The Darkness Within: Adventures of Benjamin Baxter Books 1-3

Birthday Bedlam

Unusually bright, an early October full moon hung in the Las Vegas sky cutting light through the darkness of Meadows Towing sprawling junkyard. Benjamin Baxter edged to an intersection and placed a careful hand on the jagged kinks of flattened cars stacked twenty high and hoped his car hadn’t already met the same fate.

He peered around the corner.

A light desert breeze worked down the long row of vehicles squashed and stacked like large Legos. The dry air pressed against Ben’s face, bringing the heavy smell of rust and neglected plastic. Bathed only in moonlight, the true colors of the cars turned into muted tones. Shadows did most of the coloring here.

Doing his best not to break the silence that lay over the scrapyard like a warm blanket. Ben hurried down the row.

Movement at the far edge of the row caught his eye. He sucked in a quick gulp of air and froze.

This boar, like the one before, had long tusks, stood waist-high and looked thoroughly pissed off as it crossed between rows of compacted cars thirty feet ahead. Ben eyed the spiked leather collar as it snorted and stalked.

He pulled out his new Anvilsmith tablet—a birthday gift from the Archon Primary Academy—and a spell card he’d crafted and programmed for a situation like this, and lined the SD card up with the slot on his device.

Ben kept the surprised gulp locked in his lungs. Like before, he hoped the boar would continue on.

According to the scry he had bought from Crystal, this was supposed to be a moonlit stroll through a vacant scrapyard to recover his stolen car. This guard animal, the second he had come across, signaled otherwise. Why’d they take his car in the first place? Better yet, what kind of lunatic would use ravished boars as guard animals.

He frowned. Worst sixteenth birthday ever.

If the operators of this lot were crafty enough to conceal the beasts from Crystal’s divination, they were, at the least, starwise and, at the worst, well-practiced in the arts.

Ben let his breath ease out as the animal began to go around the corner.

His device gave a small tick. Ben’s robotic companion—Tex—also searched Meadows Towing for his car and had just unsilenced his Anvilsmith. Unable to slide his finger to lower the volume and keep the spellcard ready, Ben pressed the tablet into his gut and prayed to muffled the speakers enough.

Loud and proud, Tex’s synthesized voice blared, “Found it!”

The boar turned with a sharp snort and bristled.

Ben slid the spellcard the rest of the way in and pressed “activate.”

The SD card shot from the Anvilsmith like a miniature black comet with a snapping green energy tail. It pulsed strongly with the same energy when it struck the ground.

His school tie and trench coat started to react to the pull from the sudden vacuum before the crackling energy shattered the card. It released a gust of wind, whipping Ben’s coat and hair back when Orion, a large gorilla made of sparkling green energy, appeared from the destroyed spellcard. The magical glow faded as his conjured protector materialized.

Focused on Ben, its original target, the boar lowered its menacing tusks and charged. It tried to plow through the gorilla.

Orion dropped its center of gravity. Strong arms caught the boar and redirected on a tangent to slam into wall of smashed wrecks.

Ben was saved.

Orion fought on.

Ben felt the familiar tingling sensation at the center of his brain when the conjurer’s link formed.

A rush of adrenaline surged through him as he piggybacked on Orion’s awareness and the gorilla’s senses became his own.

Together, they rolled with the force from the boar’s charge. They had one of the beast’s tusks in hand and beat at it with the other.

The boar got its feet beneath it and jerked its neck back to break free.

With a focused thought, Ben made Orion grab the other tusk. Before he could issue a follow-up command, the gorilla acted on instinct. A mighty yank ripped one tusk away from the creature’s snout with a sickening crack.

Ben recoiled from the link and regained his own senses.

The boar’s squeals of pain were cut short as Orion stabbed it repeatedly with its own tusk.

A chill ran up Ben’s spine. His throat constricted.

Ben had summoned conjurations in the past to perform tasks around the Archon Private Academy. He had used this same gorilla to move Master Reynolds’s heavy black cauldrons. There were joys in controlling creatures to do chores, but having conjured one who had killed filled him with disgust.

Orion thumped its chest in victory and sidled next to Ben, offering the bloody tusk to show it had completed the task set to it. Further, it tried to give Ben the mental reins to embody it again.

Ben shook his head at both the tusk and control. Appreciative of the gesture, he pet-patted the gorilla’s massive hairy arm, but looked away in disgust. Between the rows of the compressed cars, his gaze went to the boar. He didn’t want to see the dead creature, but his attention floated to the area.

Orion stood in the way, and Ben was glad his conjuration blocked the view.

“I said, found it.” Tex reminded him, its light metallic voice carrying through the Anvilsmith. “It is...” A ping sounded as Tex plotted coordinates. “Right here.” That and a couple of deep breaths of the steel-laden air helped remind Ben of why he had come.

Ben turned his back to the boar and thumbed the volume down to 25%. He rubbed his face with vigor and tried to rid his memory of the crack and last life-ending whine.

“Need I remind you of how Master Reynolds will respond to your loss of a birthday gift on the night of its gifting?” Tex imitated Master Reynolds’s Southampton accent. “Lose one of your sixteenth’s gifts, Benjamin, and you lose them all.”

Ben clenched his fist against failure. It would be the same as when he had lost one of the three gifts he received for his thirteenth birthday.

Most annoyingly, his third gift—Tex, a small Golemcast robot—was right. If he lost his car—a sleek, APA red convertible Transcend—Master Reynolds would demand he forfeit Tex and the Anvilsmith tablet.

No one ever had to surrender a second set of gifts. He’d be the grand fool of the APA.

Ben’s brow pulled into a decisive knot. If he couldn’t recover his car, he wouldn’t return to school.

The dead boar had slipped back into his mind. Focused on the task, Ben swallowed the lump of bile trying to escape his throat. He took a steadying breath. “Tex, why do you always override my silent setting?”

“You are asking the wrong question, Junior Apprentice.”

“Am I?” Ben looked up to the moon in the clear night sky. This far from Las Vegas, the brighter stars pushed through the neon light pollution. His Master would say it was a good omen.

Tax answered, “Yes. You should be asking yourself, Why is my silent setting so easily overridden?” The robot paused in mock contemplation. “Perhaps you should have a word with your programmer...”

Even though no one would know, Ben pursed his lips to keep his amusement from showing.

Tex knew Ben programmed his own gear. The robot had taken a solid shot at him. The hallmark of the Golemcast models was to analyze the assigned student and use the best associated method to challenge them to greater heights. Apparently Tex had pegged him for humorous sarcasm.

Aware that it would only be around a short amount of time, the gorilla pushed Ben’s shoulder.

Ben nodded. “Tex, come to where I am and salvage what you can. Then, make an intercepting path to meet up with me.”

Tex replied, “Will do, Junior Apprentice, but this is a scrapyard. There is a lot to salvage.”

Ben groaned at Tex’s response and pressed his lips tight to keep his biting reply in check.

Unlike his past two companions, Tex registered when he was snide to it. Even though Ben couldn’t find the subroutine in Tex’s code to prove it, he would bet anything that the small robot spitefully performed worse until plugged back into the mainframe. “Salvage what you can from the spellcard and combat Orion had with a boar in this vicinity.”

A chime sounded. Tex noting his location. “Will do, Junior Apprentice, and will continue in stealth mode.”

Even though Orion’s time dwindled, Ben pressed Modes on his Anvilsmith and scanned the list presented. It went from Silent to Survival, and he noted his silent setting was still no longer active. He tapped it with a sigh and grumbled as he earmarked his next few programming sessions to create a Stealth mode. “Maybe that’ll keep him silent.”

Clearing the screen, Ben checked Orion’s remaining time—three minutes. He tapped the timer and set a vibration reminder for when thirty seconds remained.

He then pressed Modes and Map. The Anvilsmith went blank for half a second. A top-down view of Meadows Towing appeared. Ben had created it from various Internet maps and modified it with what Crystal had told him. A green dot lit where Tex marked his car’s location. A red dot marked where the boar’s body lay.

Ben took control of Orion. Through the gorilla’s eyes, he looked into dazed far off look of his vacant body standing there in full school uniform like he was lost simply lost in thought and not inhabiting a conjuration.

Using Orion’s strong arms, he scooped his physical body close, and continued moving through the desolate maze. Two turns and five lengths of crushed cars later, Ben came across another boar.

He released his body, relinquished control of the gorilla, and was back in his own body before hitting the ground.

Having recently dealt with a boar, Orion made short work of this one in the same fashion. This time, it did not offer Ben the detached tusk as proof of its good work.

The tablet vibrated the reminder.

Ben considered pumping more power into Orion, but the least amount of time was for another five minutes and would pull ten arcane watts from the Anvilsmith’s remaining ninety-five.

Having engineered a few devices able to store awatts from scratch and without guidance, Ben had become quite familiar with the measurement of arcane energy. A seven capacity laptop proved to be his top end.

Now he held a hundred in a tablet. Astounding.

As a matter of habit, Ben moved forward to have his hand in position to catch the small obdurium-steel strip that held Orion’s memory from this casting.

Ben patted Orion’s dense chest twice with a regretful smile. It saved him and battled for him. If it wasn’t so expensive to keep the conjuration around longer...

The gorilla disappeared.

With a practiced flick, Ben caught the strip and pressed the obdurium into the base of the Anvilsmith. Amazingly, it backed up the data in five seconds.

Ben beamed.

His first tablet, a refurbished Tsuku model he had modified five years ago, would have taken ten seconds for each real-life second that passed. This badass tablet copied a minute per second.

Ben nodded his approval. “Nice.”

Meadows Towing

A two-story auto shop sat at the center of the scrapyard. Across the second floor, above the six dark windows, squat fat letters spelled out Meadows Towing. Shadows filled the yawning mouth of the five work bays. Strange music, heavy on window-rattling drums and the sound of metal striking metal, screamed from the bays.

Though he’d expected something more formidable, the desolate customer waiting area—no less the maze-like columns of wrecked cars—made Ben doubt anyone ever came here, even during the day.

Like a gentle tug on his ears, the slight pull from the Inscription spell he had cast on the front fender directed his eyes.

Convertible top retracted, they had his Transcend up on a lift with the doors open. Gone was the standard, scintillating, candy red Archon Private Academy paint job. Matte black paint now covered every inch of his car.

Only a span of a hundred feet—without cover—separated him from his favorite gift.

Crouched behind the column of junked cars closest to the building, Ben pressed Spells. All the spells he had programmed during his time at the APA lay within the seven main categories of spell-type icons. He pressed the asterisk for enchantments. He tapped glowing eye icon for Soul Sight and noted options his old tablet never offered.

The old, one hundred and twenty feet max range now sat toward the left of a slider as the default position. The bar had thirty feet on the low end and topped out at six hundred. A second slider, duration, defaulted to a low of one minute, but could go out to ten minutes.

A ghostly image flashed behind his screen.

Ben fumbled the tablet and caught it. He’d forgotten about his addition of the animated background, and grabbed his chest. He made a mental note to change it to something less startling. He then slid the markers to the top end of the distance and duration bars.

The Cast button—which he had been so proud of when he designed it—looked like a burnt out neon sign. -50, the cost of the spell, lit behind it. Not part of the spell, red text appeared across the bottom of his screen. This will decrease current capacity by fifty arcane watts. You will have forty-five arcane watts left.

He smiled broadly before setting the spell back to the defaults. The note went away and usage dropped to one awatts. He’d have ninety-four left.

Ben remembered the emphasis of Master Reynolds’ annual commencement speech. “Never use more energy than you need.”

He stood and hovered his finger over Cast. His pulse quickened. His stomach tightened. He tried to shake the nerves away, but like the memory of the tusk being torn from the boar’s skull, his nervousness refused to leave.

Ben tapped the icon, and the Anvilsmith started shooting magical energy into his hand. Each mystic discharge resonated through his body, stronger and warmer than the last. The injections were at their quickest and strongest toward the end, and he realized he had forgotten to put his mouthpiece in only when his teeth chattered.

Ben preferred casting by SDs. The magic washed over and through him, but rebuilding the tiny spell cards was extremely time-consuming and quite expensive. Spells cast from tablets—as long as one doesn’t mind having magic forced into them—were effectively free of material cost.

His eyes tingled as the power settled in his irises. There were no living creatures in the spell’s range. He took another look at the windows for movement. None. He rushed across the opening.

In the garage, he felt the presence of three beings further in the building. If he could walk through walls, two were forty feet away and the other lay on the floor above him.

He looked toward the two on the ground level and focused his spell upon them.

Wall by wall, his vision penetrated the structure until he could see the shape of the two pale white outlines. Both were over six feet tall and built like professional football players. They had enlarged heads. He concentrated on their upward turned, pig-like snouts.

Involuntarily, Ben had held his breath. Since they wouldn’t hear him over the blaring music, Ben dared to quietly exhale. “Orcs...”

Having read many stories about their greedy and violent natures, Ben searched for the control to lower his car so he could get out of there.

The main panel just inside the garage had several buttons and levers, but none of them looked to be what he needed. He moved over to the stall with his car and searched there.

The spell warned him of a presence, big and powerful, coming from along the outside edge of the building.

“Shit.” Ben hustled up the lift ladder to his car and dove onto the backseat. “Shit. Shit.”

The Orc Master

The speakers blared the insane crashing music. Closer to where they rattled in their housing, Ben grimaced.

“Wha—” He lifted his hands away from the seat. The paint job didn’t bother him so much, but if someone had ripped out his leather interior and replaced it with crappy vinyl. Unable to see in the darkness, he squeezed the cushion and didn’t like what he felt or the plastic smell. “Someone’s going to pay for this.”

He shook his head. There’d be time to worry about that later.

Ben focused on the new presence closing in. It radiated power. A caster. Casters always registered stronger. His spell allowed his vision to penetrate the car door and the exterior wall to see a massive ten-foot body.

Its torso—longer and thicker than anatomically possible, even for orcs—connected to narrow hips. Its squat, powerful legs only made up a third of its height rather than half. The head sat thick on its shoulders like a short-snouted dog, and small horns rose just over its concaved ears.

Deep purple energy—Krotosian magic—emanated from the towering monstrosity.

The creature entered the work bays. It had to duck and turn sideways to squeeze into the building.

Ben caught a flash of light blue skin, a white t-shirt, and dark baggy jeans as it forced its way into the building. Voice deep and gruff, it barked.

The music shut off.

Its woofing continued.

Ben’s ear picked out inflection and structure to the barking. Since his mother had refused to teach him her native tongue, he had approached Adept Yeffaux—the Archon Private Academy’s Master Linguist—about learning Sylvan. Yeffaux’s high eyebrows arched higher at the request, before snidely stating they don’t teach that kind of language.

More than a hunch, Ben pressed Options, then Translate, and To Text. The Anvilsmith displayed Dwarven futhark. He knew Dwarven and this jumbled mess didn’t read like it.

The Anvilsmith flashed Orcish to English. A number one appeared followed by a colon as the futhark morphed into English. “Why aren’t you pigs out feeding the little pigs?”

A two followed by a colon blinked as a second deep, but not-as-gruff, voice answered, “They haven’t been back in a bit. We figured they caught an intruder and are dining on fresh flesh.”

“An intruder?” The massive teal creature asked, and the Anvilsmith italicized amusement in parenthesis. “You two better pray your pigs left remains or you’ll be honor battling tonight!” A pop-up window hovered over Honor Battle.

Honor Battle (v.) A ritual called by overlords pitting failed minions against each other in a fight to the death. The idea behind this outdated practice is to weed out the failures and grant the victor another chance to prove their mettle.

Two more white figures, more orcs, came into Ben’s spell range from deeper in the building.

The four orcs jogged into the garage. Two Colon pointed at each. “You, go north. You, south. You, east, and I’ll take west. Blow on your horn twice when you find something.”

The four orcs separated to their directions.

Giving them a little time to get far enough away, Ben laid on the backseat with the Anvilsmith on his chest. Dark streaks and splotches lay on the ceiling. How did they manage to get oil up there?

The being on the second floor stirred. He’d almost forgotten about it.

Ben focused his spell on it and felt power radiate. Great, another caster. This one smaller, human-sized—a girl—and framed with Argosian red energy.

His head shook in disbelief as his spell ended. He could have sworn the girl’s lips moved as if to say, “Help me.”

It wouldn’t be long before the orcs came across one of the dead boars. A part of him wanted to hit the button to lower the lift and peel out, but his starwise self knew he couldn’t leave an Argosian in the hands of a vile Krotosian.

Ben tapped the rust-colored GC icon on his home row and whispered orders for Tex into the Anvilsmith, “Get here, get the car down, and be ready to roll.” He then pressed Modes and Survival before Tex could reply.

Hoping, he tapped to Pop. The screen showed the effective radius of the weak teleportation spell. He grimaced. Just enough distance to get stuck between floors. No thanks.

Ben cued Soul Sight, topped the range out at six hundred, and pressed Cast.

His wattage tracker dropped to eighty-nine.

Twenty-six other life forms headed away from the building. He examined the cursory information. Searching, he wondered aloud, “Where’d the Krotosian go?”

His nervousness dissipated as he set his mind to saving the Argosian.

Ben climbed down from his car and entered the building.

They had built a kitchen into the customer service lounge and promptly neglected it. Odors of rotten cheese and rancid meat assaulted his nose before his eyes took in the slimy dishes piled in a sink. With each step something sticky pulled at the bottom of his shoes. The silver handle of a battered refrigerator, where it hadn’t been caked over by muck, shone.

In a hurry to leave the nasty kitchen, Ben turned and entered the den. The smell worsened.

A disgusting, gray slab of meat hung from a hook in front of a massive hundred-and-three-inch television. Part of it resembled a rib cage, but the rest didn’t resemble any animal Ben had ever seen. A legion of maggots worked the surface. Liquor bottles in varying stages of wholeness to shattered remnants covered the floor like mosaic tiles. Smashed glass formed sparkling mounds down the backs of the five battered sofas.

Given their relative cleanliness, Ben would bet the TV and four large concert-stage speakers mounted in the corners must’ve been new.

Two sets of stairs on opposite sides of the room led up out of the mess. Faint crunches accompanied each step as he moved to the closer one.

Buried under layers of crud and discarded wrappers, the staircase reeked with a sour tang. The center of every step had a sure, foot-wide strip of ground-in grime—except for the last two at the top.

He stopped short of them and leaned.

A business-quality wooden door stood to the left of the landing, while the right seemed to open into a hallway.

Ben considered the dirty and untrammeled stairs a moment longer.

All of these creatures’ strides were longer than his, but something felt really peculiar about those last two steps. Though he hadn’t taken anything from the Traps course offered by the school, the number of classes almost equaled the array that had to do with spells.

Samhain Shenanigans

Benjamin Baxter took a deep inhalation. Even though the large starwise only parking lots were full, the distinct Samhain Festival buttered popcorn smell extended all the way out into starwise overflow parking amongst the mundanes—the magic-less.

He licked his lips, and flipped the switch to close his coverable top.

Thrilled cheers rose in the distance. A round of faint applause chased it across the parking lot. Wondering what trick had been performed, Ben turned his attention toward the lit entrance so far away beyond rows and rows of cars.

Hoping to catch some remnant of the prestige, his gaze crawled along the Ferris Wheel, the Thompson Twister, The Screaming Meemie, and the various tents that filled the span between the rides.

Nothing. He snapped his fingers at missing it. Well, they’ll be more performances. That’s for sure.

The simple red, white, and dark lights of the festival held his interest in a way that the millions of Las Vegas casino lights blinking for attention never could. Only the click, click, click of his closed convertible top gear over cranking pulled him from the momentary entrancement.

One of the largest gatherings for Samhain Shenanigans in the country, the festival pulled every student from the Vegas Valley and thousands of students from schools from nearby prefectures.

With all the practitioners here, I shouldn’t be surprised that starwise parking is stuffed. Ben took a moment to center his red Archon Private Academy tie and got out of the car. He put on his tan A. P. A. trench coat to cover the huge star belt buckle of his Meadows Towing Might-Fist belt, and buttoned it closed.

He dusted one shoulder and then the other to activate a minor prestidigitation. A swift breeze whooshed down his body as the wrinkles in his clothes flattened out.

His mind went back to the popcorn. Every year, since he had the free first-year’s serving, he wanted to get a bag, but had always opted for a hot pretzel, garlic cheese knots, or cotton candy.

Not this year.

This year he had a plan.

He’d do a few games to fill his pockets with prizes before grabbing a bag of the buttery good stuff and casually munch on it as he strolled through the festival. Then he’d return each of following nights through Halloween for more games and treats.

The keyword for this year’s festival? Moderation. Slow and steady fun. Prolong the experience. Tonight would be great. Each night would be great so long as he stuck to his plan.

An odd tingling—magic—settled across his brow. A nearly overwhelming urge to take off his tie and leave it on his windshield washed over him and faded.

Ben scanned to find the source.

Two girls in Sunrise Mountain orange blazers, white blouses, and orange-and-white plaid skirts focused on him. One, dark haired, sported long pigtails. The other, a blonde, had her hair cut short like a pixie. Later than Ben to the first-night events, they’d had to park even further out in the mundane lot.

The brunette didn’t have the thin orange tie to complete her school uniform. She locked eyes with him and moved to get closer.

Bastion—the monster locked away in Ben’s head—roared and slammed into his temples. The beast tried to force its way through the bond that linked him and the monster together. It wanted to tear the girls apart.

Ben set his will against Bastion and wondered if he had been wearing one of the red, white, and black Samhain Shenanigans-logoed armbands to partake in the evening’s school-pride scavenger hunt, would he still have been able to resist the girls’ spell?

Bastion knocked around his head.

Denying the beast’s horrible desire to materialize proved taxing. Ben gave a strained smile and frequent grimaces broke his grin. “Sorry, girls.” He patted the part of his arm where the participation band would have been if he were in play. “But I’m not in on The Shenanigans.”

The brunette gracefully slid to close on him.

Ben backed away.

She gave a momentary pout before flashing a flawless smile. “Can I have your tie anyway?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be worth any points.”

Temptation dripped from her playful lips as her tongue ran between them. “Can’t you imagine me with your tie on?”

The magical tingling on his brow came back strong before fading out again.

A vision of a girl wearing his school uniform came to mind, but not the temptress in front of him. In his vision, Penelope stood in Pepperjacks with his trench coat on. A sole lower button held it closed. Besides his tie, he didn’t know what else she had on under the coat, but wanted to find out.

Bastion slammed his temples again.

Ben grimaced. He stopped nodding to his imagination and switched to shake his head. “No. No, sorry.”

This time, her pout stuck and her blonde friend pulled her away. “Let’s get to the big top.” She gave Ben a playful sneer, the kind that causes those cute little nose wrinkles. “We’re bound to find friendly casters there.”

Even as she was being dragged away, the brunette steepened her hands and lipped, “Please.”

Ben gave a regretful smile.

She turned and fell in stride with her friend. Their skirts swung in unison for a few seconds.

The tie and trench coat vision flashed again. It had been almost a month since his run-in with Penelope. Ever since then, the hot, raven-haired beauty from the other side had become a constant in his dreams. Except for this recent vision, the Dream-Penelope still wore burlap. The bruises and scabs were healed, but her cutting blue eyes kept their edge.

He hadn’t even notice the color of the Sunrise girl’s eyes.

Faintly, Ben registered people yelling. He almost turned, but continued to the fairgrounds. Penelope crawled back into his mind and he focused on the memory. What had she worn after changing out of the makeshift bag-dress at Pepperjacks?

Reimagining her running for her life, a scaled hand closing in on her long, dark, trailing hair. Again, her intense blue eyes stole his focus.

Bastion bounded around Ben’s head. The beast whipped the black Nilosian energy there into a whirlpool which flash-flooded the vision away.

Annoyed, Ben snapped out loud at the creature in his head, “What?”

They didn’t actually share a language. Bastion felt primal. It probably wasn’t even capable of words. The only time they had any form of communication was during the combat with the ogre magispan class="underline">,/span> when Bastion motioned to Ben before pulling him in.

Ben stiffened. Bastion only reacted to combat.

From a ways behind him, a vaguely familiar voice called, “Yeah, we’re talking to you!”

Ahead, the girls dropped their playful walk and sprinted toward the carnival entrance.

Undaunted, Ben turned. He registered three bodies in hoodies—Dunn-Blatt or Clark casters—beyond three small, snapping green energy hooks shooting at him. Each hook trailed a wisp of emerald power back to one of the three hooded casters.

He dodged one.

The green hook flew past him. The faint line of energy dissipated.

Ben twisted. Too late.

The other hooks hit him in the center of his chest.

The faint lines of energy—challenge tethers—shone brilliantly as they twisted, strengthened, and locked Ben into a magic duel.

Hooked

Ambient dimensional energy flowed into the fetters binding Ben to the challengers. Not a valid target for the night’s game, Ben didn’t struggle for the dominant caster’s advantage. Instead he focused on the subtle rush that came with being in a duel.

Just under his skin, the hook dissipated when the emerald strands solidified and thrummed as though some great entity strummed to test the sound. A heightened sense of awareness—the rush of air bringing intoxicating scents from the food court, distinct clacks of the Bull Dog speed coaster carts being tugged up toward the first summit, that vague knowledge that nearby, other wills were pitted against each other—came to him.

Ben rubbed the growing heat in his chest. The feeling spread into his hand. He stroked his neck and, like a topical cream, the warmth spread there, too.

Neither challenger noticed his lack of a participation band. The two hooded casters had turned toward one another and, in unison, said, “Let go.”

Ben had watched Jameson Brown’s exit interview when the World Dueling Federation forced him out for not having won any of his first twenty-five professional matches. When the interviewer had asked Brown why he kept competing instead of quitting from embarrassment, he bounced in place like a jacked-up aureole addict. “The better the competitor, the better the buzz.”

As though plugged into the world, Ben finally understood. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Bastion had relaxed. Why?

The shorter one pushed the other. His voice an angry squeak. “He’s mine!”

The last thing to come to Ben through the tethers, the challengers’ intent. Ben found himself become even more nonchalant about being hooked. These two were at war with each other. Being connected to both, Ben could feel the deep-seated disdain between them.

This play for perceived power further unfurled as the taller guy pushed the smaller one back. “Let go.”

From the voice, the taller caster had been the one who called out to him. Ben shook his head. Both were so petty and desperate to scavenge for Samhain Shenanigan items.

The smaller guy pointed to the tether in his chest. It pulsed a pale, neon green. “My hook hit first!”

The taller one grabbed the other by the collar. “Let. Go.” He shook the smaller boy hard in time with each word.

Ben had been hooked for the first time three years ago when he’d just turned thirteen and had to take Adept Love’s Intro to Dueling class. Malcolm—a bully—whose birthday fell nine months earlier, had tethered him. The hook felt like a real fishhook forced into his skin. Though there wasn’t any blood, the pain burrowed cruelly up his arm before tearing to the center of his chest. Ben had dropped to a knee and struggled to keep from tearing up. Nothing would’ve been more embarrassing than crying on his first day of Dueling.

Before Adept Love had made it over to them, Malcolm had towered over him, mumbling insults about Ben losing his birthday gifts from the school and calling him a baby for crying, even though he had successfully held back the tears.

The taller boy jammed his knee into the smaller one’s crotch.

The smaller boy collapse, but clung to the tether.

If being hooked would always remind Ben of Malcolm, he’d have to do something extreme to change it. But what?

Ben had often wanted to get back at Malcolm, and had formed several plans, but the bully had been kicked out of the Archon Private Academy. The faculty didn’t say why, but since Malcolm often hooked sixth and seventh graders, it had to be for conduct unbecoming of an enlightened individual.

The tether from the small guy faded away.

Competition between them done, the intent of the guy with the remaining fetter came through clear. He wanted to do permanent damage and take as many scavenger hunt items as he could instead of obeying the mandatory limit of one per duel.

Though not a part of the multi-school event, Ben loathed bullies. He walked down the tether toward the hooded figure towering over the one on the ground. Closer, the purple and black of hooded zip-ups became apparent. Dunn-Blatts.

The victor flexed over the downed one and had been speaking softly. He spun to face Ben. “Give up four items, Ape, or I’ll break you and take your car.”

That snide tone. No way. Ben leaned to the side to see into the dark hood. Magical shadows kept the face in darkness. Ben’s throat constricted with growing rage. “Malcolm?”

The tall boy pulled the hood back. “Baby Ben!” The magical darkness around the face vanished. Much taller and skinnier now, that same aggravatingly smug smile still haunted Malcolm’s stupid face. “Do you still cry when hooked?” He chuckled and pointed. “Look, boys, I think I see tears starting.”

Ben’s fist balled. A primitive desire—smash that hooked nose—went through him. His muscles tightened. The direction of power through the fetter between them changed. Energy flowed in Ben’s favor. To assure every iota of his anger would be felt, he projected his menace through the tether. “We’ve a score to settle.”

That only add fuel to Malcolm’s smugness. “Oh.” Malcolm glanced to Ben’s arm, where the Samhain Shenanigan’s band should have been. “You aren’t in the hunt?”

As the one challenged, it was up to Ben if he wanted to end the duel. Adept Love had chirped endlessly about that rule and, by Ben’s count, he had three years of anger and two fonts of magic to unleash on the bully.

He held tight. “You’re not getting off that easy!”

Malcolm blew him a kiss then extended his hands palms up. As if cued to the motion, two mystic whirlwinds appeared.

One next to him.

One next to Malcolm.

The swirling vortexes siphoned power from their tether. Wind flapped loose, dull gray robes, signaling the imminent arrival of Primaries.

No! Ben opened his Argosian font to try and blast Malcolm with pure power, but his energy drained off to the forth-coming Lesser Judges without so much of a flash of color. He closed his font.

Hoods drawn, both appeared in the thick official robes of the Las Vegas Magistrates. Each teleported into being with their two feet long battle rods—the true symbol of their power—at the ready.

The tips of their batons crackled with red energy as the two dour Argosian men scanned the area for greater trouble.

A third set of robes flapped. In an instant, the wearer materialized. She wore the same dull gray uniform, but her rod hummed with orange Vibrosian energy. Without taking time to appraise the situation, she demanded, “What is going on here?”

The third Dunn-Blatt—Ben had forgotten about him—helped the one Malcolm kneed to his feet. The three of them kept silent.

Ben struggled to keep a civil tongue and found himself at a lack of words. Anything he might say would be hash and pointed at Malcolm. His personal limit met, Ben kept his mouth shut. Actions could be explained away. Words could be quoted, and if he opened his mouth, he’d only regret it when the grey-robed Magistrates reported it to the head of his school.

The vibrant orange glow on the tip of the baton dimmed. She gripped it with her free hand and looked them over. “Junior Apprentice? Bravados?”

Malcolm tried to loosen the hook.

Holding it tight, Ben rocked with the small mystic tug in his chest.

Malcolm said, “A simple misunderstanding, Primaries.” He shot Ben a be cool wink—as though things could ever be cool between them—and gave another tug. “I, along with my Junior Bravados, thought this A. P. A. student was in on The Shenanigans.”

Ben shook his head slightly and held the tether.

Malcolm tugged again and narrowed his eyes. “It’s become obvious. He isn’t.”

“You do not have an armband, Junior Apprentice.” The Vibrosian Primary pointed her battle rod at Ben. “Release the Dunn-Blatt or risk censure.”

Wishing the fetter would whip to slap Malcolm across the face, Ben relaxed his will and muscles. The hook came free. Without flair, the tether between them dissipated.

Malcolm’s hand stashed something into his pocket. Probably his tether totem.

Ben’s jaw tightened. Was the totem still the same rusty nail Malcolm had used to hook him years ago?

Smiling at Ben’s building anger, Malcolm rubbed his hair opposite the Magistrates with his fingers crossed. He gave a small laugh. “Sorry about that, friend.”

The energy faded from the Primaries’ battle rods. The two Argosian Primaries spun a quick circle. Air sucked from where they were headed, their gray robes flapped a cotton candy smell before they teleported. Small pink and pale emerald dust devils swirled together in the lot where they once stood.

The Vibrosian Primary turned to Malcolm. “Be careful where you throw your hook, Bravado.”

“Yeah.” Ben did not want to say anything, but found his mouth echoing the Magistrate as he continued to stare at Malcolm. “Be careful.”

She pointed her rod at Ben as an unspoken warning. Behave, it said.

He continued to stare at Malcolm and a light thumping in his head—Bastion—urged him on.

The Magistrate angled her wrist back and directed it at Ben a second time. Another unspoken warning. You are not behaving. An orange glyph lit the tip. “Look elsewhere, Junior Apprentice.”

Ben looked up into the night sky. The light pollution from the casinos stole the grandeur. He focused on the North Star, wishing he could call it down to slam Malcolm deep into the earth.

She said, “Now, to the fairgrounds, you three. Be vigilant. Have fun.”

Holding his position, Ben felt them walk past.

The first one, the tallest—Malcolm—bumped his shoulder as he passed, whispering something too low for him to catch, but what Ben thought had been said—lucky baby—burned in his ears and sent Bastion tromping its rage through his head. Ben struggled to find his center.

As much as he wanted to go at Malcolm, he had to keep his cool lest the Primary ban him from this season’s festival. Still, his rage continued to build...

Useless Words

A distant roar of excitement rolled from the fairgrounds. Though curious, Ben ignored it and let his eyes wander from the North Star through the rest of the Little Dipper. Having birthmarks in a similar pattern on his face, spanning from one cheek to the other, Ben always thought of it has his constellation. The fading smell of cotton candy piqued his desire to get onto the fairgrounds again, but he had to wait for the—high and mighty, power-tripping—Magistrate to excuse him.

She finally snapped her fingers for his attention.

As he supposed, unless he wanted to be booted and be in trouble when the next school eighth began, Ben faced her and granted immediate eye contact.

Vibrosian energy flooded her eyes.

Ben looked into her orange orbs. He’d only seen one other caster—Ur-Krurk—do this when the ogre magi wanted to blast him to bits. Could this protector, one of Las Vegas’s regulators, be thinking of doing the same to him?

The magic drained from her eyes revealing brown irises. She asked, nearly demanded, “What were you thinking, Junior Apprentice?”

Filling his mind with the void between stars, Ben blanked his thoughts to block having them read. Before learning about mind reading a month ago, he had always thought the reactions of others coinciding with his thoughts intriguing. Now—like G. I. Joe would say—knowing is half the battle.

She inched forward, paused, and looked deep into his eyes. Concern eased into her voice. “Were you thinking?”

She didn’t insist on him answering the first question. Keeping his block in place, Ben nodded.

Her fists knuckled her hips. Indignant, she asked, “How did you think you would fare against three Dunn-Blatts, here, in the parking lot?”

Ben continued looking into her eyes. In a blink, he steeled his thoughts.

The Magistrate’s lips parted, and she failed to fully suppress a startled gasp.

“No offence meant, Primary, but my personal trials and battles are mine alone.” Bringing his Courtmanship studies into play, Ben bowed fifteen degrees. The perfect angle to ask for permission from any caster not directly over him. “By your leave, Ma’am.”

With annoyed wrist flicks, she waved her baton under his face to dismiss him.

He turned and walked toward the festival.

Flapping cloth—her teleporting away—sounded behind him.

The long walk ahead of him, Ben’s mind kept going back to her baton waving before his eyes.

Ben’s parents forbade him from dueling. Heck, they had objected so strongly—to his great embarrassment—at the Arcane Private Academy, where he went to learn magic, that the school excused him from their minimum dueling requirements.

As such, he had only witnessed the baton—a widely accepted symbol of social standing, enforcement, and personal power—from a distance. This close to one, he became certain he’d seen a similar rod fairly recently, but it hadn’t been in a Primary’s possession...

A replay of the Magistrate’s baton waved before his mind’s eye. He stroked his chin, murmuring thoughtfully to himself. “Where’ve I seen one of those before?”

Mundane Problems

His absent gaze only a few feet ahead of his black dress shoes, Ben made sure to keep them clean by avoiding the hastily lain chalk lines in the mundane overflow lot. His thoughts bounced between jerk-faced Malcolm, the hot Sunrise Mountain girls, and the misplaced memory of a Magistrate’s battle baton.

The rough gravel lot gave way to smooth blacktop with uniformly spaced parking spots separated by paint instead of chalk. The swells of thrilled crowds grew steadily louder as he closed on the fairgrounds from the mundane overflow lot, to regular mundane parking, and now, closer still.

Absentmindedly, his hand played across the thick bundle of Magic Fair winnings in his pocket.

A proud smile formed on his face.

He gave the wad a conscious squeeze.

Placing in the Junior Apprentice/Apprentice group brought five times the reward as the Initiate level, and had netted him more tickets than his prior six years of prizes combined.

He had earned seventy-two tickets. Two for participating, twenty-five for Grand Prize in Efficient Construction, another twenty-five for Grand Prize in Circuitry, ten for second place in Spell Programming, and a bonus ten had been bestowed upon him for taking the fair’s Outstanding Ingenuity award.

The judges had gawked over the circuit board in his spellcards. They couldn’t seem to get over the overwhelming simplicity of him having moved the arcane resistors closer to the thin obdurium strip. Between that and working the path of his printed circuits from the obdurium he had made the card need less arcane wattage to activate.

About to envision what the large Junior Apprentice prize plaques would look like above his smaller Initiates awards, voices—either unhappy or pissed—rose from the joyous background buzz.

Ben lifted his gaze from where the white parking lines ended, and froze.

The Shame on Sam Hain protesters were back this year. He counted the twenty of them. Their numbers would swell over the next two days.

These people were why Ben came before Halloween. Anyone coming too late on the actual All Saints Day would find this group impossible to wade through. Worse yet, the mystique—the buffer that kept most of the mundanes from seeing magic and magical beings—would be stretched so thin that they’d be able to see any nearby caster.

Ben waited.

A few of them looked around, scanning over where he stood.

As long as he remained still, or only moved when they weren’t looking his direction—perhaps if I creep very slowly...—he’d go undetected.

Most were in idle conversation. All of them held large signs usurping the glory of the spindly iron wrought Samhain Festival entry arch. They protested the festival with Bring Back Orange And Black and This Halloween is Not What it Seems. They also railed against its main organizer, Sam Hain, with Shame on Hain and Hain is Insane.

Three years ago, as the new President of Koffman’s Clockworks, Hain took control of the festival. His change in theme colors from brown and orange to traditional red, white, and black—for blood, bone, and ash—brought more magic-users to what had become, arguably, the best Samhain festival in the country.

Ben looked back over the chocked-full parking lot. Cars whizzed down Sunset Drive. Several sets of headlights moved through the overflow lot to find a spot, but no one walked toward the entrance. I really should’ve come earlier. Ben pressed his lips together, took a deep breath of the popcorn-laced air, and mentally prepared to interact with the Mundanes.

Ready to trudge through, he took one step.

“Don’t go in, son!” A rotund man in a loud, orange, Halloween-themed button-up shirt locked eyes on Ben, and waved a Red, White & Black Is An Attack sign at him. His voice deep and serious, the man continued, “The Koffman Corp is slowly turning this festival into Devil worship.”

Ben entertained a whim about sharing the true origins of the Pagan holiday. How much would this guy freak out if I went into the details covered in Adept Roman’s two Hidden History courses?

Neither of the classes had a lick of magic. Ben had wanted to skip them, but he fell into the three percent of students attending the Archon Private Academy who didn’t come from Pagan families, which made taking both mandatory. Like Spell Programming, Hidden History had ten levels that spanned multiple school eighths, but he didn’t know anyone going that route.

Ben nodded and arced to walk around.

The man pressed closer. He smelled like pastrami.

Ben began to arc wider.

Turning the sign around, the man waved a red, white and black Hain Is Heinous at him. “Don’t you see?” The man’s hot breath reeked of coffee. “Hain is trying to shape the holiday into something wicked.”

Ben kept arcing to the edge of the entrance like a slow-motion soccer ball hooking toward the goal pole. Hope I hit the net. “Sorry sir, but I won tickets—”

“I’ll buy them from you!” The closer they go to the white chalk line marking private property, the faster and louder the man spoke, “Just don’t go in!” They reached the white chalk line marking the threshold to private property. “How much you want for them?”

Noticing his angle would be off from making it across at the entrance, Ben stopped.

The man did, too. He thumbed through a wad of mainly black and green ink on gray paper; mundane money.

Scanning the substantial number of—they’re called dollars? Yeah, dollars—for the red on white forge-strong notes backed by the Anvilsmith Dwarves, or the orange on pink monetary units issued by the Sunrise Mountain Sisterhood, Ben saw none.

Having been raised as a Mundane until the age of ten, Ben had nearly forgotten just how much it would take to turn dollar bills into real currency. A term—pennies on the dollar—came to mind. What were pennies again? The exact meaning lay lost in his childhood memories, though he figured the exchange rate would be similar. Suddenly, he grasped that the man thought he would be purchasing regular ride tickets. Embarrassed at his own belated realization, Ben’s cheeks began to warm and he grinned at how dim he felt. Why would a mundane think of anything besides mundane attractions?

Ben took a quick step to cross the thick line.

Trying to keep pace, the man moved, too. Some of his money threatened to come loose and the man paused to pinch the bills.

Just enough hesitation for Ben to take the final two steps across the line. “Sorry, sir.” He turned and bowed a small courtly apology before walking backward. “But I really need to win some goldfish.”

Conjurer’s Course

Cheers rolled from the opposite end of the midway games, near the entrance. The air positively brimmed with excitement. Ben had been hoping the attendant with Cody on his badge at the Conjurer’s Course would share some of the fragrant spiced apple cider on a slow simmer in the booth, but he hadn’t. Still trying to warm the guy up, Ben smiled with an appreciative nod at the Devils & Dragons midway worker as the employee deposited another four goldfish SD cards into his second bulging bag with an amazing lack of enthusiasm.

The attendant—brain-dead on his feet—only came alive when cheers rose in the distance and he searched for what had happened.

Ben wanted to think of the guy as more than just The Attendant, but Cody hadn’t performed anything that could possibly pass for the customary introduction. He took out his last ticket. Crap, I totally blew my plan to only play a little each day.

If the usual attendant, Gary, had been here, Ben would’ve shared his plan with him and Gary would’ve made sure he stuck to it. The only game Ben ever played, he had gotten to know Gary over the years and—more so now than ever—truly appreciated the man’s passion for the game.

Ben shrugged at the slightly older teen with long oily hair and a scant beard that looked like he suffered from mange. Gary had kept his red, white, and black harlequin vest clean and pressed. This guy, from the looks of various stains, seemed to mainly put his uniform on when he ate.

Wishing he’d stuck to his plan, Ben extended his last ticket. “I don’t understand why more people don’t play this game.”

“Because this game sucks.” The Attendant’s voice came out in harsh wheezes. As though it were Ben’s fault he had the crap-job, the Attendant snatched the ticket and gave it a vicious rip. The usual red, white, and black sparkles flew from the tear. He folded a ripped half and let the other go. Like flash paper, it disappeared into a falling cascade of lights. The Attendant leaned back against the wall and used the other half of the voided coupon to scoop dark gunk from under his nails. “You’re the only guy dumb—” He bit off the rest of his wheeze and peered at Ben through his oily bangs with raised eyebrows.

Ben’s eyes narrowed. They both knew what the rest of the sentence would’ve been. His neck craned back and Ben forced his lips into a grim line. “Dumb enough to play?”

“Look,” The Attendant motioned down the row, trying to make his point. “This game is at the end of a long row of much better games.”

Ben didn’t turn to see. He didn’t have to. He had to work his way through the throngs watching people at the seven Wrath of the Evoker booths—one more than last year—and the mass of people trying their luck at the Illusionist Shooting Galleys. Each booth on the way to the Conjurer’s Course had a dwindling number of people waiting to play. With tickets in hand, a couple of younger kids had followed Ben this far only to turn back with dissatisfied groans that their curiosity hadn’t paid off.

The Attendant unfolded his arm to full extension, leaned, and pointed with the ticket. “Win three times at Wrath and you get a Fireball.” The Attendant spread his fingers wide. Released, the spent marker flashed away. “A flipping Fireball!” Alive for a moment, an unimpressed sneer twisted the Attendant’s lips as he flopped against the wall again. “Compare that to this...” He used a limp wrist to roll his finger up the prize hierarchy in his booth. “One, goldfish. Three, cat. Nine, wolf. Twenty-seven, tuzvul. Eighty-one, treant.”

As though pointing out lameness sapped his energy, the Attendant’s arm went limp at his side. He motioned with his nose, barely raising his chin, as he continued. “Almost two-fifty for a minotaur and thrice that for a dragon.” He then flicked Ben’s first bags, brimming with goldfish spellcards. “You’re good at this, man, but the best you can do is win a second treant.”

Seeing the Attendant in a new light, Ben leaned away. He understood where he and the Attendant had a serious disconnect.

Since the guy worked the booth, Ben had thought they were alike. Now, he pegged this guy as exactly the type of caster he—because of Gary’s annual there’s more to magic than flash-bang lessons—despised. If he’d had this guy’s narrow view of magic only being useful for combat, he wouldn’t have survived his encounters at Meadows Towing.

Ben asked, “Mind telling me if you went to school around here?”

Fully materialized, the conjured frog croaked a ribbit to remind the player—him—that the game stood ready.

“Yeah.” The Attendant leaned against the wall and watched the frog. “I did.”

Ben extended his hands. Mystic reins to control the frog rose to his palms. Ben grabbed onto the invisible, leather-like strands, and he started the course. He directed the frog to make it hop only on the few yellow saucers polka dotted amongst a long field of large white plates. “Have you ever won three on Wrath?”

“Uh, yeah.” The worker wheezed and chuckled as though Ben had made the understatement of the century. “More times than you could dream.”

To advance, Ben released the controls when the frog landed on a small yellow plate, ending the first leg. The formerly invisible controls shimmered green when the frog vanished. Ben bent at the knees and caught the falling reins to stay in play.

A well-mannered spider monkey appeared on the left side of the game field. Ben directed the monkey to pick up darts, aim, and pitch them at a column of lavender balloons. One by one, they popped in succession up toward the violet one set at the top. Ben asked, “You ever cast a tuzvul?”

He caught a glimpse of the Attendant rolling his eyes. “More times than I care to remember.”

Ben had a hard time believing that, but let it go. After all, the guy did work at a place that gave prizes away for every type of caster in the Las Vegas Valley. He could’ve come across one and stolen it.

With the two spare darts unused, the top balloon popped. The monkey vanished. Ben again leaned down to snatch the glimmering green controls which turned invisible in his hands.

A small air elemental pushed the pinned flaps of the top two balloons around.

Ben had the elemental form a tornado. He dipped the bottom it in the bowl of water to suck up some of the contents.

“And?” The attendant prompted.

Ben focused on the elemental. Like all conjurations, it excelled at repeating tasks. The trick? Showing it how to do it right the first time. Ben had it raise the water in the tornado, move to hover over an empty bowl and release. Guiding the tiny tornado back over to the bowl of water, he asked, “Ever cast a goldfish?”

A hard tilt bent the Attendant’s neck. If his hair had been made of liquid, his bangs would have run down the side of his face. His upper lip rose and his jaw loosened, adding an exclamation point to his confusion. “Huh?”

Ben nodded at the elemental and released the reins. The controls flashed green until they hit the counter and faded. If he needed to make any changes to the commands, he’d be out of luck, but the tornado continued moving the water without further instruction.

Rummaging for the last of the red ones, Ben dug through the prize box of dusty goldfish spellcards and said, “No one ever casts goldfish.”

Ben could feel the Attendant’s bewilderment increase. Casters who think of magic the way the Attendant did could never see the use of casting a goldfish, and thus would never consider the container the conjuration came in as anything of value.

Yuletide’s Yield

Having five seconds before the next attack, Benjamin Baxter scanned the throng of starwise patrons around him at Bauman’s Bazaar. Five. The sea of brightly colored robes, cloaks, and wraps of the shoppers receded, clearing a forty-foot radius around him.

Four. A handful of shoppers and hawkers—who had stopped lending their voices to the constant chorus of sale barking—watched his plight.

Three. None had the intense gaze it took to control the ongoing spell and none were willing to help—and, worse, he didn’t see a hint of tan trench coats anywhere. Where are the guys?

Two. Ben spun.

The bright metal of the whirling scimitar—a blade he had only seen in use by bodyguards from the middle east—reflected the corridor of lights vendors had set up to highlight their tents, tables, and wares in the largest outdoor night market in Las Vegas.

One.

Centered on him, for some reason, the tumbling blade stopped as the pommel seemed to press against its range thirty-feet away near an abandoned pewter mug at an abandoned table. The steel morphed into a rapier—or is that a cutlass? Which one is it that pirates use again?—pointed at his chest.

Now.

It shot at him.

Ben twisted sideways and bent.

The blade swooshed by. In its wake, the scent of delicious spiced cider.

Keeping his gaze on the blade, Ben jammed his hands into his coat and came out with his Anvilsmith tablet and mouthpiece.

Five. Though he didn’t need it anymore, Ben jammed the mouth guard in as, by muscle memory, his fingers worked his tablet to press Spells, Enchantments, Achilleus, and Cast. The welcomed scent of fresh-cut pineapples pillowed in his nose as the spell flowed into him, winding his fast-twitch muscle up for action.

Four. To keep up appearances of what people were used to seeing technocaster do, Ben quivered his arms and worked his chin as though the magic had to be forced into his body.

Three.

“Daddy!” A small girl in a long, absurdly pink, full-length fur coat screamed and pointed at him.

The man in red furs next to her grabbed the child’s upper arm, scooped her into a defensive hug, and bellowed, “Ape casting!”

Two.

A fierce-faced woman—the mother—leapt in front of the man and began to work the air to build a mystic barrier. She wasn’t alone. Eyes wide in surprise, fear, or wonder, over a hundred casters’ hands worked the air to throw up protective power to shield themselves, and loved ones, against his magic. More people had been keeping an eye on him than he had thought.

One. Ben hadn’t seen this many spells thrown at once since the Arcane Alehouse wizards had stacked dozens of Hold spells on him. They have no idea what spell I cast. This knowledge made him smile around his mouthpiece. He sucked at the pineapple that had worked into his saliva, and turned back to the sword. It had already switched back to a scimitar. Ben stood sideways to present a smaller target. Now.

It whirled at him.

He waited.

It closed.

Leaning, Ben slid back.

The sword whooshed pass his chest.

He snatched at the hilt as it rotated—got it!—and found something small in his hand as the bright blade dispersed into red whirling mist.

The ghost of the spell flew on and faded.

Having cheered and applauded with crowds in the past when someone used flair to end a spell not of their casting, Ben spun to take in the crowd with hungry eyes and ears.

“Tradition’s blight.”

Instead of appreciation, insults where thrown as the crowds—which had formed a communal protective magic circle around him—began to move away. Tinted the same colors as their various robes, their translucent mystic barriers popped like a rainbow bubble and sparkled away.

“Lack wit.”

The circle around him stretched into an oval as other bazaar buyers began to move through.

His eyes found the face of the little girl in the pink fur coat scrunched up in a tiny scowl as she stared at him over her father’s shoulder. “Nobody likes you.” Innocent disdain clung to her words. “Go home, ape.”

That slur! Reflexively, Ben’s fist balled.

The Nilosian font, the energy Ben regarded as belonging to Bastion—the monster in his head—flashed hot. Boiling, his vision dimmed momentarily as The Beast raised its head.

Ben tensed at Bastion waking and tried to relax. I can’t blame her for her parent’s bias.

Committing her face to their memory, Bastion sneered at the girl.

Ben’s brow furrowed and he sneered.

No! Having expressed Bastion’s reciprocal disdain, Ben covered his face. Diffuse your emotions, Ben. Cool down. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. There’s no way to change their prejudice. To them, their casting method will forever be pure and superior while ‘techno-wizardry’ will forever be an affront to ‘true magic-users’ everywhere. His jaw and fist began to loosen.

Recalling the hard lesson he had learned from the Arcane Alehouse, Ben wanted to yell, None of us are real wizards. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath. She’s not a threat, Bastion. He took another breath and insisted. She’s not.

Unconvinced, Bastion snorted. Wary, it went back to rest.

That was close. Focused on his shoes—month old Tore Vex boots he got through Meadows Towing—the seams remained slack. His feet weren’t growing to bastion-size. He exhaled his relief.

Adept Love had, in his nasal whine, warned against coming to Bauman’s Bazaar which had set up in Vegas for a week before moving to Los Angeles next month. “It’s a den of derision,” he’d said. Love had been filling in for Senior Adept Collins, who went absent after the Samhain Festival. “You may be attacked, openly, and no one will come to your aid.” The small man’s face took on a shrewd smile. Everyone knew Bauman’s Bazaar was the only place where an Archon Private Academy student could get the spells the Academy wouldn’t—or couldn’t—teach. “Which is why I’m breaking you all into groups of four. You will be responsible for each other.”

Ben’s throat rocked at the memory. “Hmph.” Responsible for each other, ri-i-ight. Having been attacked, he temporarily forgot that he, Neil, Kevin, and LeRoy had agreed to split up to find vendors who sold technomancy spells. Remembering, Ben shrugged. Guess Love knew what he was talking about.

Curious about what he held, Ben opened his hand to see a miniature duplicate of the scimitar in his palm.

“Hey, showman,” a high-pitched feminine voice called before he could really analyze what he had in his hand. “Give you a gold for that.”

Risky Business

Ben sucked one last time at the pineapple flavor in his mouthguard before he pulled it out. The effect of his Achilleus spell persisted and he found it hard to keep his amped-up, thrumming body still. He closed his hand and looked to where the voice had risen above the clamor of vendors selling and shoppers haggling. He picked up on something he hadn’t noticed earlier. Everyone’s dealing in one ounce units of precious metals...

No vendor offered or accepted local, regional or global currency. Currency was backed by an institute or agency which would go after a seller if you got a really bum deal. No one backed ordinary gold or platinum. Wow, guess all sells are final.

“Right here.” A tall, bald, slender woman—that’s a really long neck—raised a hand. She stood in a light green sleeveless dress before a ten-foot wide emerald canvas tent. One of the flaps had been pinned inward showing a bare hint of what lay within the tightly packed rows. Something about her—the large eyes?—made her quite comely. Her neck scarcely bent, giving him the slightest degree of a courtly greeting.

Ben made sure to return the gesture. That probably looked fast-forwarded. He focused and gave a proper—so slow—bend of his neck.

She nodded in return. “You did well in defending yourself, trencher, so why not profit from the momentary inconvenience?”

Trencher. Elder Komir had call him that, too. Hearing it again made Ben smile. Heck, why not?

“I’ll give you two gold.” Another woman, almost alike in every way except her dress had full sleeves and she stood in front of a red silk gazebo. “One and a half for the spell focus and the extra for the wonderful show.”

“Two and two silver.” The lady in green counter-offered. “My first offer was low just to get your attention.”

“Two and five.” Confidence accompanied the second’s bid as she motioned to the opening to her gazebo. “That’s the highest price it will fetch.”

Ben gently squeezed the small blade in hand. If that’s the most it’ll fetch here, what’s it really worth? Better yet, do I even want to sell it? While he wouldn’t dare take the tiny thing home where his family could find it, it would look rather nice in his basement lab at Meadows Towing. I’ll hang it next to the soldering iron.

The first woman, who Ben—lost in thought—had turned to face extended her hand to the red tent as well. “She is correct.”

“Lies!” A squat rotund man called from across the way. He stood before a crimson-and-violet stripped pavilion made of hard, opaque plastic. His dense, parted mustachio wound two wide loops on each cheek. “I have a cousin who collects such items. If you look closely, ape, you’ll see two tiny gemstones on the pommel. It points to its origin and true value.” The man hooked his thumbs on his thick black belt. “The info is free and I’ll give you the truest offer. Three gold.” He raised his chin. “Neither gazelle will top it.”

Though Ben had made his mind up on keeping it, the man calling him ape made him want to prove a point. He looked back to the women. Long necks. Large eyes. I can see why he called them that.

The woman in green bent her neck slightly, again, but both signaled open palms to the man, conceding to his bid.

Though the passing crowd, Ben examined the man. There’s something about him… besides him calling me ape… Ben couldn’t figure out what about the man bother him, but there was something there.

The mustachioed man raised his head a bit higher and a slight smile spread his face open in pride of winning Ben’s business. Figuring Ben would follow, the man turned and walked to the door of his store. “This agreement is beyond far, but the focus will thrill my collector cousin to no end.”

Ben turned and bowed to the woman in front of the green canvas tent before approaching her. She was the only one who extended any courtesy. He made a point of speaking loudly, hoping the man would hear him. “Though your offer was the lowest, I would like to see what you can offer in trade.”

Her neck bent again and, this time, her body folded slightly, too. “I will be honored.”

“Three and two!” The man called. “A full ounce of gold more.”

Ben did not look back as he moved to her tent.

“Three and five! No, four full!”

Ben crossed the threshold. The din of the bazaar faded, then fell silent. Soft music, like a string quartet playing from beyond the door behind him, took the place of the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. Sandalwood incense filled his nose as he took in the twenty-foot depth of tightly packed rows of similar cherry wood shelves covered with various traditional knickknacks, brick-a-brac, foci, totems, and spell components. Dangling from the center of the tent, a brass brazier caught his eyes.

“Rawk. Right this way.” A green parrot with a hooked yellow and red beak whistled, and repeated, “Right this way.” Its perch appeared to be the handle of a strong box in the far left corner.

Guess she’s not worried about being robbed.

Next to the bird, the woman pushed on the canvas back wall. With a pop, it parted to reveal to a secret room.

Okay, that’s cool. Making sure to go to the opposite skirt, along the edge of the tent opposite the parrot with the wicked beak, Ben carefully hustled along the narrow walkway to get into the back room. She’s got spells! He spied the SD cards on a shelf in a glass display. Of his schoolmates, he’d been the first to find one of the rare merchants who had items to sell to technomancers. A bit less carefully, Ben picked up his pace and pressed the Anvilsmith’s volume button down twice to signal the rest of his group.

The fact that he might be walking right into a trap didn’t occur to him... until after he crossed the threshold.

Relax... Relax

A soft lavender scent—almost the exact scent mom keeps at home—filled the seven-foot by seven-foot room. To the immediate left, a small round folding table with a pale green checked table cloth. Floating inches above the table, a manila ceramic teapot with cherry blossom trees—they’re moving—painted on the side. The falling petals look so graceful. As the tiny pink flowers rocked to the base, a sense of serenity eased into him.

While he’d thought about raising his guard as he stepped in, as soon as he entered the room, all semblance of worry slipped from him.

Cool. A cherry blossom had spiraled away from the teapot to land on the side of one of the two thin-lipped manila tea cups set upon similar ceramic saucers. More drifted from the pot to the cup, which filled from the bottom up releasing a fragrant—oolong?—brew.

Voice softer in the quiet room, she said, “Feel free to take your coat off.”

Ben didn’t much feel like taking off his trench coat. Due to the magical enchantments placed upon it, he never felt discomforted from it and it regulated extreme temperatures to nothing more than either a slight chill or a subtle warmth. Still, it sounds like a good idea.

Checking to see if Bastion, who had a supernatural sense of when things were about to go wrong, had cause to be wary, Ben found the beast soundly asleep.

Well, why am I not surprised? A faint, pleasantly warm fog filled his mind. With how peaceful this place is... He slipped off his coat and looked for a place to hang it.

“There.” She extended her long arm to point a long finger at a single-peg coat rack in the opposite corner. It stood at the foot of a long, narrow emerald green canvas camping cot—heh, it and the blankets match the walls—which, coat-rack notwithstanding, ran the full length of the right wall.

Something about the bed—no, it’s a cot, cots aren’t comfortable—felt inviting. His nerves jumped.

“Don’t think about the bed.” She gave his shoulders a slight rub before giving a mild directing push. “Just hang your coat on the peg.”

Ben did. A price tag—two hundred and fifty... ‘Two hundred and fifty’ what? Is that the number of days that I’ve worn it?—flipped from the tip.

“Don’t forget your tie.”

“Oh yeah.” Did I want to take off my tie? With the wonderful warm fog filling his head, Ben found it hard to tell. Why’d I come back here in the first place? In answer to this thought, his shoulders gave a lop-sided, drugged shrug. Well, I took off my coat. He slipped the red silk tie off and looped it over his coat collar. The rack sucked the tag back in and flipped another from the tip. Two hundred and seventy-five. Weird. What does that mean?

“If it chafes...” She began.

Ben faced her.

Nothing remained of what he thought the woman out front looked like. Instead—the dress is the same—a young lady, very similar to both Penelope and Alice—if the medusa didn’t have scales—stood. The two semblances seemed to struggle against one another as though uncertain which visage it should take.

She took a step toward him. A soft lilac smell—Alice’s scent—washed over him and all traces of Penelope faded. Voice tentative and hopeful, a human version of Alice suggested, “You can hang your tablet harnessss too.”

What’s with the hiss on harness? Ben recalled Alice ticking off common misconceptions of her cursed race. She isn’t sibilant. The warmth in his head cooled a bit. He patted the holster that kept his Anvilsmith at easy reach over his leg. “No, I’m good.”

“Sure, understandable.” She said. All hint of hisses vanished. She lifted the two ceramic cups with cherry blossoms settled on the base, sat on the edge of the bed—it’s a cot—and extended a cup to him. “How about we sit and have some tea?”

Without thought, his arm extended to accept. Ben pulled back just short of taking the cup. Wait, Alice can’t stand me! The fog vanished.

Kevin, who always talked as though he were in a competition to get the most words out in a minute, chattered. “Come out from wherever you are, Ben. We got your location ping.”

Tone confident and sharp, LeRoy called. “You know you’re not going to scare us.”

Ben glanced to the canvas wall separating him from the main store. A light from the other side projected Kevin and LeRoy’s shadows on it. When he shifted his gaze back to where Alice had sat on the bed—cot—the tall, bald, lanky woman from early sat there, sipping tea... And had been there the entire time. Well, I think she’s been there...

“Oh good. More customers.” From her expression, the tea—or something—put a bad taste in her mouth and made her words sound bitter. “Perfect timing.”

Something weird was going on. Ben tried to recall exactly what, but could only recall cherry blossom, oolong tea, and the smell of Alice’s skin. Why am I thinking of Alice? Better yet, why’d I take off my coat and tie? He snatched both from the peg, gave the woman a dirty look. Trickstress.

She shot him a tight smile.

The glass rack of spellcards, which has been there all the time, seemed to sneak up on him.

Ben jumped away. Whoa, that’s right. Spellcards. He called out, “In here, guys. Check this out.”

Something Like Friends

Though LeRoy, Kevin, and Neil had done a great deal of haggling and some buying in the green canvas tent, Ben had remained a few steps behind. First, mentally, as his schoolmates worked hard for the best deal, then, physically, as the three of them left the tent and had to come back for him to pull him along.

In fact, the four of them had walked well out into the expansive dirt parking lot and located their cars amidst the thousands—if not tens of thousands—of hastily parked vehicles before, still smelling lavender, Ben finally started to come back into his own frame of mind—they’re like scattered cherry blossoms—puzzling out the, mostly horrid parking situations much further away from the bazaar.

If the Bauman people laid down chalk parking lines, everyone would follow suit.

Late-comers were often the third, or fourth car blocking in people who had come early. Others parked to the side of a horizontal row meant for two cars to pass, narrowing the lane to one, in which—if two cars came toward each other with too many cars behind them—the lane would become yet another row of parking, locking in even more cars.

And thus his earlier plan to have at least have one direction to get out by parking side-by-side—Kevin’s luminescent orange flame-tipped next to Ben’s matte black—backed-in behind Neil, and LeRoy’s A.P.A. approved, stock, bright reds had been foiled.

Both sides—as far as the eye can see—had been blocked in. If this were my event, I’d have lines drawn and offer valet. Ben found his head shaking. “This is atrocious.”

“Oh, he’s back.” Kevin rattled, “Welcome back, Ben.” He raised a powder blue spellcard with a large white energy bolt painted on the flat which branched out to seven strikes high near his crazy brown swath of windblown hair. “Check it. Chain Lightning.”

Trying to focus on the spellcard, the mental image of raining cherry blossoms and phantom smells of the woman’s back room finally faded to the buzzy ozone smell of too many arcane-powered vehicles in close proximity. Each of schoolmates, in their school uniform of white dress shirts, red ties, brown slacks, and tan trench coats, leaned on the corner of their cars facing the space between them.

Not remember anything after having parked, Ben tried to quickly piece the night back together. We came right after Spell Programming, split up. Someone attacked me with a sword. No... He opened his hand and rediscovered the small masterfully crafted light, high-quality silver, three-inch sword whose hilt alternated between strips of cooper and steel. The ruby chips... The husky vendor had the highest bid, but I... I went to the lady in green...

“Hey, wizzes.” A guy in a dark trench coat and long oily hair called to them from the end of the row.” For five hundred Strong or seven hundred M.U.s, I can get your car out. Then a second ride for half as much.”

Wizzes. Ben used to toss the friendly, casual slang for unknown casters quite a bit. Now—we’re all sort of delusional—now it just felt false. No, it’s pretentious.

“Nah, wiz.” LeRoy called back. “We’re good for now. Please hit us up later though.”

“You got it.” The guy waved and walked on.

Ben asked, “How can he get our cars out.”

Offhandedly, LeRoy answered, “He’s a porter specialist.” As though that explained everything, he turned his attention back to Kevin. “Nice buy.” LeRoy shuffled several cards and presented a silver one at his hip near his red leather belt held closed by his Top Junior Caster belt buckle. The low angle helped the lighting from the Koffman floating lights to highlight an embossed sword. “But not nearly as hot as my sweet Mage Sword.”

Ben wanted to pry into porters, but his thoughts were still preoccupied. She— She bewitched me and tried to rob me. He balled his fist on the blade. It bit into his palm. Ow. He relaxed his hand and kept his fist closed so the cut could heal before being noticed by the others.

Kevin laughed a challenge. “You can’t cast seven stones.”

LeRoy shrugged. “You cannot cast Chain Lighting.”

Kevin and LeRoy are jaw-jacking again, and Neil’s off—as usual—in his own little world. None of them probably wouldn’t have noticed if he held his hand opened and showed how the small cut on his bloody palm was healing shut.

LeRoy flipped the SD card over his knuckles, making it dance on top of his hand. “Perhaps you should master Lighting Bolt first?”

Ben winced. Low blow! While, between the four of them, he could out program and engineer the others put together, Ben wouldn’t have dared to brag about it. LeRoy, on the other hand, had made direct reference to the spell he used to finish Kevin, twice back-to-back, to become the school’s Top Junior Caster for last school eighth.

Kevin stopped laughing.

LeRoy drove the point. “I mean, it should come naturally, now, since you know what it tastes like.”

“Want to go right here?” Kevin pointed to the ultra-narrow, walk-side-ways-only lane between the cars that had them blocked in. “Go ahead. Step out.”

This spiraled fast.

Nonplussed, LeRoy rocked his head on his shoulders. “The duel was supposed to be a best of three match... You didn’t even take one.”

Oh, no! Ben extended his arm to stop Kevin from moving to the row to call LeRoy out to duel.

“Move, Ben.” With contact being frowned upon, Kevin stopped short of Ben’s arm. “All I need is one.”

LeRoy flipped the card over his knuckles again before putting it into his pocket. “Easy, Kevin. Do you think the Magistrates want to be pulled from the Bazaar?” He crossed his arms and pressed more of his weight on his car. “This is like their vacation time.”

Kevin’s spoke slow dread through clenched teeth. “It would only take a minute.”

Strength left Ben’s arm. The hawkish nose, flat cheeks, pronounced brow. Kevin looks just like Collins when the jerk threatens us...

“Less, actually.” LeRoy slid his hands into his pocket. “What’s up with you, Ben?”

Ben studied Kevin’s face a bit longer. Could the number-two caster and the Senior Adept be related?

Kevin stole a glance at Ben.

“Uh.” Ben shifted his eyes to LeRoy, and lied, “Nothing.”

Finally moving, Neil pushed a few strands of his white hair behind a pigmentless ear, and held up two of his four cards. One had a clear case to show off the circuitry within while the other was black with a faint gray line. Voice soft and steady, he said, “I don’t know which I am more proud of...” He presented the clear one. “Wind Wall.” Then the black one. “Or Enervation.”

Ben eyed the black card. What’s Enervation?

“Neil the Techno-Necro-mancer, you gotta know it’s the Enervation,” LeRoy answered with a sneer as though the question lay leagues beyond stupid.

Kevin’s chin relaxed a bit as he raised a leg to his car and, in his normal fast patter, agreed, “Hands down.”

Clever. A slight admiration kindled in Ben for Neil; the smallest, and softest spoken of the them. He changed the topic and neither of them seem the wiser.

“Yes, it is necromancy, which I adore.” Neil slid the black card into the pocket of his heavily starched shirt, presenting the clear one. “And yes, it is more useful in combat, but this one completes my collection of standard three-stone spells.”

What? Ben’s ears rose, and his focus shot to Neil who still eyed the card. I know he comes from a wealthy family, but if he has all three-stones... Not sure if his question strayed into an area considered too personal, Ben asked, “So, you have all single and double stones too?”

Neil nodded absently as he bent over the card, putting his pigmentless face closer to it for inspection instead of raising the card before his powder pink eyes. “Interesting. There’s a faint brick wall in fine white paint.”

“Wait.” Kevin stood again. “You mean to tell me you wasted coin on Erase?”

Neil bobbed his head again. He ran a finger on the flat. “Talk about craftsmanship. The paint is in miniscule grooves.”

Kevin waved a hand. “Man, that’s the most useless spell in the world.”

Having programmed it for extra credit, and used it to keep Collins from seeing a letter of complaint he had composed against the Senior Adept during Spell Programming III, Ben ventured to disagree, “It has its uses.”

“How?” LeRoy shook his head. “Okay Ben, there you are, standing across from me at dueling length. How would you use it?”

Ben opened his mouth to try and back out of LeRoy’s hypothetical before it could accidently spiral into a real challenge. Another flash from earlier in the night came to him. Crap. I had a vision of dueling him, but we were between tents. Man, I really don’t want to—

Neil interjected, “Ben doesn’t duel.”

“In this example, he does.” LeRoy looked from Neil, who hadn’t stopped marveling at the card, to Ben. “So, there we are, hooks in and ready to throw.” He stood and, in an instant, drew his hand from his pocket as though he held his tablet. “Somehow, in this fictional world, you gain the dominant caster’s advantage.” Staring into Ben’s eyes, LeRoy took an aggressive step forward into Ben’s personal space.

What are you doing LeRoy? The manner of approach meant ‘go time.’ What’s this about? You don’t like someone disagreeing with you?

Bastion—the Nilosian monster that could steal control of Ben’s body—remained fast asleep. In its slumber, the beast uttered an annoyed grumble at the challenge.

LeRoy stared intensely.

Tension seized Ben’s shoulders, back, and brought his brow into a tight knot. Man, I really don’t want to duel you LeRoy… Ben stood up straight. I really don’t.

Quiet Confidence

LeRoy’s breath smelled of bacon.

You want to start something from nothing? Ben took a small step forward, tightening the narrow space between them and a faint, invisible static, as though they were Tesla rods attracting dimensional energy, built between them. I may not win, but I’m not going to slink away.

“Shit.” Kevin leapt forward to get his arm between them before they bumped chests.

Counter to the seriousness of the moment, a group of people—they’re enjoying themselves, why can’t we be like them—laughed. Staring into LeRoy’s African brown eyes, Ben found an intense pinprick of cobalt blue at the center of the black pupils.

“You have first bang, Ben.” LeRoy gave a dangerous grin. He lowered his voice to a threat. “I dare you, piss it away on Erase.”

“First, I don’t start fights.” As he said the words, Ben tamped down the desire to cast Erase on LeRoy just to see if the Top Junior Caster would have attacked him. “More importantly, tactically, it’d be a waste again you.”

LeRoy nodded a, I didn’t think you would nod. “Exactly.”

Ben added, “However—”

Breath hitched, Kevin bristled.

LeRoy’s eyes narrowed.

Neil looked up to them.

Ben continued, “—since we’re talking fictional events.” He gave a dismissing wave to negate LeRoy’s scenario and took half a step back. “Say you and a traditional caster are battling for real. Life or death. No minimum distance. You both have just enough juice for a single low-level spell.” He slipped his hands into his coat pockets and dropped the miniature sword as he turned a small circle.

Paying them no mind, Koffman Lanterns floated above patrons moving to and from the bazaar.

Ben stepped back, bumping into Kevin’s arm which bumped into LeRoy. “So, there you two are. Eye to eye. Nose to nose.” He yanked his hand from his pocket. “He pulls a scroll!”

Expertly, LeRoy said, “I blast him.”

“Yeah,” Kevin agreed.

“Really?” Ben’s brow eased. He didn’t even think to try and rip the scroll away. His eyebrows raised. “It’s not enough to take him down. He’s mystically shielded.”

LeRoy blurted, “I punch him!”

“Ah.” Ben stepped backward and raised a finger. “Your spell hits, but he’s made of sterner stuff. The strike lands, a solid shot, but we’re not martial masters so it doesn’t knock him out.” Ben took another step back and leaned on his car.

LeRoy’s eyes bounced around his sockets as he searched for another answer.

Ben added, “In fact, this trad-caster is well practiced at concentrating through such damage and activates the scroll.”

Rapt in the scenario, knowing that LeRoy would have to eat whatever came, Kevin found the breath to ask, “What spell is it?”

LeRoy raised his chin and tightened as though he were preparing to take a punch. “Yeah, what spell?”

Ben hadn’t thought the scenario that far. Not important really. You’re already cooked. He shrugged at the two constant contenders for Top Junior Caster. “It could be anything, but to be sure, it’s offensive and, remember, traditional mages can fit up to four spells on one of those scrolls. So, after the first, another would come, and another, and—most likely—another. Then, he still has juice for a personal spell.”

Stunned by the reality of being totally screwed by his choices in the scenario, LeRoy stepped back from Kevin’s arm.

Dumbfounded, Kevin still stood there with his arm out like a crossing guard at an empty street.

“Tactics, LeRoy.” Ben peeked in his Transcend to check on Tex. The other guys’ knee-high Golemcasts where there, but not his. Darn it, Tex. If the others check their robots, they’d see his missing, and then the awkward questions would come. Hoping none of the guys would, Ben returned his focus to LeRoy. “The main difference between you and me—in this scenario—is that I would make a play at grabbing the scroll and using my last arcane watt to erase the magic.”

LeRoy frowned slightly. “But you’d still be at an impasse and he’d have a tick up on you.”

“Yeah.” Kevin lowered his arm and moved back to let his car support his weight. “What then?”

Ben gave another shrug and chastised himself. I’m starting to act like Jek. He looked away to the Bazaar, taking in the glorious spectacle of so many Koffman Lanterns hovering—they’re like stalking butlers—to light people’s way out into the parking lot. “Well, being civilized, we could call it a day and go our separate ways.”

Kevin shook his head hard. “No. You said it was life or death.”

“So, I did.” Ben lifted his gaze to the night sky. He found the North Star. Just one arcane watt...

The horrified expressions on the Old Henderson orcs’ faces when blasted their life from them came to his mind’s eye and took roost. Expression left his face. The justifications—they had Clarissa. They would have killed me—still didn’t ease the guilt.

Tonelessly, Ben said, “Then it’s ‘may the most determined man win.’”

“You mean the best man.” LeRoy correct.

In an internal quagmire, Ben shook his head. “Winning doesn’t make you the best.”

“Wow.” LeRoy cast his gaze to the sky as he fell back on his car. “That’s deep.”

“Yeah.” Kevin nodded and did as LeRoy had. The two of them had a long time rivalry. While one might be the best for several school eighths, the other could pull out a win to take the Top Junior Castor belt buckle. No matter which one held the title, they tended to mirror each other.

Since looking up, Ben had felt Neil keeping a steady eye on him. Scrutinizing.

“Why are going this deep anyway.” Ben tried to shake off his sense of woe. Plenty of time for that later. He cleared his throat. “Bauman’s Bazaar is right there guys. There’s bound to be more sellers. Plus, I haven’t had one mug of spiced cider yet.”

“Me too.” Kevin sat up. “And I still got money.”

LeRoy echoed, “Me, too.”

“Then back into the den of derision we go.” Neil tucked his clear spellcard away and stood. “Until cider come from your noses and moths from my pockets.”

Ben laughed and clapped with LeRoy and Kevin, but wondered. What does he mean by that?

Neil

Searching for other vendors with technomancy wares, the four of them crossed back into the heart of the bazaar and split up again… Or at least they were supposed to. Ben kept catching glimpses of Academy-trench coat tan when he least expected it. One of them is following me. Still, Ben wondered aimlessly through the bazaar, rarely pausing.

Ben came to a full stop. In the valleys of the hawkers calling out, he heard and—mmm—smelled bacon frying. He was standing at the corner of a pale orange and blue striped pavilion. He feigned interested by passing a curious glance over the wares in the rows and rows of glass cases with tiny glass boxes of powders, herbs, and fluids of various transparency before fixing his gaze on the deep fried bacon balls on sticks, freshly rolled in maple.

The vendor, an elderly Asian with a huge, mean-looking, twelve-legged spider tattooed on his face, eyed Ben and muttered in a Far-Eastern language.

That doesn’t sound pleasant or welcoming. Hopeful, Ben approached the man.

“For paying customers only.” The man waved him away. “Go feast your eyes somewhere else.”

At least he didn’t call me ape. Ben turned away. When he did, he got his best look at the flash of tan following him at it ducked behind two large whiskey barrels stacked atop each other. Must be Neil. Too short to be either LeRoy or Kev. He had a clear view of both sides of the barrels. Whoever it was, couldn’t slip away around a corner like before. Ben headed back to the hiding spot. I have to know why.

He had made it most of the way there when a large, burley man in a long-sleeved golden shirt and red overalls stepped from a crimson dome tent with yellow and orange paisleys. The man seized something near the barrels, lifted it, and flung Neil like a sack of potatoes into the main thoroughfare.

The crowd of colored robes scattered away from Neil like frightened cats.

Can’t believe how quiet everything got. Nearby hawkers fell silent. The immediate din quelled. Sales from rows over spilled in. Having just been on the inside of such a circle for the first time a short while ago, Ben scanned the crowd to note what kind of view the others had.

“We don’t serve your kind!” The man barked and pulled a narrow—is that bone?—wand as he closed to only ten feet from Neil.

Ally

Ally Dazs rolled the heavy silk sleeves of her Census Agency robe back and crossed her arms. She’d never cared for Las Vegas. The casters here were shifty. Not only that, their dealings and allegiances, were tenuous at best. If left up to her, all the branches of her Agency would converge on the city in an unprecedented audit.

She smiled at the thought of the slimiest of the city’s creeps crumpling under the weight of all their dark dealings being brought out into the light for the starwise of the world to see. She smirked at the thought of the order that would come from the momentary—in the grand scheme of things—chaos.

But that wasn’t why she was here.

The Census Agency had received notice that ownership of the Nexus Bar & Grill had changed hands, and it was her job to figure out who now owned one of the most powerful buildings in the city.

Taking a moment for herself, Ally reveled in the new spring sunshine peaking over Sunrise Mountain and warming her skin. Her smile blossomed wider. The local chapter of her alma mater had a guest house on the mountain. Perhaps, once done here, she’d stop by to visit with the Sisterhood and use their guest dorms to recover from the spell.

Bringing her focus inward, Ally ignored the hum and exhaust from the few mundane cars driving Las Vegas Boulevard, and began to gather her focus to cast Temporas Illum Orchalance. While not the strongest post-cognitive divination spell she knew, it was the most thorough.

Had she been at a lesser structure, she’d be worried about casting even the simplest spell with so many mundanes within easy breach distance, but The Nexus Bar & Grill was one of the city’s oldest nodes. Not only that, but there had once been a dueling platform out back; so the Mystique had been laid so thick here that she could almost feel it. The only way a mundane would be able to see or find this place is if they were invited, and—besides being highly illegal—only a true idiot would ever do that.

If in operation, the Nexus Bar & Grill wouldn’t be open for another couple hours and, since no one in this city could really be trusted to give her the answer as to who owned the place; it was up to her, and her divination, to ferret it out.

While Temporas Illum Orchalance would reveal everything that transpired during the transfer of ownership, the information would be jumbled and a little loose at first; but she’d get it woven together. Making sense of the independent timelines as they came together was something few could do well, and Ally stood amongst the top in her field.

Transfer of ownership. What a nice and innocuous phrase.

The higher ups at the Agency never dug into the high rates of Paramountcy—the worst kind of legalized theft—that took place in Las Vegas every decade. If North America was on the scale, Las Vegas would rank up there with Cairo, Hong Kong, Paris, and Rio de Janeiro. If anyone really studied the numbers, they’d see that Las Vegas was completely rotten. But, of course, that kind of thing never happened in North America.

Perhaps she’d find a thread, like she had in Montreal, that she could use to make the Agency take notice.

Hoping that would be the case, Ally pushed all thoughts out of her mind so that she could recite the fifteen-minute incantation. She knew the spell well. With so much desire for the information, Ally made sure to take her time and not rush.

She’d know. She just needed to… take… her… time.

The wonderful scen of daisies pillowed the area as her eyes rolled back and the threads of all involved came to her. “Five beings,” she whispered. The spell began to weave them together and two slipped out. She nodded. “Three partook.” Mist fell from the braid of mindsets as it thickened into a circlet that came to rest on Ally’s brow.

She inhaled, and breathed, “Show me.”

The Boy

Like stepping into a cross-section of time, Benjamin Baxter pushed through Nexus Bar & Grill’s squeaky, rough, old-fashioned saloon doors. Imagining, as he usually had, that he was in a Western, he squinted and growled through gritted teeth. “I’m lookin’ for the man who shot my pa’”

No one answered. Could’ve he beaten all his classmates here?

His favorite part of the diner—the magical ice cream scoopers—floated up from the ice cream bar. Normally at the ready, they hovered in the air to entice any who came in and only went dormant after an hour of non-use. He must’ve been the first one.

As usual, he rubbed the tall, narrow, jade saber-tooth tiger tiki totem at the end of the entryway. He shuffled across the retro, pink-and-red checkered 1980’s tile to toss his school pack into the deep, 1950’s-era booth closest to the 21 and older sign near the rear wall.

His pack deep into the corner, Ben—as though caught by the nose—rose up onto his toes to take in the scent of the eternally-grilling onions. His stomach growled.

Kevin, LeRoy, and Neil would give him crap for ordering without them… But he was ready to eat.

Shrugging off the social pressure, he bounced into the booth. “Should’ve gotten here faster, guys.” He nodded. That’s what he’d say to them between bites. They’d probably make a play for his golden steak-cuts fries, and he wouldn’t stop them. While delicious, if he ate all of the golden goodies, they’d be nothing but unwanted squatters where ice cream, pie, or cake should go.