Secrets The Walkers Keep: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Casters of Magic Series Book 1)

by J. Morgan Michaels

  “Justin,” Cooper yelled over me. Justin came and sat on the arm of the couch. “Give our new friend here a little show, eh?”

  Justin rolled his eyes and scoffed before holding out his hand with his palm flat, facing the ceiling. Slowly his fingers separated and curled, and as they did, a tiny bead of light appeared, floating unaided above his hand. As it grew, it looked more and more like the flame from a candle, glowing red light above a darker blue light. It started to swirl, slowly pulling in more light and getting larger until a softball-sized sphere of fire hovered above his hand. He moved it closer to me, and the heat from the fire brushed against my speechless face.

  Holy shit!

  Then with one quick motion, Justin closed his hand and extinguished the fire, leaving only small strands of smoke that seeped out from between his fingers.

  “How’s that?” Cooper asked.

  “Impressive,” I said, trying to hide my amazement.

  Everyone jumped back into their own conversations, like nothing that had just happened was unusual, and left me to stew in my seat. My lip, caught underneath my clamping tooth, might have betrayed the image I was trying to portray: that I was completely unaffected by what I just saw.

  “So what’s a Caster?” I asked Cooper as he handed me another glass full of Blue Ice.

  Even Liv snickered at that question.

  I felt like the new kid at school who went to his first health class, weeks after it started, only to ask “what’s a condom?” and have all the kids look at me with shock and condescension. “You don’t know what a condom is?” the other kids would ask, laughing at me. I’d slink down in my seat and pretend I had never asked the question, and continue going on thinking that condoms were the plastic packets that ketchup and mustard came in at fast food restaurants.

  “We’ve been called lots of things over the years,” Cooper said, “witches, wizards, enchanters . . . and all sorts of other things that are less kind.”

  “Devil worshipers,” Liv said. “Heathens.”

  “That’s probably my favorite one. I can’t say it’s ever mattered to us what term they use, though. It’s just their way to classify us; names to call people that have something they don’t.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Power,” he said. He leaned back comfortably on the couch and put his arms behind his head. “Caster is a term that’s a little bit more . . . modern, I suppose. In any case, we like to keep our distance from the rest of them, so that’s why I’ve built this area of the club—so we could enjoy ourselves without worrying about the rest of the world.” He raised his hand to present his adult clubhouse.

  “How many people are like you?” I asked.

  “Like us, you mean? Who knows? We aren’t exactly kept track of by census, are we?” He laughed at himself. “I’ve got to go check on a few things downstairs. I’ll be back up in a bit.”

  Liv chugged the rest of her Blue Ice and stood up. “We should probably get going anyway, I have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Well, Love, try to come ‘round a bit more often then,” Cooper said, kissing Liv briskly on the lips, “and bring your new friend.”

  Elle came up beside me and slapped my ass playfully. “Oh yeah, definitely bring your friend.”

  “He’s only just gotten here, Elle, take it easy on the boy,” Cooper said, reaching for my hand again. “Don’t worry about the others. They’re a skittish bunch, but they’ll come around eventually.”

  “So, what’d ya think?” Liv asked when we got back to her SUV.

  “You’re definitely full of surprises,” I said. “They didn’t seem overly interested in me though.”

  “I’ve known them for a while, except maybe Elle, and they’re a little tough on new people but they’ll get used to you.”

  “Why’d you bring me there?”

  “Because it’s fun?” She laughed. “I think it’s good for you to meet other people like us. This is all going to sink in soon, and when it does, you’ll want to be here with us.”

  When we pulled up to my car, I fished through my pocket for my keys. Liv watched, then tilted her head at me and smiled. As I went to say goodbye, she leaned over and kissed me, her soft lips running smoothly across mine.

  I pulled away and coughed in surprise. “Wait. What about Cooper?”

  She held onto my shirt and pulled me into another kiss. “What about him?”

  “I . . . I thought . . . I guess . . . ,” I stuttered, leaning as far into the door as I could to get away from her.

  “I think you might spend too much time thinking, and too little time actually doing.”

  I pulled back. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you should try living a little more and worrying a little less. Passion and sex are only complicated when you make them complicated,” she said with a whisper-like laugh.

  I sighed.

  “I promise, when you embrace who you are, things are going change for you. I mean, if you want them to. Do you like the way things are, or do you want to get everything you possibly can out of your life?”

  There were a few uncomfortable seconds posing as hours before I finally said: “I want everything.”

  She casually moved back into her own seat and fastened her seat belt. “Good,” she said. “So, want to follow me back to my house and we’ll live a little together?”

  Chapter 9

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked myself out loud when I pulled into my driveway, after having not followed Liv home. Offers like that didn’t come every day, at least not to me.

  There weren’t many women to speak of who had seen my bedroom, or me theirs. I just had such a hard time connecting to anyone like that. Each time I tried, the encounter would end with little fanfare and a gnawing sense of emptiness. I’d lie in bed, staring at nothing on the ceiling, and wish to feel something more than I just had. Something fulfilling. Something to make it worth doing it again. I don’t know what was missing. Love maybe. Or passion. But something was definitely always missing.

  In my mind, that something came from the perfect woman, and she was a lot like Liv: bold, beautiful, smart, a little mysterious, and a whole lot more take-charge than I ever was. Yet after being kissed by that seemingßly perfect woman, I was still waiting. Maybe that something didn’t exist, or maybe I wouldn’t know what it was when I felt it. Or maybe Liv was right, and I needed to live more and worry less.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, I came out of the locker room at the gym and passed the stairs that led to the treadmills. Casters, spells, Liv, and everything else from Equinox was running through my head. They were wild thoughts, surreal even, and they took up so much space in my mind that I couldn’t dwell on the one thing I had done nothing but dwell on for days. But they also worked me up into a healthy anxiety about a world I couldn’t comprehend yet. As much as I loved some quality treadmill time, I knew it wasn’t going to cut it.

  ‘Max McKay, Owner/Instructor’ a plaque posted on the wall in front of one of the gym’s classrooms said. Above it was a framed picture of Max in a commanding martial arts pose. He had white pants on and a black karate belt tied tightly above them, but his t-shirt looked more like something you’d see in an Old Navy commercial. The door to the room was propped open, and I could see him moving around inside.

  An ancient-looking stereo was attached to a shelf in the corner of the studio, blaring out an odd mash-up of techno and classical music. Max was alone and working through what looked like an intense martial arts routine. His forceful but almost effortless movements were entrancing. Hesitant to interrupt him, and eager to see what he could do, I leaned against the doorway and quietly watched the dance-like movements unfold.

  He threw strikes into the air with his hands, followed by sweeping kicks with his feet. He’d kick low, and without putting his le
g down, he’d kick high. His eyes and head would shift in new directions just before a strike was unleashed, and I could almost see the imaginary attackers he was fending off. Block, block, kick. Block, kick, punch. The routine was picking up its pace and despite the flushing of his face, he never lost a step. Hissing sounds from his disciplined breathing came with each move and certain strikes, the ones that exerted enough power to knock imaginary attackers over came with a coarse roar.

  The fabric of his white pants made a sharp snapping noise with each flawless kick he executed, and each new movement stretched the material of his clothes enough to remind me to be jealous of his body. And that body moved in ways I didn’t know were possible, and in ways that my body never had, nor would.

  His foot soared into the air again, whipping off a series of kicks. His other foot, planted firmly on the ground, slowly rotated so the kicks made a complete circle in the air, knocking down any invisible enemy attacking. A series of flat-handed strikes followed when both feet were back on the ground, before one last kick jettisoned into the air. His other foot followed, lifting his entire body above the ground. The striking foot had made a full crescent while he hovered in the air, twisting his entire body. Steadfast and sturdy, he landed on the ground, took a quick breath, and then bowed respectfully toward the flags hung on the wall.

  I was already clapping lightly before he turned to me. He grabbed a towel from a bench against the wall and dried his face. “Hello there. Come for your balance lesson?” he asked.

  “Sorry for staring,” I said. “But that was crazy. I mean . . . like incredible crazy, not ‘try to lick your own elbow’ crazy.”

  “Haha. Thanks, but don’t praise me too much, I missed the mark on one of those jumps,” he said. By then, the smell of fresh sweat was encroaching on me as he stood uncomfortably close.

  “Right. I can’t pick up a pen without toppling over, but you missed the mark on that jump. That’s the same. I guess I’ll stop admiring you then.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He threw his wet towel in the corner and turned down the stereo. “So what do you think? A balance lesson, you know, so you can at least pick up a pen?”

  “Um . . . I was kind of in the mood for something a little bit more . . . aggressive.”

  He laughed a little and said, “We can do that.” He started to walk away but then hesitated and turned. “Listen, your cousin was in here earlier and told me about your mom. I’m really sorry to hear about that.”

  “This is probably going to make me sound like a jerk, but do you think that we could not talk about that? I mean, thank you and all that good stuff, but I’d really rather be hitting something then talking about that.”

  “Right. Done.” His bare feet thumped against the padded floor as he walked to the back of the room. He pulled some padded gloves off a shelf and slipped them over his hands. “Okay. Why don’t you try hitting these for a bit? I’m going to watch your form and balance.” He held out his hands unevenly and nodded for me to start.

  The gloves expanded like catcher’s mitts, with a large round pad on each. Had they been a real attacker, I wouldn’t have done much more than make them laugh as I slapped them. After only a minute, my hands hurt from the sandpaper-like material of the gloves, but the release felt good nonetheless.

  He started moving backward in a circle, forcing me to follow him with my attacks. He kept the gloves in constant motion, moving them back and forth and then up and down.

  “Okay good. Now when you’re hitting, make sure to keep your thumb tucked underneath your fist,” he said. I tried to do what he said, but he just shook his head. “No. Don’t hold it in your other fingers.”

  He dropped his arms, presumably to show me what he was talking about, but I was already mid-punch. Luckily, he was a lot stealthier than me and moved away from my fist long before I would have hit him.

  “Okay,” he said with a little chuckle. He took off the gloves and grasped my arm with his strong hand. “Hat, relax your hand.” He pulled at my fingers and like they were made of clay, molded them into what, to me, felt like an unnatural fist.

  It turned out that “tucking” your thumb meant to pull it underneath your other fingers, to shield it from the impact. “If you don’t keep your thumb here, when you punch something other than those pads, you’ll break it,” he said.

  That can’t feel good.

  For someone who could punch and kick with such aggression, he had a surprisingly gentle touch. “Are you tired now or do you want to try again with your new and improved fist?” he asked.

  He slipped the pads on again and taunted me a bit with funny faces. I loaded my new fists by my chest like I knew what I was doing and starting swinging at him again.

  “Come on! Is that all you’ve got?”

  He was dodging around me, making me flail about after him. I couldn’t seem to hit the pads anymore; he was either making the game more challenging or I was just getting worse at it. My elbows were starting to get a little sore from my jerky punches and within a few more minutes of the cat-and-mouse game, I was panting uncontrollably with sweat dripping down my tingling arms.

  Mental note, work out arms more often.

  “Okay, let’s take a break. That was pretty good for your first time,” he said. He tossed the pads on the floor and patted me on the back as I hunched over with my hands on my knees. He was good at being reassuring, but for someone who, only minutes before, was spinning in the air like an Olympic gymnast, I doubted he was at all impressed by me.

  “That was harder than I thought,” I said, rubbing my knuckles.

  He handed me a bottle of water and we sat cross legged on the floor. “Learning a good punch is helpful, but if you’re ever in trouble, go for the eyes, the throat, the groin—anything that you can imagine hurting like hell if someone did it to you. You don’t even need a fist, look,” he said, tightening his fingers and pushing out the palm of his hand. “Drive this into someone’s nose. It’ll probably break it and distract them long enough to get away. You ready to try a lesson in balance?”

  “Sure, I haven’t made an ass of myself even once today.”

  “Great,” he said, totally ignoring my joke and getting up. Instead of standing up like me, you know, like a fumbling old man with bad knees, he flipped from the ground in one easy motion. He leaned back quickly, and as his back touched the floor, he bent his legs up to his chest and flung them forward, taking his upper body with him as his legs soared into the air before landing securely on his feet. The entire ordeal took less than a second.

  Show-off.

  “Alright, what I want you to do is stand right here, feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent slightly, eyes closed.”

  Okay. Shoulder-width apart. Shoulder-width apart. I should be able to figure that out, even with my eyes closed.

  He came up behind me and kicked my shoes with his bare foot, pushing my legs wider. ‘Shoulder-width apart’ feels a lot wider than you’d think it would.

  “Ah!” I yelped a little when he touched my lower back.

  “Ticklish?” he asked in his deep voice. He was running his hand up my back and pressing gently to get me in the position he wanted me. “Now keep your eyes closed and slowly lean backward. Remember to keep breathing and don’t move your feet.”

  In my mind’s eye, I looked something like a flamingo trying to master yoga as my back arched. I thought surely my head was only inches from the floor and my newly-developed Gumby powers had me ready to try my first back-handspring. I was positive he’d show me that next.

  “Good. Now bring yourself back up, straighten out your back, and take a deep breath.”

  “So, what kind of karate do you teach?”

  He pinched my arm. “Shhh. Concentrate. I want you to try the same thing again, but this time, try to really stretch yourself out and go back further.”

  Maybe my head wasn’t as cl
ose to the ground as I thought before. I stretched backward and I could feel him close behind me. He placed a sturdy hand under my back and another on my chest. The hand on my chest was pushing down lightly and the hand on my back was steadying me, but not holding me up.

  “Good. Just relax and concentrate on your sense of balance.”

  What sense of balance?

  His hands guided me past my comfort zone and I worried that if he removed them, I’d be stuck in that position just long enough for the paramedics to arrive and take pictures. A shadow moved across my face and I tilted toward the door to see what it was, nervous that someone was watching the spectacle. It only took another second to realize just how important concentration was, because when I no longer had it, I fell backward and took Max with me.

  My body made an awful smacking sound as it hit the padded floor. Max fell right on top of me and his arm got trapped behind my back. That poor guy, he didn’t see my clumsy ass coming when he offered to teach me about balance. He could jump and kick into the air, and land flawlessly, but ten minutes and a simple breathing exercise with Manhattan Walker and he was down for the count.

  We were in a full-on fit of laughter at the situation after we landed. I had managed to release his mangled arm, but Max was still on top of me, holding his torso up with his strong arms on either side of my neck. Our laughter gradually turned into amused breathing, and I became more and more aware of the position we were in.

  Why is he still on top of me?

  The mix CD in his prehistoric stereo ended and silence took over the room. Still trapped under the weight of him, I could only look up into his eyes as they hovered above me like two sky-like gray saucers. I should have looked away, or pushed him off me, but I didn’t. His arms bent slowly, lowering his upper body onto mine. And when he didn’t stop, our lips met.

  I distressfully cleared my throat and pushed him off me.

  “I’m sorry,” he stuttered, standing up and holding his hand out to pull me up.

  I ignored his hand, rolled over, and stood up like an old man. “No, it’s fine . . . I didn’t . . .”