Soaring in Air: An Urban Fantasy Adventure (Magic of Nasci Book 5)

by DM Fike

  He stopped walking as realization dawned in his thick skull. “You mean, she doesn’t know you’re a shepherd?”

  “Of course not! It’s not something you can just tell everybody. You’re not even supposed to know.”

  “But they’re your family.”

  “Exactly.” I stomped down the sidewalk, forcing Vincent to follow in my wake. “The less they know, the better.”

  “I guess I assumed you’d tell them.”

  “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” I said. “Like I didn’t know about your ex-wife.”

  He went from confused to chagrined in an instant. “Okay, I deserved that one.”

  I rubbed my temples. “What are you doing here, besides giving my mom false hope that I might one day be normal?”

  “But you’re not normal.” When he realized what he’d said, he threw up his hands. “In a good way! I mean that as a compliment. You’re a nature wizard.”

  I didn’t want to say it, but he’d backed me into a corner. I turned my head so I wouldn’t have to look at him as I said, “Yeah, well, not anymore.”

  “What?”

  He was going to make me repeat it. “I’m not a shepherd anymore.”

  He wouldn’t let it go. “What does that mean?”

  “It means like it sounds,” I snapped. I noticed that my raised tone caused a flurry at the front window. Mom was spying on us. Straightening as stiff as a board, I said in my best quiet monotone. “The fight on Mt. Hood messed up my pithways. I can’t wield magic anymore.”

  Vincent ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, man. I’m so sorry, Ina.”

  His sympathetic reaction sparked a tear. I blinked it away. “Does everything make sense now to you, Vincent? Why I left Oregon? Why I ran back home? Are you satisfied now?”

  He held out his pleading hands. “Maybe it’s temporary. You might be able to heal yourself. Soak in a hot spring or—”

  “No.” I couldn’t bear to tell him that even if I could get my powers back, the other shepherds would simply bind me after all the trouble I’d caused. Tabitha had died on Mt. Hood because of me. There was no going back.

  “So, that’s it?” Vincent asked. “You’re giving up? Not even trying? Because there’s something weird going on. Whatever happened on Mt. Hood didn’t end with your phone call to me. It kicked off a flurry of seismic activity, not only on the mountain itself but across the state.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “If you’ll just take a look at some of this data—”

  “No, Vincent!” I yelled. “It’s over. I’m done with shepherd stuff. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Then I hit his arm so hard, the phone fell down to the sidewalk. We both gasped. I hadn’t meant to do that. I just wanted to get his optimism away from me.

  Vincent stared at me for a long moment, jaw tightening. I broke off contact first, too afraid to face the judgement there.

  He sighed. “I guess that’s it, then.”

  I swallowed a lump, hoping he wouldn’t see. “Yep.”

  He pocketed the phone. “I’m not sure what happened to you on Mt. Hood, Ina, but it must have been bad. Bad enough to change who you fundamentally are.”

  Why did everyone else think they knew what was best for me? “Maybe I finally realized what a screw-up I am.”

  But he shook his head. “You were never a screw-up. Stubborn, definitely. Infuriating, always. But the Ina I knew would do the right thing. She didn’t run away from her problems.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you too,” I threw back bitterly. “You’re in good company on a long list.”

  He didn’t answer that bit of self-pity, rounding the front of his car to open the driver’s side door. “I promise not to bother you again. Hope that makes you happy.”

  Vincent drove away without so much as a backward glance. I stared down the road long after the Subaru disappeared from view, both thankful and heartbroken that he was gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  MY MOM COULD not stop grilling me about Vincent at dinner. Where’d I meet him? Why hadn’t I ever told her about him? How did I meet such a ‘nice’ guy living on a commune? I gave her one-word responses, praying she’d get the hint. When she didn’t, I excused myself from the table. Her snooping had somehow managed to ruin taco night, of all things.

  Just because I’d escaped her questions, though, didn’t mean I’d erased Vincent from my mind. What did he mean by ‘seismic activity?’ Did he know something I didn’t? And what did that mean for shepherds? Too depressed to do anything, I reassured myself that it didn’t matter. The past was done. My shepherd life was over. I had to move on.

  My emotional state made sleep that night impossible, though. I tossed and turned for hours as the lazy sun set behind a bank of thick clouds. The house grew quiet as my parents settled down for the night. I heard the grandfather clock strike ten and then eleven o’clock down the hall, marking the agonizingly slow passage of time.

  Frustrated, I finally crawled out of bed for a drink. I groped my way through the shadows, bumping into an ottoman and cursing. I found a glass drying in the rack next to the sink. When I pushed for water, the bright green light emanating from the dispenser made my eyeballs burn. I spilled water on the floor.

  Irritated, I searched for a kitchen towel to mop it up. I cracked the refrigerator door open for light. I sopped up the mess and reached forward with the glass to refill the water when I came face-to-face with Mom’s job application, glowing yellow thanks to the fridge bulb.

  For one awful moment, I considered it. No one wants to work retail, but at least I’d make some money. Better than freeloading like a loser off my parents.

  So, that’s it? Vincent’s voice demanded in my head. You’re giving up?

  I flinched away from the application as if it had bitten me. What was I doing?

  Angry, and deep down frightened, I left my water glass on the counter. Still dressed in the same rumpled shirt and capris I’d worn during the day, I slipped on some sandals and grabbed a set of house keys. I left without a jacket and slipped out into the cool evening.

  I had no specific destination in mind. That’s the beauty of going for a walk. As far back as my middle school years, I took walks to relieve stress. There’s something about breathing in fresh air and letting your feet guide you that calms a troubled spirit. I’d been cooped up in the house so long, I forgot how therapeutic it could be.

  I also forgot how cold. Despite the fact that we’d reached the end of June, the nights dipped below 50 degrees. It wouldn’t give you frostbite, but it wasn’t fun for bare limbs either. I’d grown accustomed to not feeling cold by manipulating fire pith, but I couldn’t do that anymore. The chill breeze caused sporadic shivers the farther I walked. I considered going back to the house, but it would take ten minutes and I’d made it to 196th Street. I figured I might as well keep going.

  The normally busy streets lay dead this close to midnight. My mood improved as I trekked from one orange streetlamp to the next. However meaningless this journey, I was making progress. I came to the big intersection at Highway 99 and crossed to the gas station on the other side. The only other person in sight was a customer filling up a black pickup truck. Even with two lanes of traffic going in either direction, no cars zipped by.

  That’s when big fat raindrops pelted my head. I groaned as their frigid stabs created goosebumps wherever they struck. I should have grabbed a jacket. I spun around to go back home.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air, an obvious catcall.

  I jerked my head up. The bro at the pump returned the nozzle back to its place. He wore a jersey and sported a crew cut, the kind of guy you see playing pool with his buddies at a sports bar.

  “Hey, girlie,” he called again to me, opening his passenger side door. “Need a ride?”

  I slapped on my best indifferent face. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”

  He slammed the door shut, never taking his eyes off me. “But it’s raining. A p
retty thing like you could catch cold wearing such skimpy clothing.”

  Since when are pants and a T-shirt skimpy? “No really. I’m fine.” I’d watched too many murder shows to ignore the alarm bells ringing in my skull. I couldn’t take the direct way home because I’d come within yards of the bro. Instead, I twirled back in the opposite direction, putting some additional space between us.

  I quickened my pace down the sidewalk, power-walking parallel to an empty office parking lot. I prayed the dude was just horny, looking for an easy score, but when I heard an engine rev behind me, I knew I was in deep trouble.

  The black pickup truck soared out of the gas station, gunning for me.

  Adrenaline pumping, I took off in a sprint, zooming past the glassy windows of a bicycle shop, my mirror twin running in step beside me. As I cleared the last pane of glass, the truck’s front fender entered the reflection. I veered to the right down a side street, hoping to change direction faster than the vehicle could react. I headed straight toward a dollar store.

  No such luck. Tires squealing, the black pickup made the turn. As he sailed into the same parking lot, he wouldn’t even have to jump the curb to clip me.

  In that split second, the only cover I could find was a short metal fence on the far side of the lot that separated the store from a wooded area. A truck couldn’t drive through trees. Praying I wouldn’t slip in the ever-increasing rain, I raced for those tree trunks.

  With the pickup gaining on me, my foot tapped onto the lowest bar of the fence, stepping upward toward the second rung like a ladder. Then, in one fluid motion that would have made an Olympic athlete proud, I launched myself up and over the top railing into the forest beyond.

  I expected to land on the other side and keep running. Instead, I discovered the fence had been built because the parking lot bordered the edge of a steep, weed-filled slope. My limbs flung wildly as I fell an extra fifteen feet. If I hadn’t spent years training on mountainsides, I probably would have broken a bone or two. As it was, I landed so hard into a bush that I saw stars.

  But at least the truck didn’t come barreling after me. It hit the metal fence with a screeching crash but did not break through. A car door slammed, and the bro swore profusely above me. Headlights trickled down into the foliage, illuminating leaves around me. I wasn’t about to stick around for him to spot me. Scrambling on all fours, I dove deeper into the woods.

  Branches ripped at me, stinging my sides. Fortunately, I only had to run fifty feet through bramble before I found a paved path. Intending to avoid more scratches, I followed it into an obviously well-maintained park, the kind that preserved a slice of wilderness within suburbia. It took my muddled brain several minutes to comprehend where I was—Scriber Lake, not far from the main road.

  A white and blue flash suddenly overtook the sky, silhouetting the trees. A loud crack issued soon afterward. Rain truly poured now, like a faucet spun open.

  “Wonderful,” I mumbled. Another thunderstorm. I had no phone to call the police, no way to get home safely. It was just me, the woods, and the storm against a lunatic. Stumbling down the pavement, I had to find a way out of this situation as quickly as possible.

  The path led me to the park’s namesake. Scriber Lake wasn’t impressive at all, more wetland pond than majestic body of water, a quiet place for the people of Lynnwood to walk their dogs during the day. In the middle of the night under dark rolling clouds, it became the perfect horror movie scene, the kind where the music decreases to single low notes. I found myself smack dab in the middle of a dark rainy night with low lighting and a murderer hot in pursuit.

  I wouldn’t be a victim. I dashed forward to find more cover under the trees.

  A flickering light across the water caught my attention. Thinking it a flashlight, I ducked down low, peering toward it. Unlike a normal light, it twinkled on and off, too ethereal for something powered by batteries. Its brilliance intensified as I stared at it, a beacon beckoning me across the lake. I had no idea what it could be until another flash of lightning lit up the entire lake.

  The bolt revealed a quadrupedal mammal, larger than a mountain lion but with enormous triangular ears. She sported a red coat with silver breast, pupils gleaming as they stared at me. Two paintbrush-like tails swished behind her, sealing her identify.

  “The fox dryant,” I breathed, standing up to my full height. After everything I’d been through, she chose now to reappear. I didn’t understand why, but it didn’t matter. A buzz hummed at the edge of my fingertips. She cocked her head at me, mouth slanted in a grin. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but she was all the way across the water.

  Then I felt it. The lightning storm raging above me. My first pith sensation since Mt. Hood.

  I didn’t have time to celebrate that fact as rough hands yanked me from behind. I screamed as one set of fingers tightened around my waist, the other across my throat. I struggled, unable to see the pickup bro, even though I could hear his raspy threat.

  “You’re going to pay for the truck, bitch.”

  A sizzle sparked somewhere deep in my gut. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled on it, forcing it up and out through my fingertips. I’m not even sure if I wrote a sigil as I released it toward my attacker in a shattering boom of light and fury.

  “Charge this!” I bellowed.

  Then the world went dark as I collapsed under the weight of my own magical explosion.

  CHAPTER 4

  “MISS?”

  I groaned as someone shook me. The light receded, giving way to formless shadows that eventually morphed into vague blobby trees. Finally, a concerned mustached face assembled in the haze above me, the shaking sensation intensifying.

  “Miss, wake up.”

  Leftover adrenaline from the assault shot through my veins. I screamed, and the mustache immediately backed off. I lurched in the opposite direction.

  “Get away from me!” I cried.

  An older gentleman with rough skin held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. He wore a one-piece maintenance uniform and carried empty trash bags. Keys looped around his belt buckle. Behind him, birds sang their morning tunes under a partly cloudy sky, bits of blue poking through.

  “Now hold on a second,” he said. “I work here.”

  It took me a second to realize he wasn’t the bro from the black pickup, even though I stood by the little wetland marsh. “I’m still at Scriber?” I asked, more to myself.

  The maintenance man answered nevertheless. “Yep. I just opened the gate. And Miss, you have to leave. It’s illegal to camp overnight in the park.”

  Out of habit, I opened my pithways to absorb bits of earth pith. To my surprise, it worked. The heavy weight of earth, though slow, seeped into my core, connecting with the dirt underneath my bare calves.

  “Whoa!” I examined my hands as if I’d never seen them before.

  The maintenance man sighed. “I’m too old for this.”

  I ignored him, searching for a breeze. I reached out to absorb it, and air pith crept into my system, making me feel lighter and settling in over the earth pith.

  “Booyah!” I cried. I scrambled to stand, muck and dirt sluffing off me.

  The maintenance man took a step forward. “I really don’t have time for tweakers this morning. If you’d wake your friend and get out of here, I won’t call the cops.”

  Friend? I glanced beyond the maintenance man to discover a crumpled form laying in the dirt behind him. Gasping, I realized it was the bro from last night.

  Just the thought of the attempted assault sent waves of nausea crashing through me. I wanted that creep as far away from me as possible. I acted on that impulse, channeling all my newly acquired earth pith into my palms. Drawing a square sigil with a slash, I snapped my wrist, releasing that energy into the ground below the bro. Dirt clogs detonated upwards, and the impact sent my assailant sailing in a perfect parabola. His limp body landed hard twenty feet away on a fallen log. Never regaining consciousness, he slid over the bumpy w
ood into Lake Scriber itself.

  A strangled cry escaped the maintenance man’s mustache.

  Smiling in satisfaction, I announced, “He’s not my friend.”

  Then I took off down the path back toward the road.

  My gratification lasted until I found myself strolling past the bro’s wrecked truck, still in the dollar store parking lot. Someone had placed a towing notice on it. I shivered in the chill as the morning commute crowded the street. No one gave me a second glance, too fixated on their upcoming jobs and school. But I suppose that’s life. Everyone’s concerned about their own stuff.

  As I walked back to my parents’ house, I tested my reopened pithways. I absorbed pith wherever I could: a little puddle of water here, rubbing against some bare dirt there, and a steady breeze all around. That gave me the three elements I needed to create fire pith. Drawing a triangle with a cross overlay transformed all that natural energy into a slow heat, making my T-shirt and capris perfectly comfortable attire.

  Reopened pithways or not, I was not operating at full capacity. The flow remained restricted, storing less pith than I was used to. After leaving 196th Street for more residential neighborhoods, I risked an experiment. I tried lighting my entire hand on fire, then moving a large decorative boulder on someone’s lawn. Nada. I didn’t have the juice to execute either.

  Still, I was grateful for any abilities at all. I supposed I should thank the mysterious fox dryant. We shared a strange history, dating back to my first experience with ken, the sight that allows me to observe magic. She appeared before me in the woods on a camping trip. That sighting prompted me to search for more mystical creatures in the forests surrounding my college town, and it’s through those trips I eventually met Guntram. She didn’t resurface again until well into my shepherd training, when she caught me practicing lightning in the desert by myself. She helped me properly wield lightning for the first time, and although I have trouble controlling it, that last encounter paved the way for me to safely, though slowly, improve my electrical gift.

  To further complicate matters, no one besides me had ever seen the fox dryant. Guntram insisted that since she wasn’t a documented dryant, she could not be real. The other shepherds thought me crazy for even believing in her. While I knew her appearance at Scriber Lake meant something important, no one else would care.