Fire and Fantasy: a Limited Edition Collection of Epic and Urban Fantasy

by CK Dawn

  Abbey took the two seats facing Lourdie and began googling Blarney Castle on her tablet, for the hundredth time. The young girl wanted desperately to be able to say that she had kissed the Blarney Stone and made it clear she would even sacrifice shopping for the chance to go to Ireland. Abbey created a nest of comfort for herself. The apprentice hunter’s feet dangled in the air as she happily swung them, listened to music on her mp3 player, and surfed the Internet on her tablet, all while texting Malcolm and two other friends on her phone.

  For the seven hour flight to London, Lourdie took out one of her favorite epic science fiction & fantasy novels. Abbey teased her relentlessly about still carrying a paperback brick around when she had a perfectly good iPod in her pocket. Lourdie lifted one eyebrow and gave Abbey a haughty smirk, opening her book as the jet started its prep for take-off.

  Abbey turned off her army of electronics, put them all away, and just sat there. “Oh.” Hopelessly bored, she pulled out the safety card in the seat’s side pocket.

  Lourdie smiled, she couldn’t explain to the young girl how the smell of the print or the texture of the paper soothed her and brought her deeper into a story. She couldn’t explain that the physical possession of the novel made it feel like it was a secret story only told to her. The magical world within becoming hers alone to protect.

  Since Lourdie wasn’t going to give up more juiciness on Jack, Abbey finished with her Michelin star worthy dinner and turned to her next subject of torment. “Why do you like all that fantasy stuff anyway? Don’t you get enough of that with what we do?” Forgetting the earbuds were still stuck in her ears, she spoke much louder than was necessary. “Can you imagine Logan Templeton, what does everyone call him? Temple, all epic in knight’s armor? I hope he’s a hottie. And, dragons and swordplay? It’s so reality TV for us. Even the shadow…”

  “Padawan!” Lourdie exclaimed as she slammed her book closed, giving Abbey a look of incredulity. “Thank you for teaching me patience, but rein in the teen-queen Inquisitor.” Leaning in closer over the table, she tugged Abbey’s earbuds out and whispered, “Remember stealth, my little ninja. How do you think we’ve kept ourselves under wraps all these years?”

  Abbey looked properly ashamed. “Sorry, Lourdie. I think it was the second cup of coffee”.

  Lourdie rolled her eyes and sighed. Laughing silently after a minute, “He probably would look super hot in some shiny armor.” Both girls giggled. “And how are my books any different than your online role-playing games, hmm? You fight with swords, you hurl balls of fire at magical beasts, and! You even fly on dragons.”

  “That’s totally different. Warcraft is…” she paused, holding her hand up to demonstrate her point was obvious. “Practice,” Abbey whispered with a triumphant grin.

  They entertained themselves with descriptions of various guardians and movie stars in medieval settings for hours before stretching out on the leather recliners for the night.

  “Lourdie?” Abbey rolled over and faced her mentor.

  “Hmm?” she answered in a sleepy voice.

  “Do you think Scout will be okay?” Abbey asked in a shy voice Lourdie hadn’t heard from her apprentice in a very long time.

  “She has us now and Bernie. She will be more than okay,” Lourdie assured her young charge.

  “Yeah. It just brought up a lot of old memories.”

  “I know it did, Abs, I know.” Lourdie reached over and stroked Abbey’s hair to help chase the demons and boogiemen away. “Sweet dreams, little Padawan, only sweet dreams, for tomorrow we set out on a wondrous new adventure.”

  “Mm,” the young girl softly mumbled in agreement. “Goodnight, Sensei.”

  Lourdie smiled at Abbey’s resilience and inner strength, “Goodnight, Abs.”

  The London building that housed the nerve center of the King’s Court was in an elegant neighborhood between Notting Hill and Hyde Park. A black iron gate holding a lovely English garden and a fresh cream colored Victorian Townhouse welcomed the visiting Americans. The only thing showing the age of the Bellows was the giant tree growing against the iron spindle fence. The tree’s trunk was about six feet wide and its bark had been waging a war with the black painted iron for what looked like hundreds of years. The tree was pushing its way through the unyielding bars, like taffy being pulled and stretched, and slowly encasing the iron as it grew. The sight was a spectacular melding of organic and inert matter. Lourdie touched the beautiful wondrous ripples as she and Abbey neared the entry gate. Iron, wood. Iron, wood. She was excited to explore a culture that measured in centuries.

  Lourdie and Abbey were greeted kindly by a small number of guardians and shown their guest accommodations. After settling in they were served a lovely breakfast of scones, jam, and clotted cream in their room. Shortly after that they found themselves in a subterranean elevator heading to the belly of the beast, the operational command center that controlled all information regarding the netherworld and guardian activity, the Bellows of the King’s Court.

  The technology of the old building continued to impress her. Lourdie had been ready to give her retinal scan and thumb print at the elevator, but ten feet from it a green laser invisible to docile eyes had scanned her and Abbey and the doors had opened.

  “Talk about total face recognition. Dude, when do we get the cool green laser scannie thingy?” Abbey looked around the sleek elevator lined with glass and stainless steel.

  “Probably very soon. The latest tech is tested here first, then implemented throughout the courts.” Lourdie smiled at her apprentice. “It is pretty cool, huh? More discreet than planting your face next to a wall.”

  “Totally.” Abbey tilted her head, “Did it scan our fingerprints, too?”

  Lourdie nodded.

  “Whoa.”

  The double doors swished open, and hunter and apprentice entered the grand infrastructure of the Bellows. A huge center pit of computer stations were lined up in a grid formation. The King’s Court scrapers were busy typing away scanning for leaks, securing radio transmissions, and even checking thousands of phones, pictures, and YouTube videos for any unwelcome attention. Dozens of TV screens lined the sunken area, tuned to every news channel known to man.

  Throughout the centuries, scrapers had been responsible for keeping the Court’s secrets. Their name derived from those guardians tasked with physically “scraping” any mention of netherwalker or court activity from books, public records, or even tales told by madmen. The methods used to scrape away evidence evolved with technology, so today most of the scraping required specific skills in hacking and espionage.

  Beyond the electronic jungle of guardians was the Vicereine’s office. Elevated half a flight up from the pit, their archivist leader ruled behind a wall of glass. Trista Gilroy was sitting in a clear Louis XV Ghost chair working at a mirrored desk with silver leaf details. Off to the side was a contemporary high back, white tufted sofa with matching wingback chairs, anchored in place by a grey leather shag rug. An opulent black crystal chandelier hung above the seating area, drenched in deep dark jewels. The only color in the room came from touches of vibrant purples and soft amethyst accessories sprinkled throughout the space.

  “That is one bitchin’ office.” Abbey said, as the leader of the King’s Court waved them into her office. “I am so redecorating my bedroom when we get home. Who would have thought our commander and chief was so vogue?”

  The Vicereine shook the visiting guardians’ hands in turn, “Lourdes Reese. Abigail Thorne. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. As you can see I’ve had a bird’s eye view of your hunting prowess for quite some time now,” she gestured for her guests to join her in the seating area.

  Trista Gilroy was a fair haired, beautiful thirty-one year old woman. Side swept bangs and a long low ponytail crowned her charcoal grey suit, pencil skirt, and red patent leather peep toe heels. She was a formidable leader with an impeccable sense of fashion.

  “Thank you for having us, Lady Trista. It’s a pleasu
re to finally meet you as well. The Bellows is quite impressive. And your office is stunning,” Lourdie said.

  “Oh thank you, my darling, that’s lovely of you to say.” Lady Trista smiled warmly. Seeming to detect her nervousness, their leader turned to Abbey. “Abigail,” she said, trying to put the abnormally quiet teenager at ease, “I can’t help but notice the shirt you’re wearing. Do you suppose they make it in a newborn’s size?” She began rubbing her hidden pregnant belly. “Nether University, hmm? Would you like to meet the team that created the game?”

  “No Way! For real?” Abbey said nearly jumping out of her skin, her nervousness forgotten. “Sorry, that means yes in American teen speak.” She took a breath. “I mean, yes please, I’ve always wanted to meet The Nether creators. Thank you, Lady Gilroy-- I mean Lady Trista.” She quickly recovered, feeling guilty for having a teen moment.

  The Vicereine smiled at Abbey’s improper use of her title. She was obviously already charmed by the young girl. “Oh. We’re not that formal around here, please call me Trista. Both of you. And, I know all about teens and their own language. My youngest brother Louie is thirteen. He’s looking forward to meeting you both and wishes to be your castle tour guide once you reach Porthleven. You’ll arrive once you’ve had a proper tour of Blarney Castle, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That sounds cool,” Abbey smiled.

  “Splendid,” Trista’s smile widened. She looked down into the center pit and nodded. “Now, I believe I have someone here who has been greatly anticipating your arrival.”

  “Hackman!” Lourdie went down the steps and greeted her favorite scraper with a warm hug.

  “Welcome to the fire pit, guardians. Let me introduce you to the guys-- well, a few are more like legends actually,” Drew said proudly. “Over there that’s Jacob, call sign Crop, as in crop circles. To his left we have Campbell, call sign Loch, as in Loch Ness, of course.” In a quieter voice Drew whispered. “Not to be confused with his eighty year old grandfather that virtually started it all, or with Locke from the TV show Lost, he hates that.” Drew chuckled and continued. “Next to him are Henry and Melanie.” One by one a hand would go up and wave then quickly begin typing again. Most of the scraper’s eyes never left their monitors while others would shyly glance at the guests, all except for one. This one didn’t share the shy awkwardness of the others. In fact, he looked very socially adept. “And, last but not least, we have my mentor Ben here, call sign Big,”

  Big, the social butterfly, beamed a bright smile at them.

  “Let me guess, Bigfoot?” Lourdie chuckled.

  “From New York, eh? Just call me Mr. Big, ladies,” the scraper said wiggling his eyebrows up and down playfully.

  Abbey tilted her head, “So, a call sign corresponds to what? ‘Cause Bigfoot is fake, right?”

  “Right. You are looking at some of the legends that created those diversions from the real netherwalker activity and others that have continued the legacies.” Drew praised his fellow guardians.

  “Genius!” Abbey was utterly impressed.

  “What’s your call sign, Drew?” Lourdie asked nudging him, “Though, I do like your nickname, Hackman”.

  “Kid doesn’t have one yet,” Mr. Big said shrugging as Drew threw him a glare.

  Another voice rang out from the gridded jungle of monitors. “Ha! You’ve got to let one slip by you once in a while, otherwise he may never get one Reese.”

  “Though Drew is pushing for a particular name since your last op.” Melanie's young voice chimed in. “Aren’t you, Dragon?” She said playfully.

  “Dragon!” Mr. Big bellowed.

  “Dragon!” Loch echoed.

  “Dragon!” the rest of the scrapers yelled in unison.

  Lourdie joked with her newly eloquent apprentice as they both labored with their extra bags, “Get your blarney through the door already.”

  Abbey playfully retorted with their new favorite word substitute, “Yeah, yeah. Keep your blarneyhose on, dude. Don’t be such a blarney. You know, I bought too many souvenirs. But, kissing the Blarney Stone was on my bucket list, so I had to get some sweet loot to commemorate the event.” She plopped on her guest bed at the Bellows, “What’s this?”

  Two black envelopes, one on each of their beds, awaited them upon their return from their three day Ireland vacation. Abbey was already tearing through the one with her name written on the silver satin ribbon that had been elegantly tied around it. The envelope’s lining was a deep purple and a few lavender buds fell out as Abbey slipped the card from its sleeve. Silver leaf calligraphy danced across the page as the flowers’ scent filled the air. Abbey read the invitation out loud, “You are cordially invited to Castle Clogyn’s annual Brenin Dathlu Ball...” She read the rest to herself. “It’s black tie? Holy crap! Dude does that mean I have to wear a dress?”

  “Afraid so, Abs, and no boots either,” Lourdie added, reading her own invitation.

  “Where am I going to put my weapon?” Abbey panicked. Her last hunter trial could come at any time. She had to be armed.

  “Hmm, that is a good question.” Lourdie tapped a finger to her lips.

  “A garter!” they both said in unison.

  “What do you say, want to break out your steampunk skills and make us both one? Maybe in leather, with a holster and a couple of pockets?” Lourdie said as she envisioned it in her head.

  “Ooh, I’m on it.” Abbey dug through her suitcase and whipped out a small dagger Lourdie had never seen before. The young girl began placing the flat part of the blade in different areas around her leg, searching for the best location for a hidden compartment she could sew into a garter.

  Lourdie became mesmerized by the blade as Abbey took mental measurements with it for their garters. “Where did you get that?” Lourdie asked anxiously.

  “Oh, dude! I totally forgot I haven’t shown this to you. Marcus came and checked on me after we found the hoarders’ apartment and gave it to me. Said he was saving it for my graduation present, but that he thought I deserved it now. He said it was forged by his ancestors a long time ago with parts and scraps from here and there. And, check this, it even has one of Lady Guinevere's gems in the pommel.” Abbey pointed at the small round amethyst then brushed her fingers down a brilliant pear shaped emerald nestled in silver below the cross guard. “And this, Marcus called it the heart stone, he said the legend passed down to him is that it’s actually from Excalibur! Lost on the battlefield during the actual fight between King Arthur and Mordred, but found again years later. Isn’t that cool?” Abbey spun it proudly in her hand. “It’s probably all fairy tales and myths, Marcus’s way of getting my mind off of the big bad I had just seen, but hey, it’s still totes cool.” Abbey shrugged, “Here, check it out.”

  Abbey placed the dagger in Lourdie’s hand.

  Flesh met metal and Lourdie could have sworn she felt a buzzing through her hands emanating from the heart stone. As soon as she tried to concentrate on the source, though, the sensation was gone. Lourdie tried to ignore the strange sensation the weapon had given her, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just awoken. Abbey took the dagger back. The residual shock already fading from Lourdie’s memory like a dream.

  “Okay, the garters will totally work, but seriously. Me in heels?” Abbey put Marcus’s gift back in her suitcase. “They so better not make my trial while I’m in heels. That would just be cruel.”

  Lourdie mentally shook her head, “You work on the garters and I’ll teach you not only how to walk in heels but dance in them, too.”

  “Dance? Are you kidding me? What have I gotten myself into coming to Britain?”

  “Relax, Abs, it will be fine,” Lourdie said, trying to reassure herself that nothing out of the ordinary had happened when she touched Abbey’s blade. “And, I can’t believe I’m saying this, you get another shopping trip out of the deal. I don’t know about you, but a formal gown is not a top priority when I pack. Deadly gear, yes. Killer gown, ugh, never.”
<
br />   “Woohoo, shopping palooza. I bet Trista knows all the uber best dress shops in London.”

  “No doubt. The woman has some serious style.”

  Abbey cocked her head. “The only thing I remember about the King’s Celebration day back in New York is getting the day off from school. I’ve never been to a formal Brenin Dathlu before.”

  “Me either. It should be quite an elaborate event considering Castle Clogyn is where it started.”

  “Oh yeah, awesome. I totally forgot about that. Dude, do you think there will be anyone dressed in like real medieval armor?”

  Lourdie laughed, “Since it’s black tie, I doubt it.”

  Abbey frowned, “Right, black tie, stuffy. I’ve got it.” She was slowly warming up to the idea of not being able to wear her boots, but thought the old grumpy stuffed shirts at Castle Clogyn might need a dose of a little monster. “How high a heel do you think I can go? I can pull a Gaga and add a foot or two!” She stood on the bed and crooked her hands into claws. “Rah rah ah ah ah ah.”

  Lourdie chuckled. “Let’s keep it under three inches shall we?”

  Abbey jumped down. “Back the flux up!”

  “Abigail Thorne!” Lourdie rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all except, OMG, five foot six here I come!” Abbey got on her tiptoes and danced around the room.

  “Nice ride, Bishop,” Lourdie said bringing her luggage out the front door of the Victorian town house to the awaiting metallic, chocolate brown Range Rover HSE LUX V8. She helped Bishop put her suitcases in the trunk or, rather, boot, as she had learned the Brits called them. The Rover still had the new car smell, like it had just rolled out of the factory. She hoped her hosts weren’t going out of their way. She didn’t like being fussed over, especially when she knew her training wasn’t going to work. No one else in the history of the King’s Court had ever been able to conjure two orbs at once. No one.

  “Thank you, my dear,” the archivist said kindly. “Our special guests receive only the best.”