Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  Movement caught his eye and he snapped his attention to a black window on the second floor. It was still and empty, as best he could tell. A pattering sound drew his attention back to the road behind him. Hurrying footsteps were approaching. Felix dashed to the smashed glass door into the tower block and slipped, unseen, inside. He peered cautiously around the metal door frame and saw five figures approaching. It was the familiar group from earlier that day, including the two who had turned into dogs, or wolves, or whatever they were. They spoke in hushed voices as they hurried along the road.

  ‘Look at the state of it,’ a gruff voice remarked softly. ‘This is what happens when there’s no one here to control a territory.’

  ‘Mjolnir, what can you see?’ The woman who worked at the museum tapped the owner of the gruff voice on the arm and pointed past Felix’s hiding place to some point further up the road.

  ‘More of the same.’

  ‘Black Rat, I don’t like being blind. Scout ahead, will you?’

  She seemed to be in charge. Felix watched, his breath held tight. The skinny lad from earlier stepped out of the pack and shimmered all over. A moment later a wolf stood in his place. It was undeniable now, at such close range. He was no dog. His shaggy coat and piercing eyes belonged to the kind of wolf he had once seen at the zoo. He had hip bones that stuck out and ears that twitched. The wolf’s nose turned in Felix’s direction and he darted back behind the cover of the wall.

  ‘What is it?’ the woman asked. The wolf replied with a gruff little bark. Felix stood frozen as he heard footsteps drawing nearer and the sound of the wolf’s breathing as it sniffed its way closer.

  Felix stepped softly away from the door and dashed for the dark staircase leading up out of the lobby. There was broken glass all over the floor and it crunched under his feet. Felix took a jump onto the stairs and ran swiftly up them two at a time. He turned a corner and ran up the next flight of concrete stairs. He stopped and leaned against the breeze block wall to catch his breath. The gun in his hands was slick with sweat from his palms, which he hastily wiped on his jeans. He listened carefully for movement on the stairs below.

  He was trapped in a derelict building, with five freaks sniffing him out. This wasn’t his plan.

  There was a shrill whistle and Felix heard pattering paws on the broken glass in the lobby below. He peeked around the corner and saw nothing but shadows. Slowly, Felix edged down the stairs, his back to the wall and the rifle raised. He got to the foot of the stairs and looked cautiously around the corner to see the wolf trotting across the tarmac outside towards the waiting people.

  ‘We don’t have time for this. It’s a distraction. You stay here and keep an eye out for the intruder and we’ll carry on to the Bone Anchor.’ The woman barked her orders with a snap of impatience in her voice. She looked so at odds with the men with her. She was dressed in a smart suit, her hair pinned neatly back in a bun. The man she had called Mjolnir was tall with lots of thick, coarse hair, and plaits in his ample beard. Then there was the old man with the staff and long coat and long, greying hair. The other, Chinese-looking man with them was younger, with jaw-length black hair and sharp eyes. He wore baggy trousers and a long, untucked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had tattoos all over his forearms.

  The four of them set off at a brisk walk, while the wolf turned in a small circle and then began pacing back and forth across the road. It kept glancing towards the doorway. Felix was trapped.

  There is one way out, a voice inside his head whispered. His grip tightened on the gun. He took a careful step onto the glass-covered floor and walked softly towards the door. The wolf kept pacing, his ears twitching. There were no people in this strange world. Felix felt certain of that now. Julie wasn’t here. He had come looking for answers but only found more questions. A creeping sensation slithered up his spine and he looked slowly over his shoulder into the darkness. There was nothing there, yet he felt as though he were being watched.

  You can get out of here, get home, back to the human world, he told himself. Find Julie tomorrow. He raised the rifle and let his finger caress the trigger. It had been months since he had last fired a weapon, but he took a steadying breath and lined up his shot. The wolf was pacing slowly back and forth. Felix took a step closer. The wolf stopped and looked right at him, his fangs bared.

  Felix fired. The shot echoed in the dim concrete box in which he stood. His ears rang with the shock of the loud noise in the silence. He shook his head and looked over to where the wolf had been standing. It lay limp on the ground, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Felix walked swiftly over to it and peered down at it. It was still breathing, panting heavily. Its eyes moved slowly, looking up at Felix. There was a bloody hole in its side. Its fur began to recede and its body started to grow longer. It was shifting back into the man. Felix watched in horror as the flesh started to knit itself back together right before his eyes. He turned and sprinted away the way he had come without looking back. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder and he could only hear his own heavy breathing and the pounding of his boots on the tarmac. He had no idea if he was being followed or not.

  He saw the hole back into the human world ahead and summoned every ounce of energy to run even faster. His lungs were burning. He leapt through the hole and into the lit street. The sound of traffic greeted him and he skidded to a halt. He looked back towards the portal. There was no one following him. He looked up to the night sky and felt soft rain on his skin.

  Well done, he said to himself. You got out of a tight spot there. But that thing didn’t die. It survived a shotgun blast. Felix had seen it begin to heal itself. What were those things? What madness had he stumbled upon?

  ‘Don’t worry, Felix,’ the voice inside said silkily. Felix frowned, no longer certain that the voice was his own. ‘You have me to help you now. You and I will do great things together. Trust me, we’ll find Julie and we’ll make those creatures pay for taking her away.’

  Felix spun around, looking for the source of the voice. There was no one there. He gasped for breath and looked down at the gun in his hands. He hurriedly fumbled with the bag and concealed the rifle inside. He swung the bag onto his back. He looked back at the hole in reality one last time then set off quickly towards the main road. His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He tugged it free and looked at the screen. It was a mess of numbers. A deep frown creased his brow. He answered the call and lifted the phone to his ear.

  ‘Felix?’ a voice crackled, surrounded by static. ‘Felix? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Julie?!’

  ‘Felix! I’m here. It’s so dark and strange. Help me!’

  ‘I’m trying. I’m trying to find you.’

  ‘Felix? Can you hear me? Felix?’

  He looked at the phone then pressed it to his ear again. He had a perfect signal.

  ‘She can’t hear you where she is, Felix. But we’re going to get her out, you and me.’

  ‘You and me,’ Felix said. ‘I’m coming, Julie. Hold tight. I’m going to find you.’ The line went dead and his phone crackled with static one last time before falling silent. ‘So,’ Felix said softly to thin air, acknowledging the hitch-hiker in his head. ‘What’s the plan?’

  In part two, “The Watcher,” Felix falls deeper down the rabbit hole and the shifters react to this unprecedented attack on their own turf. Who is whispering inside Felix's head and will he find Julie? Find out in Wayward Magic!

  About the Author

  H. B. Lyne lives in Yorkshire with her husband, two children, and cat. When not juggling family commitments, she writes dark urban fantasy novels, purging her imagination of its demons. Inspired by the King of Horror himself, Holly aspires to be at least half as prolific and successful and promises to limit herself to only one tome of The Stand-like proportions in her career. Other interests and idols include Joss Whedon and Robert Kirkman, and she is often spotted wearing Firefly™ or The Walking Dead™ apparel. Find out more at ww
w.hblyne.com

  Don't forget to grab your copy of the next anthology, Wayward Magic, now!

  Ariana’s Hope

  H. M. Jones

  “Ariana’s Hope” is a story of growth and discovery. Like many stories in this anthology, it is a story about hidden magic revealed. But it is also a story about coming of age. Ariana doesn’t just discover that she is magical; she discovers that she is capable, strong, determined and resourceful. This story is dedicated and written for a special girl named Ariana who loves reading and dearly wanted her mom’s author friend to write a story where she was the hero. Ariana, I hope this story helps you find your hidden magic.

  H.M. Jones

  Ariana has come of age. Her father has been trying to marry her off to any rich Lordling who makes an offer in a weak attempt to save her from the attentions of the evil Count Repugnian. Unfortunately for her father and suitors, Ariana has a knack for intimidating young men. A strange power flows through her veins. It’s a power that terrifies her, but also gives her hope. If it doesn’t kill her, it might save her.

  Ariana distractedly mixed her bright orange mashed yams with booger-green peas. The result was a vomity mass that still looked more appealing than the cracked-lipped smile of the young man seated across from her. His back was bent like an old man’s, even though he was probably only five years older than her. This stranger was seated at the right hand of her father—a place of honor, a place she’d never been situated.

  The clink of silver fork against china plate and her father’s loud smacks as he chewed increased the nausea that threatened to overcome her. It was hard to tell if it was anxiety over “putting her best foot forward for the rich Lord Telemund” (as her father so tactlessly put it) or if it was the persistent sickness that had been plaguing her over the last year that made it impossible to eat.

  Either way, she would not be the one to break the thick silence. Not only did she not want to talk to the young Lord, but her father preferred her silence. He always cautioned her, “No Lord wants a thirteen-year-old girl to jabber about things she can know nothing of.”

  She wondered why anyone would want to marry a little girl, anyway. It was true that she had no life experience, no idea about cattle prices and harvests and managing land, but she’d only been alive thirteen years and was not allowed to work. So, really, her lack of worldly knowledge was not a fault. It was just her lot.

  She didn’t and couldn’t look like the lovely ladies at the fancy balls the local gentry put on. She was rail thin and childlike. She had no bosom to fill a dress, no curves on her hips for silk to settle. She didn’t look much different than she had when she was ten. So, it was with great confusion that she was being put through these dinners with Lords who were often ten to twenty years older than herself. Didn’t they want someone older and wiser? Someone womanly?

  If anyone had asked her opinion (they never did), she’d have told them she didn’t want to marry at all. The very thought frightened her to sickness. Or, at least, she thought that was what had been making her sick. A year ago, when she’d turned “marriageable age,” the body aches, migraines, and surges began.

  The doctor said they came from fear, that they were all of her own making. He tisked Ariana and said, “You need to stop this, child. It won’t save you from marriage. And, trust me, there are worse things than marrying a rich Lord.”

  Ariana never argued with Doctor Phillips. He was nice enough, nicer than her father, but didn’t like to be crossed in opinion. Before dinner she’d begged her father to call on Dr. Phillips again. Her head ached terribly and her legs shook like a new colt trying to stand. Her father told her to stop the play-acting and asked Annabebeth to pin Ariana’s hair more tightly in place.

  Annabeth, her handmaid, apologized to Ariana as she pinned her hair closer to her scalp. She’d been trying to help Ariana, knowing that the young Lady suffered terrible headaches when these dinners came around, but Annabeth couldn’t disobey her employer. The pinned braid felt like a crown that was two sizes too small. It pushed against the already throbbing parts of her tender head. Now, the throbbing contended with the frightening pressure bubbling under her skin. She put a hand to her temple and closed her eyes, shutting out the young, dull Lord Telemund.

  “Ariana, please don’t mix your food. It is not lady-like,” her father chided. Ariana put her fork down without opening her eyes and rubbed the other temple with her now-free hand.

  “Are you unwell, Lady Gray?” Lord Telemund’s concern sounded forced.

  “She’s fine,” her father assured the youth quickly. “She’s just careful to not overindulge. I have impressed upon her the importance of maintaining a healthy weight. She takes it too far sometimes and becomes lightheaded.”

  “To be sure, I cannot fault that.” The simpering youth laughed. “Abstinence is becoming in women.”

  Ariana would’ve been annoyed with the men’s comments about her weight, if she could think over the pounding of her temples and the rolling waves of nausea pushing their way up her throat. The pressure from inside bore down upon her rail-thin frame with such force she bowed low with it.

  “Posture, Ariana,” her father said over half-chewed chicken.

  She tried to straighten, shaking with the effort, rubbing her temples with both hands rhythmically. It did very little to lessen the ache behind her eyes. The pressure in her head was so bad it made her ears ache. Tears sat just inside her closed lids.

  “Ariana, put your hands down and eat something.”

  “Father, I’m sorry, but I’m worried I may be sick if I try.” Bile stung her throat.

  “Nonsense. You only feel sick with hunger. Now, do as I say.” The cold abruptness in his voice stifled any argument she intended to make.

  Ariana dropped her hands from her temples. Her vision danced with gossamer rainbow lights; the way it always did before a spell hit. The pain was so intense she couldn’t feel anxious that she was about to ruin the beautiful dinner Ruth cooked for them. She didn’t know how it would be ruined, but she knew the signs and this spell was sure to be a big one.

  Even though she knew it was fruitless to fight it, she tried pushing the pain, the dizzying lights and the headache away. She picked up her fork with a shaking hand, stabbed a small piece of chicken and placed it on her dry tongue. A rush of stomach acid rose in protest. She forced herself to chew, trembling with the effort it took to not be sick.

  “She really looks quite unwell, Lord Grey. Can we not call for a soothing tea?” His voice squeaked in barely concealed disgust.

  It sounded as though the young lordling didn’t want his dinner splattered in sick. That thought made Ariana laugh. The chicken fell, barely chewed, from her mouth with the short, amused “ha.” Her eyes widened in panic as she realized the chicken was far from the last thing to fall from her mouth and onto the dinner table.

  She spewed with force—bathing the chicken, peas, mashed yams, silver cutlery, wine, and oak tabletop in the strangest substance to ever come out of a young lady. It was not vomit, but glittering, vivid colors. Enchanting rainbows shot from her mouth, coating the laden table in majestic, arching bows of light.

  Lord Telemund recoiled, his cracked lips parted in horror, his muddy eyes wide in fear. His screams resounded down the hall as he made a hasty departure, not excusing himself from the table.

  Ariana closed her mouth and sighed in relief; the tortuous pressure finally relieved. Her body felt weightless and free of pain. She smiled in satisfaction, until she saw her father’s livid, red face.

  “To. Bed. Now.” Each word fell, heavy, from his mouth.

  Ariana didn’t wait for his volcano of rage to erupt. She shot from her seat and raced down the hall, up the walnut staircase and into the safety of her room. She threw herself onto her velvet burgundy bedspread, her chin trembling. She pulled the gold brocade curtains around her bed and shuffled into the recently tucked linens. Annabeth wouldn’t have to make the bed again today. There was no question of her fa
ther letting her out of her room for the rest of the night.

  Tears fell from her eyes in earnest. She let them slide down her face. Every tear that fell felt like the rainbows that’d poured from her mouth at dinner—liberating. They eased her anxiety and dropped her into a heavy sleep.

  She didn’t notice how the tears sparkled, unnaturally silver, gathering in glimmering puddles at the sides of her face. She was asleep before she could see the sparking puddles merge over her crown of raven hair. The tears swayed then spun into the air and, with a little pop, thunked down onto the bed next to Ariana’s sleeping face. They didn’t form a shapeless puddle, but a shining silver compass.

  Ariana’s world rocked back and forth, as if she were sailing on calm, gently rolling waters. Only, when she sat up, she couldn’t see water, couldn’t see anything. A dense heavy blanket of white fog settled over everything.

  The dank moisture dampened her hair, her nightgown and her face. Sheets of cold mist coated her face. She shivered. The swaying of the vessel made it hard to find her feet. When she finally found purchase, she stood, wobbly legged. She staggered in a side to side motion, very slowly, down what she guessed was a ship’s deck. She flailed her arms, attempting to locate a rail or something to follow. She prayed she didn’t trip and fall into deep, frigid water.

  It was scary even though she knew she was dreaming. She had the same dream every night for the last year. Every time she closed her eyes she woke on the gently rocking vessel, stumbling to find her way through the dense fog. She always stumbled into the same pole, smacking her forehead so that it throbbed. Every night she felt along the smooth surface of the wooden pole until her fingers met the billowing cotton fabric of a sail. And every night the fog would clear, revealing a glowing, silver-haired woman who never turned around.