The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  Prudessa lifted her hands in a sign of parley. "I can go on like this longer than you Dillard. My bond-mate and I are much younger and skilled than you and your wand's combined ages and ability. Give up now, and we'll save you more embarrassment. Winterbell will see it as a valiant choice and let you have that old stick in the end."

  Dillard and I both knew that was a lie, but we wouldn't be able to continue in this back-and-forth waste of power. Dillard took a moment to process without sharing his thoughts with me. He raised his hands and began to walk toward Prudessa in a manner of surrender.

  Chapter 17

  A feeling stirred within Dillard I had been waiting for since we became linked. Strategy and cunning. He was faking the surrender.

  Keeping his hand up, Dillard began a slow and minimal swirl on his wrist that held me. Then a quick flick. The jolt of lightning leaped from my body and flashed toward Prudessa.

  She was ready for the assault. While she was watching us, her eyes must have been trained on me. Prudessa erected a force shield that deflected the bolt back the way it came.

  The charged energy hit Dillard in the chest. He went one direction while I went the other.

  The power crackled along the outside of my body. The resulting rebound of energy from our own spell created a conflict in my make-up. A crack formed on my outer wood surface that expanded when I hit the ground.

  My mind ached from the split on my side. My exposed core was leaking energy that clouded my connection to Dillard. I reached out to him, but he was barely moving.

  I could hear Prudessa calling for Dillard's concession, but he refused to give it. I could still feel his mind, and his determination impressed me. The more I focused and tried to defog my own thoughts, the stronger our voices became apparent to one another.

  "I'm hurt, Dillard."

  "I can feel it. You have a crack on the side just above the handle. Hold still."

  Hold still?, I thought. Did Dillard expect me to sprout branches or something and crawl away? No sooner the thought crossed my mind, I felt the tingling around my wound. Healing ripples of energy scattered along my body and pulled me closed. The power Dillard sent me was like nothing I ever experienced before that day. His own life force was somehow willed into my own, causing spontaneous healing.

  Dillard was weakened from the exchange of energy. He dropped his head toward the ground, but not so much as to obscure watching Prudessa's gloating. Dillard watched her through the stringy bangs of his hair. He breathed deep and slow, calming himself and gathering his strength. He was waiting.

  Prudessa began to lower her defenses as she turned toward the spectators. She called for a ruling on her win. She was unaware that Dillard was preparing to strike.

  Standing slow and steady, Dillard's face tightened as he stretched out his hand and called me to him.

  I shook for a tick, then began to lift from the ground. Energy flowed between Dillard and myself as though I remained in his hand. I was a blended part of him now and he a part of me.

  By the time I reached Dillard's hand, The power build-up we had emitted was lighting up the arena.

  Prudessa must have felt our energy because she turned her head in a slow scan for the source of such force and power. When she turned to face us, she was unable to unsheathe Bane fast enough to block the spell sent from Dillard and me. She raised her arms over her face.

  The shot went high and above her head. There, an orb hung above her.

  Laughter escaped Prudessa's mouth, and Bane joined her in mocking our spell.

  "Your mage had the chance to finish this and win," Bane said. "He just didn't have it in him, did he? Your preaching of experience and balance has lost."

  "You're too quick to assign yourself victorious Bane. Your lack of experience will be your downfall. Learn from this."

  "Learn from what?"

  Dillard made a fist, fingers downward and pointed to Prudessa. "Do you concede?"

  "Ha," she responded. "You missed, you dullard. Now I shall finish this."

  "Look up," Dillard said and smiled. He opened his hand as though letting go of something from his grasp.

  Prudessa paused for a moment too long—expecting a ploy. She heard the crackle of the orb and snapped her head back to watch the sphere open and release its contents.

  A mass of black sludge fell from above and dropped directly over Prudessa. It coated her from head to toe, including her drawn wand.

  Prudessa screamed for blood and let loose a spell of vengeance. The magic traveled only as far as the tip of Bane before scattering back and energizing the oozing liquid encasing her. Her magical energy from every attempt stuck to her and Bane.

  "What have you done to me?" Prudessa demanded.

  "Mage paste," Dillard said. "I was wondering how it worked."

  Dillard didn't have to wait for Prudessa to concede. The cheers from the audience and arrival of Mistress Winterbell—wearing an unsatisfied grimace—was notice enough of the victory.

  "It seems I underestimated your...tenacity," Winterbell said. "You have won the duel."

  "He can't have won," Prudessa shouted. "He was grounded and his wand broken."

  Dillard smirked and allowed Gretchen to examine me. Her fingers caressed my body, filling me with a strange urge to expel my innards. I could sense that Dillard felt my discomfort and pulled me back from the Head Mistress's reach.

  "Satisfied?"

  Gretchen did not hide her suspicion well in her glare, but she had no recourse. "The mage Dillard Muckledun has won the duel."

  Jarvis slapped Dillard on the back. "Well done my good mage. I saw how you healed Sparkle from a great distance. I'd very much enjoy hearing how that was accomplished."

  "I'm unsure, but I know it happened when I opened up a bit and allowed myself to experience what I felt of our bond. I sensed my link to the past and my bloodline somehow. A blood memory told me what to do."

  "Extraordinary," Jarvis said. "You truly are a descendant of Merlin the wizard."

  "Not a wizard, nor a mage. I am a Druid," Dillard said.

  "You are more than that Dillard," I said. "Our link and bond is just the beginning. You have more in you yet to discover and now have the full connection to my very core. Hearing the voices of other wands...that's nothing my bond-mate."

  Jarvis barely finished cleaning off Prudessa of his magic attracting goo when she ran toward us waving Bane.

  Dillard lifted his empty hand, palm out. "I wouldn't do that Wizard's Bane."

  Prudessa's spell fizzled out. She tried again, but nothing happened. "You stopped my wand working. What did you do?"

  "I simply told your wand what I could do. Bane chose to stand down."

  Prudessa looked at Dillard with a mixture of shock, annoyance, and awe. "You truly are a Wand-Whisperer."

  About the Author

  Author J. Steven Young shares adventurous and imaginative observations on life across multiple genres, including children's activity books, young adult and fantasy. His Hashtag Magic collection is quickly moving up the fantasy charts on Amazon and the third book in the series is now released.

  Raised in the Chicago area, J. Steven witnessed his fair share of injustice growing up and always imagined how he could make life better for everyone if only he’d had magic or super powers. It took years for him to understand that he did have a gift. Though he traveled the globe in his youth, he still favors the lands of his imagination and wants nothing more than to share his visions with the world. He hopes his gift will allow readers to escape from reality, if only for a spell.

  Following his education in technology, with a focus in writing and communication, he’s spent his career working in the tech and travel industries. It allows for some creativity, but it doesn’t compare to the freedom of creating new worlds and magical creatures.

  A passionate home chef, J. Steven, can often be found in the kitchen with his agreeable husband, Tom, and their spunky little Siamese kitten, GusGus, who runs the house. When he isn’t w
orking or writing, J. Steven is never more than a step or thought away from adventure. Whether spending time in his enchanted garden, conjuring up new recipes or spending time with family and friends, he’s always dreaming up new fiction based on over-the-top characterizations of the people he meets.

  J. Steven is the author of over a dozen books and lives in Chicago, Illinois.

  www.jstevenyoung.com

  www.fb.com/Author.JStevenYoung

  An Ill Wind

  By Devorah Fox

  Chapter One

  I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my chambray shirt. A light tee shirt would be more comfortable in the sweltering heat and suffocating humidity of a South Texas summer day but the heavier shirt's tight weave made a better barrier against the ferocious mosquitos. It had taken days for the ground to absorb all the standing water from Hurricane Harvey. The pests hatched in droves. Floodwaters flushed rattlesnakes and fire ants from their homes just as Category-4 force winds and twelve feet of storm surge had driven us Port Aransas residents from ours.

  Parched, I grabbed my water bottle. As I sipped, I spotted a figure approaching from the end of the street. My pulse quickened. Few who lived in my Beachside subdivision had returned from evacuation. In the motel to which I fled for two weeks, I learned about looters and squatters who descended on our small city to take advantage of empty and unsecured homes. Did this person have bad intent? Should I confront him? Lock myself in the house and call the police?

  He drew closer. Through the dust and haze I recognized the figure. I sighed with relief and greeted him. “Hi, Elmore.” Sweat dampened his tee shirt Dirt clung to his boots and jeans. White hair poked out from the stained sweatband of his sun-bleached Dallas Cowboys ball cap.

  “Juneiffer,” he acknowledged. “Started clean-up, I see.”

  “Yes. My family came down from Dallas to lend a hand. My brother-in-law and nephews did the heavy lifting.” They cleared my driveway and front walk of debris carried in by Gulf of Mexico waters and piled four feet high. Meanwhile, my sister and I exhausted every bleach-based cleaner I had on hand to sanitize a refrigerator crippled without power in the late August heat. Milk had soured to the consistency of cottage cheese. Bread and cheeses turned green and frozen foods melted. Formerly-fresh fruits and vegetables decomposed into a stinky fuzzy sludge on the bottom shelves. My fridge had never been as clean as it was now. Note to self: next time you evacuate for a hurricane, empty the refrigerator before you leave.

  “Have much damage?”

  “Could be worse, I guess. You?”

  He rolled his eyes. “What a mess. Water soaked the garage. I already got mold crawling halfway up the wall.”

  For Gulf Coast Texans, few words gave rise to more terror than “mold.” The ever-present humidity created ideal conditions for black mold to thrive. Air conditioning and ventilation kept it at bay but our boarded-up homes went without either for weeks. Not merely unsightly, mold led to ailments ranging from fatigue and headaches to memory problems, joint pain, and a host of respiratory problems that were difficult to treat.

  “I gotta pull out the drywall and insulation before it gets any worse,” he said.

  That couldn’t be an easy task. Elmore was about a decade older than I and not any sprier.

  I wouldn't have said that my walls got as wet. Note to self: give the garage a more intensive examination. Elmore lived closer to the Gulf shoreline by half a mile. His house may have taken the brunt of the storm surge. I realized with a guilty start that my home might have been spared at the expense of his. I'm sorry didn't seem to be enough.

  “Anyhow, I found this in my yard. I'm thinking it might be yours. Didn't I see it hanging from your front fence? When you had a front fence.” Elmore held out a small oval ceramic plaque. It read “If you're lucky enough to live at the beach, you're lucky enough.”

  I tried not to snort. In the light of how much devastation Hurricane Harvey caused, “unlucky” would be more appropriate. Still, I was sentimental about the plaque, acquired when my late husband and I bought the lot for our retirement beach house. What plans Louis and I had for our Golden Years spent by the sea. Now he was gone but I was still here, less than one half of a whole. Widowhood left me at a loss for what to do with myself. “Thank you, Elmore,” I said over the lump in my throat. “If there's anything I can do—”

  Elmore glanced at the wreckage in my yard. “I reckon you've got enough of your own problems. Are you getting any help from FEMA or Texas Windstorm?”

  “I filed claims online. The motel I stayed in near San Antonio offered free WiFi. I haven't heard anything back, though.” The Federal Emergency Management Agency made the news any time there was a disaster. Editorials often criticized the agency for being slow to act or for not providing enough assistance. I never paid much attention, until now.

  I found follow-up from home a challenge with the Internet down. Cell service at my house didn't deliver a strong signal. I waited on hold only to have the call drop when I finally connected with an agent.

  “You should talk to them in person,” Elmore said. “I did. I got awarded some cash on the spot.”

  “Really? Where did you go?”

  Where were those agencies' offices, anyway? Up until now, they were addresses on preprinted envelopes that I stamped and put in the mail without a second glance. Would I need to drive to Corpus Christi, or further, like San Antonio or Austin? Not Houston, I hoped. Houston took as bad a hit and conditions there were no better than here.

  To my relief, he said, “They've all got representatives at the Community Center.”

  The Community Center still stood? Assembled a century ago from a kit, it hadn't been built according to today’s engineered windstorm codes. I wondered what made the building so stalwart.

  “They're there every day.”

  “That’s easy to remember.” I had lost track of the days of the week. Each day seemed to be more than twenty-four hours long. I would head into the kitchen to find something for dinner and discover that it was only three in the afternoon. By Wednesday I was ready for Friday. “I'll check it out.”

  Elmore touched the bill of his cap. “Don't work too hard. It's hot out here.”

  “No argument there. Do you, uh, need a cold drink?”

  “No, thanks. I got some in a cooler.” With a nod, he chugged up the street and faded back into the dusty haze.

  Alone, I became aware of the unnatural stillness. Silent yards heaped with rubble made Beachside feel not only deserted but forsaken, a war zone abandoned by both winners and losers.

  I turned to face my battered house. Wind and water had knocked out the lattice trim enclosing the crawl space under my house. The dark cavity piled with rotting brown seagrass and shattered siding looked like the gaping maw of a zombie.

  The work of repairing my scarred paint, dented and missing siding, broken exterior lights, split railings, shredded screens, damaged trim, and collapsed latticework was too high up for me, too heavy, or demanded tools and skills I lacked. Just who would do it, though? New construction projects for big developers kept tradesmen busy. Homeowners like me found it difficult under the best of circumstances to hire help for smaller, less profitable jobs like the ones Hurricane Harvey left me.

  Despite my bandana, sweat dribbled down my nose. Elmore was right; the heat was formidable. Plus my bum knee was killing me. I made a deal with myself: lug one more wheelbarrow load out to the curb, then go inside and take a break.

  I hefted shovel-loads of trash into the wheelbarrow and wobbled along the path my nephews had cleared to the curb. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a cardboard carton perched atop the debris. It looked like something light enough to lift so I grabbed it to add it to my load. Water and weather had loosened the tape holding the bottom closed and the contents poked out. I upended the box onto the wheelbarrow to keep them from scattering. Wadded newspaper held something that caught the light and glittered. I thought of Christmas ornaments packed for storage. Did the box b
elong to one of my neighbors and the storm surge deposited it in my yard the way my plaque ended up at Elmore's? Reluctant to trash it, I entertained the idea that at some point I would be able to find the owner. I emptied the wheelbarrow then carted the box into the garage.

  I took a cautious sniff. The garage smelled of dust and rust but not of mold or mildew. Nevertheless, I resolved to get part of the wall cut away if only to ensure that nothing festered behind it. The possibility of mold flourishing in my walls was likely to keep me awake at night.

  I gave the box a closer examination. An ordinary packing carton, printing on the outside indicated it once held bottled wine. It still contained the cushioning cardboard separators except that instead of glass bottles, each cavity held a newspaper-wrapped object.

  I pulled one out, unwrapped it, and opened a black trash bag intending to stuff the newspaper inside for eventual recycling but a headline caught my eye. The page was from a past edition of the local paper. I recalled the covered incident which occurred shortly after construction began on the beach house. I smiled, remembering how Louis and I had champagne-toasted the setting of the pilings for our dream home and our joyful optimism. Instead of trashing those newspapers I should hang onto them, read them. They could remind me of why we chose to build here, so far removed from everything and everyone we knew. The stories might keep me buoyed during the hard work of disaster recovery to come.

  I carried the box into the house. Cool dry air greeted me. It was like stepping into a climate-controlled space capsule from the harsh environment of an alien planet. I placed the box on the coffee table, opened each bundle, and laid the newspaper aside.

  The noise woke my cat from his post-breakfast nap. Gunsmoke leaped from the couch to the table to investigate. He pawed the newspapers then swatted at the glittery crystals. “No, no, Gunsmoke. Do not whack those onto the floor,” I chided him. With a glare, he returned to the couch for a pre-lunch nap.