by Frank Hurt
The young women looked at one another, their eyes now slightly glazed. Stacey frowned. “You know, I am feeling buzzed.”
“Me, too,” Brandy agreed.
“Why don’t I give you girls a ride home then, hmm?” Elton maintained a cool smile. “We wouldn’t want anyone taking advantage of you in your inebriated state.”
“Yeah, right brah,” Bleached-Head scoffed. “They’re not going anywhere with you.”
“No, he’s right.” Stacey stood up a moment before Brandy did. “We’re going to hitch a ride with Elton.”
Bleached-Head stood up suddenly, the feet of his chair screeching across the floor. “What the fuck? You can’t be serious.”
“The ladies have made their decision.” Elton tilted his head as he turned to face the confused man. His voice took on a playful tone. “I think we should honor it, don’t you?”
“What the hell is this?” Bleached-Head glanced at his date and her friend, then back at Elton. His hands were balled into tight fists. “Are you punkin’ me, old man?”
Elton stepped up to the angry young man. His smile evolved into a shark’s grin, icy blue eyes locking upon the kid as though he were a bug to be squashed. His playful tone persisted, though the volume diminished. “It’s a lovely evening, wouldn’t you agree? Doubtless, you and your friend would find happier things to do than to challenge an old man.”
Bleached-Head’s body tensed. Heat radiated from the muscled figure, adding perspiration to the medley of hormones and cheap cologne. Confusion and rage fought for the right to be revealed.
Elton’s grin widened as he prepared to maneuver. He kept his body loose, his mana coiled and ready to release. Just give me a reason to do it, punk.
The other young man was more observant than his friend. He saw the predatorial confidence the old man exuded, and he didn’t mistake it for hollow bravado. Mitch grasped his friend’s shoulder. His voice quavered, “come…come on, man. These bitches ain’t worth it.”
Bleached-Head hesitated, blinked, then sat down hard. He scowled at Stacey but said nothing.
Elton withdrew the invisible spear of mana he had queued. He winked at the young men and whispered, “enjoy your brewskies…brah.”
As their confused dates watched, Stacey and Brandy wordlessly followed Elton out the front door.
The crisp October evening air tasted refreshing after the serving of hormone-and-cologne body odor. Elton inhaled deeply, detecting the perfume his young trophies wore. He pulled the folded napkin and a keyring from his pocket, teasing one of the keys loose with his fingernail. The Malvern held the piece of thin brass by its teeth.
“Stacey, Brandy. This is my house key. You’re to go to the address I wrote on this napkin. There, you are going to clean my kitchen for an hour, after which you will shower and then wait for me, unclothed, in my living room. Is that understood?”
The two young women looked up at him with eyes wide, unblinking. It was as though they were mesmerized by every syllable he produced. With the Deference Spell controlling them, the mage was someone to be idolized, to be obeyed unquestioningly. “Yes, Elton,” they chanted in unison.
“Very good. I’ll join you within a couple of hours.”
Even Elton had to admit: lesser beings did have their uses.
“Ah, there you are, Elton. We were beginning to think you might actually be late for once.” Viceroy William Roth’s slate grey eyes scanned the other Malvern men gathered in the Eighth Floor boardroom. “Shall we begin?”
“My apologies, Will. I allowed a brief distraction to interrupt my evening cocktail.” Elton offered the unsolicited explanation with a grin.
Curtis Davies snorted. “A brief distraction? What’s her name?”
“Stacey and Brandy.”
“Two of them, you greedy bastard?” Curtis shook his head. “Save some for the rest of us, you dog. Next time, bring me as your wingman.”
“If ever I start needing a wingman, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Elton chose one of the high-back leather chairs. “But what will Cathy say when you bring a college girl home?”
“She’ll probably tell me, ‘Honey, wait your turn. I get her first.’”
Bartholomew Samson cleared his throat. “Your attraction to anonymous NonDruw females is baffling, Director Higginbotham.”
“Listen to the Puritanical Killjoy!” Elton directed his rebuttal to the Viceroy. “Bartholomew finds my love life baffling, Will. Isn’t that a shocker?”
Bartholomew grumbled, “I’d hardly call it a love life.”
“Okay, gentlemen.” The Viceroy held his hands up. “The reason I called for this meeting is because we have a problem that needs to be dealt with. Something which has been quietly festering since our ill-fated Mandaree Incident adventure nine years ago.”
“The changeling scouts,” Bartholomew muttered.
“Not just the scouts.” The Viceroy shook his head. “Their families, too. They’re becoming emboldened, making waves, I’m told.”
“Can’t we just make them…disappear?” Curtis drew an index finger horizontally along his Adam’s apple.
Elton crossed his arms and leaned back. The leather upholstery squeaked as it accommodated him. “No, there’s too much attention on them. The window for that option has closed.”
The Viceroy nodded. “I agree. We might’ve been able to cut off this loose end back in 2001, but it’s too late now.”
Curtis said, “I remember pushing for that if you recall. You didn’t think it was necessary. You thought the problem would take care of itself.”
“We made the decision as a group,” William steepled his fingers as he rested his elbows on the ellipse-shaped table’s edge. “We thought that with their illness—with their inability to shift into their animal subforms—that they would succumb to depression and just kill themselves off, eventually. Obviously, we were overly optimistic.”
“Some of them were pretty damn close to tying their own nooses, too,” Elton added. “Their family structure, support from their communities…they’re stronger than we gave them credit. And now, someone’s been rallying them.”
“Do we know who?” Bartholomew peered over the top edge of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Is it someone we can control?”
Elton played with the cobalt Leystone ring on his finger, spinning it slowly with his knuckle. “I don’t know for certain, but I suspect it’s that new mage we just promoted to Senior Investigator. The cute little blonde with an attitude, Ember Wright.”
“I thought you had her under your influence?” William asked.
“I do—I mean I do now,” Elton shook his head. “Maybe she put the wheels in motion before I cast my Deference Spell on her. She must’ve nudged the changeling community enough to get them organized before I had a chance to meet her. She’s under my influence now though, at least. I’ve since reinforced the spell and I’m confident she is under my control.”
“All the same, she’s proven herself an intuitive Investigator,” William said. “The way she handled the Changeling Hunter. The way she surprised us by passing her Ascension Trial. You may have her under your Deference Spell, but she’s not one we can dismiss.”
“Maybe she needs to disappear?” Curtis made the neck-slicing gesture again.
The Viceroy scrunched his face into a pinched expression. “Why must your first instinct be bloodshed, Curt? Her family is among the nobility, she’s under our control now, and the damage she could do to us is already done. Ember Wright is much more useful for us now as a pawn. We’ll play that piece next, but first, we have the problem in front of us to deal with.”
“It sounds like you have something specific in mind,” Elton said.
“I do. We can’t simply eliminate the troublemakers, or they would become martyrs. Their deaths would be a rallying point for the other changelings to coalesce around.” William tapped the pads of his steepled fingers together before pulling them apart, expanding his gesture. “We need to draw them out into the o
pen, and then bury them.”
The other mages watched the Viceroy as he allowed the silence to linger for a moment. Finally, he said, “We’ve had him on the shelf for decades. It’s time for us to sacrifice our asset.”
“What, the musician?” Curtis asked.
“The poor bastard,” Bartholomew grumbled. “I never much cared for the man, but he does have a talent with instruments.”
“It is what we’ve been grooming him for,” Elton Higginbotham admitted. “So you’re suggesting we paint a big ol’ target on his back, am I understanding you correctly, Will?”
“You are. The details I’ll leave up to you, Elton. I’m going to place some distance between myself and the scandal you’re going to create. It’s time that I visit the High Council. I’ll leave on Monday. While I’m gone over the next week, I want you to ensure things are taken care of.”
Elton cracked his knuckles and flashed his trademark shark-grin. “Sure, Will. I can do that.”
Curtis asked, “so then what about your pawn, the new Senior Investigator? You said she’s got a relationship with the changeling community. What if her natural Investigator’s Instinct kicks in? What if she gets in our way?”
“We only need to keep her distracted for a week,” William said. “I think I know exactly how to derail Ember Wright. We’ll knock that domino over before I leave town. The rest of you, assist Elton with the main plan. By the time I return from England, I want the Mandaree Incident problem finally buried.”
Ascending Mage 3: Buried Truth is a page-burning modern fantasy with a kick-ass heroine and magic that will grab you by the throat.
Order your copy now, at go.frhurt.com/am3
Author Notes
Sometimes the words just don’t happen.
There are days when the story seems to write itself, where the characters speak to me and their dialogue is sharp. Those are rare, precious, magical days.
As with all other positive things in the universe, there’s a counterweight. It was one of those such days where I hit a creative wall.
There I was, a grown man lying on the kitchen floor freaking my wife out as she tried to remain cool and collected. She knew I was distraught, behind the deadline yet again and questioning my competence as a writer.
After all, writer’s write. Writers don’t stare at a blinking cursor as the anxiety crescendos like a klaxon only he can hear. Writers don’t turn to video games and Netflix and ignore yet another missed deadline, hoping somehow that inaction will manifest itself as inspiration on its own. That’s fantasy, and not the kind of fantasy you want to read about.
RaeLea and I fancy ourselves rather decent storytellers, based on our readers’ feedback. We know we are capable of writing novels—we’ve finished a couple now at this stage. Shouldn’t this process—this thing we call writing—shouldn’t it become easier with practice?
Sometimes it is—sometimes that flow state can be reached, and the words just pour out of me. Those are usually some of my best pieces of writing, too. More often than not, it’s agony. It’s knowing what the story is, but not knowing how to articulate it. Not knowing how to do justice for the characters who feel so real to us. It’s a failure to give our Alpha Team readers what they deserve for putting up with our whimsical catfacery and for standing by ever-so-patiently while yet another deadline comes and goes.
Professionals meet deadlines. So what did that make me?
I was spinning my wheels in another of those painful ruts when I received a text message from my Aunt Nancy. She had been battling late-stage lung cancer, and she was at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, receiving treatment.
She wrote:
“Oh my gosh your book was wonderful!! Thanks to you and RaeLea – my first round of chemo went by quickly and smoothly as I remained engrossed in the book. I’m not normally a big fan of ‘fantasy’ but it was very good. Couldn’t put it down until I finished – great job. Can’t wait for the next one!!! Who knew that your creativity and imagination would end up being better than pharmaceuticals!”
Here I was, gnashing my teeth and wallowing in self-pity because I couldn’t force words onto a screen. Meanwhile, my aunt was intentionally consuming poison in a scorched-earth attempt to tip the scales against cancer cells. And she was the one cheering me up!
Talk about sobering.
Time waits for nobody. We worked on the next book and made great progress, but it was too little, too late. I wish I could say that I quickly got the next novel written and sent to her. I wish I could say that she made a full recovery. Instead, Aunt Nancy succumbed to complications related to that goddamn cancer mere weeks later.
I try not to dwell on life’s regrets, because down that way lies a dark trench. The best I can offer now is to name a character after her, and to keep this lesson indelibly inked in my psyche. Because to some of us, these stories are merely entertaining fiction—a trivial escape from reality. But for some, that escape isn’t so trivial.
This one’s for you, Aunt Nancy.
Frank Hurt
Acknowledgments
We are incredibly fortunate to have a fantastic Alpha Team. These folks pick through our stories, proofread, and help find gaps in the plot and prose. The novel you just read is much stronger thanks to their efforts. Special thanks to:
Robert Severson
Jackie Hope
Lucy Hurt
Muriel Hurt
Bonnie Olson
Benedette Knopik
Joy Vasquez
Ian Cowie
Stephanie Sapp
Ronald Colbert
Luke Hurt
Gloria Warner
Jolene Briles
Boniface Knopik
Elizabeth Key
Finally, a huge thanks to everyone who reviews our novels on Amazon and Goodreads!
Did you leave a review yet? If so, send us an email so we can thank you properly!
Our email address is [email protected] or use the contact form at https://frhurt.com
