Black Market (The Wizard Hall Chronicles Book 2)

by Sheryl Steines

  “Right. You didn’t do nothing wrong. Jackass. By the way, your brother came here willingly, and he’s talking. You working for the master, is that it?”

  “NO! No, I’m not working for the master.” Jacobi’s voice squeaked and grew silent.

  Milo motioned through the window, and two guards entered the door. Each grabbed hold of Jacobi’s arms and assisted him up and out the door. The giants tossed him in a lesser, magically enhanced cell and locked him in.

  “You got no right to hold me!” the stable master yelled.

  “We’ve got a conversation that says you turned in two wizard guards. We got ya,” Milo said.

  “I called m’brother, ‘bout the girl and the elf. I did it. But it was my brother’s fault!”

  “Sure it was,” Milo said and walked away, leaving Mr. Jacobi alone in his cell.

  Chapter 26

  The hiker parked his car in the empty lot, the same lot that had been home to reporters and police vehicles for the better part of two weeks. Though the sky was clear and the sun bright, gusts of wind continued to blow icy air over the forest and through the trees, creating dunes of snow to the left of the clearing. Where the sun reached the earth, shallow snow piles began to melt, leaving many of the trails thick with mud and sand.

  Prepared for the early spring conditions, the hiker pulled on thick waterproof boots and tied the long laces twice around his leg, securing them. Stepping onto the parking lot, his boots crunched against the remaining snow and ice as he trekked onto the trail.

  The earth, still too frozen from the low temperatures, was a sea of ice and mud. He slipped across a muddy patch, righted himself, and took the trail around the clearing to pick up the southern path. It led him close to the anomaly, where the wind blew in like a wind tunnel, icy and cold. He shivered violently as birds squawked a fearful, panicked tune above him. The sky darkened and shadows grew long and dark in the clearing. Curious, the hiker glanced upwards, where the birds flew against the backdrop of billowing black smoke. It came from somewhere deep in the forest.

  A fire?

  The hiker sniffed the air, which clean and fresh with the aroma after a spring storm.

  Where’s the rancid smoky smell?

  Animals scurried out of the forest. Three deer—a mother and two small fawns—ran across the path, ignoring the hiker as they escaped the fire. Plumes of smoke stretched through the dense trees and wound around the hibernating trunks, rising higher above Busse Woods, and curling out across Chicagoland.

  The man felt a chill unlike anything he ever felt before and glanced in the direction of the cold air, unable to see what caused the dread at the pit of his stomach. Stepping away from the icy spot, from the turbulent air, he took a long look inside the trees.

  Where’s the fire?

  The hiker broke free of the trail and stepped inside the trees, expecting to be overcome with smoke. The air was clear though a little damp from rotted leaves and other foliage. Venturing further inside, he whiffed the scent of dung and matted wet animal fur. He turned around and searched the trees for the animal, but he was alone. Directly above him through the bare branches, the smoke still billowed upwards—and yet the source of the smoke should have been right where he stood.

  “What the hell?” he said as he ran out of the trees. Snapping a picture of the fireless smoke, the man called 911, reporting a fire in Busse Woods.

  *

  Max White sat at his desk in the communication center located in the basement of the Wizard Hall. After being suspended last year for missing an incoming police call and nearly risking exposure of magic during a double homicide, he’d become the model employee, always arriving before his 8:00 a.m. shift and not using his cell phone for anything except emergencies.

  Today was a slow day, and yet he monitored every police scanner and message that came in, looking for hidden meanings or connections. But the calls were all arbitrary acts happening to random people at indiscriminate locations. Bored, Max lovingly touched his phone, longing to fly some birds, but he resisted. Instead, he turned his attention back to the job, listening to the movements of the police, fire, and ambulance calls as they came in.

  “Fire at Busse Woods…” the voice on the radio cracked. The hairs on the back of Max’s neck pricked.

  The black market!

  Max dialed Milo right away. His heart palpitated rapidly; he felt nervous to speak with the Wizard Guard department manager after his major mistake.

  “Yeah, what?” Milo hadn’t forgiven the telecommunications specialist, believing it was his fault that magic was nearly exposed to the entire world. And that was enough for Milo to remain angry.

  Milo’s tone made Max jump and his palms sweat. “A fire was reported at Busse Woods,” Max said, trying to ignore Milo’s antagonism.

  “When?”

  “Just called in now.”

  “That’s not good,” Milo groaned.

  *

  The genie had tricked him with promises of power and total control of the market. Gladden Worchester, low-level thug, had almost had it all.

  It got so out of control.

  Gladden knew the minute he made the deal with the genie that it was a bad idea. Genies were always tricksters, and the genie was always the one with the control. And Ezekiel wanted more, including complete control of the shapeshifters. To do that, he needed the ring. He needed and found Benaiah.

  Or did Benaiah find him?

  The man who claimed to have the Ring of Solomon failed to return, only to be found dead outside the portal.

  Who left him there? They ruined the market. It was them who made this happen!

  The master had exploded in anger the day Benaiah was found outside the market. Any control that Gladden imagined he had was gone.

  Still without the ring and without Annie Pearce or that stupid little elf named Bitherby, he could no longer return to market. Instead, Gladden would run, leaving all that he knew behind him for parts unknown, leaving for a culture a world away.

  Entering his dark apartment to pack his meager belongings, he decided that wouldn’t miss the grime-covered gray walls and worn carpet. It reminded him of how far he had fallen from grace.

  Rather than packing, he immediately met a hex that flew out of the darkness.

  He woke to severe pain. It pulled from his shoulders down both sides of his body as if something tore him in two.

  Where am I?

  Coming to awareness, Gladden twisted toward the sound of moaning beside him. His wrists, bound tightly in iron shackles, rubbed into his skin. He pulled and rattled the chains that were submersed inside thick stone walls.

  The dungeon!

  His fog lifted, and his eyes grew accustomed to the low light of the dungeon. The smell of death assaulted him.

  Gingerly Gladden faced the man beside him. The man must have been thrown in the dungeon weeks ago, but Gladden knew the man was dead. His rotted body still hung from chains, his left hand had slipped from the shackle, and his body dangled and twisted in whatever breeze blew through the stones.

  Why was he here?

  Beside the dead man, lay the fairy, trapped in the dungeon with iron shackles around her hands and ankles. She sat against the stone wall, her eyes closed and her breathing steady. Her golden hair hung dull and ratted, and her eyes… those eyes were dark pools of pure, black anger—anger that dripped from her voice when she spoke. Gladden had stopped engaging her in conversation when he was still free to leave. She no longer cursed or threatened him. And now she glanced up at him and observed him for a moment with a sneer across her lips. It sent shivers up his spine.

  Gladden shrunk against the wall when the steel door at the top of the stairs squeaked open and slammed shut. Small footsteps shook the staircase, and small voices whispered between each other.

  They squealed when the dungeon door swung open again, and then they bounded down the stairs, hiding in the darkness.

  Gladden stared at the entrance carefully until out of the
blackness the master, whom he feared above anyone or anything, appeared in the low light and yanked his chain from the wall. “You come with me and see what you created.”

  The master dragged a still-shackled Gladden through the dungeon, his boots scraping against the floor. Gladden’s shoulders burned as the master forced his arms above his head with one quick jerk of the chains upwards.

  The fairy gave him one last look through her still swollen eye and smiled at him, exposing her perfect white teeth. Gladden shuddered as the genie easily pulled him up the stairs. His battered body bounced against the treads.

  As they entered the market, Gladden closed his eyes; the bright sunlight blinded him.

  The black market he once knew was no longer the same place. The master, determined to keep control of the market, had called forth the shapeshifters. Thousands of them had answered the magical summons, unable to resist the pull of the dark magic. Once the unsuspecting shapeshifters passed through the protection spell their animals forms took control, and they had been unable to revert back to their human bodies or leave the market. For several weeks, these animals—really humans—had roamed the aisles, booths, and stalls, as the djinn had little control of them or their magic without the ring.

  For the djinn it was a misguided attempt to scare Gladden into submission; with an army behind him, the djinn could have total control. But Benaiah had never come back with the ring.

  When Gladden was finally pulled from the dungeon he shaded his eyes from the sunlight, from the fires that burned in the incinerators; the smoke rose out through the protection spell.

  “What did you do?” Gladden asked. His jaw was so tight that he could barely speak through gritted teeth. The master yanked on the chain and dragged him across the dirt. His foot landed through a pile of dung. The smell permeated his nose, and he grimaced.

  “I told you they were coming,” Ezekiel growled. “And without that ring, they can’t be controlled. The market is burning, and it’s all your fault.”

  “I didn’t do this! You invited the shapeshifters here. This is your plan! This is all your doing!”

  The djinn wrapped the chain around Gladden’s neck and yanked, choking the wizard. “You summoned me, and this is your consequence. There is always a price for getting what you want, and this is yours!”

  Gladden didn’t know what the backfire to the spell was, nor did he care. He could taste the power within his reach.

  I lost control so fast.

  But he hadn’t lost control; it was never his. The djinn had always had control, and Gladden hadn’t realized at first because it was subtle, quick. There wasn’t a single merchant or patron that didn’t fear the djinn.

  When Benaiah came with promises of a ring that would control the djinn, Ezekiel had his final piece of the plan. But Benaiah stole the ring from his brethren and paid the ultimate price with his life. As a result, the plan and the market changed. The disintegration of the market was the djinn’s backfire for the spell he used.

  BANG!

  The ground rattled as an incinerator exploded. Gladden turned toward the sound. Black smoke rose high into the air, above the tree lines and out through the magical protection.

  The protection spell is dying.

  Elves screamed, and trolls grunted. Feet pounded against the dirt as animals stampeded and headed toward them. The master yanked on the chain and pulled Gladden from the aisle as a pack of dogs ran for the portals.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Gladden sighed.

  “What?” the master roared, but Gladden, defeated and accepting his fate, slumped against the thick table leg that belonged to a wizard no longer selling in the market. The booth was abandoned, and all that remained were scraps of paper and a few potion ingredients that fell to the ground.

  Gladden and the master stayed secure inside the booth as animals and wizards ran for the last remaining portals. Many carried what they could in their arms or dragged carts loaded down with cauldrons, magical herbs, and other items obscured from their view. A witch nervously glanced at them, at the master with his hand tightly holding the chain tied around Gladden’s neck. She looked away quickly as she struggled with the rope attached to the cart. It was slow moving toward the portal.

  “So now you know your consequence,” the master sneered.

  The fires that raged at the incinerators, spread to the abandoned booths via floating embers that flew through the air.

  Gladden spotted the elderly witch several booths down; she lit a pile of her items on fire for warmth and rubbed her hands together. He thought she might be crying. Gladden realized that without the protection spell, the market was no longer a balmy seventy degrees. Instead, it was taking on the temperature of Busse Woods. Gladden saw his breath evaporate in cold air and felt his fingers sting with the frigid air.

  He stood and swayed as he gained his bearings. The witch’s tent burst into flame, the elderly witch hobbled away, leaving Gladden to grimace at her misfortune.

  “The market will be discovered! You idiot!” Gladden shouted. The genie, no longer interested in Gladden, held out his hand and aimed a lightning strike at Gladden’s heart.

  *

  The master wasn’t aware he had followed the elves into the dungeon. They hid behind the dead man still attached to the wall. As they hid, they observed the master drag Gladden from the dank, stone-lined basement.

  “Stinks,” Bitherby said as the basement door slammed shut above them.

  “Too close,” Huxley squeaked.

  “Shhh.” Bitherby smacked his friend on the shoulder and peered around the dead body.

  His eyes now acclimated to the light, he saw the Aloja fairy sitting in the dirt. Her once pristine white dress was now gray and dirty; her hair was mussed and fell down her arm. Her crushed wing flopped to the side, unable to move.

  The two elves snuck out from behind the body and tentatively strode to the fairy.

  “I’m here to rescue you,” Bitherby announced.

  Zola opened her eyes and glanced at the two elves standing before her—their battered bodies, their tattered clothes, their eager, helpful smiles. The Aloja fairy smiled before breaking out in uncontrollable laughter. Bitherby stared at her incredulously until she stopped. “You? Really?” Zola finally asked.

  “And me,” said Huxley, annoyance in his voice.

  “What about the Wizard Guard?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t find you. I can,” Bitherby said and grabbed the first shackle. He noticed the red, blistered patches of skin around Zola’s wrists and ankles where she was bound by iron.

  “Don’t! Please, it hurts so much,” For the first time since being tossed in the dungeon, Zola cried. Tears rolled across her smooth skin and landed in her lap. Bitherby ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt, the hem now in tattered uneven shreds, and wrapped it around the burns on Zola’s left wrist where the wounds leaked puss.

  “We get you out,” Bitherby assured her.

  His magic was old and simple but incredible accurate. He held a hand over the fairy’s wrist. Glowing, magical light weakened the iron until it popped apart.

  Huxley worked on the second wrist shackle; easily it pulled apart, exposing a less burned wrist, though it still irritated Zola. She whimpered as he wrapped the left wrist with dirty fabric.

  The ankle restraints were larger, thicker, and took longer for the magic to crack them open. They popped and cracked, exposing many burns and cuts.

  Once free of the four restraints Zola gingerly stood and groaned in pain as she moved her ankles with her first step.

  “You’re not as obnoxious as I made you to be,” Zola said and took deep a breath. Holding on to the wall, the fairy waited for her nausea to settle before taking another step.

  “The market’s changed. I can get us to the portal, but you need to get me home. The iron sapped my strength.”

  Zola leaned on each elf as she hobbled up the stairs. Her injuries burned and oozed. She moaned with each torturous step.r />
  The top of the stairs couldn’t come fast enough for Zola. She slid to the ground when they exited the dungeon door and looked out into the black market, a desolate, burning, dead land.

  “What the hell happened?” Zola asked with shortened breaths.

  “The master, ma’am. We need to go,” Huxley said and helped Zola up. She leaned on both of them.

  “Where’s the portal? It looks so different,” Zola said.

  “It’s… well…” Bitherby glanced around the new incarnation of the market, following the trail outward. They were only feet from the portal. One of the last portals in the once vibrant market was crowded with the remaining wizards and shapeshifters pushing and pulling their way to the exit.

  With both elves holding on, the weakened Aloja Fairy teleported them to the portal and landed roughly in the dirt. Above them, a fight broke out between the elderly witch and a dog baring its teeth.

  “Get us through now!” Zola shouted over the din.

  “But we can’t get through,” Bitherby whined.

  Standing up and leaning against him, Zola’s anger and fear created a whirlpool of air around them. With what little energy she had left, she added magic to the whirlpool and pushed the wizards and witches from the line, away from the exit. The two small elves pulled her through the portal. In the cold of Busse woods, the elves held on, Zola floated as cold air swirled around her. She twisted and twirled, unable to control her body in the teleport. And when she was pulled from the teleport, she crash landed into the wet and icy ground.

  The world stopped spinning, and the nausea settled. Zola opened her eyes, safe on the ground, and glanced around at the barren landscape. The prison sprung up at the horizon. “You missed the teleportation area. They’re going to come,” she said, her voice weary and tired.

  “Yes, they come,” Bitherby agreed.

  Chapter 27

  “Two elves landed along the lane with a small woman,” a security guard named Sweeney said, sticking her head into the conference room.

  “Bitherby?” Annie asked.