Ben’s face these days.

  “What are you going to do if you have to run in those?”

  I’d snorted. “There won’t be any running.”

  I wasn’t feeling so cocky now but it was too late for second-guessing. The black flats I’d worn as the pregnant woman would spoil the whole effect. I shrugged. What did it matter anyway? When the worst thing you could ever imagine has already happened to you, it puts everything else in perspective.

  I buckled my shoes and gathered everything up. My original handbag and clothes went into the hollow of the fake belly, then I stuffed the lot into the carry-all and headed for the basins.

  Like every other woman there, I checked my face as the cool water splashed over my hands, leaning in close for a good look. Mirrors are probably the best use ever of glass. How did we ever manage without them?

  The concealer under my eyes was holding up despite the heat. Just as well. The dark circles were a permanent feature these days and they made me look more thirty-nine than my real age of twenty-nine. Weary green eyes stared back at me. Still, no man would be looking at my face in this outfit.