Red Magic: an Adult Dystopian Paranormal Romance: Sector 6 (The Othala Witch Collection)

by JC Andrijeski

  Still, I felt certain I would have recognized him, had he ever attended the monastery school. Despite how we were kept separate, I knew most faces there, given I’d been attending since I was a child. Perhaps he was older than I thought.

  Or perhaps there were other places warlocks were trained.

  “Whose family are you with?” Like him, my words came out more a demand than a question. “To which banner do you swear loyalty, sir?”

  Silence. His dark eyes watched me now, like those of a predatory bird. He weighed me with that gaze as if he could not decide whether I was prey or fellow predator.

  “I cannot help you, if you tell me nothing,” I snapped, my voice harder still.

  Whatever I expected to come from him next, it wasn’t what did.

  He laughed.

  It was a deep, chuckling laugh, and oddly genuine-sounding.

  It came out of him like he couldn’t help himself, and while it contained some surprise, I mostly heard honest-to-goodness mirth. The laugh grew louder then, his deep voice booming over the water, causing me to flinch, and then to flush. I stared at him as he continued to laugh, but he only grinned wider, shaking his head as he stared up at me.

  The surprise in his eyes mixed with a kind of cynical knowing.

  “You’re like me,” he pronounced, his accent thicker than before. “Gods above. I confess. I never expected that. Not in a million years. But ye are like me. Aren’t ye?”

  He continued to look me over with hard eyes. His mouth firmed as he stared at my figure, as if willing it to grow distinct inside the formless dress. Then that bird-like gaze flicked back up, once more meeting mine.

  Again, I heard no question in his words, only certainty.

  “You are like me. Confess it.” He managed to make it more of a question by the end, but only just. “You’re hiding it in some way... via magic and make-up and that horrid sack of a sad dress... but we’re the same, you and I. Are we not?” His voice grew cold. “Such a thing shouldn’t surprise me, yet it does. It hurts my heart, if truth be told. It hurts it badly.”

  I folded my arms, keeping my face utterly still.

  Still, I was more than a little puzzled, and not only by his cryptic yet emotion-laden statement-slash-accusation towards the end. I fought not to react to that penetrating and somehow knowing stare. Maybe to compensate for that in part, my voice turned derisive, borderline contemptuous.

  “Are we so alike, you say?” I mocked. “Well, now. I find your certainty comforting, if not wholly convincing. In what possible way are we alike, sir-vagabond-in-the-crate, other than in sharing the base components of magical blood? I don’t see myself overpowered by common humans... nor smelling like I hadn’t seen clean water in a month.”

  He shook his dark head.

  Again, the ghost of a smile touched his full lips.

  I saw no real humor in it, though.

  “You can deny it all you want... milady.” His eyes and voice struck me as equally dark, and that harder cynicism still touched the corners of his mouth. He bowed his head to me mockingly, as if pretending we were at court. “...But I can see it, plain as day. Just as you knew me, I know you too, princess.”

  He smirked, looking me over again with knowing eyes. “Someone’s been playing white witch a little too long, I’ll wager,” he added. “Long enough to think she can fool anyone into believing this ridiculous charade.”

  I fought to keep my expression blank. Monk-like.

  I didn’t really succeed.

  “What in the name of Heaven’s Sky are you talking about, warlock?”

  “You’re not white magic at all,” he accused.

  Again, he spoke with such certainty I frowned, not sure how to react. Maybe it was his tone, or his words... or that frustratingly familiar but foreign accent of his. Maybe it was the truth I felt in his words, although I did not understand them.

  If he saw my hesitation, no trace of reaction touched his expression or voice.

  “...You’re not like those hypocrites the monks, or those cold sterile witches in their pretty white palace, lording it o’er the rest of us. You’re not white magic at all. Not a bit o’ ye. No matter how badly you might wish it to be.”

  Contempt filled his voice, anger.

  I heard a finality there, too.

  “You’re red magic,” he ended with a grim satisfaction. “...like me.”

  Chapter 3

  THE MAN IN THE BOX

  THE FILTHY WARLOCK and I continued to stare at one another through the thick iron bars of his cage. My eyes fell to his hands, which were bloodied at the knuckles, with cuts on the backs and bruises on his wrists. He wore a thick silver bracelet on his left arm, bright yet somehow ominous-looking, and not only because it was splattered with blood.

  Swallowing, I looked back at his face.

  His voice grew a harder edge.

  “What? Nothin’?” He grunted in derision. “No words at all for a long-lost brother, bred of the same magics as yerself? Or are you kidding yerself that you’re passing? That anyone here actually believes ye to be one of those cold-blooded fucks who bow and kneel and pretend peace and piety while our people kill and bleed for them...?”

  Firming my mouth still more, I watched the anger harden his expression as he waited for me to speak. Still, puzzlement was winning out over my own anger by then.

  “What is red magic?” I said finally.

  He let out another derisive snort.

  Scowling at him, I sharpened my voice. “I might have more to say if I had the faintest idea what you’re yelling about, sir. Or what you’re accusing me of!”

  “Ye do know.” His black eyes flashed more of that inner fire. “Why else would ye come, if ye did not? Did these river rats sell me back to the crown for a few pieces of tarnished coin? A trawler full of fish, perhaps?” His voice grew openly bitter. “Just what is the price for a red magic slave these days? I’m a bit banged up, it’s true... but all of my parts are in working order, huntress... in case you were wondering.”

  Seeing a more wicked smile touch his lips, I felt my traitorous cheeks bloom once more with heat as his gaze flickered down me.

  “You were wondering... weren’t ye?” he taunted. “I saw ye checking to make sure all my parts were intact. Believe me, they are. Most days, they’re even in working order... more or less. Were ye satisfied by what ye found, huntress?”

  When I answered him with only a flat stare, he chuckled.

  Even so, I heard mostly anger in his voice when he next spoke.

  “Out of curiosity, why did ye come?” he said. “Why you? Are ye so uncertain of your place in the Regent’s precious brood that you think bringing me to justice might help ye? Or did they tell you to do it? Is it a message of some kind?”

  His eyes grew wary, right as they fixed back on mine. I couldn’t help but see the intelligence shining there, even with how angry he was.

  “...Or’ve ye done this sort of thing before, huntress?” he went on mockingly. “Is this the price ye pay for your false place within their ivory tower? Do they send you after all the runaway slaves, huntress? Or just some of ‘em?” He looked me over in the dress, and that time, a kind of furious anguish left him in a cloud. “Ye look young to have too many scalps to your name. But could be they trained you early? Honed a special talent of yours, perhaps? After all... our people have always been good at killing.”

  I flinched.

  Again, however, I could only stare at him.

  I could tell my silence infuriated him, but it also seemed to prod him to talk. For that reason alone, I wasn’t feeling overly disposed to break his flow, however angry he sounded or how often he appeared to be insulting me. Perhaps it helped that most of his insults still made no sense to me. It certainly made it harder to take them personally.

  His accent still stumped me the most.

  I’d never heard it before, and I couldn’t easily compare it to any I knew. It wasn’t an upper-caste accent, but it certainly wasn�
�t peasant, either. He spoke almost as if the Regent’s tongue wasn’t his first language.

  Truthfully, curiosity was winning out over even bewilderment at that point. He seemed so certain I would know exactly what and who he was. Something about that surety made it impossible to stay silent for as long as I should have.

  “What in the name of Heaven’s Sky are you talking about?” I said again. “Are you ever going to tell me who you are? How you came to be caged?”

  Again, that derisive snort. “A fitting curse, I would say, Miss ‘Heaven’s Sky.’ It’s no’ a wonder you keep using it. You obviously so wish to be one o’ them.”

  Glaring up at me, he wound his hands in frustration around the iron bars.

  His long dark hair was still wet. A cut made his skin red just below the hairline.

  I felt pity for him, looking at him now, more so after my eyes scanned the other bruises and cuts that littered his body. Even so, his stubborn refusal to acknowledge my ignorance was starting to wear on me.

  I placed my hands on my hips, exhaling.

  “Do you understand my speech, warlock? Or is there some mental issue I must contend with, before we may have a civil conversation?”

  His eyes jerked back to mine, once more flashing with anger.

  “...I was not ‘sent,’” I said, before he could begin insulting me again. “I was walking through the market, alone, when this woman came up to me, a perfect stranger to me. She asked if I was a witch. She then implored me to follow her. When I did, she brought me to you.”

  I saw a flicker in his black eyes. Some kind of understanding.

  Something about his next words didn’t quite match that understanding.

  “You expect me to believe your being here is merely a coincidence?” he said coldly.

  I stared at him, trying to discern what I’d seen.

  But it was already gone.

  “I am telling you what occurred,” I said stiffly. “I walk the market every morning. It’s the route I take to school. Why would I not do so on the morning you happened to be here? There is nothing ‘coincidental’ about that.”

  He let out another disbelieving grunt. “You walk through a market filled with black marketers and pirates... alone. To go to school.”

  My frown deepened. “Why shouldn’t I? There are children in that market. I would hardly call it hazardous if commoners let their children play freely there. And anyway, weren’t you just accusing me of being a cold-blooded assassin? Which is it? Am I a helpless ‘toad’ or whatever it is you called me... or a ruthless murderer?”

  He stared at me for real that time.

  “You’re serious?” His voice grew disbelieving. “What, in the name of the gods, are you doing walking through a dock-dweller’s market this early in the morning... without even an escort? Are ye mad?”

  My jaw hardened. I refrained from telling him how much my white witch mother and the palace court he so despised would agree with him, as would the monks at my school.

  He looked me over once more, his face twisting into an angry scowl, right before he made another disbelieving, muttering string of sounds. Even so, I felt that conflict on him again, like he wished to have one opinion of me, but kept being forced to revise it.

  I wondered what opinion that was, exactly.

  Clearly, he seemed determined to think the worst of me.

  Before I could decide what next to say, he met my gaze.

  “Are ye really as ignorant as ye are pretending?” he demanded.

  Staring back at him, I felt my face grow hot. “I have no knowledge of any ‘red magic,’ if that is what you mean. I have never even heard of such of thing.”

  “Not taught in school, I guess?” he said coldly.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t be.” He looked away, muttering more to himself than to me. “Gods. Is it really possible they could keep anyone of magical blood so stupid? Could they not even warn her well enough to hide from plain sight of one who might know her for what she is? Walking in the markets... alone. By the gods of the underworld. Anyone at all could’ve seen her! One of the Defenders might have found her, chained her up just on principle...”

  He met my gaze again. That time, he spoke directly to me.

  “Ye might be fortunate in that ye avoided chain and whip thus far, my very fine huntress... but I would think the gods might have helped ye hold onto that fortune by giving ye more of a brain. That pretty outline and face won’t do ye much good in the trenches, I’m afraid. In fact, it could make things considerably worse for you there...”

  I swallowed, that time too insulted to know how to respond.

  True, I’d been called stupid before, too––mainly by my mother and my teachers at school.

  Somehow, the insult stung a lot more coming from this strange warlock.

  If he noticed or cared that his words cut me, I could see no hint of it on his face.

  He motioned towards my body and the long, sashed dress I wore, which obscured a figure I’d been told by some was... well, good. Better than good, perhaps. It made me uncomfortable each and every time I heard it.

  It was also one reason I never complained about the unflattering dresses.

  Some part of me always heard their words as: Well, at least you have that. You might have no head or heart or hand for magic... but at least you are nice to look at.

  It always sounded like a backhanded compliment to me.

  Really, more of an insult.

  He glared at me again when I didn’t speak.

  “Who are ye?” His voice grew angrier still. “Ye must be half-blood niece or daughter to someone. Otherwise they’d’ve separated you out at birth, along with the rest of us.”

  I could only stare at him. “Separated out?”

  “Yes.” Impatience seethed off him, bringing out that harder edge of contempt. “They always cull those with red magic. Are you truly serious ye did not know about this? Or are ye far cleverer than I imagine, convincing me of your utter ignorance on the basic workings of your own kingdom?”

  I bit my lip, torn between admitting to a depth of ignorance I increasingly felt personally responsible for and turning the argument back on him. I considered calling him a lying, manipulative criminal, or possibly a lunatic. I suspected it would only make me appear more of a fool if I did, however, and childish in addition.

  For the fact of it was, his words rang true to me.

  “Tell me.” My voice came out angry; I found myself warring with the emotion behind it. “Tell me what you mean. Explain red magic to me. From the beginning. I want to know all of it. Explain what you mean about the culling of some witches at birth. Teach me about this, and I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  He stared up at me.

  Once more, the contempt I’d seen faded somewhat.

  Looking away, he frowned. I watched him stare off towards the water, his eyes conflicted as he continued to wind his hands back and forth over the bars. After another handful of seconds, I saw him nod, as if agreeing reluctantly to my demand.

  Or perhaps agreeing to something else.

  “All right.” He exhaled some harder emotion, looking up at me. “Get me out of this cage.” He spat blood onto the wet wood in front of me, ignoring my grimace and step back as he wiped his mouth with the knuckles of a hand. Looking down at himself, he added. “And bring me clothes. I’ll need food, too.”

  I looked at him skeptically. “That is a lot of orders.”

  He looked up, dark eyes flashing. “They aren’t orders. It’s an offer. To your offer. My life for yours. If you’re really as ignorant as ye say, I can help wi’ that. Ye might want to take me up on it, preferably before not-knowing gets ye killed... or worse. For a start, it might help ye to know what the Regent normally does to people like us, do you not think?” He paused, studying my eyes. “What say you? Have an interest, love? Or are ye just teasing me?”

  My skeptical frown deepened. “Who put you in here?�
�

  That time, he answered me at once.

  “Dock-dwellers. A whole passel of them.” Looking past me, at the old woman’s face, his lip curled in a cynical smile. “Why in the hell-realms do ye think she brought ye to me? She wants money for me, huntress. She is trying to sell me... for profit. The dwellers know who we are. They also know what we’re worth. We’re a nice tidy profit for them, whenever they manage to catch one of us who’s dumb enough to ford the river.”

  Frowning, he touched the cut on his forehead tentatively with his fingers and winced.

  “I’m dumber ‘n most, clearly.” He grunted, giving me a harder stare. “I’d been warned the dwellers scour the river for runaways, looking to sell ‘em back to the Defenders. But stupidly, I’d been listening for boats, thinking they patrolled up and down and that I might avoid them long enough to have access to my magic back. Truth be told, I was a lot more worried about ravagers, with me being in the water an’ all, and more or less helpless.”

  His mouth firmed to a grim line, his voice holding a grudging respect.

  “...The dwellers were smarter than I’d credited ‘em. They formed a line in the water with their quiet, dock-dweller boats, right up to the edge of Heaven’s Sky. They waited until I was a third of the way across, so I couldn’t swim back... then knocked me on the head before I’d scarce knew how they tricked me. Once they had me on the boat, they drugged me, to keep me compliant. I never got access to my magic back before I went down.”

  I frowned, folding my arms when he finished speaking. Something felt off about his story, but I couldn’t decide what it was. The details sounded plausible enough, so far as that went. But something wasn’t right there.

  I looked at the old woman.

  Realizing she might not have understood his words, given her poor command of the Regent’s tongue and how heavily accented his version of it, I spoke in her own language.

  “Is he for sale? Is that why you brought me here? To sell him to me?”

  The woman’s lined face crinkled into a full smile, erasing her other features. From the relief there, I could tell she was happy I had caught on to her purpose. I realized now that the back and forth speech between myself and her prisoner had disconcerted her. She’d worried she’d made a mistake in bringing me, that I wasn’t the right sort of witch.