A Drop of Magic

A Drop of Magic

L. R. Braden

July 2019 $15.95
ISBN: 978-1-61194-941-4

The Magicsmith, Book 1

 
Our PriceUS$15.95
Code978-1-61194-941-4
 
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Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt| Buy Now


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The war isn’t over . . .

With the world clinging to a fragile peace forced on the Fae by humanity after the Faerie Wars, metalsmith Alex Blackwood is plunged into the world of the half-fae who traffick in illegal magical artifacts. Her best friend’s murder and his cryptic last message place her in the crosshairs of a scheme to reignite the decade-old war between humans and fae.

Worse, violent attacks against her and the arrival of a fae knight on a mission force Alex to face a devastating revelation of who and what she is. To catch a killer, retrieve a dangerous artifact, and stop a war, Alex will have to accept that she’s an unregistered fae "halfer” with a unique magical talent—a talent that would change everything she believes about her past, her art, and her future.

Her world is crumbling around her, and Alex will have to decide who to trust if she and the world are going to survive.

About the author: Born and raised in Colorado, L. R. BRADEN makes her home in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with her wonderful husband, precocious daughter, and psychotic cat. With degrees in both English literature and metalsmithing, she splits her time between writing and art. A Drop of Magic is her first novel.


Reviews


"A Drop of Magic is a damned fun and original read, with sass, action, hot men, and a whole lot of magic.”
—Diana Pharaoh Francis, author of the Diamond City Magic, Magicfall, and Horngate Witches series

"What an evocative, and at times chilling, tale featuring Fae, shifters and fanatics. I could not put it down until I was finished.”

—Karen Fisher, NetGalley Reviewer

 

"An enjoyable read to the start of a new series.”

—Nicole Lippolis, NetGalley Reviewer

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Excerpt


Chapter 1

METAL DUST CLUNG to the sweat on my arms, glittering like shining scales. Even with the studio door propped open behind me, the un­commonly warm October air did little to temper the heat of the forge. A shower of sparks erupted as I plunged the carbon steel rod back into the annealing embers and dragged an arm across my forehead, taking care to avoid the bulky, blackened welding glove. I’d probably still end up with sooty streaks decorating my otherwise pale face. I always did.

Lost in the beat of my old MP3 player, I started belting out the lyrics of Robert DeLong’s Don’t Wait Up as I prepared the next rod. Then a touch settled—light and tentative—on my arm, and the bottom fell out of my stomach.

Tongs clutched in one hand, hammer in the other, I spun.

"Whoa, whoa.” His lips formed the words, though I couldn’t hear them over the music blaring through my headphones.

An inch shorter than I was, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, I had no reason to think the man was anything but human. But then, who could tell these days? He took a step back, hands raised, either to show he meant no harm or to ward off the blow he thought was coming.

Behind him, near the open door, stood a second man. He wore a rumpled brown suit that matched his hair and eyes. Average height, average build, average looks. Nothing remarkable about him.

Moving to put the anvil between us, I set the hammer down and pulled off my headphones, but kept a white-knuckled grip on the tongs. The higher-than-average number of violent crimes this summer had me on edge—along with everyone else—though none of the violence had come so far as my neck of the woods. It seemed unlikely a murderer wouldget my attention before attacking, but my heart raced a mile a minute as I faced the strangers. "Who are you?”

The man nearest me lowered his arms. "We announced ourselves, but it seems you didn’t hear.”

I scowled at his attempt to put the blame back on me. This was my studio, and they were uninvited guests.

"My apologies.” This came from Mr. Unremarkable. The mono­toneof his voice matched his appearance, revealing nothing. "You may call me Smith. My associate is Neil. Am I addressing Alyssandra Blackwood?”

A muscle under my right eye twitched. Most people only knew me as Alex. Alyssandra hadn’t existed anywhere but legal documents since I was twelve and traded the name in for something stronger, more practical.

"We’ve come to purchase an item from you, an engraved silver box.”

My shoulders dropped as the tension in them eased a little. Cus­tomers didn’t often stop by the studio unannounced, but it wasn’t un­heard of. People sometimes got my address from the Souled Art Gallery in Boulder where I showed my work, or from previous customers, and came to commission pieces. Most were courteous enough to call ahead. "I’m booked on orders right now. I could maybe get to it next month.”

"You misunderstand. We are looking for an object already in your possession.”

"Oh. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have an item like that in stock.”

"We know the box came your way. If you hand it over, we can make it worth your while.” Neil had the slick, sleazy tone of a used car sales­man.

Curious though I was about this box, and why they thought I had it, I’d had enough of the conversation. Even if they weren’t killers, they gave me the creeps. I shook my head. "You were misinformed.”

"Ms. Blackwood,” Smith said. "Be reasonable. We’re willing to pay handsomely, and considering the other parties involved, you’re not likely to get a better offer. Surely it isn’t worth the risk?”

My breath caught as the thinly veiled threat hit me like a punch in the gut.

"You need to leave, now.” My voice trembled slightly. The studio only had one door, and they were between it and me. I was trapped. Shifting my stance, I tightened my grip on the tongs, willing them not to shake.

Smith raised his hands in a placating manner. "I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. You might not even realize you have the item we seek. It would look quite common, like a jewelry box.”

"I told you, I haven’t got anything like that. Now get out of here before I call the cops.” It was a bluff, of course, I’d left my cell phone in the house. Even if I could call, the police would never arrive in time to help. That was the downside of living so far from town. I was on my own.

"Enough of this.” Neil stepped around the anvil and reached for my arm.

Time slowed.

I didn’t like to fight, I avoided confrontations when I could, but if he thought I was going to roll over, he was wrong. With a guttural howl, I twisted my wrist out of Neil’s grip and swung the tongs into his face. His skin split apart like newspaper peeling back from a fire, scorched black and crinkled around the edges. An unearthly shriek filled the studio, and I stumbled back, shocked at the damage I’d done.

Neil shimmered and seemed to melt. His skin became transparent, and a network of blue veins crawled beneath its surface. His nose spread and sank into his face, leaving two flared slits. Below that, the mouth emitting that horrible sound elongated until the gaping, needle-lined hole grew so large I could have put my whole fist in without scraping my knuckles. When he reached up to cover his face, his fingers had nearly doubled in length, the webbing between them connecting all the way to the tips. His fingernails stretched and thickened to claws. The creature before me was straight out of a horror movie, and I added my own scream to the cacophony.

Wielding my tongs like a baseball bat, I backed away from the writhing shape which had been the man Neil seconds before. Even at the best of times, my stomach cramped when someone mentioned the fae. Seeing one in the flesh was like having a bucket of ice water dumped on my head. I shivered from head to toe, and fought the urge to throw up.

Smith crossed the space between himself and Neil in two steps and pulled Neil’s arms down to expose the hideous gash burned across his cheek. My stomach lurched at what I’d done. White glinted where bone showed beneath charred flesh. The eye above had swelled shut and was rapidly turning a sickly greenish color. Smith placed one palm against Neil’s forehead, and the horrible wail abruptly cut off as Neil sagged in Smith’s arms.

"It seems we were mistaken.” Smith spoke as he had before, with­out inflection or emotion. Nothing to show surprise or concern that he was holding an unconscious, injured faerie in his arms. "Good day, Ms. Blackwood.”

My mind went blank as I fumbled for words.

Smith took my stupefied silence in stride. Hefting Neil without vis­ibleeffort, he gave a small parting nod and carried his companion out of the studio.

I remained where I was until the sound of car doors closing and the crunch of gravel told me I was alone. Then, still clutching my tongs, I inched to the door and took a deep breath of the outside air. The driveway was empty, no cars in sight. No faerie goons either. My knees gave out under the weight of the panic I’d been keeping in check, and I sank to the ground, tongs still clutched in my shaking hands. The tea I’d had for breakfast felt like acid in my stomach, threatening to come back up.

A gray tabby with yellow-green eyes peeked around the corner of the shed with a questioning, "Meow?” Cat had appeared on my doorstep a few months back, begging for scraps, and I’d made the mistake of giving him some. He’d come around every day since. Despite the fact he’d already stuck around longer than most of the guys in my life, I’d steadfastly refused to name him.

"Fat lot of good you were.”

Lifting his nose, Cat swished his tail and stalked away.

It was silly to take my anxiety out on Cat, but it was easier than dealing with the panic and adrenaline threatening to overwhelm me. Anything to distract from the flesh seared to the tongs in my shaking hands.

I couldn’t imagine forging more, so with a wary eye on the door I dampened the coals and stored my tools, each in its marked place on my pegboard. The gooey tongs went on a shelf, I’d throw them in an acid bath later.

The oversized shed I used for a studio was a short walk from the ranch-style house on the seven acres of Colorado mountainside I called home. Shutting the door on Cat’s meows for handouts, I poured a glass of water with trembling hands and guzzled it down to steady my nerves.

My first instinct was to call Uncle Sol. Not really my uncle, he was the closest thing I had to family since an accident took my mother and left me orphaned at seventeen. It wasn’t just for comfort that I thought of him, though. Few people outside the PTF—Paranatural Task Force—had seen a fae without glamour since the end of the Faerie Wars a decade before, and those who did were required to report it.

Like many officers from the war, Sol joined the PTF to help police the fae after the peace treaties were signed. They kept the registries of all the fae and halfers who ventured off the reservations, as well as the few magic-wielding human practitioners not on the leash of the Church. They also investigated reports of paranatural activity, magic misuse, and the possible existence of other creatures, like vampires, aliens, and ghosts, though only the fae and practitioners had ever been substanti­ated.

I wasn’t sure exactly what Sol’s job with the PTF was, just that he was a pretty big muckety-muck whose work was classified. His assign­ments often took him out of the country and off the radar, and he’d left for another such mission last month. He’d be incommunicado for at least another week, which meant I’d have to call the local PTF office just like anyone else.

Pushing back the unruly auburn hair that had escaped my ponytail yet again, I picked up my cell phone. The voice mail icon blinked in the corner.

I’d completely forgotten about Aiden’s call the night before.

After a hectic afternoon installing my work at the gallery and four hours schmoozing with people whose clothes cost more than my car, I’d wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. Aiden was a dear friend, but it was hard to compete with a soft mattress at the end of a long day, and sleep ultimately won out over what was sure to be one of his classic "the world is out to get me” paranoid tirades.

I hesitated, staring at the icon, but conversations with Aiden tended to drag on, and I had my own mess to sort out at the moment.

Most cities had a PTF office, but Nederland was too small to warrant its own staff, so I punched in the number for the Boulder branch. First, I suffered through the standard automated menu—press one if you think you may be paranatural, two if you want to report someone you think may be paranatural, etc. Then there was the call center secretary, whose job seemed to be to test how long people would stay on hold. I drummed my fingers against the counter as my irritation grew with every transfer, hold music grating in my ear. Finally, I found my way to an actual agent.

"Ben O’Connell here,” the gruff voice said. "You have an incident to report?”

"Yes. Two guys threatened me, and at least one was a faerie.”

"What makes you think that?” His condescending tone put me on edge, like he didn’t think I was qualified to identify a fae without the special training he’d undoubtedly had.

"For starters, his face melted when I hit him with my iron tongs.”

"You what?” I jerked the phone from my ear in pain. When I brought it back he was mid-rant. ". . . how dangerous it is to confront a fae?”

"It’s not like I meant to,” I snapped defensively. "He grabbed me and I reacted. Besides, I didn’t know he was a fae before that.”

"Fine.” He sounded only mildly placated. "What happened next?”

"I guess his glamour broke, because he stopped looking like a person.”

"Yes, iron will have that effect.” I could practically see him nod­ding. "What did he look like without his glamour?”

"About six and a half feet tall, see-through skin, webbed hands, no nose, and a huge mouth full of teeth like needles.”

"A sea fae then. What about the other?”

"He looked human, but he didn’t seem surprised when his friend changed. If he wasn’t a fae himself, he at least knew the other guy was.”

"Can you describe him?”

I tried to remember specifics about Smith’s features, but he appeared in my mind only as the vague impression of a man. "He had brown hair and eyes, and he was wearing a brown suit.”

"Did you get their names?”

"Yeah, but I doubt they were real. The fae was Neil, and the second guy called himself Smith.”

"Did they say what they wanted?”

"They were looking for an engraved silver box.”

"Do you have this box?”

"Nope. I’ve got no clue what they were talking about, or why they thought I had it.”

"All right, Ms. Blackwood. Thank you for bringing this to our atten­tion. If your visitors are registered we should be able to track them down through their visas. There aren’t many sea fae in this area.”

As part of the peace treaty that gave the fae sovereignty over their reservations, the powers-that-be also negotiated visas that restricted and recorded fae presence on human lands. The fae reservations were nations unto themselves where the human government had no jurisdiction, and humans were strictly prohibited from entering. In exchange, any fae who wanted to leave the reservation had to register with the PTF and apply for a visa that monitored the length and purpose of their stay. Con­sidering their actions, I held little hope my visitors had followed the rules.

"In either case, we’ll try to locate them and bring them in for ques­tioning. Then we’ll contact you with any findings deemed safe for release from your case file.”

I grimaced at the bureaucratic parlance that boiled down to don’t hold your breath.

"If you have any further contact with them, report it immediately.”

"I will.” I pressed the disconnect button and glared at the phone. If only Uncle Sol had been available.

I was still holding the phone when a knock at the door made me jump. My heart rate went into overdrive. Neil couldn’t have recovered already, but Smith? Pocketing the phone, I crossed to the front window and peeked out. A short, round woman with dark skin and darker hair stood on my porch.

I breathed out, but my shoulders refused to relax. There was a reason I lived miles from the nearest town. It was rare for me to get a single visitor in a week, which was just the way I liked it. This was nothing short of an invasion.

I pulled the door open enough to speak, but left the chain in place. "Can I help you?”

The woman straightened as though she could make up for the difference in our height with sheer will. "Ms. Blackwood?”

"Yes.”

"I’m Detective Garcia.” She indicated a polished badge on her belt.” I work for the Lakewood Police Department.”

I narrowed my eyes, frowning. "What can I do for you, Detective?”

She gestured to the cracked door that separated us. "May I come in?”

Clenching my teeth, I slipped the chain off the door and stepped back. "What’s this about?”

"I just need to ask you some questions.” She pushed past me and paced straight to my dinged-up dining table.

I made a detour to the attached kitchen, where I poured a mug of coffee from the half-empty pot left from that morning and zapped it in the microwave. "Want a drink?”

"No, thank you.” She pulled out a seat facing me, her back to the wall, and plucked a small notebook and pen from her pocket.

I sat across from her, clutching my warm mug in both hands. My knee jumped like a jackhammer under the table. "So what’s this about?”

"I’m part of a special task force investigating a number of possibly connected deaths.”

My stomach turned to lead. Had the police finally found a connec­tion between all the recent murders? But.... "What’s that got to do with me?”

Garcia watched me with an unreadable face. "Are you familiar with a man named Aiden Daye?”

The pressure in my gut spread to my lungs. I didn’t like where this was going. "He’s a friend. We went to college together. Why?”

"I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Daye is dead.”

The mug slipped from my fingers. I was only dimly aware of coffee spilling across the table and dripping to the floor. My vision began to swim. I crossed my arms over my stomach and rocked in time to the throbbing in my ears until I remembered how to breathe.

"He was killed in his home last night.” Garcia’s voice sounded distant, as though she were at the far end of a tunnel.

I slammed invisible chains over the door behind which my emotionspounded. A cold hollowness enveloped me, and I welcomed it like an old friend. I hid in that emptiness like a child in a blanket, waiting for the monsters to pass.

"When did you last hear from him?”

I remembered his picture flashing across my screen and the voice mail I’d put off listening to. "Oh my god!”

"What?” Garcia perched at the edge of her seat, looking as though she wanted to vault the table and wring her answers out of me.

"He called me last night, but I was tired.... I didn’t answer.” My voice caught on the implication. Could it be my fault he was dead, because I’d been too wrapped up in my own life to answer the damn phone? My message may well have been the last words of a dying man. Fumbling the phone out of my pocket with shaking fingers, I accessed my voice mail and put it on speaker.

"Alex?” Aiden’s characteristically tense voice was pitched low, carrying my name through the receiver in a hoarse whisper. "Damn it! What’s the point of having a cell phone if you don’t pick up? Listen, I think someone’s watching me. I’ve got this feeling, ya know? Anyway, you should pick up the present for your grandfather as soon as you can. Okay, well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

As the message cut off, Garcia and I stared in silence at the phone in my hand, processing words cast back to us by a ghost.

Garcia recovered first. "Do you have any idea who might have been following him?”

I shook my head. "Aiden always said stuff like that. He always thought someone was out to get him. When we were in college, he thought people were planting devices in his room to spy on him. He wouldn’t let anyone into his house until he’d run a background check. He was paranoid.”

"Maybe he had reason to be. Did he ever mention who might be out to get him, or why?”

"No. His paranoia seemed totally illogical. Just a weird quirk. When we asked him about it, he’d get all secretive and say it wasn’t safe to talk.”

"You never saw any evidence that he was being targeted?”

"Like I said, I thought he was just being paranoid. But that part about picking up a present for my grandfather...”

"What about it?”

"I don’t have a grandfather. I haven’t got any relatives. Aiden knows,er, knew that.”

"Could it be a misdirect to confuse whoever he thought was watch­ing?”

I shook my head. "I don’t know. If he was trying to confuse some­onehe did a good job, because I have no idea what he was talking about.”

Garcia pulled a digital recorder out of her pocket. "I’d like to make a copy of that message.”

"Of course.” I played the message again, choking up at the end. Turning away, I scrubbed at the pressure building in my eyes and tried to push away the conviction that if I’d only answered the phone that night I might have prevented my friend’s murder. "Can you tell me what happened?”

"Home invasion. We don’t know what, if anything, was taken, but the house was tossed.” Garcia paused before adding, "Your friend put up a fight.”

I pictured Aiden fighting for his life and clenched my fists. Why hadn’t he just run? But then, that was just like him, fighting even when he knew he couldn’t win.

"We haven’t released the name or details yet,” Garcia said. "So please keep this to yourself for the time being.”

Without thinking, I blurted, "I have to tell David.” Then added, "He was Aiden’s only real friend besides me.”

Garcia flipped to a back page in her notebook. "Would this be DavidNolan?”

"Yes.”

"I’m planning to speak with him later today. I’d appreciate it if you’d wait until tomorrow to talk to him.” Garcia’s tone made it clear that "appreciate” really meant "insist,” and I wasn’t going to like the outcome if I didn’t comply.

It pissed me off, but I could understand the reasoning.

"You and Mr. Nolan were the only emergency contacts listed with Mr. Daye’s employer. Do you know if he had any living relatives?”

I shook my head, a cavern opening up in my chest. "He didn’t.”

She nodded and made a quick stroke in her notes. The finality of the motion made me cringe.

"When will his body be released?”

Garcia’s eyes softened. "You’ll need to contact the coroner’s office for that information.”

I didn’t need to know, not really. Aiden had a standing order at a crematorium. David and I had teased him mercilessly when he told us about it. Now? Well... I rubbed at the pressure behind my sternum, trying to ease my breath. All I had to do was scatter the ashes when they arrived.

Flipping her notepad closed, Garcia pushed back from the table. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Blackwood.”

I held up a hand to stop her as a thought struck me. "A couple fae came to my studio this morning looking for a box they seemed convinced I had. Do you think it could have to do with Aiden? If he meant for me to pick something up...”

Garcia sat back down. "What happened, exactly?”

"They were looking for a silver box. When I said I didn’t have it, one of them tried to grab me, and I hit him with the iron tongs I was holding. His glamour broke, and he passed out. The second guy seemed to believe I didn’t have what they were looking for, and they left.”

"Hmm. If they were killers you’d probably be in the morgue, but the timing is suspicious. I’ll check with the PTF, look for a connection. What agent did you speak with?”

"O’Connell, O’Conner, something like that. He’s in the Boulder office.”

"Thank you, Ms. Blackwood.” Garcia held out a business card. "If you think of anything else, call me.”

I took the card, swallowing a lump in my throat. "Please find who did this to my friend.”

She nodded. "I intend to.”

Cat was still on the porch when I opened the door for Garcia. For a moment, I considered letting him in just to have another heartbeat nearby. Then Garcia’s SUV started down the drive, and I closed the door on the offer of comfort in those big green eyes.

Crossing the living room, I picked up one of the framed pictures on my stone mantle. It showed David, Aiden, and me making silly, drunken faces on a spring break beach in Mexico. The dull ache in my chest sharpened, growing deeper. When I’d started college, I’d been alone. No parents, no relatives, no friends. A lifetime of moving had left me with few real connections and no delusions about lasting relationships. David changed that when he sat next to me in freshman lit and struck up a conversation despite my best efforts. Two months later he introduced me to his eccentric roommate, Aiden, and the three of us became inseparable. With Aiden gone, it felt like a piece of my heart was missing.

I stared at the photo until a growling stomach reminded me I was still alive. Hobbled by the order not to contact David until the following day, I found some leftovers in the fridge, ate them cold, and turned in for an early night, all the while clinging to the dim hope that a good night’s sleep would bring a better tomorrow.




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