Gods, I hate the overworld. It’s bad enough that everyone mistakes me for the goddess of death. I’m only the keeper of souls—and I didn’t even ask for that job.
Also, everything up here makes me sneeze.
I hold in another one as I look around this stupid hippie commune. My sister,
I’m going to enjoy shooting Hernandez.
I smile grimly as I run my feather duster along the balcony rail. My titanium blaster is a satisfying weight in my apron pocket. Too bad it’s set to “stun,” not “kill,” but I suppose one can’t have everything.
Twenty feet below me, the brightly-lit ballroom
I collapsed in the shade of an acacia tree, panting. My legs still tingled from the countless scratchy beards that had stampeded our direction.
Beside me, Archibald Waverly, renowned safari guide and wild mustache expert, lay flopped on the ground, pith helmet askew. “That was a close one.”
It was a moment
“I’m afraid your understanding of the situation’s more muddled than a mojito, darling.” Nash Welter stretched an arm across his desk and flicked his lighter, touching flame to the tip of the dame’s trembling cigarette. “I’m only a hitman.”
The darling in question narrowed her eyes and inhaled deeply, staining the white paper
“It’s all over, Psycho-Metric! Drop the kilobomb!” I practice the command sotto voce as I scan the harbor, searching for the crimson lights of the mad mastermind’s speedboat.
Bloodbath Bridge looms above the dark water, a line of gold lamps tracing the gentle arcs of its suspension cables. Psycho-Metric has commandeered the six-lane crossing, and his goons are
If anything merits some Courage Cordial, it’s a job interview.
I stare at the glass bottle on my shelf, one of many elixirs I’ve created. A sip won’t hurt—it’ll just give me a little confidence boost. And I’ve made hundreds of successful potions before, which is why in thirty minutes I’ll be walking under the
If I told you I’d picked up a girl in the French Revolution and brought her to 1930’s Berlin to assassinate Hitler, you wouldn’t believe me… would you?
“It’s time.” Charlotte Corday’s soft whisper brushes my ear as she accepts a champagne flute from my tray. “Colonel Geissler promised to introduce me to
By Ronnell Kay Gibson You give one pink fairy armadillo a belly rub, and now look what’s gone an’ happened—I’ve got an army of the little buggers. The first armadillo showed up a week ago. My dog, Brewser, plum scared the bajeezers outta me when he started barking at the butt-crack of dawn. The border
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Attn: Wizard Mark Fennel
Magical Medical
Outgoing private comm records from Royal Wizard Greg Zaks
2.1.11
The headaches are back.
I know you diagnosed tension, but I’m convinced it’s something more. I can hear you saying, “They started when Flora disappeared. You have no prior history.” But they’ve lasted months.
There were many things eight-year-old Haddie Underwood did not like—sitting still, doing her spellcaster homework, dogs—but she hated being lied to most of all.
Haddie squeezed her sister’s hand and pointed in utter betrayal at the animal inside the deep pit that functioned as a zoo exhibit. “Where is the giant panda?”
“I can’t find him!” Becca yanked Mark into her apartment and snapped the door shut. “I’ve looked everywhere!”
Mark furrowed his brow. The living room had been rearranged into a wide-open space with the couch, wicker chair, and TV all lined up against the wall next to each other. That’s not very convenient.
Bad enough that I’m standing on a turtle larger than Zofan’s five-acre property. Even worse that I’m here with hundreds of wizards and wizardesses for their yearly convention. Worse still that my mentor Zofan has partnered me with the arrogant apprentice Walfort. None of these, however, make my boots shake like dreading my yearly
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