Strange Omens

by Jim Stein

  STRANGE OMENS

  Jim Stein

  Legends Walk Series

  Strange Tidings – book 1

  Strange Omens – book 2

  Strange Medicine – book 3

  (coming summer 2019)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are purely fictitious and stem from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to actual people, places, and events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 James Stein

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-7335629-0-4

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7335629-1-1

  First printing, 2019

  Jagged Sky Books

  P.O. Box #254

  Bradford, Pa 16701

  Cover art & design by Kris Norris

  Edited by Caroline Miller

  Dedicated to Mom and Dad for all the years and ways you listened to and encouraged my dreams.

  Prologue

  1. A Strange Occurrence

  2. No Telling

  3. The Gift

  4. The Relationship

  5. Trickster

  6. Pina’s Folly

  7. The Start of Something Blunderful

  8. Letters from the Road

  9. The Cost of Magic

  10. Head West Young Wizard

  11. A Problem Named Manfred

  12. The Music

  13. Eastward Bound

  14. Deadwood

  15. A Sprite in Old Milwaukee

  16. Brothers, Sisters, and Little Dark Twisters

  17. No Good Rhythm

  18. Decisions

  19. The Council

  20. Wonder Dog

  21. Just Out of Reach

  22. Sibling Rivalry

  23. The Divide

  24. A Serpent Among Us

  25. Bad Connection

  26. To War

  27. Exploring the Dark

  28. Doors Work Both Ways

  29. Quinn’s Peril

  30. Unlikely Allies

  31. The Serpent Rises

  32. The Four Horsemen

  33. Final Stop

  Epilogue

  About the author

  Strange Medicine Excerpt

  Prologue

  “I NEED to show you something,” said a familiar voice I swear was laced with amusement.

  It was my own fault; I looked up at Koko, sitting cross-legged by the fire, and the adobe walls closed around us. A glance down confirmed my arm hung dutifully by my side, all evidence of the beautiful girl gone.

  “Aw crap.” I turned my attention back to my father. “What now?”

  Kokopelli, the Native American god of fertility, music, and dance, was dressed in his traditional garb, a white buckskin tunic laced up the front and breechcloth of the same material. Three feathers stuck out from his headband at a jaunty angle, and he looked to have recovered from the battle he’d undertaken on my behalf. Unlike my adoptive parents, Kokopelli tended to visit while I slept.

  As was the way in these true dreams, the old man shifted to stand by the crudely made table holding his precious game board. I didn’t see him move, but his hunched back stooped lower than usual and sooty rings darkened the cracked, ageless skin beneath those beady black eyes—so not fully restored.

  The wooden flute with its simple carvings along the flared bell appeared in Koko’s right hand, and he traced a line roughly down the center of the board. The edges of several regions glowed with a nimbus of power as magic trickled from the instrument. At the best of times, his game was a blurred map with vague pieces arrayed across the various territories. The game pieces varied in size and shape, each seeming unique despite being impossible to recall later. On occasion, one or two came clear, but the minute I turned away the memory would fade like a dream, leaving only impressions—a shaggy form here, a bent figure there, some indiscernible pile of equipment arrayed along the boundary of one region or another.

  “Lines have been drawn and the landscape before us changes,” Koko said.

  The power from his flute brought the game into stark contrast, with dark hooded forms lining the right side of the board in a blocky phalanx that marched toward the opposing side. More dark figurines orbited the main mass, some moving in unison, others zipping in seemingly random directions. As they marched, the line down the center shifted left, a dark shadow creeping across the lighter terrain. Shapes along the border retreated before the advance, polished white statues giving way without contest.

  “We won.” I watched a tiny bridge over a chasm burst into flames, but the wood simply reformed into a rocky outcropping that let the darkness march on.

  “There is no winning, only waxing and waning.”

  A carved walking staff—the other symbol of the old spirit’s power—replaced the flute. Koko leaned heavily upon it as the board settled into a new configuration with darkened territories bulging across the middle and staking claim to two-thirds of the board. Gray shapes moved within the bulge and in fact across the entire board. Some strode, others crawled, and still others sailed over the miniature landscape, watching and waiting. Though far fewer in number than the white and black figures, these pieces kept in constant motion. Occasionally, two or three grays gathered together as if in discussion before moving on.

  “Dark forces seek you even now, young Edan.” A cold lump formed in my stomach as he spoke and several dark figures turned ever so slightly toward me. “They move to fill a void. If not now, then in the very near future. You must be prepared.”

  Malevolence, greed, terror—all the negative emotions radiated from those little statues. The air grew warm, the dust from the sandy floor choking. The fire burned suddenly hot, stealing my breath and searing my face. I glared at the logs that never diminished. When I turned back, the malevolence was gone and the board was again just a game. But the old man’s words reminded me of my friend Pete’s attempt to confirm monsters and fairies walked in the real world—just like in the old stories.

  “Are you saying Dark Fae are on the move? Like the evil courts?”

  Koko sighed, a dusty, forlorn sound, and I found myself sitting opposite him at the fire. The flames burned a little too cheerily, a little too hot.

  “Unseelie-Seelie, Winter-Summer, Devourers-Aesir, UnSidhe-Sidhe are names mankind used in an attempt to understand and classify the inscrutable—not without merit and a measure of accuracy. The distinction between Light and Dark is profound. Yet even your legends agree that to say the Light was good and noble while the Dark was evil and corrupt is unjust. We of the Light have our faults just as the Dark has its gradations. But here”—he waved the staff in a circle encompassing the dirty-white walls and the world in general before leveling the blunt end at his game board—“dark calls to dark. Always has it been so. The Dark Court crosses boundaries of Fae, spirits, gods, and beasts. There is no entry test, no exclusion by origins. Certainly there are hierarchies within—as there is with the Light—serfs to nobles and more.

  “As with the Light, all these creatures make up the Dark Court. You cannot predict who or what may block your path. It is for that reason you must hone your skills.”

  “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked.”

  He scowled, not catching the song title from the early two-thousands. I’d salvaged several decaying albums by Cage The Elephant from the ruins of Philadelphia. Although I enjoyed their music, it didn’t mesh well with my own elemental magic—too slow for Spirit, too fast for Earth, and lacking the raw power for directing Fire.

  “Do not think to rest.
You have come far in a short time, but more is needed. You must use your magic each day, all the elements. This will increase the energy you can wield and improve your control. Focus remains your weakness. They will find you soon, and you must be prepared.”

  Quite the pep talk. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Koko thought I was useless.

  1. A Strange Occurrence

  O UR HEADLIGHTS illuminated ancient stone walls that arched high above the Schuylkill Expressway. The river ran slow and deep on our left, Old Philadelphia’s broken skyline barely visible against the moonlit night. An Asiatic beauty with dark hair and high cheekbones drove. Quinn was the band’s bassist, my girlfriend, and happened to be the daughter of an evil witch who’d tried to kill me. I never held that against her, but the fact she handled my car the way she would her motorcycle had me sweating.

  “You don’t need to accelerate through the turns, just—brake!” I jammed my right foot down and pumped at the mat, willing my car to stop.

  Quinn cried out and did the same. My head snapped forward as the RAV4 nosedived and stopped just in time. Dust swirled in the headlights, parting around the tree blocking the road. My heart boomed hollow behind my ribs, frantic timpani drums slowing as I drew a deep breath. Quinn complained my phantom braking and death grip on the grab-handle made her nervous, but turnabout was fair play. I just wasn’t good at letting someone else drive.

  “What the hell, Ed?” Quinn shot me a glare, flipped her chestnut hair back with a huff, and peered at the trunk. “Big healthy tree and no storms. Got a flashlight?”

  “Better!” I rolled down the passenger window and brushed the hair out of my eyes, eager to show off my latest trick.

  The Hopi pouch at my waist held miscellaneous spell components. I nestled a square of aluminum foil in my palm, held a bit of bare wire between thumb and forefinger, and focused on needing to see into the dark. Dredging up the beat of Fall Out Boy’s “Light Em Up” had my head bobbing to the tribal rhythm as elemental Fire trickled into the wire. Too much and it would burn up. The wire flared with power.

  I stuck my arm out of the window and panned the improvised spotlight across rough bark. The oak was straight and perfect. I played my light over the root ball. Water bubbled from the crater it left and sheeted off roots, washing away dirt to expose stark white fingers.

  “Water main break,” Quinn said.

  “I’ll call it in before someone crashes.” I grounded my spell, wondering where all the rest of the water had gone. “Back up and take the exit ramp to the riverfront. We can hop on the freeway farther down.”

  An abandoned warehouse and old fish market moldered along the river drive. The far bank was dark, but a section of the gap-toothed skyline reflected in the Schuylkill’s sluggish surface under a half-moon. I used to venture into the ruins to find music for my playlists. Lately, my work with Quinn’s band kept me busy and provided ample material.

  Our tires squelched as we crept along the river. Nothing stopped my little all-wheel-drive tank. I got through to the sheriff’s office on my first try and told the duty officer about the tree and water leak. The on-ramp loomed ahead, but our car wallowed with unnerving sideway skids.

  “I can’t keep it straight.” Quinn jerked the wheel left then right. “Nope, losing it, and someone’s stuck up ahead.”

  The RAV slid to a stop, just short of a big blue rectangle of a car sitting mired in the mud at the foot of the onramp. A skinny man in jeans and a faded denim jacket sat on the trunk, slapping the metal as he peered through stringy blond hair at the swamp engulfing his car.

  “Randy drives a Cadillac?” Everybody has a cooler car than mine.

  Quinn played bass and Randy drums for the A-Chords, an awesome band that recorded with me down at the studio. We had just finished a planning session for their second album and were all rushing down to The Bullfrog tavern for their weekend gig. I planned on staying for the whole show so agreed to let Quinn get more time behind the wheel rather than clinging to the back of her motorcycle. My theatrics aside, she’d quickly learned to handle a car as well as she did her bike.

  “Tree got you too?” Quinn asked as we stepped into the slippery mess.

  Randy grinned at the comment and played on. Or he may have simply been smiling at his own solo; it was difficult to tell when the drummer was in the here and now versus off in his own world. He coaxed impossible rhythms from the car, bringing the Caddy to life like his own personal drumline. Anything that didn’t move out of the way fast enough was fair game for the man’s impulse to play.

  Staying upright while we waited for him to finish was a chore. My sneakers twisted and slid, trying to put me face down. Quinn and I skated around my car with hands flat on the hood.

  “Oh, hey guys.” He nodded with hands poised to launch into another number.

  “Wait! Where are Billy and Jinx?” Quinn asked.

  “Made it through before the tree fell, I guess.” Randy held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I was like that close to—”

  Squelching from the bank drew our attention. The mud shifted and rippled as though water still pumped below the surface. I felt the car slide under my hands, and visions of us being swept into the river flashed through my head. But instead of us washing away, things rose up from the muddy slope.

  The first was about four feet long and popped from within a bubble as if the ground gave birth to the dingy brown newt. It squatted in the moonlight on thick alligator legs. Frilly gills stuck out from each side of its triangular head and fanned in slow rhythm against its swollen body. It hissed, showing a blood red interior and a boney ridge instead of teeth.

  “At least it can’t bite.” Randy finally focused on the situation. “Sort of a cute little guy.”

  Three more of the things bubbled up behind the lead creature. They clomped toward us, hissing and spitting. Thin streams of mud shot from each mouth to smack against the cars and our legs. We scrambled to put the vehicles between us and the threat. The ground grew slippery as ice. I grabbed Quinn’s arm, locking us into a precarious four-footed stance.

  “Water babies.” She slipped, almost pulling me down, and we grabbed the car for added support. “Dangerous.”

  Quinn had more experience with creatures of the Dark. I called up my magic, figuring fire would slow them down. My sliding feet made it hard to concentrate, especially with one hand plastered to the car roof and the other around Quinn.

  Randy fell trying to get from his trunk to my hood. He went down with a wet slap, arms and legs flailing. Under other circumstances watching the drummer make mud angels would have been funny, but the water babies shifted their attack and moved on the downed man. Four streams of spraying mud covered him in seconds. He clawed at his face, desperate to keep it clear.

  I released my spell with a shout. Fire lashed the first creature with a gout of flame—not exactly a flame thrower, but enough to incinerate a big newt. The torrent of mud ceased, and plaintive wails rose from the aptly-named creatures. The familiar cries pierced me, calling up a protective instinct that shouldn’t have been there.

  The lead water baby shook like a wet dog. A spray of muck flew off its back, cooling the skin my flames started to cook. My hands grew cold feeding the fire. Frost formed around the one on my car, and I dropped the spell rather than risk frostbite.

  “How do you stop these things?” I sighed as the biting cold faded to a numb ache and the wailing cut off.

  Quinn shook her head and reached for her own magic. Bubbles rose at her feet, clear water rising to the surface. She threw her arm forward sending a spray across Randy. He sputtered and sat up as Quinn’s water washed his face clean. I took a careful step forward. The lead water-baby hit me with fresh mud that encased my legs in cement. Quinn lunged forward, but the attack caught her too. She shot water at her legs, but it did nothing against the hardened muck.

  I grinned. Water and mud might be beyond my control, but I knew how to deal with rock and mineral. The Earth element r
ose with the somber beat of the A-Chords’ title track, “Wanton Power.” I sent magic down my calves, feeling the structure of hardened clay. Music and magic vibrated, sending fine cracks through the encasing clay. With a final push, I shattered the stuff like delicate china.

  “Can you draw water out of them?” I jerked my head at the advancing creatures and poured power into the clay around Quinn.

  She nodded and staggered when her feet came free. I hadn’t exerted myself this much since last fall. Being in mortal danger had a way of freeing your inhibitions—but always at a price. I rubbed my throbbing temples and tried not to be sick while Quinn cast her spell again. The water babies cried, spikes joining the throbbing headache. But the wails diminished as water flowed off their backs. The creatures shrank as Quinn drained them, their slimy skin drying to pale brown. Still they pushed forward, their movements ever slower until they stopped, frozen in place. The last bit of moisture flowed away, leaving four statues facing us mid-stride.

  “It won’t hold long.” Quinn sagged against the car. “I can’t stop them from pulling more up.”

  A dark patch of moisture already wicked up the leader’s front legs. For the moment, the footing was solid again. I rushed forward, clenched my fist around my last spell, and smashed Earth magic into the closest attacker. It shattered under the blow, and I moved through the statues until only rubble remained.

  “Ed!” Quinn screamed as she was pulled off her feet.

  Something big and vaguely feline tried to drag her away, but she hooked a foot under the car bumper. The newcomer hissed through pointed teeth and rose to a half crouch as I moved to help. Its face was furry, with yellow cat eyes and pointed ears, but it moved like a biped. A thick tail lashed the ground in agitation. Another warning hiss brought me up short.