The Dark Lord Vangir snapped his newspaper into crisp submission.
All around him, the summery sounds of mountain life hummed. A pleasant breeze brushed through the weave of his reclining lawn chair, working with the goblet of chilled red lemonade in his calloused hand
Someone shrieked. Everyone’s heads, including mine, swung toward the east side of the village. A riderless broom raced westward, skimming almost close enough overhead to part my hair. Something red dripped from its straws.
Some folks in the market square yelped with panic. Others raced for cover. A few flung themselves over their wares.
“A pinch of mint, a sprinkle of red clover. Three drops of deep golden honey, and the sun-kissed petals of a yellow daisy. The peel of an orange, an azure feather of a bluebird, and…” I gave the cauldron contents a slow stir.
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The Agents Against the Abuse of Arcane Accords had originally been pitched as the Break-A-Wish Foundation, but someone thought that might be irreverent, so they went with Quintuple A instead.
Agent Vera Fray, Quintuple A’s best wizard, listened to the morning’s recorded call for clues as
“I’m gettin’ real sick of these death cults,” Jack growled, his flashlight reflecting eerily off hundreds of skulls lining the tunnel wall. “This is the third one this year! Why do sorcerers keep choosing catacombs and haunted
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“Enjoy your familiar!” Harmony smiled and waved goodbye to her latest customer. The gap-toothed girl grinned and waved back, towing a harried-looking cockatrice behind her.
They sure start mage school young these days.
Harmony put her hands on her hips and turned to her own familiar, an orange tabby perched on the store counter.
Good things come in threes, except for when they’re witches. In Miriel Takkenridge’s case, the three people who approached her booth were two witches and one warlock. They stepped across the plain of the pie-judging contest, not with wands ready for battle but with forks prepared for sampling.
Miriel swept back a white lock
The inn had the pulsing, frenetic ambience of an auction house. Wall clocks and mantel clocks began crying like babies as they one by one struck 11:24.
Phezz groaned. Another excruciating morning. “I can’t hear myself think!”
“You could always leave,” the late Lord Pompington said. “Leave my inn!” His wispy form didn’t match
At first glance, it looked like just another broken branch—one of many in the forest canopy due to the previous day’s windstorm. However, Phezz noticed it twitching within a tangle of vines in the fork of an ash tree. The Xintixa’s eyes widened. That’s no branch. Too round, too smooth, and there’s straw
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Lilen? I pause my scroll through warrant listings. Not many bounties out of that solar system.
I expand the posting. Very few relevant details. 500 universal is good pay though, if it’s an easy job. I tap the Contact button.
“Available for holographic chat,” I mutter. “Let’s see what this is all about.”
I had no problem leaving Spark Spaulding stuck in Albanue’s prison sewers. He was responsible for this mess, so I figured Spark could rely on advice he’d given before: “The worst prison is the one in your head.”
I didn’t count on his
Leaning against a tree trunk, I nibbled on a roll—all I could afford at the market square—and mulled over how to move on from this village. Cursed to keep journeying lest some disaster befall me—be it a broken bone or housefire
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