I clenched my fingers around the cover, rejecting that idea. There were more spells in here than just the one that created spellhounds. The enslavement mandala was in here too, along with the spell that bastardized our canine forms, twisted us into those horrible, demonic creatures.
I’d never give the Sorcerers’ Guild that spell, no matter how they insisted they’d never create what they themselves had dubbed Hellhounds. They’d proven themselves to be liars of the first degree.
Still, there was useful knowledge in here. From it, I’d seen Gwydian draw mandalas that crossed magic from all over the world, hybrid spells that intertwined glyphs from Celtic and Indian, Asian and African, Mayan and Greek traditions. Futhorc runes flowed into Sanskrit, which transitioned into Arabic, then twisted into languages I’d never found again, though I never forgot the shapes.
Heat pulsed in my chest, and I tightened my fingers on the book.
Magic was in my blood, flickering hot and turquoise over my heart. I didn’t know how to use it, but I could learn. Maybe then I could protect my pack from the Sorcerers’ Guild, and we could stop running. Maybe then, we could be free.
I pushed the book into my backpack and rushed out to catch the train.
Chapter Seven
The Greeks believed Hades was cold. The pits of Tartarus, beyond the river Styx and the Elysian Fields, were frigid places of darkness and ice. By the fourth hour outside Chicago, I thought Homer or Hippocrates or whoever had started that rumor must have taken a long-distance train ride.
It hadn't started out so bad—I had an aisle seat, and the old woman next to me seemed uninterested in removing her nose from her novel. I'd lived in close quarters, so the human noises didn't bother me. Coughing, laughing, crying, and conversations half-lost in the low thrum of steel on rails—all that I could handle. The cold was another matter.
At first, my new clothes were enough to keep me comfortable. Three hours into the journey, however, I noticed my fingers and nose going numb.
The terrain outside the window was a shock—vast, flat fields interrupted by mountains. The sky looked like the same hot blue I saw in Miami, but every lake we passed was trimmed in a lace of frost.
By seven, the sun vanished and the old lady had bundled herself into a hot pink snuggie and fallen asleep. A kid walked up and down the aisle, holding a plastic dinosaur, but no one else moved in the car. I pulled my backpack into my lap. I hadn't wanted to look at the book with other people around; not only would it look weird to those who didn’t know magic was a thing, I still thought anyone—the old lady next to me, the girl with neon orange hair, the kid with the dinosaur—could be a Sorcerer.
But I'd been on this train for five hours, my fingers ached, and it was too dark to study Wisconsin's alien landscape. My bladder insisted on attention.
Since my incident that morning, I'd been avoiding bathrooms, but my body was at its limit. Still, I didn't want to leave the book behind, in case the kid with the dinosaur turned out to be a Sorcerer.
I stood, balancing on the rocking train like I might a surfboard, and made my way down the aisle. The kid with the dinosaur stomped past me, and I had to lift the heavy tome over my head and spin to keep the corner from stabbing him in the eye.
"Jesus," I whispered. The pair sitting at the front of the car looked up. The orange haired girl looked like a roller-derby queen with her spiked pixie cut, multiple piercings, and powerful frame. As I twisted past the dinosaur-kid, her blue eyes popped wide.
"Ten of ten from the American judge!" she announced, and golf clapped.
"Kim Yuna would have done it with a smile,” her companion offered. "Korea says nine."
I glanced. Asian. Black hair close trimmed on the sides, long on top. Thick-framed glasses. Metrosexual art nerd? Maybe an edgy business student.
"Come on, Jay," the girl said. "You gave porn-stache guy an eight."
"Eight-point-nine, then. For disappointing lack of creepy facial hair.”
I shut the bathroom door on the girl's sound of disgust and locked myself in. When I emerged a few minutes later, they were discussing scores for the suited man lumbering back down the aisle.
"He gets an extra half point for the tie alone," the guy said. As I passed, his gaze flicked up. He had masculine features—strong nose, angular jaw, overlarge canines—though with the smooth beauty I associated with the Asian models of Miami's club scene. There was a small tattoo behind his ear.
"I was kidding," he said. "Korea totally gives you nine-point-eight."
The orange-haired girl thwacked him in the chest. "I am so sorry," she said. "He's had, like, three hours’ sleep and he thinks you're hot."
“Bitch, so do you!” the guy said, rubbing at his chest where she'd hit him, but he didn't look back up at me.
How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?
"It's fine," I mumbled. I shuffled the book under my arm and gave a weird shrug before escaping back down the aisle.
I slumped back into my seat, resolving to trip the stupid dinosaur kid if he came back this way. He wasn't all that young.
The aisles were empty, the train dark as people huddled in their coats, sleeping or peering at electronics.
I pulled down the tray on the seat ahead and set the book atop it. It sat, heavy with importance. I flipped open the cover, looking down at the complex form of the first mandala. Old spellbooks didn't mess around with introductions.
Over the years, I've memorized the effect certain combinations have when cast in mandalas, and I recognized most elements of this one. What I didn't know was the most important part, and the reason having a book was necessary at all: the order of the drawing.
Mandalas are finicky things. It matters what direction you draw the circle, what order you write the glyphs and characters, because that determines the power’s flow. I'd seen them drawn in the wrong order, and depending on the spell, the backlash could be deadly.
The next page showed the first few steps, scribing the outer circle counter-clockwise from three, then filling in the first row with glyphs, starting with the Chinese character for fire. Each subsequent page detailed more steps, including a central ring inscribed clockwise from nine, more glyphs in Arabic and Hebrew, until the mandala was complete.
I chewed on the inside of my lip, tracing my finger over the steps in sequence several times, then attempting to repeat the pattern on the finished mandala. I did this until I could close my eyes and picture the completed spell-circle, drawing it with a mental stylus.
After an hour, I almost missed the dinosaur kid. My brain was used to making pictures, but this was a different technique. It might have been bearable if I were drawing it in my sketchbook. Exhausted, I tucked the book between my leg and the armrest, leaned back my chair, and dozed. The rocking train almost felt like a boat. And when we pulled into a station around 10 pm, the old lady next to me tapped me on the shoulder.
"I gotta get by, shug," she said.
“Yeah, sure.” Groggy, I raised my seat and let her by. Outside, passengers had gathered on the platform to smoke. I spotted the orange haired girl and her friend. She sucked on a vaporizer, puffing out a laugh as he flashed his teeth and scrubbed a hand through his black undercut.
I peered at them, unable to help the envy that welled up in my throat at the easy friendship they seemed to have. I also envied her bright pink mittens. I'd left my gloves in the checked duffel bag and my fingers stung.
The train hissed and settled, and the passengers crowded back on, refilling the empty spots in the car. Thankfully, the old lady didn't return—I had three more hours to fill before my stop, but at least the whole row was mine.
I set my backpack where the old lady had been and demolished a pack of cheese crackers. I flexed my fingers and pressed the backs to my cheek.
Ice. And my nose was running. I needed coffee.
I grabbed my backpack and levered myself into the aisle. The train rocked as I made my way forward, and the main lights had dimmed to litt
le more than runway illumination between the seats. Most passengers were asleep, or trying to be, and I noticed no Sorcerer-like levels of jewelry.
The dining car, which was little more than a concessions counter and a couple booths, smelled like burned coffee and popcorn. At the counter, a woman in a black dress accepted a plastic cup of wine, leaning into a man I assumed was either her coworker or her corporate boyfriend. Behind them, the girl with bright orange hair and her very tall Asian friend.
I considered ducking into the bathroom again, just to wait for them to leave. The only barrier between us was a middle-aged man in a baseball jersey. They were just the type to strike up conversations with strangers, and if there was one thing I felt uncomfortable doing right at this moment, it was talking to anyone.
The girl conferred with her friend, then stretched out of line and tossed her jacket into an empty booth. I swallowed a groan. They weren't going anywhere fast.
I stepped in line behind the baseball fan, resolving to drink my coffee in the accordion-walled space between cars. Part of me wanted to dig out the burner phone, just to have something to do, but it was nearing the end of its battery life, and the seat had nowhere to plug in a charger.
"Where you goin', honey?"
It took a moment for me to realize 'honey' meant me. I glanced up and found the baseball fan eying me. His eyes were glassy. I smelled beer on him.
The last of my energy seemed to drain away. I just wanted to get my coffee and go back to my seat—curl up, figure out my next step. I didn't have the energy to deal with this guy. What about me right now said: open and inviting? The crossed arms? The cut on my face?
Mom would have given a guarded answer. But Mom wasn't here. That was the problem. Answering would’ve been polite, but I wasn't about to encourage a conversation I didn't want to have. I let my eyebrows flex and looked to the window. All I could see against the darkened landscape was the dining car’s reflection. The orange-haired girl stepped forward to order.
"I asked where you were goin'," the jersey said. "Hey." He tapped me on the arm with three thick fingers.
Several defenses flashed through my mind at once—I could twist his hand, bend him forward into my knee; I could step in, bring up a knee and put him on the floor; and if all else failed, I had Morgan's knife in my boot.
But those things were for the streets, for hardened men with guns in their belts and blood on their minds. This was nothing more than a drunk guy, feeling entitled to a conversation on a train.
"I didn't want to answer." I jerked my arm from his reach, still watching our reflections in the window. He had no visible piercings, and besides a wedding band on his left hand, he wasn't wearing any other metal. Not a Sorcerer.
"Fine," he said. "What's your name?"
I sighed, hooking my thumbs in the straps of my backpack. In the window, I saw the orange-haired girl glance around her friend toward me, frowning. The woman in the black dress gave us a look and moved to the back of the car, clearly annoyed that we were disrupting her peace.
"I don't feel like talking,” I said. Even to my own ears, it sounded tired.
"Weird name," he slurred, leaning my way, as if that had been a fantastic joke. “Were your parents hippies? How 'bout I buy you a drink. Will you tell me your name then?"
His sleeve brushed my arm. I leaned away, maintaining silence. And that was the end of his limited patience.
"Why is it so fucking hard to talk to you Millennial chicks?” His voice rang in the car. The orange-haired girl jumped and the Asian guy, who had just reached for the cup from the cashier, turned his head.
“You got some feminist bullshit stick up your asses. Think you don’t owe a man basic politeness?” He stepped in toward me, close enough to feel his breath on my face. I braced, refusing to back away from him. “I just wanted to buy you a fucking drink and you can’t even tell me your name. It’s ridiculous. Someone needs to send y'all back to your mommas to learn how to act like goddamned ladies.”
Spikes of pain shot through my chest. At my side, my fists clenched. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired anymore. I was furious.
“My mom taught me something slightly different.” I drew back a boot.
Then the Asian guy turned from the concession bar, gave a spectacular stagger, and upended his coffee down the white and blue jersey’s back.
"Ohh shit,” he said. The train swayed, and metro Asian lurched into irate baseball fan, shoving him into the wall. "I am SO sorry!"
If I hadn’t been so taken aback, I would have laughed at how staged it was. The tall guy had total control of where his weight moved the baseball fan, who spluttered in an apoplectic fury. I ducked around them, backing toward the concession bar. Strong fingers grabbed my arm, and the orange-haired girl propelled me behind her, toward the counter. "Go, go, go," she whispered, her voice ripe with contained laughter.
I went. The man behind the bar gaped at the spectacle. I glanced back at the paper cup rolling gently back and forth on the train floor.
“Two coffees,” I said.
Chapter Eight
“You’re shitting me.” The orange-haired girl looked at me with horror in her bright blue eyes. “You rode the train all the way from Miami? Why didn’t you fly?”
I hadn’t meant to sit with them. I’d intended to hand over the replacement coffee, pass along my appreciation that they’d kept me from shanking a fellow passenger, and flee back to my seat. Intentions crumbled, however, when I’d noticed there was a perforated heating duct running along the baseboard. Even with two coffees in my hand, I’d still been shivering.
So I’d introduced myself to orange-haired Krista and mispronounced my first two tries at Jaesung’s name. Fifteen minutes into our acquaintance, my coffee still burned my palm through the cup, but I didn’t mind. It was a thousand times better than the fridge that was the passenger car.
Unfortunately, warmth also came with questions.
“I’m not a fan of airplanes,” I said, taking a cautious sip. Coffee scalded my tongue. I didn’t know if I liked airplanes or not. Security was too tight to pit against the quality of my fake IDs.
Jaesung, who was busy stacking tiny cream containers, snorted. “Amen to that,” he said. “I hate planes.”
“Planes, but not heights,” Krista said. She rolled her eyes at me and went back to her phone, glittery blue thumbnails tapping at top speed. “He’s weird.”
“I’m not flying the damn plane.” Jaesung gestured with the hand that wasn’t clutching his own coffee. He had sprawled in the seat across from Krista and me, one foot on the cushion beside him. There was something energetic about even this relaxed pose, though he didn’t quite seem restless. More like an idling engine, or a human example of potential energy. It reminded me unfavorably of a Sorcerer. I couldn’t look at him for longer than a few seconds without going tense.
Krista looked up from her phone, incredulous. “You’re weird because you think planes are dangerous but you spent the whole fucking summer at the top of cell towers!” She turned to me, her mouth curving into a smirk that invited me to join her teasing. “It’s one of the most dangerous jobs in America and Jae was just like—no, it’s fine. I have a harness.”
“I do.” He lifted his orange backpack from the floor beneath the table and dropped it again with an audible clank. The movement upset his creamer tower. “And it’s mostly just dangerous when you’re not paying attention.” He glanced at the ceiling, head cocked, and after a beat, he shrugged. “Or when there’s lightning.”
“Fzzt,” Krista said. “Korean barbecue.”
I surprised myself with a chuckle. I hadn’t realized I had the energy for humor. I hadn’t realized laughing was a thing I still did.
Jaesung cut his gaze to Krista. Behind his thick-framed glasses, his eyes glinted in amusement, but he gave her an arch look as he swung his legs back under the table and slapped a hand on the formica.
“You’re up to a dollar twenty-five in the racist jar.”
&
nbsp; “So?” Krista’s tone was saccharine. “You’re up to three-fifty in the homophobia fund.”
I raised my eyebrows. Jaesung seemed to notice the change in expression.
“We’re roommates,” he said, pointing between himself and Krista. “That’s how we know each other. The jars are…uhh….” He looked at Krista for help.
“I get the jars,” I said.
“Tell you what,” said Krista. “Just give me two twenty-five.”
Jaesung met her eyes with a bland expression, then turned his full attention on me. “So, Miami? Why the hell are you going to Minnesota?”
“In winter,” Krista added, tacking with the conversation. I leaned back, the force of their combined attention like two eager search lights.
I took another sip and gathered the threads of my cover story. Luckily, we only had another two hours or so to the stop.
“Moving,” I said. “My mom’s from Henard, so everyone’s meeting there.”
“You’re moving to Henard?” Krista slapped the table in excitement. “Oh my God, that’s awesome!”
A frisson of worry crossed my skin. I looked from Krista’s excited face to the sudden appearance of Jaesung’s grin. He had slightly overlarge canines. I looked back at Krista. “You guys…live in Henard?” My gut sank. Jaesung and Krista wore expressions of impish glee.
“We’re students at U.M.H.”
“If we seem excited, it’s because fresh meat is so rare. We can smell it a mile away.”
“Like sharks.”
I faked a smile behind my cup and avoided another question by asking one. “What are you guys studying?”
I steeled myself for jealousy, no matter what they answered. My self-study high school ended at fifteen, and the stolen hours I’d spent buried in textbooks had been a glorious escape from life as Gwydian’s slave. I’d have killed—probably literally—to go to college.
Jaesung, wiping his eyes underneath his glasses, answered dismissively. “Sociology.”
Unleash (Spellhounds Book 1) Page 5
