“Your heart’s big enough to have sacrificed your own life to save magic from the black,” Baxxster says. “But I knew you’d never let us use one of ours to help you. In the end, the only way to become a white witch is to understand the sacrifice . . . and live with it anyway.”
Broom clops out of the kitchen and takes. . . I guess I’ll be calling her “Alexxis” now. Anyway, Broom takes her cloak. “So good to see you again, mum. Been a boil and burn a trouble brewing ever since you left. Hardly able to keep the mansion from turning to a murderin’ den of devils, I have.” He leans into Alexxis’ ear and whispers, but it’s loud enough that the rest of us can hear him. “Maybe he’ll be a little less of a cranky crabby Cat now that you’re both back to walking upright.”
Alexxis smiles at Baxxster. For once, he seems content to say nothing.
“Why Baxxster Boyette,” I say, “I do believe Broom’s got your tongue for a change.”
We have a good giggle, but quickly remember how much we’ve all lost and how much work we have left to do before the mansion’s back to semi-normal. I can bring most of them back from the black. That’s my new power. But for the most important one, the mother I never knew, I can only do so much. I wouldn’t want to do more anyway.
Father Felixx LaFavroux sat in his schoolhouse office, sipping on hoodoo hooch and sifting through the contents of the little shoebox. “You sure this is all there was?”
After lighting the fires that burned the two wicked feline sorcerers, the Father had asked Ironskin inside for a celebration sip. It was something the Father never did, and the imp was naturally suspicious. “All I find in the black witch’s room.”
After the Father and the students left the burning mansion, Ironskin, spy that he was, had stayed behind and hid for days inside the witch’s lair, listening and looking for the items that the Father said the dark witch would never be without.
Father. . . The name seemed more foreign to him than his own people. Those who’d cast him out and forsaken him so long ago. He took another sip and winced at the bitterness of the hooch. Then he held up the locket and dangled it from the necklace. He lowered it to the table, opened it up and stared at the picture inside. Something was different than when he’d seen it the last time, sixteen years ago. But the woman who’d died wearing it was gone, and this picture was all that was left of her. Maxxine Levine had kept the locket from him, evil temptress that she was.
The picture was off-center. He touched it and tried to pull it back to the middle of the little oval opening. When it fell to the table, there would’ve been no one more surprised to see what was behind it. Well, maybe one person. . .
Bane limped through the depths of the Frasch Forest. The Blue Moon had his body hard-morphed to a growling crocdog lichen—he couldn’t control it—but his mind was still on Dixxon.
He’d done all he could to help the little white witch—“save magic from itself,” her friend, Magnolia, had told him. In the process, he’d lost everything. His pack was gone.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been cast out for disobeying the top crocdog. Probably wouldn’t be the last.
He licked at his leg. It was healing, but the silver in the bolt had done its damage. His leg would never be the same. Yet so had the little white witch, for now his heart suffered the same fate.
Alone in the Frasch, Bane howled at the darkness. “Owooooooo!” And nothing—no one—howled back.
About Steve Windsor and Lise Carter
STEVE Windsor is the author of the THE FALLEN series of dark religious fantasy thrillers, several non-fiction books on how to write fiction novels faster, and the co-author of Dixxon—Teen Witch.
He lives with his wife and two daughters in the real world . . . and many other cool people in the imaginary world in his mind.
Connect with Steve:
EMAIL: [email protected]
Lise Carter
After countless years in the corporate grind, I decided to quit my job and go it on my own. It was the best decision I ever made. Three years as a writing freelancer later and I decided to become a full-time author. Second best decision I ever made...
I’m the non-fiction writer, freelancer from back in the day and creative genius at Big Bad Basics, LLC.
Find out what happens to BANE! Get the next book in the DIXXON series, by clicking HERE.
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A Thread of Time by J. Naomi Ay
Book One in "The Firesetter" series
The glory days of the Great Emperor are only a memory when Lance inherits an antique coin. The coin will take him across the galaxy searching for something he didn't realize he was missing.
To purchase "Amyr's Command," the next book in the Firesetter series, click here.
To subscribe to J. Naomi Ay's email list, click here.
Chapter 1: Lance
I joined the Allied SpaceForce for one reason and one reason alone, I was flat broke and I needed money. After hocking everything I owned at the local pawnshop, or selling it on Craigslist, I was down to forty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents, in addition to the ancient Euro my father had left me as an inheritance.
“What the heck is this?” I had mumbled, holding the single coin in my palm, while at the same time, the lawyer was informing my brother, Hank that he was bequeathed everything else in my father's estate.
Granted, Dad was no billionaire. His estate was pretty simple, a modest house in a not-so-great town, in the center of the continent, affectionately referred to as The Armpit. Still, it was worth something, and undoubtedly, more than this useless coin. I mean, a Euro? Europe hadn't existed for several centuries!
“Ha!” Hank had laughed in his annoying nasally voice, gloating over his victory in this final round of the sibling game. Yep. Dad loved him best, and that was now proven without a doubt. I was the loser when it came to paternal affection.
“Congratulations,” the lawyer said to Hank, but not to me.
Hank nodded regally, savoring his win. Had the lawyer not been there, my brother would have left with a minimum of a bloody nose and a maximum of a five month stay in traction.
“I'll just have you sign off on the deed.” The lawyer presented the documents to Hank as I rose from my seat, flipping my precious antique Euro coin between my fingers. “Good luck, Lance. Hank, let me take you out to lunch.” The lawyer scumbag barely glanced in my direction, as I let myself out.
“Good riddance.”
I didn’t really blame him. He knew this cow was dry. He'd milk no costly legal fees from me and therefore, I didn't merit even a handshake.
Stepping out into the street, after leaving the dark and overly air conditioned building, I was momentarily blinded by the sudden burst of sunlight. I thought the crosswalk light was in my favor. I thought there were no vehicles on the street and the heat that was washing over me was merely the sun, while that roaring sound was a bus on the next corner. I thought wrong on all four counts. The next thing I knew, I was bouncing off the hood of something, only to end up beneath its wheels. Fortunately, by this point, I wasn’t awake.
Three days later, I was, and less than delighted to discover I was in traction, the sort that I had wished upon Hank. Karma could sure be a bitch.
When my brother came to visit me in the hospital, sitting by my bedside and describing in great detail the renovations he was going to make to Dad's house, if I could have, I would have reached up and smacked him. Alternately, I would have yanked his tongue from his mouth, or removed his eyeballs from their sockets with my fingernails. As I couldn't lift a finger, and was far too drugged to even spit in his direction, I lay there prone, subjected to yet another round of fraternal gloating.
Six months passed until my back was more or less healed and I was released from the hospital, a new, but not improved man. I was also totally broke, so much in debt that four lifetimes of delivering pizzas, my previous occupation, wouldn't yield enough to ever make me a free man.
Briefly, I considered stepping into the street again and encouraging another vehicle to roll over me, this time finishing the job completely. That was the only way I could foresee escaping the hospital's payment plan, which as I departed, was detailed on an invoice that would follow me for the next forty years.
Instead, I headed to a local pub where I spent the next day and night drowning my sorrows in beer, drinking up what little remained of my money. It was stupid, of course. I should have put it toward the hospital's first installment. Somehow, and at some point, I managed to stagger home to my flat, where fortunately, the landlord had taken pity upon me during my absence.
Gloria didn't evict me, or toss my things in the street during my convalescence. This could have been entirely due to the fact that no one else was willing to rent that dive. It also could have been because she liked me. Poor Gloria was on the wrong side of forty, nearly twenty years my senior and throughout her life, had a habit of selecting the wrong kind of guy. This included me.
I regretted what happened. I became a whore. While I scrambled to pay the hospital bill by selling my stuff and raising money in any way I could, I kept Gloria entertained in exchange for the rent.
Every month, on the first, it went like this. Gloria would knock on my door, usually bright and early, undoubtedly, waking me from a sound and contented sleep that was much nicer than my reality. Groggily, I’d stumble from the sofa, swing the door wide open to admit her and feign surprise at her arrival during this ungodly hour.
“The rent, Lance,” she'd say frostily, holding out a hand, the other knuckled into her side, a foot tapping out an impatient rhythm. “I can't let you go another month without paying.”
“Rent,” I'd mutter sleepily, running a hand across my night's beard. “Oh. Gloria. Yeah, the thing is—-”
“What?”
“I'm a little short again this month.” I’d pat my hands against my hips as if checking inside the nonexistent pockets of my marginally clean and slightly torn boxer shorts.
“Mhm,” she'd mutter, her eyes drawn to my hands, where inevitably she'd find a prime example of morning wood. “Oh. Is that for me?”
“It's all I've got right now,” I'd say, which was followed by the old couch being cleared of my ratty blanket and the even older sleeper mattress beneath extended to its full size.
Then, I did what I did best, because at twenty-four, I was a loser at every other round in this game of life. Gloria left happy, and my lack of rent was forestalled for another month.
Eventually, Gloria tired of this game, or maybe, she preferred to play it instead with the guy in the apartment across the hall. At any rate, she gave me an ultimatum. At the end of the month, pay up or get out.
“You got anything else?” the pawnbroker asked, as I stared at the measly number written on my ticket.
“Hey, that ring is worth more than that!” I insisted. “It was my mother's. She left it to me to give to my future wife.”
“I'm doing you a favor then,” the guy replied. “You give a girl this piece of crap cubic zirconia and she's liable to throw it back at you and walk out of your wedding.”
“It's not a fake.”
“Listen to me, son. I've seen a lot of rings in my day, and that one's about as real as my tooth.” He proceeded to reach into his mouth and pull out a shiny, white incisor. “Look's nice, eh? Indestructible, too. Better than the real thing, but my wife doesn't wear it on her finger. So, you got anything else for me to look at?”
I would have liked to offer him my fist, but I didn't. Since Gloria dumped me, this guy was about the only friend I had. Putting my hands in my pockets to restrain them, I pretended to consider the paltry offer on my mother's ring. I was going to take it. I had no choice. I was down to my last nickel, or rather, the forty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents which were already promised to the hospital.
“Just this,” I said, finding that stupid Euro coin in my pocket. “Maybe this is a collector's item?”
“Let me see.” The guy dropped his loop over his eye and turned the coin this way and that way. He murmured something, while trying to read it. “I don't know what in the hell this says. It's a piece of crap. Not worth a nickel.” He tossed it back, whereupon it rolled the distance of the counter, before falling flat.
Heads. Some dude in a crown looked off across the horizon at the ancient toasters and television sets with orange price tags hanging from them.
“It's an ancient Euro.”
“No, it's not. What language does that look like to you?”
“I don't know. Greek? Russian? Portuguese?”
The pawnbroker shook his head and glanced at the door. Another customer had come in, or more likely, another victim of the decrepit economy came to hock whatever he had in order to eat. “Are you taking my offer on the ring, or no?”
“I guess so,” I said, studying my not-Euro coin again. “You sure this isn't worth anything?”
“Not to me.”
“That's worth a fair amount in the old Empire,” the new customer interrupted. “Although, it'll cost you a heck of a lot more to travel the ten lightyears to get there.”
“Where?”
I turned to look at my neighbor, only to discover he was wearing a SpaceForce uniform and carrying an old iPad from the twenty-first century.
“I found this in a rummage sale on Darius II. Is it worth anything, Pops?” He set it on the counter for the old man, and then, held out his hand to take a look at my coin. “Yep, this is an old Imperial dollar. It’s definitely worth something to collectors around the galaxy. It dates back to the reign of the Great Emperor. That’s who this guy is on the front. You wouldn’t want to sell it to me, would you?”
“I will buy it first,” the pawnbroker interjected.
“No way.” I snatched it back from the spandex-clad spaceman. “You can buy his iPad, Pops. You missed your chance with me.”
Grabbing my mom's cubic zirconia wedding ring off the counter as well, I left the pawnshop with a new spring in my step. I was determined to take my coin to a place where its value would be appreciated. Worth something could mean several thousand and several thousand would easily pay off the hospital bill. This coin would give me a chance to restart my life debt-free. On the other hand, if I had to take the coin across the galaxy, why would I bother coming back?
Unfortunately, the fare on a spaceplane to the nearest port where the coin could be exchanged, cost more than I would have gained selling the ring and the clothing off my back, as well as the old sofa, and the toaster in my flat. The only way to get myself from here to there was to get on a ship that didn't cost me anything.
“The dude's spandex uniform wasn't all that ugly,” I told myself, walking into the SpaceForce recruiting office down the street. “And, I'd get three squares a day, a hot shower, and a clean bed without any aging landladies in it.” That didn’t sound a whole lot different than prison, but at that point, I didn’t care.
An hour later, I walked out, officially a recruit with a contract in hand, and an induction physical scheduled for the following day.
Chapter 2: Jan
I wasn’t meant to venture anywhere beyond my little village, and neither did I wish too. Unlike my older brother, who dreamed of adventures on faraway planets, I was content to keep my feet firmly planted on the sunlit planet. I loved the sea, though, the calm rolling of the ocean waves, and the wind, which I imagined lovingly whispered my name.
My name was Jan, an ordinary, plain, single syllabic handle which should have been simple enough for anyone to pronounce. Like my name, my appearance varied from predominately dull to boring, depending who was judging it at that particular moment.
“Isn’t Jan sweet,” my mother would say, preferring to overlook my unremarkable appearance with blinded, maternal devotion.
At the same moment, my brother, Taul might proclaim my face homelier than his pet frog, a mummified creature which had grown only uglier since it had died several years prior.
“Makeup,” my mother insisted. “Cosmetics will do wonders for Jan. When she’s old enough, twelve or thirteen, we ought cover her in mascara and dye her hair red.”
Unfortunately, for my mother, I had no interest in enhancing my plainness, preferring instead the loneliness of my little boat, in which I would meander down the river, never quite reaching the sea, chasing the fish as they sought to run from my net.
When I was fourteen, my appearance no more improved than in my preteens, I acquired a friend, a boy much smaller than myself. One day, I discovered him sitting upon the dock, gazing curiously at my little boat. His small feet were hanging just above the water, bare of any shoes, his toenails cracked and dirty.
“Hey, get away from there,” I called, immediately assuming the worst, for orphaned and homeless street urchins were prevalent during those times.
“Is it yours?” the boy asked, turning bright blue eyes upon me, his gaze so intense it momentarily threw me off guard.
“Yes,” I snapped, upon recovering my senses. “Now, get away from it, you little thief.”
“I’m not a thief. I was only looking at it. I wish I had a boat like this. I think I would love to sail.”
“That’s ridiculous.” The child looked no more than eight years old and without a penny to his name, let alone a boat. “Go away.”
I shoved him aside, although I didn’t want to touch the child’s filthy torn t-shirt or the sunburnt skin of the shoulders peeking through.
He shrugged, those red arms drifting up and down, his intense gaze and colorful eyes refusing to leave me in peace.
Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Page 15
