Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Margo Bond Collins

  “Well,” Aeden said, “then there’s the Song of Prophecy, the Bhagant. It tells the future.”

  “Supposedly,” Fahtin countered.

  “What do you mean? You don’t believe in prophecy?”

  “Oh, I guess I do, but who knows when it will happen? It could be next year or it could be another thousand years from now. That’s not much of a guide to base your life on.”

  Aeden sighed and threw the ruined piece of grass on the ground. “I guess you’re right. I just wish I knew what would happen or what I should be doing. I feel as if I’m missing something I should be doing. Do you understand that?”

  “I do,” Fahtin said. “I understand that your life has been turned inside out over the last five years. I wish I could tell you what to do, what your purpose is, but I don’t even know my own.” She laughed. “We’ll just have to face it together and figure it out when it happens. How about that?”

  Aeden laughed along with her. “Yes, Fahtin, I think I like the sound of that. We will figure it out and face it together, as family should.”

  “Promise me,” she said, “that if I help you try to find the answers to your questions, you will go with me to explore the world.”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “No, Aeden. Promise me. Give me your word that you will take me with you to explore the world. It’s my dream.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I promise to take you with me if I go explore the world or have adventures.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. I have to go and help mother with some things. Women’s work. I’ll see you later, ok?”

  “I’ll see you later. I think I’ll stay here and practice with my fiddle. It’s nice and quiet here.”

  She got to her feet, brushed the grass from her clothes, winked at him, and skipped toward the wagons. Even skipping, she moved provocatively. Some poor man was going to get good and trapped by that one. Aeden chuckled.

  Instead of reaching for his fiddle right away, he ran through the Bhagant in his mind. He had memorized the entire Song and repeated it to himself several times a day to make sure he never forgot a line.

  Without thinking about it, he had stopped reciting it in his mind and was singing it out loud, though not very loud. Just barely above a whisper.

  Before he was finished with the first verse, that unique sensation of energy surged up within his body. As always, it filled him not just with power, but wonder that it did so. He continued with the rest of the Song.

  By the fifth verse, his body was full to bursting with what could only be magical energy. He had never sung that much of the Song before. What would happen if he continued?

  Aeden stopped singing, turning his full attention to the power inhabiting him. He moved his body, noting the changes it made to the energy. He made one of the gestures of the Raibrech and he felt the power in him respond, acting as if it was ready for command, an obedient pet.

  It gave Aeden an idea. He went through the motions he had learned and practiced all those years ago, the motions he failed to use correctly in his trial, the motions whose failure caused him to be beaten almost to death. He performed Skinning the Highland Cat.

  There was some kind of resistance within him, a blockage of some sort, which seemed to be holding the magic back, out of his reach. He thought back to his trial, and before. Why had the other trainees been able to use it but not him? He had practiced, perfected the motions while many of them were sloppy and vague in their gestures.

  The words of command? He had said them while practicing, pronounced them correctly, but Master Solon constantly told him to say them louder, to speak up. What was different about him from the other kids?

  He was silent, that’s what. Because of that recurring dream, he had always said as little as possible. Could that have prevented the magic, something so simple as not being talkative?

  Aeden began to sing again, feeling the power within him build. When it seemed that he would burst from it, he said the words of power loudly while performing the proper motions. “Feat. Gate. Adehal.”

  The force thrummed within him, surging forward but running into the resistance he felt earlier. He repeated the words, louder, almost shouting them.

  Finally, when he was about to give up, a wall inside him broke. Something snapped, not painful but not altogether pleasant, either. The power rushed into his hands and did as he bid it. A tiny blade of magic struck out at a branch in front of him, shearing off its end.

  It was a weak thing, barely more than a small child could have done with his hands, but it was magic. He had called the clan magic. He was not a failure, just late in coming into his power. His quiet nature, something that had always set him apart, had prevented him from using it before. With his new family, though, he had found his voice.

  Aeden slumped to a nearby fallen log, feeling as if he had been in battle all day. He dripped sweat. The internal conflict had sapped his energy, and he wondered if it would be that way always, or if he would grow more accustomed to it. He tried another simple motion and said the accompanying words. This time, there was no resistance and the magic came easily, though weak. There was his answer. He had but to practice, and maybe his power would grow.

  But what if this was as powerful as he would become? What if it wasn’t just his silent nature that affected his use of the magic? If he could not gain strength in his spell casting, what use would it be? The paltry blade he had created wouldn’t help in combat, other than to distract. He worried, but he was too fatigued to experiment further.

  So be it. If he would be weak, he would use his weak abilities to his best advantage. If he could only create distractions, then that was what he would do. The important thing was that he had manifested enough of the magic to have passed the Trial of Magic. Sure, he was five years too late, but it made him feel as if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t deserve the death his clan had almost given him. That would have to do. For now.

  Chapter 22

  As the caravan grew closer to lands that Aeden knew, he kept himself busy with helping Payta, training with Fahtin and Raki, occasionally playing his fiddle, and practicing magic whenever he got a spare moment. He wasn’t sure why he kept the magic secret from his friends, but for some reason he didn’t want to reveal his ability to them until it was more reliable. And more impressive.

  The magic seemed to get easier to control with practice. He knew all the forms and the words, at least the ones for the simple spells, so he had plenty of options for practice. As he did, he saw his strength increasing. Slowly. It gave him hope, though, that he may attain enough power to effectively use the magic against a foe. He kept practicing and assuring himself it was true.

  “I recognize this area,” he told Fahtin when the caravan had pulled up to camp for the night. “This is where we stayed after you found me, where I healed up and was added to the family.”

  Fahtin flashed her smile at him. “It is. I wasn’t sure if you would recognize it. It has been a long time.”

  “I’d not forget this place. Ever.”

  Her smile slipped a little. “Are they bad memories?”

  “No,” he said gently. “The memories here are good ones. This was where I gained a family after my other had cast me out. The bad memories are of the place you found me, over there.” He pointed toward where they had found him, almost dead. It was barely a mile away from their camp.

  Fahtin nodded. “Do you want to spar a little before we do our supper chores? My muscles are cramped from sitting on the wagon all day.”

  “Some of us didn’t have that luxury,” he said to her with a smirk. “Some of us had to ride, or even walk.” Aeden caught sight of Raki coming toward them.

  “Oh, poor baby,” Fahtin said, pouting her lips in a perfect imitation of a child who was not getting its way. “‘If you train when you’re tired, then you will get more benefit from it,’” she said. She was quoting something he often told her when she tried to get out of training hard.


  Aeden laughed. “Fair enough. We can spend an hour, I think. What do you think, Raki? A little sparring?” The boy had just reached them.

  “Yes. I need to move around. I was cramped up on the seat of the wagon all day.”

  Aeden rolled his eyes.

  They only stayed there for two days, just enough time to repair some of the wagon wheels and rest up. When they started moving again, it was not to the south or to the west, as Aeden thought it would be, but to the east and north. Toward Croagh lands.

  “Why are we not taking the path we took before, the last time we were here?” he asked Fahtin after they had stopped the next day. The two were walking along the line of wagons. It was an area Aeden remembered well.

  “My father says that he has some trading to do with the Crows.”

  “I didn’t know you traded with the clans,” Aeden said, his voice a bit strained.

  “Sure,” she said. “We’re allowed into the highlands to bring trade goods and to give news of the western lands. We didn’t do it last time because it would have been…awkward. With you in our family, still healing and all. It was one of the sacrifices my father made for you. Trade with the clans is usually very profitable. They always buy all the knives we have, and much of what we have acquired in other parts as well.”

  Aeden thought about that for a moment. Darun had given up a chance at profit because of him. He had always thought the man to be caring, though the caravan leader insisted that he was gruff and selfish for some reason. This though, nearly brought tears to Aeden’s eyes. Payta’s comments about having a store of unsold knives and a dozen additional comments by others in the caravan fit nicely into a picture of the selfless nature of Fahtin’s father.

  “Your father is one of the kindest men I have ever met, Fahtin. It makes me ashamed of myself. I would never have thought of sacrificing so much for someone I didn’t even know.”

  She looked into his eyes and hers softened. “Oh, Aeden, it is our way. We are wary of strangers—we have to be, for our own protection—but for friends of the family, and family members themselves, there is nothing we would not do. My father recognized in you something of our own people and acted accordingly. He will deny it if you ask him, for he more than anything wants to depict himself as strong and uncaring.

  “You are truly part of our family, and there is nothing any of us would not do for you. We hope you see it the same way.”

  “I do,” he said. “You took me in when I was near death, healed me, nurtured me, and gave me a place to belong. A family. I don’t know what I would do without all of you.”

  They walked along in silence for a while, each with their own thoughts to keep them company. Though he was heading toward a land filled with memories that saddened him, he allowed a small smile to creep across his face. Those memories could not harm him, not when he was with his family. Not when he was with those who loved him.

  The wagon rumbled along the narrow, pitted dirt roadway Aeden hadn’t been on in over five years. He knew there was something wrong before they crested the rise sheltering the village he was born in. There was smoke—but there was always smoke. Still, there seemed to be too much of it, even though the day was chilly. It occurred to him in a rush that what bothered him most was the color: black, thick smoke, not the simple gray plumes of well-tended cook fires. As they gained the hill and he could see into the little valley, it all came crashing on top of him, staggering him with the weight. His knees buckled and he almost fell.

  Half of the village had burned. Some of it still smoldered. Even at this distance, he picked out shapes that appeared to be piles of clothing and furs scattered throughout the area. Along with them, there were other shapes, black and twisted. These Aeden couldn’t identify, but the first he knew to be bodies.

  “No!” he yelled, jumping down off the wagon and rushing to the village. As he reached the first of the bodies, too shocked to look at its details, he drew both his swords from the scabbards on his back and scanned the area for enemies.

  Nothing moved.

  He found Fahtin next to him, panting from the exertion of keeping up with him. The wagons continued to rumble along the road. They would catch up in a few minutes.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Did another clan attack?”

  “No,” Aeden said. She had apparently missed seeing the black, twisted things on the ground between the bodies of his clansmen. They were grotesque, things out of nightmares. Monsters. He had never seen such things before, nor heard of them. Except in song. “No clan is strong enough to do this to Tannoch. It’s these foul creatures.” He kicked one and found it hard as wood.

  “Help me search for survivors. There must be some.” He ran into the center of the village to look.

  Everywhere he went, he found only the dead. There were at least three dead people for every one of the dark things. It didn’t make sense to Aeden. How could these monsters be so strong that they each had killed three of the finest warriors in Dizhelim?

  All thoughts of why and how left his head when he saw his mother. When he saw what was left of his mother.

  Miera was splayed on the ground near the center of the village. She looked to have been nearly torn apart by something, but half of her beautiful face remained untouched. The cuts were not clean, as a sharp weapon would make. They looked more like wounds from…

  “Claws,” Darun said. The family head had come up beside him. “This is the look of someone torn by wild beasts. Do you know her, Aeden?”

  “Yes.” He could hardly get the word past the lump obstructing his throat. “She’s…she’s my mother.”

  His need for more words was interrupted by a soft grunt. Aeden wheeled, swords at the ready. It was his father, several feet away, propped up against a post. He was torn as well, but the blood was no longer flowing from him. It appeared to have already soaked into the ground around him. He coughed weakly and his eyes fluttered to Aeden.

  “Father!” Aeden cried and ran to him. He pulled up short, afraid to touch him, afraid to harm him further. “Father, what happened? How could this be?”

  Sartan’s half-lidded eyes locked onto Aeden.

  “Aeden? Is that you, lad? Codaghan be praised, you did survive.”

  “Father,” Aeden said. “What are these things? What happened?”

  “Foul, black beasties. They do not die easily. We found out, too late, that only the blood magic can hurt them. They took the best sword slashes and kept coming. Until the magic. The magic works. The only thing.”

  That would explain why there were so many dead from the clan and so few from the attackers, Aeden thought.

  Sartan seemed to notice him suddenly, as if he had just appeared. “How did you survive, boy? Where have you been?”

  “I was helped by a caravan of Gypta,” he motioned toward Darun and Fahtin. “They nursed me back to health, invited me to their family.”

  “Ach,” Sartan made another weak coughing sound and let some reddish fluid—blood mixed with something else—drip from his chin. “Good. That’s good.”

  “We will get you fixed up, father. You’ll heal and we can talk about it.”

  “No, lad.” He looked toward the remains of his wife. “I’m ready to go. Without Miera, I have no life anyway. It does my heart good to see you, though. I had hoped, but dared not to dream that you survived.”

  “Father, no. Just hold on. We can heal you.”

  “Nah. It’s fine. I struck as precisely as I could, to fool the others. I knew you were not dead, but could not come back for you for two days. When I did, your body was gone. I had hoped. Hoped.”

  The tears burned Aeden’s eyes as he looked at his father. “I have learned to use the magic. You can be proud of me, father. You can finally be proud of me.”

  “Ah, lad, I have always been proud of you. Always. What I did, I had to do out of duty. I deserve to die if only because of it.” His eyes lost focus, but slowly came back to lucidity. “Show me, Aeden. Show me the magic.”


  Aeden did. He called it up easily, just as he had practiced. It was not strong yet, but it did come.

  A smile crept onto his father’s face. “There is one thing left for me to do, then.” He tried to sit up straighter, but failed. With a look of concentration, he motioned with his right hand, barely able to lift it, and spoke words of power Aeden had never heard.

  A burning circled Aeden’s right wrist. As he watched, the lines and colors of the clan tattoo appeared there, magically affixing itself to his skin.

  “You are now a warrior of Clan Tannoch,” his father said weakly. “Use the magic and defeat these foul creatures. They cannot be allowed to remain in the world. Promise me, my son.”

  “I do, Father. I promise.” He wiped the tears from his eyes with his forearm. “Now let me help you. We will bind up your wounds, and you will be better in no time.”

  But his father’s eyes had gone glassy. Aeden saw with one look that the clan chief had died, but shook him and listened for his heartbeat, tried to feel his breath on his own cheek.

  “He’s gone, boy,” Darun said, putting his arm on Aeden’s shoulder.

  Aeden shrugged the arm off and put his forehead to his father’s. “Give me some time,” he said. “Please.”

  Darun moved off, checking the ruined village for other survivors. Fahtin looked to Aeden and took a step toward him, but then dropped her eyes to the ground and shuffled off several feet to watch him from a distance. He hardly noticed.

  “Father,” he whispered. “Mother.” He had no words. He sat, cradling his father’s head, thinking of his family and his life with the clan. His tears mingled with the blood on his father’s face as the sun made its way across the sky toward the horizon.

  An hour before dusk, Aeden stirred. He had fallen asleep, exhausted from his grief, still holding his father’s head in his lap as he sat cross-legged on the ground. He blinked the crust away from his eyes and looked around.