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Fragile Magick (Descent Trilogy Book 1)
Fragile Magick (Descent Trilogy Book 1) Read online
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BROKEN MAGICK
REVIEW REQUEST
STALKED BY NIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
FRAGILE MAGICK
THE DESCENT TRILOGY, BOOK ONE
HEATHER MARIE ADKINS
FRAGILE MAGICK: The Descent Trilogy, Book One
Copyright © 2017 by Heather Marie Adkins
Published by CyberWitch Press, LLC
Louisville, KY
cyberwitchpress.com
[email protected]
First edition, published May 2017 in Haunted by Magic
Second edition, published September 2017
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
In layman’s terms: Don’t be a jerk. Writing and publishing is the author’s career. Support their art by buying their books at their very affordable prices. Don’t steal the author’s blood, sweat, and tears for free from a pirate site. If you did, then go back and buy a book from this author. Legally.
Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.
Author Photograph © 2011 Meagan White|White Photography
Contact the author at [email protected]
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For Alex & Fel;
where the hell have you been all my life?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BROKEN MAGICK
REVIEW REQUEST
STALKED BY NIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Somebody once remarked that “with great power comes great responsibility.” No researchers can pinpoint exactly where this quote came from, but one thing is certain: It’s fucking dumb. Not because it’s wrong.
Because it’s right.
What young witch wants to admit her power is cause for abuse? Cause for targeting. But not physically, no. Never that simple.
Metaphysically.
With great power comes the darkest of curses, might be a better way to put it. In a tradition ripe with guidelines made to be broken, and strong magickians with even stronger opinions on the imagined line between good and evil, magickal practitioners with the most power are the ones targeted. They’re the wild cards — the men and women who challenge the status quo and set the International Council aquiver with fear.
What’s that other great saying… “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
Heh.
My father taught me everything about being a witch. Mikhail Holtzer was the strongest witch of his generation. He could manipulate all four elements, bring the wounded back from the brink of death, and vanquish his enemies with an irritated flick of his wrist. First year magickal students wrote papers about my father, espousing his great leadership qualities and the immense power he contained in such a — reportedly — handsome package.
Despite, or maybe because of, his great power, he maintained a gentle demeanor with me in our lessons throughout my childhood. Don’t get me wrong; he could be tough. He expected nothing but the best from his only child. But after lessons, in the free time we had together between school and work and sleep, he and I would cuddle on the couch beneath my favorite flannel blanket, munching popcorn and drinking Big Red as we laughed at the movie of the week.
I grew older, and his lessons intensified. I grew stronger, worlds ahead of the kids in my class. It became obvious I’d follow in his footsteps as the greatest witch of my generation.
What they don’t teach you in magickal studies is that great power comes at great cost.
* * *
THE MORNING OF MY TWENTY-FIRST birthday dawned to a bleak, rainy sky and an alarm clock that hadn’t sounded at its pre-determined time. Green numbers glowed 8:21, which meant I was twenty-one minutes late for work. As ironic as I found it that I was exactly twenty-one minutes late for work on my twenty-first birthday, that had no bearing on the fact I was late. My boss had threatened bodily harm on the next instance of my tardiness, and quite frankly, I believed her.
I hit the ground at a full sprint, stumbling over my familiar where he dozed on the floor beside my bed. Hermod was a one-thousand-year-old spirit currently housed in a ninety-eight pound gray pit bull, assigned to look after my health and well-being. That had less to do with my actual health and well-being, and more to do with keeping me from blowing myself up or abusing my powers. I vaguely recalled kicking him off the bed in the middle of the night because he drooled on my pillow.
Hermod opened one green eye and snuffed at me. “I specifically told you not to awaken me,” he grumbled in his gruff voice. The sound didn’t come from his mouth or throat. It emanated from him as if he were a loudspeaker, and was tinged with an accent I couldn’t pinpoint: neither English nor Dutch nor German.
“I have to work. You wanna be locked up all day?” I jerked a dress from its hanger with one hand and tugged my nightshirt off with the other.
“Mikhail can let me out for a romp.” Hermod rolled on his back, exposing his pale fleshy underside as he gave me sad eyes.
“You’re not Dad’s responsibility,” I reminded him, tugging the dress over my head. Clouds of soft green fabric fell past my knees in a ragged handkerchief hem, loose and comfy around my torso. I crossed to my dresser mirror and adjusted the thin straps on my shoulders. The forest green looked good with my dark red hair and ghostly pale skin — minus the fact I had giant shadows beneath my eyes. Late night studying was hell on the complexion.
“Mikhail adores me,” Herm said. “He gave me bacon yesterday.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for my sea salt spray and brush to tame my curls. “You abuse that body and you’re going to lose it. You hate the rebirthing process.”
Herm wiggled on his back as if scratching an itch. His ears flopped against the ground and his tongue lolled comically from his mouth. “I have at least a dozen years to go in this skin. What’s for breakfast?”
I left my hair loose around my shoulders and stepped into comfy sandals. “Something meant for dogs.”
I didn’t hear my father puttering in his bedroom, but he was usually
up and about long before me. I passed down the dark hallway and took the stairs at a clip, skidding into the kitchen to grab a bagel and jelly. As I shoved half the multigrain circle in my mouth, I poured a cup of dog kibble for an irritable Herm.
He had no room to complain. I paid a fortune for his high-end, fancy-schmancy food. Yet another downfall of a reincarnated familiar.
The door to Dad’s lab — AKA the basement — hung open. I leaned on the edge of the doorframe and yelled, “Dad! I’m out!”
No answer.
I didn’t know crap about Dad’s most recent project beyond the way he’d jokingly referred to it as “super-secret classified.” He did a lot of work for the High Council — he had since before I was born. So I knew better than to pry. And really, some of the stuff they did was boring anyway. Last year, he’d headed up some operative to weaken the mosquito population in an effort to quell human disease.
What a waste of good magick.
“Dad! I’m leaving!” I called again.
Still no answer.
I stomped down the stairs, tugging my jacket on as I descended. The old wooden staircase creaked beneath my feet, loud moans and groans that might as well have heralded them breaking away from under me. We had a quirky little house in Jersey, and most days, I liked it, but it was old and my imagination ran wild.
I hit the concrete and moved quickly across the storage room. I ducked beneath fragrant, low-hanging herbs ¬- drying from the summer harvest—and skirted boxes of holiday decorations covered in dust three inches thick, marred by last year’s fingerprints.
A heavy stone gargoyle propped open the door to Dad’s lab. I’d named him Stoneface when I was little, and Dad had affectionately kept the title. Stoneface reminded him of his early years, two centuries ago when the gargoyles functioned as helpers for the witches. In the late 1800s, a faction of sensationalists arose and began systematically annihilating the gargoyles, claiming they were a threat to our powers.
In those assassinations, Dad lost three gargoyles he’d grown close to. By the time the rebellion was quelled and the men and women faced judgment before the council, the gargoyle’s population had been decimated. All that remained now were our stone reminders.
I patted Stoneface on the head as I passed. Candles burned steadily on Dad’s giant work table; the golden glow flickered over a dozen open books. I trailed my fingers over dry, ancient pages, crumbly beneath my fingertips. Whatever Dad was studying now, he’d brought out the big guns. It fascinated me to think of how many generations had laid hands upon these books.
“Dad?” I poked my head around the corners of his make-shift library stacks. Empty.
The bathroom door hung open, the tiny room beyond dark.
I noticed light burning beneath his office door and knocked. “Dad?”
No answer.
My dad could be flighty. Put the man in charge of a research project or creating a potion or manipulating energies to better the world, and he could disappear inside his work for days. I’d have to force him to eat, shower, and interact with other people in his somewhat-distracted but altogether endearing way.
But he never ignored me. He always answered.
I grabbed the cold metal knob and shoved the door open.
The chair at his desk was empty, shoved away as if he’d stood and forgotten to push it back in. Papers were scattered among empty coffee mugs and wrinkled potato chip bags, and the cork board above his desk was piled an inch thick with Post-It notes. He was obviously in full-on crazy scientist mode.
Against the wall beside his desk, Dad lay on his cot, his back to the door.
Unmoving.
I rushed to him, my heart pounding against my rib cage so that I felt every single bone inside me; the flutter of a terrified bird behind the iron bars of a jail cell. I fell to my knees beside him and pulled on his shoulder, rolling him to face me.
His eyes remained closed.
“Dad!” I yelled, shaking his shoulders. I touched his face — ice cold. “Daddy, wake up!”
I shook him harder, my panic rising until I was ready to start punching his chest to bring him back.
Not him, too. You can’t have both of them.
And then he jerked awake.
I fell back onto my heels, the coiled tension inside me releasing on an exhalation of breath. The floor felt solid, cold, stabilizing beneath my knees.
Daddy blinked blearily at his watch, then raised his dark brown gaze to me. “Brigitta? Everything okay?” He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and sank against the wall as if exhaustion draped over his shoulders. He put his heavy boots to the floor — the sheets were scuffed with dirt from where he hadn’t bothered removing them.
My dad was a bear of a guy. He soared nearly 6’4’’ with a brawny frame, black curly hair, and inky eyes in a swarthy face. I had his curls and his chin, but my fair skin and fiery hair I got from the mother I never met.
“I couldn’t wake you up,” I said, my voice small and scared. My pulse hadn’t drifted back to normal yet.
He checked his watch, his eyes widening. “I never even heard you. I only meant to lay down for a moment… Shouldn’t you be at work, chickadee?” He grinned, a shade of his normal amusement coming back to his ashen cheeks. “You’re late.”
I rolled my eyes, recognizing that as the exact moment my heartbeat decided all was well and it could return to regularly scheduled business. “You could at least tell me happy birthday. Jerk.”
Dad chuckled and leaned to kiss my forehead. “Happy birthday, chickie.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” I leaned forward, putting a hand to both of his cheeks. His sallow skin felt clammy. “Why are you so cold?”
“Am I?” He touched his face, then smoothed his long black curls away from his face. “I don’t know. I’m not feeling too hot. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” He cupped my hands and scooted them to his lips to kiss my knuckles. “I hate to get sick on your birthday. We’re supposed to have… What was it again?”
I retrieved my hands and stood with a chuckle. “Asian fusion.”
“I haven’t the faintest what that is, but I’m going to eat it.”
“Your bravery is astonishing. If you aren’t feeling great, I don’t mind staying in,” I added, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “We can order a pizza or something.”
“Does the ‘Asian fusion’ deliver? Perhaps we could order in.”
“I don’t know. I’ll check.” I pointed a finger at his face. “No work today. Go upstairs where it’s warm. Kick your feet up, drink some tea with honey, and watch bad daytime TV till I get home.”
Dad stared up at me innocently. “Sure, chickie. I’ll do that.”
“Tea with honey!” I said sternly.
He waved me off. “Go, before Brynja relieves me of my only daughter.”
CHAPTER TWO
I hopped the train into the city, praying Brynja wouldn’t murder me the moment I walked into the store. She had a quick temper, especially when it came to me, the surrogate daughter who forever reminded her of my mother but fell short of her legacy. By the time I caught the train, made it through the tunnel and into the city to exit near her shop in the Meatpacking District, it was well after nine.
Nature’s Magick stood kitty-corner to a local coffee shop, and between a designer boutique and a yoga studio. Brynja’s popular herbalism store had a very unassuming front: an antique wooden door with a lion head knocker beneath the glass window that stated “Everyone Welcome.” Beside that, a large picture window held an array of fall decorations including floating leaves, cornstalks, and painted pumpkins.
Brynja opened the door before I could, her blonde brows stretching toward an equally golden hairline.
“Shall we start with the toes?” she joked (I hoped), and clicked the tiny shears in her hand.
I froze, smiling in what was probably more a grimace. “It’s my birthday?”
She shook her head. “Real people work on their birthday, and still make it on time
. Try again.” Snip, snip.
“My alarm didn’t go off!” I heard the whine in my voice but not soon enough to cut it out.
Brynja pursed her lips and stepped back, allowing me entrance. “Brigitta, we have talked about your punctuality problem numerous times. Helena would be ashamed of you. Your mother was early everywhere she went. It isn’t difficult.”
I slunk past Brynja, wanting to argue but knowing it would be futile. I did get tired of the way she constantly compared me to my mother. Helena this, Helena that, why don’t you just be more like your mother, Brigitta?
Well, Brynja, let me tell you why I can’t be more like my mother. Because your precious Helena died the day I was born, her heart already silent before they pulled me from her limp body. She didn’t have a chance to teach me anything.
I didn’t say that though. Brynja and my mother were best friends for most of their lives until Mom died the victim of a hit-and-run. If it weren’t for the bystander who gave my mother CPR until the ambulance arrived, and the EMT not afraid to cut her open to save me, I wouldn’t be alive.
I never reminded Brynja of this. If she was scolding me for not being like my mother, she was fine. But mention my mom’s death or absence, and her haunted look would arrive with tears in tow. I hated doing that to her, almost as much as I loathed being reminded she’d had twenty-five years of her life with a woman I’d have given anything to have known
“We got an order in from Mystasis this morning,” Brynja told me, using her bossy business-like tone. “I’ll need you to take an inventory and then stock the shelves. Don’t forget you’ll need gloves to handle the thorny ones. No bleeding on the product.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, master.”
As she returned to the counter to resume snipping herbs with her dangerously sharp tiny shears, I shouldered my bag and trudged to the backroom.
There wasn’t much to Nature’s Magick. The room had a soaring ceiling, and the walls were painted a cheery sunflower yellow behind the hundreds and hundreds of glass jars that held our product. The rectangular shop ended in a swinging door to the back room, and from anywhere inside, you could see all four corners. We definitely didn’t have a theft problem, though one might say we had a space problem. Shelves reached all the way to the ceiling and required a ladder to retrieve the herbs up top.