Assault in the Wizard Degree, page 25
“Gods, no! I don’t want it!”
“Then it seems that I must be blunt. Your father is dead, Sturmgalen. As is our feud.” Magnus quirked a grin as he added, “Besides, it would be unseemly for you and I to fight.”
Galen blinked. “Because we are wizards?
“In part. But mostly…because we are family, nephew.”
With that, Magnus turned to follow Rikka back to the centaur portion of the battlefield. He immediately went to where the wounded had been brought in, seeing to their worst injuries with his remaining magic.
All Galen could do was stare open-mouthed.
* * *
The Albess let out a ‘hoo!’ as I finished bringing her up to date on the battle, three days later. She paced back and forth atop her bar-shaped perch, her talons securely gripping the metal at each step. She preened the orangey-cream colored feathers of one wing in a gesture that I now knew signified mild embarrassment.
“With all you have said, I know I should have more pressing questions,” she admitted. “But I must know: how is Magnus Killsheven related to our Court Wizard?”
“It’s pretty simple,” I said, as I nibbled at a buttery, crispy triangle of pastry. If I ever needed proof that Albess Thea had come to enjoy my company, this was it. She’d managed to convince the royal kitchen to come up with a dish of ‘mouse-free’ apple tarts. “Centaurs treat their version of marriage rather like some humans. That is, the female in the union gives up her family name and acquires the male partner’s family name. Galen’s mom was born as Inga Killsheven – specifically, one of Magnus’ younger sisters.”
“Hoo! Now it becomes clear!”
“I really should have figured it out on my own,” I said ruefully. “The hair, the equine coats, it was all right out in front of me. The House of Friesain is mostly dark-haired, with chestnut-colored coats on the equine portion of their bodies. But the centaurs in the House of Jormond are pintos, and more importantly, they’re redheads.”
Thea bobbed as she added, “Just as Inga is a pinto, and a redhead.”
“As is the most prominent member of the Second House, Sir Jorvath. The Friesain genes bred true in Galen, but with that red hair of hers, Rikka’s more of a hybrid. And finally, consider Magnus himself. I thought he looked like a ‘calico’, but that’s really a version of pinto coloring.”
“And no one saw his copper-colored hair while he was impersonating the bald Duke Kajari,” Thea concluded. “You have truly learned about the centaurs’ world.”
“Well, I think I’ve done some good, at least. Ever since I explained to Rikka what her problem was – a simple learning disability – she’s been a lot more confident. She’s still not considered throne-worthy, but she doesn’t care about that. And what’s more, she hasn’t used a single malapropism since my talk with her.”
“Once again, Dame Chrissie, you do more good than you credit yourself for.”
“I suppose,” I said with a sigh. I paused to take a sip from my steaming mug. As it turned out, ‘House Mouse’ tea wasn’t all that bad. “I just hope I made the right choice, bringing Magnus back. Yet, we need another wizard on our side, especially considering the forces lining up against us.”
“We do,” Thea assured me. “No one knows if the demon lord and his minions were destroyed, or simply banished for a time. Sir Caltrop, wittingly or not, opened a door to the Ultari. It is a door that should have remained closed.”
“There are lots of doors that should have remained closed, Albess. Some in Los Angeles. Shelly Richardson got back to me with the test results on the…remains. That is, the remains that I found on my kitchen table.”
I swallowed and looked away for a moment before I went on.
“She confirmed that the eyeballs belonged to Maxwell Cohen. The vascular condition of the cells in the ophthalmic artery told her that they had been removed from the sockets after death. That’s a comfort, in a way. But no matter what, I have to face up to the fact that I’m at least partially responsible for Cohen’s death. As I am for a lot of humans. And centaurs.”
“My dear,” Thea said, in a stern voice. “You are too hard upon yourself. This was the enemy’s first trial of strength in open battle. Imagine how it might have gone without your insight.”
“Well–”
“Or, if you wish, imagine how the battle would have gone…if the Ultari had been able to muster a flight of Seraphine to back them up?”
I shuddered. “I suppose things turned out better than they might have. Fitzwilliam lost a lot of men from his three hand-picked cavalry companies, and the centaurs suffered a huge number of casualties from one House. But it wasn’t the disaster it could have been. Magnus was able to revive and save a third of the centaurs that were ‘hosted’ by the Ultari. And…I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Lord Ivor…and even Lord Behnaz acquitted themselves well in battle!”
“So perhaps some sun has accompanied all the rain, Dayna?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “At least, enough for me to think about.”
Thea let out a series of soft ‘hoos’. “Then I feel like I have done something well in turn on this beautiful day. Enjoy it, Dayna. The wind has turned, at least for a little while.”
I bid the Albess good day and showed myself out of the Parliament building. Thea was right about it being beautiful outside. The sun had almost burned off the morning clouds, and the crispness of the breeze didn’t hint at frost anymore. I walked along the path until I stopped in the dim shadow cast by the Dame’s Tower. My ‘achievement’, if one believed in prophecy.
I wondered, not for the first time, if I was truly up to the tasks that had fallen to me. When it came right down to it, I wasn’t sure my skillset had ever made a difference. I’d won through so many things by hook or by crook. By luck, with a big side-order of pluck.
What had I ever done in the past to deserve any of this responsibility?
I supposed that, just like with Zenos’ predictions, the answers were right in front of me, if I chose to look at them closely enough. And if I listened to what I’d been telling other people.
I’d been telling them that the past does not define you.
Instead, the past prepares you for who you will become.
Perhaps that was the key. My past, as the little girl who’d met a fayleene, didn’t limit me. My past as a grad student in Chicago didn’t limit me. My past with the OME in Los Angeles didn’t limit me.
In fact, maybe it prepared me for Andeluvia. That was a comforting thought, and I wrapped myself in it for one glorious moment.
The sun finally broke through the clouds, brightening the entire courtyard. I wandered over to where the bare, thorn-clad stems still jutted out of the winter remains of the Royal Rose Garden.
This time, I spotted something different.
A patch of crocus had pushed their way up through the hard, cold ground. They spread open their flowers in brilliant starbursts of yellow and violet. The fact that these plants had managed to grow in soil as hard as a marble slab was itself a kind of miracle.
I sat down next to the flowers to enjoy their beauty. To enjoy the sunshine as it cascaded down on my upturned face. To feel the warmth on my cheeks. A warmth that was infused with a promise.
The promise of a spring that was yet to come.
The End
# # #
Thanks for Reading!
Hello again, and I hope you enjoyed reading Assault in the Wizard Degree.
Assault was extra fun to write for three main reasons. First, I spent time asking myself how a centaur society might structure itself, especially since they’d been portrayed before as a simple might-makes-right monarchy. Second, I got to set up and pay off the beats of Zenos’ latest prophecy. And finally, it was great to bring back some characters we hadn’t seen since the first book of the series, Centaur of the Crime.
Whether in Los Angeles or Andeluvia, expect to see Dayna Chrissie dealing with fallout from her actions in Book Seven, Trafficking in Demons, coming in February 2017.
I enjoy feedback, and you’re what keeps me coming back to the keyboard (well, that and helpings of caffeine) to turn raw ideas into finished stories.
So can I ask you a favor yet again?
If you liked this book, I’d truly appreciate a review on Amazon. Even if you’ve given a good review of an earlier story, these make all the difference. As this series grows, it’s evident that readers like you have tremendous influence in making (or un-making) a book, especially if it’s further along in a series.
If you wish, you can also drop me a line at michaelangelwriter@gmail.com.
Finally, would you’d like to know when I have new books out? Or even be notified when one’s on sale, free, or there’s an offer for a give-away? If so, please click the link below to join the Michael Angel Newsletter.
Click here to sign up for Michael Angel’s ‘Fantasy & Forensics’ Newsletter.
Thank you for reading Assault in the Wizard Degree and for spending time with me and the indomitable Dame Chrissie!
Michael Angel
And now, a sneak preview of
the seventh fantasy novel in the
‘Fantasy & Forensics’ series,
Trafficking in Demons,
also by Michael Angel.
C.S. Lewis continues to meet CSI…when Amazon Bestselling author Michael Angel presents the seventh installment in his series, ‘Fantasy & Forensics’.
King Fitzwilliam’s court reaches the boiling point. The Andeluvian lords erupt in protest at the arrival of a centauress warrior for the upcoming Spring Tournament. While some nobles credit Dame Chrissie for the recent victory at the Oxine River, others demand her immediate exile for restoring King Benedict’s murderer to power!
Dayna’s got to solve an unusually gristly homicide. Dayna arrives at a Los Angeles mansion to solve a murder where the victim’s been shredded by a brand-new type of weapon. She’s astounded when she finds a nightmarish clue about who designed it – one that triggers Dayna’s worst suspicions.
But the LAPD no longer has her back. Rumors swirl among many officers that Dayna Chrissie’s responsible for a veteran retiree’s horrific death. Others whisper that the Police Chief wants her scalp pinned to his desk. And Dayna’s friends will be the only ones left to protect her from Robert McClatchy and Damon Harrison!
Dayna must face down her foes in both worlds if she hopes to solve her case and expose the enemy once and for all!
Trafficking in Demons
I saw this was no ordinary crime scene when I realized that I’d need a wet-vac instead of a body bag.
Most people would think: Oh, that’s really gross!
But the only thing that ran through my head was: Great. Now I’ve got to go back to the OME van and lug more equipment out here.
My mood hadn’t been improved by the ninety-minute drive along Interstate 5. Los Angeles sprawled for over five hundred square miles, with odd offshoots of real estate that curled around smaller cities like the tentacles of some leviathan octopus. And as it happened, I had to make my way to the far edge of the northernmost tentacle.
Out here, the city petered out as the San Gabriel mountain range started poking up granite fingers from the valley floor. In fact, the mix of slot canyons and steep slopes around Wildomar Canyon produced an interesting mix of isolated million-dollar homes and out-and-out wilderness.
Whoever owned this rugged piece of property had plenty of money, that was for sure. The long driveway at the base of the slope had been gated with a set of reinforced steel bars and a retractable tire spike barrier. The estate itself covered several acres, while a post-and-beam house sat at the property’s highest point. The gray cottage roof and white trim made it look as if a Cape Cod beach house had somehow gotten marooned out west.
I’d gotten into my disposable jumpsuit-style outfit and my Stompy Boots of Doom for the occasion. I sent a thank-you up to whomever had sent the cool spring weather as I grabbed my case and made my way to the house. A pair of police cruisers sat outside the front doors, lights flashing but subdued against the sunshine. I had ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and taken maybe a half-dozen steps into the house before I froze.
I’ve smelled some truly terrible things before. It came part and parcel with my job. In fact, the patent was still pending on my very own Scale of Stinkiness.
This was different. The awfulness wasn’t what set it apart. Probably it rated no higher than a four. Yet it was the gaminess that got me.
Relatively fresh bodies could emit anything from a coppery smell to a sour stink like tomcat urine. But this place reeked of ground-up organ meat. It got down on my taste buds and scoured itself in like gone-off liver pâté.
I looked around and tried to make sense of the scene.
The house had an ‘exposed interior’ design which left much of the first floor as a single open space. On my left, warm track lightning glittered off what had been a normal upscale kitchen. Ragged chunks of the speckled granite countertop had been blasted into powder. Shards of metal peppered the stainless steel of the upscale appliances. Flecks of dried blood spattered almost every surface, as if someone had tossed a cherry bomb into an open can of rust-colored paint.
A recreation room stretched off to my right, complete with a pool table and a flat-screen television larger than the side of my van. A bar that looked shipped in from a wild-west saloon sat in the corner. Deep gouges scored the bar’s wooden surface as if from a single horrific claw.
The living room lay between the two other areas. The space could have graced the cover of Millionaire Interior Decorating magazine. At least if it hadn’t been turned into an abattoir. Several of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lay shattered by something akin to artillery fire. I counted three separate foot-wide craters that had blasted through the shelving and into an underlying layer of reinforced concrete and rebar.
Then there was the body. Or what remained of a body.
The head, limbs, and lower torso of a Caucasian man lay scattered about the edge of a massive ‘splash zone’ of gore. I’d never seen the effect of artillery fire on the human body, but this must have come close. I simply stood in place, not knowing where to begin.
Someone walked through the front doors and stopped by my side.
“Mierda,” he breathed. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I recognized the voice as Hector Reyes, one of the best crime-scene photographers I knew. Hector announcing that he felt sick was something new. I’d seen the man cover grisly murder scenes involving gunshot wounds or even violent dismemberment. Minutes later, I’d catch him chowing down on a carnitas taco back in his truck like nothing had happened.
“This is pretty bad, isn’t it?” I said.
“It’s a damned war zone, that’s what it is.” Hector dug into one of the pockets on his Chihuahuan leather belt and came up with a circular lens. He screwed it onto the end of his big black camera and began snapping away. “Whoever did this must’ve had a BFG, that’s for sure.”
“A what?”
“A big effing gun, that’s what.”
Luckily, whoever installed the hardwood floor had done their job well and made it perfectly level. The blood from the corpse had stayed in one semi-coagulated pool in the living room, so I could carefully step around it. I made my way over to the bar so that I could get a closer look at the scratch marks.
“A gun big enough to do this kind of damage must’ve had an awful lot of recoil,” I observed.
“More recoil than I could handle, that’s for sure,” Hector agreed, as he zoomed in on shots of the corpse itself. He had to pivot five times to get each piece of the body in frame.
I set my case down and touched a gloved hand to the scratches. The pattern definitely looked as if it had been carved by a kick-back motion. I knelt and immediately found the curled mass of a wood shaving. I bagged it and then felt around some more by one of the wooden counter’s supports.
Something felt cold and metallic against my fingers. It clinked and then rolled out of reach, so I leaned down further to grab it. I grasped the object and held it up where I could get a better look.
“Bingo,” I said triumphantly. “We’ve got a…cartridge casing?”
The tarnished-brass color of the huge casing glimmered in the light as I held it up. It looked like it had come off a bullet designed to take down bull elephants. The casing stretched longer than my palm, and it was easily the diameter of a roll of half-dollars. I could only imagine the size and weight of a complete round.
Hector kept on shooting as he moved towards the kitchen. “Any marks on the base? I’d be curious to know who made it.”
I turned the casing so I could look at it end-on. A trio of markings along the edge looked like strange flowers or seashells at first glance. I squinted again, trying to make out the inscription or pattern. It didn’t appear to be writing, but something about it looked familiar.
My brain did one of its weird clicks.
On the heels of the click came my instant refusal to believe what my mind was telling me. I shook my head to clear my head.
“You find anything, Dayna?” Hector called.
“What?” I said, startled out of my chain of thought. “I mean, hold on. Just a second.”
I’ve seen this shape before, I thought. Even slept with it against my skin.
Each marking was shaped exactly like a piece of jewelry I’d had in my possession for several months. The medallion that Hollyhock had worn around her neck during my time at the Reykajar Aerie. The medallion that she’d used to cast a spell that nearly incapacitated an entire room of griffins.
The medallion Holly had pressed into my palm as she died.
And that same medallion had been used as a last-ditch bargaining chip. I’d handed it over to Grayson Archer to secure Shelly Richardson’s freedom from the First Samaritan Mental Hospital. What’s more, Archer had recognized the shape.
