Hi all!
GRAND THEFT SORCERY joins the world of GOOD INTENTIONS with a tale that stands on its own. No prior reading is required, but Good Intentions fans will recognize characters and events from other works. It occurred to me that readers from either side of that divide might want a look at what they’re getting into before they commit. Like the book itself, Chapter One stands pretty well on its own while also (hopefully) hooking you in for more—which makes it an obvious thing to share! Give it a read, and when you want more, you’ll know where to find it!
GRAND THEFT SORCERY
CHAPTER ONE: GOD ON THE RUN
© Elliott Kay 2024
Evan had already hit rock bottom three times today, and that was before someone threw him down a flight of stairs.
His diaphragm still spasmed from the first punches in the garage. He didn’t struggle, given the inability to breathe and the lock his brawny handlers had on his arms. The eight-figure Hollywood Hills “modern build” monstrosity held two hundred finance bros and D-list celebrities tonight. Not one of them wandered into the hallway to ask what this random server had done, let alone why they dragged him deeper into the house.
Someone ran a card through an electronic slot at a door, and then Evan’s handlers shoved him into the shadows. The first hit from the stairway struck his arm. The next hit his head.
Little of his life flashed before his eyes, to no great loss. Instead, he saw two kittens at the bottom of a dumpster, one black and one grey tabby, crying out for help. He’d been almost as broke when they met. If he died here—Oh god, the cats—!
Hit after hit from the stairs kicked his lungs in and out of working order. He landed in a sprawl with a wheezing intake of air. Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow.
I should’ve stayed home tonight… except he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep Flip-Top and Lily, or his three-year run of actually having a home.
Effective immediately, rent will increase—
Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position at this time—
We’re going with Leslie and her new guy to Cabo—
It had been the shittiest of days.
Evan knew more than one kind of rock bottom. He grew up there.
“Mike, Donny, what the fuck?” scolded the third guy at the top of the stairs, older than the other two. Frank, if Evan remembered correctly. Bald, goatee, smarmy. “Don’t break his neck yet.”
“Christian said to break his neck. His exact words, soon as we called him.”
“Christian ain’t in charge. Gimme a sec.”
Lights came on, confirming the puddle under Evan’s face was in fact his own blood. He had looked good when he arrived, clean-shaven and his sandy blond hair recently cut short, but he’d be one big bruise soon. His server’s uniform black and crisp down to the ironed creases and apron ties, showed more of his own blood.
Evan looked up to find a white sheet draped over some painting in an ornate frame. More sheets hung all around, covering statues and other artwork. Neatly-stacked crates took up most of the bespoke white cabinetry in a basement as modern and pristine as the rest of the house. Two shelves held dozens of artful porcelain flower vases, all of them capped for some reason. Not enough room upstairs to show off all the art? thought Evan. Maybe they moved the precious stuff down here for the party. Don’t wanna get your Rembrandt covered in wine. Or blood.
His nose didn’t feel broken when he pinched it to stop the bleeding. Other bones still worried him, though, from limbs to ribs.
“Don’t move, asshole,” said one of the goons descending the stairs. They, too, dressed in black for the party, but wore blazers rather than aprons. “Stay down.”
Despite the instruction, Evan twisted and propped himself on an elbow, then turned on his hip to rise further. Getting up had always been among his bad habits.
He was better about shutting up. Early in his teens, he learned the cardinal rules of crime and subterfuge: Nothing is wrong, act like you belong, say less. Those rules had worked out time and again. They got him through most of the party tonight, too—right up until the punching started. Now he had to talk… once he could breathe again.
“License says Evan Murphy, lives in Hawthorne,” reported Donny. “Twenty-two, if this is real. Nothin’ else in his wallet but some fives and tens. No debit card, no insurance, no… hold on.”
“His phone is old as shit, too,” said Frank, missing Donny’s pause. “Thumbprint didn’t work any better than facial rec. Even if we beat a passcode out of him, I bet there’s nothin’ on it.”
“Frank, look,” said Donny. “Business card.”
“Shit. ‘Arneson Recoveries?’ You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said Frank. “You’re a repo man?”
“Not kidding,” Evan groaned. “Christian’s five payments behind on that Lamborghini. The key fob came from the dealer.”
“Bullshit. You can’t repo anything out of someone’s garage. This is private property.”
“It’s a public event,” said Evan. “Somebody filed with the city to make this a charity thing. I had to stop and leave as soon as someone got in my way. Tried to explain, but the punching kind of interrupted me.”
The three goons shared long looks. Evan wished he’d brought a fake ID, but this job always held a chance of ending with cops and handcuffs. Exploiting the public event technicality was dodgy enough. Everything else had to be strictly legal in case he got caught.
Security might have exceeded their legal right to beat Evan’s ass. That sort of concern didn’t seem to be on their mind.
“Lotta effort to repossess a car,” said Mike.
“It’s a limited-edition Lamborghini Countach,” said Evan. “I don’t take family minivan jobs. Christian’s rich. And he’s an asshole.”
Frank, Mike, and Donny all looked like they couldn’t argue with that.
“Motherfucker, where is he?” shouted someone above, presumably in the hallway. He grew louder as he got closer. “Is he down there?”
“Christian, hold on—hey!” Frank complained.
Six feet and two inches of celebrity-athlete-influencer shoved past Frank and Mike, gold chains bouncing between a half-open silk shirt and olive skin. The wraparound shades made the biggest statement of his ensemble, given the late hour. Christian Miller crossed the stairs in a rush that would’ve ended in a faceplant if Evan had any luck.
He did not. Evan turned to take Christian’s first kick against his hip rather than something more vulnerable. It still hurt like hell. So did the follow-up.
“My car?” Christian stomped on Evan’s shoulder and back. “You tried to steal my fucking car?”
Tough it out, tough it out, you’ve gotta—“Oof!” Christian’s foot kicked the rest of that thought out of Evan’s skull. Though healthy enough, Evan’s resilience had always been more mental than physical. He knew when he had no choice but to endure. Beyond the legal problems, Evan wasn’t in much shape to defend himself. He managed only a partial block when Christian grabbed his hair and held his head up for a sloppy but furious punch to the temple.
“Motherfucker,” Christian shouted, letting Evan drop.
“You said that already,” said Mike.
“Shut up! How the fuck could you let this happen?”
“We didn’t,” said Frank. “We caught him and took care of it. Your car is fine and here he is. Nobody knows anything happened.”
“Gimme a gun,” Christian huffed. “I know one of you has a gun. I’m gonna kill him myself.”
Evan’s eyes widened. Oh fuck.
“We’re not givin’ you a weapon. Fuck outta here,” said Frank.
“Fine, I’ll get my own.”
“You will not.” The door slammed shut. Steady footsteps descended, hard soles clapping the stairs. The newcomer took control of the situation with an assertive, annoyed voice. “Seriously, you brought him here? Some of this is more than mere art. Pull him away from the stairs. Someone hold his arms back. And stop shouting.”
Mike got behind Evan and pulled on both hands, crushing Evan’s fingers together while raising him painfully to his knees. Frank, Donny, and Christian loomed behind someone Evan had seen mingling upstairs: middle aged but fit, short dark hair, a tight beard, suit with all but a tie. It was a party, after all. He had the look of a corporate executive. “Explain,” he said.
“He came with the caterers,” said Donny. “Servers are all gig work. We don’t know them. He didn’t have that, ah, glow you told us to watch out for, but he gave me that other thing with the shakes. ‘Sense of an enemy,’ right? It’s the only reason I saw him sneak off to the garage. Said he was just looking around, but he was at Christian’s Lamborghini with a key fob in his hand.”
Glow? Shakes? What the fuck? Evan wondered.
“Did he have anything on him?” asked the apparent boss.
“Only a Leatherman—it’s a multitool. Phone’s old and locked, wallet’s mostly empty.”
“Strange circumstances for mere car theft, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, about that,” said Frank. “He says he’s here to repossess the car, not steal it. Says our boy is behind on payments. Also, is this party a public event? Legally?”
The little bounce in Christian’s posture and fuming red color in his face spoke of embarrassment beneath his rage. “This party was supposed to be about my products and my podcast. I wanted guests with connections and people with money. You decided you wanted to do your thing here. That wasn’t my call.”
“You haven’t paid for your car?” asked the boss.
“I’ll settle that. Don’t worry about it. Thought they got the message already.”
“Let’s not waste time on this, then.” The boss’s eyes turned on Evan, cold and intense, and… red? “Whom do you serve?”
A chill ran through Evan. His mind clouded, reeling with sudden vertigo. “What? Nobody,” he answered. “I work for Arneson Recoveries. Brett. My boss is Brett.”
“Why are you here? Tell me the truth.”
His mind hurt. It frightened him more than any punch or kick. He didn’t understand what was happening, let alone how to resist. Confusion compelled him as much as pain or fear.
“I came to repo Christian’s car,” Evan explained in a rush. “He knows it’s open to repo, so he only takes it to private property. I watched his social media and realized this party was a chance to grab it.”
“Are you here alone?”
“Ghuuuh. Y-yeah.” Evan shivered. God, are his eyes glowing? Does the room have a gas leak? He didn’t smell anything, but his head—
“You’re merely an agent for recovery of this debt? Nothing else? Tell me the rest.”
“I’m only part time. Won’t take the shit jobs that hurt normal people. This one pays big and I need the money. I’m about to lose my shitty studio and—”
The boss grabbed his jaw. “Tonight. Us. The party. What do you know about this party?”
“Rich people and groupies. Christian’s launching a line of bad shoes. Publicity shit.”
“Bad? Man, fuck you,” Christian fumed.
The boss almost smirked. “You came for a financial score? Nothing else?”
“Christian’s an asshole and I kinda wanted to ruin his day,” Evan confessed, and then blinked. Wow, I did not mean to share that. Did they drug me?
“Really,” said the boss.
“How am—fuck you,” Christian repeated. “Where do you get off?”
“You tell your listeners condoms are a Chinese conspiracy to turn Western men into betas. You tell them paying child support is ‘paying to be a cuck.’ You have your listeners harass online streamers when they won’t date you. You’re fucking trash.” Evan stared; Christian stared back. Evan wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised, but the clouds had lifted from his mind. “Wow, guess I wanted to get that out.”
“You would have found greater safety in apathy, Mr. Murphy.” The boss straightened and adjusted his shirt. “Well. I believe him.”
“What do you want us to do, Anatole?” asked Frank.
“You leave him here while I beat him to death,” said Christian.
“He didn’t ask you,” Anatole sighed.
“The repo’s blown,” Evan rasped. He lifted his head. Didn’t beg, didn’t plead. If all the punches hadn’t shown that was pointless, the trip down the stairs sure made it clear. Still, the truth was worth a shot. “It was over as soon as someone got in my way. I’m supposed to leave. You can dump me on the curb. Who’s gonna care?”
Frank considered it. “Easier. Less mess.”
“True, but let’s take no chances,” said Anatole. “If he planned to leave with that car, he will not have one of his own nearby. Frank, erase and replace any security video of this incident. I’m hardly worried about an investigation, but let’s not be sloppy. Do not delay.”
“Anatole, this guy’s a nobody,” Christian argued.
“The same cannot be said for everyone here. Tonight is a matter of delicate diplomacy. Some of our guests upstairs will sense a death, perhaps even through the wards. That will complicate things. Most of our own security aren’t allowed in this room. It is sealed for a reason. You were fools to open it.”
“We had to get him out of sight fast,” said Frank. “This was the only sure bet.”
“He’s here now,” Anatole decided. “The wards hold. And Christian has one point: he is no one. It won’t hurt to keep him down here, as long as he cannot leave.” He gestured to Donny, still holding Evan on the floor, and stepped behind him.
A sharp stomp crushed Evan’s foot. A scream leaped from his throat, cut short by Donny’s knee in the small of his back. Pain seized his wits while he felt his arm twisted and struck behind the shoulder. He felt the joint pop, and with it, the bone.
They left him face-down on the floor, gasping in agony. There were footsteps and words he couldn’t track. The lights went out. The door closed and locked with a beep.
* * *
Conversation and pop music filled the otherwise empty hallway. Christian’s party had split his excessive home between groups of moneyed, well-dressed networking and public-facing internet immaturity. Anatole appreciated the former, at least, but both ends of the spectrum provided cover for his own needs. He should have known they might bring complications, too.
Elizabeth met him at the basement door. Her high-necked, sparkling black dress and pinned blonde hair fit the party, but she watched the hallway for trouble with professional diligence as the door sealed and the group disbanded. Christian sulked away to his party. Frank and the others turned to their responsibilities.
“Mundane trouble, apparently,” Anatole explained to her under the din of the party. “Christian is behind on his absurd expenses.”
“A bill collector?” Elizabeth’s brow rose in doubt.
“Of a sort, or so the intruder himself believes. No sign of magic at work. The guards wouldn’t have caught him without the enchantment to raise their vigilance. If anyone put our intruder up to this, he doesn’t know it. Are they waiting?”
“Yes, all gathered on the upper deck. I hesitated to leave them, but Aminah is there.”
“Not the first time her diplomacy worked in our favor.” Anatole started walking beside her. “Anything from Jan?”
“He’s on the monitors. Lexington is with him for arcane advice. They’ve seen no problems. I had to shoo a couple of our hired hands away from the hall.”
“As long as they took no interest in the door?” Anatole saw her head shake. “Good enough.”
They rounded the small steps into a living room full of mingling suits and dresses and continued up the main stairs. Guests thinned out on the second floor. “You used an elixir when the warning came?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
“Only of ashes. We have plenty. Does it show?”
“No. I saw you pull the vial from your pocket. You appear normal.”
“Best of both worlds, as promised.” They came to a door flanked by trusted guards in suits. Anatole kept his voice low. “Watch for tricks.”
“Of course.”
The balcony to Christian’s home overlooked his extravagant pool patio full of partiers and music, opening out to the hillside view of Los Angeles under a starless night. Guests on the balcony took more interest in one another than the party spectacle—though they mingled less.
Predictably, those who could stand one another’s company had sorted themselves and separated from mortal enemies. Mitsuyo stood almost alone at the center of the deck, beautiful and serene in a modern white gown, dark hair draped to one side, and her breath showing over her unnaturally frosted drink. She provided an unspoken boundary, dividing both rivalries and practical matters of comfort among the company.
To one side of Mitsuyo, Aminah chatted with Uthman. Her conservative blue dress and beaded scarf matched her mature beauty, while Uthman appeared darkly handsome and broad-shouldered as always—but djinn and ifrit could look however they liked. In their case, it helped cover how much Uthman wanted to put a knife in Aminah’s back.
Others in attendance had more open hostilities. Sergio almost dressed for the party, while Cooper kept to his “Real American” t-shirt and ballcap; both big men stayed on opposite sides of the balcony, just as their werewolf packs stayed on opposite edges of the city. All three of the vampires clashed in style as well as ambition: Teng Yang in club clothes from the seventies, “Lady Felicia” in her pink wig, shades, and silver fabrics, and Mr. Solomon in his Old Hollywood dark suit and glasses. As much as they hated one another, they all wanted Mitsuyo’s frosty aura between themselves and the subtle, radiant heat from Uthman and Aminah.
Stylishly dressed and quietly observant, Latasha represented a circle of sorcerers with a bent toward nature, and Aminah’s best allies outside the djinn. Hang Li claimed no circle since arriving from China a decade ago, but seemed friendly with both women. Other Practitioners had fewer alliances: Cliff Baker spoke for the well-heeled Orange Curtain, while Roger Harrell, also in a nice suit, left business cards for the Universalis Church everywhere. Quietly surprising everyone, Enrique came on behalf of Diecisiete, but still refused to tell more of the city’s oldest Practitioner circle than to confirm their existence.
Not every circle sent someone, nor did all the werewolf packs. The oni didn’t answer at all. Still, a turnout like this was beyond Anatole’s hopes.
“I hope I haven’t kept anyone waiting,” Anatole began. “Thank you all for coming. This may not be anyone’s preferred environment, but…” He held his hands out to the partiers at the pool. “Company and witnesses provide diplomatic reassurance.”
“And you get to impress us with your connections,” said Teng.
“It’s not that. Normies are a safety blanket,” said Cooper.
“If we’re to be blunt, yes,” Anatole conceded. “The nightlife in this city has been tense of late. We’ve all seen recent trouble. Several of us thought an open meeting might clear the air.”
“Shit, is this about them?” Sergio pointed dismissively. “The big boss vampire died months ago and they’re still fighting to be King of Loser Hill. Who cares? What’s that got to do with us?”
“Be nice,” Mitsuyo murmured. “No shouting.”
“Someone stole from us,” Lady Felicia shot back. “We’ll find out who, and they’ll pay.”
Mitsuyo eyed Felicia and the other vampires. “Would you like me to step away?”
Felicia glanced past her to the scowling werewolf at one side and the djinn and ifrit at the other. “No,” Felicia squeaked.
“Nobody cares about your dead daddy vampire and his Scrooge McDuck vault but you,” said Latasha.
“Then you know of it,” said Solomon.
“Your inquiries haven’t been quiet,” said Hang Li. “Nor has your infighting over the issue.”
“That is not what brings us together.” Aminah quieted the bickering with little effort. Few here held her in warm regard, but no one wanted to be on her bad side as de facto leader of the Los Angeles djinn. “One of my people has been killed: Haisam, an elder, and longtime resident of this city. Some of you knew him. He was fatally mauled in his home by some beast.”
Eyes turned to Sergio at one end of the deck and Cooper at the other.
“Wasn’t one of mine,” said Sergio. “Wouldn’t deny it. Don’t care.”
“I dunno who you’re talking about. Wasn’t us, either,” said Cooper. “Got no reason.”
“Spencer Wood was also killed days ago,” Uthman spoke up. “He was a Practitioner, friendly to my people. His body had hardly a drop of blood left when we discovered him.”
“Wait,” said Baker. “My circle suffered a murder, too—not a sorcerer, but a close associate. He handled our finances. A woman shot him in his office two weeks ago. A necromancer in my circle conjured up the echoes from the murder. The killer told him, ‘Don’t beg, it’s only business.’ And she said it in Spanish.” Baker looked from Enrique to Sergio.
The two men stared back—as did the rest of the group. “Forty percent of LA County speaks Spanish, you dumb fuck,” said Enrique.
“Not much of a necromancer if she could only hear the echo,” said Latasha.
“Doesn’t anyone—?” Cliff pointed to Enrique. “Hardly anyone here even knows you. And that djinn Hussein was—”
“Haisam,” Aminah corrected.
“You said he was mauled. Teeth and claws, right? Who could do that to a djinn but a werewolf?”
“Dickhead, if you think any pack in the southwest gives a damn what language someone speaks, you’re dumber than you look,” said Sergio. “We don’t know these people. We don’t care.”
“Neither do we,” said Cooper.
“The lack of interest is as concerning as the murders themselves,” said Aminah. “You claim not to care, but you see the danger. Suspicion is enough to bring retaliation, and then we spiral. We have never been a community, but we have coexisted without falling into chaos or war. The nightlife in many other places cannot say the same. I have seen it. We do not want that.”
“Then what do you propose?” asked Teng.
“This open dialogue is a start,” Aminah answered. “We recognize coinciding losses and mutual interest. If we agree to investigate these murders—”
“Not you,” Uthman interrupted, calmly but assertively. “I think we all see where this is going. Someone must act as the investigator and interlocutor. Someone else. Not you.”
“Then do you have a suggestion?” asked Latasha.
Eyes turned to Mitsuyo, who declined with a tilt of her head. “I came here only for the warmth and space. This is already more socializing than I desire.”
“And I will not answer to some yuki-onna outcast—!” Teng’s voice froze under Mitsuyo’s gaze and her quiet smile. The last of his breath came out in a frosty cloud. A vampire only needed air to speak, but the point was made… and she held her gaze.
“Mitsuyo. We seek peace,” Aminah prodded quietly. “Please. For me.”
Mitsuyo turned away. Teng shuddered as he’d been released from a literal hook. “I will ask the oni for you,” said Mitsuyo, “but I do not think they are involved. This does not sound like them.”
“Our host has mediated between my people and the werewolves in the past,” said Uthman. “Anatole has good relations with most of us. He is neither djinn nor ifrit, nor werewolf or vampire. Not even a member of any Practitioner circle, if I am correct?”
“You are,” said Anatole.
“That doesn’t make him a neutral party,” said Latasha.
“No, but he’s closer to neutral than we’ll find among our factions,” said Uthman.
“I have no authority,” Anatole noted, his hands open. “We have no laws and no ruler. I’d only be asking questions and mediating, but as Aminah suggests, it would be out in the open.” He gave her a deferential nod. “I share your interest in peace among the nightlife.”
“I am in favor,” said Solomon.
“Mister Anatole is polite,” said Mitsuyo. “He is acceptable.”
Lady Felicia shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” said Sergio.
“We have nothing to hide in all this.” Baker looked around the deck. “I’m hearing mild support, but no real objections…?”
Though she frowned, Aminah nodded.
Anatole kept his smile cordial and polite. Minor complications aside, he couldn’t have hoped for a better night.
* * *
Oh fuck. Oh god oh fuck ow ow ow fuck.
They’re gonna kill me.
I can’t move. Foot’s broken. Arm’s broken. Can’t…
Merely breathing hurt. Anatole definitely broke bones; those injuries were almost enough to make him forget all Christian had done, and the tumble down the stairs. It was much worse than anything Dad had ever done. Worse than anyone… but he could breathe.
He could move, even if it hurt. Two and a half limbs could still crawl.
I can’t stay here.
“Ohhh fuck fuck fuck,” Evan hissed. Moving hurt much worse than he expected. It didn’t matter. He had to move more. Two cats. Friends. A life, sort of. Everything had fallen apart before, and he survived. He could do this, too. Had to.
He thought he’d seen a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. That had to be the first step. Get some light, find a weapon or a tool or an option. Maybe set a fire and force the fire department to come down here. Something.
That required turning around first. Evan pushed with his good arm and leg. “Nnnggh!”
Between pain and pitch darkness, he wasn’t entirely sure if he passed out. His eyes eventually found a little red dot on the wall. It matched the light switch, assuming he wasn’t disoriented. Fine. Good enough. Get there.
Stars burst behind his eyelids. He grit his teeth, held back the whimper that would only make him feel weaker, and crawled.
Whether his vision adjusted quickly to the darkness or he passed out again, Evan opened his eyes to dim shapes. He was sure of the little red LED now, and the placement of the stairs. Racks and boxes were easy to identify. He could make out shadows in the darkness, cast by some faint light source behind him.
One push toward the red light led to the next. He crawled, sucked up the pain, and crawled more. A bolder push bumped him into the nearest shelf, tipping over one of the capped vases. It landed with a clank and a cloud of dust that made him cough.
No. Not dust, he realized. Ashes. That’s ash. What the fuck? Are they all like that?
He pushed away from it, caught a clearer breath, and pushed again.
“Evan.”
He stopped. The faint bump of music from the party died off some time ago. He heard no movement or breathing. The voice didn’t sound natural. Too distant, too soft.
“Evan.”
Head trauma, he decided. He crawled another few inches. It hurt like hell.
“Evan.”
“Delirium doesn’t help,” he croaked irritably.
“You do not surrender.” The voice held more observation than assurance. Evan couldn’t identify an accent. A woman, maybe? “Why?”
What the fuck? Why would I ask myself… wait, is this motivational? Like the counseling I got with student health insurance? The community college only covered a few sessions, but at the time, Evan figured anything was better than nothing. After all he’d been through, he knew he had to talk to someone. Was that where this came from?
Hell, am I going into shock? I probably should be.
“Evan. Answer.”
“What the fuck good does surrender do?”
The light never rose beyond an ambient, middle-of-the-night blue. Enough to guide a wanderer out of bed, or enough to fall back to sleep. It came from behind him. He was sure of that now.
“Where do you find this strength?”
“Hhhhheh.” Sure, why not? Motivational, right? “Mom died; Dad threw me out. I was fourteen. Looking for help made it worse. Had to… figure things out on my own. Take care of myself.”
“I sense deep anger, but also empathy. Charity. Strength.” Her voice never really touched his ears, but he didn’t imagine it. “You are the first person of any merit allowed in my presence in centuries. We need one another, Evan.”
“Uuhhh…” He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
The soft light grew, and with it came a rush of relief. Pain ebbed from his shoulder and foot, and soon the rest of his body. Bones mended and returned to place without so much as discomfort. His right shoulder and arm supported weight again. So did his leg.
A final shuddering breath carried away the last of his pain. He didn’t even feel tired.
“Evan.”
He didn’t imagine his sudden recovery. He didn’t imagine the voice, either.
Warily, Evan turned and stood. The palest shade of blue glowed from the seams of a plastic crate on a top shelf. It was unmarked, just rounded corners and metal latches, but he saw no locks or handles.
“Tell me you’re not a talking box,” he said.
“I am not a box. I am within the box,” answered the voice.
“Ah. Okay. Let’s go with whatever this is. Magic? It’s magic, right? Not aliens? Feels more fantasy than sci-fi. Gotta be one of the two.”
“This is not fantasy. Your peril is dire.”
“Kinda caught that.”
“Your peril is greater than you know. I, too, face a grave fate. We can save one another,” said the voice in the box. “You are healed. You must help me, Evan.”
“Whoa. Hold on. I didn’t agree to anything.”
“You thought you were delirious. I had to convince you of reality. Your injuries are healed. Do you still doubt? Do you doubt this strongly in your dreams, too?”
“…wow,” Evan mumbled. “Rude.”
“I didn’t expect ingratitude,” the voice grumbled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have healed you without an agreement first.”
“Thank you,” he blurted, and then stopped himself. He was arguing with a box… but he also couldn’t ignore his experiences. “I’m grateful, just… Glowing, talking box—voice in a box, sorry—in a scary basement for scary people, and you want out. Feels like the kind of deal that makes everything worse. Cautionary tale, horror movie, Greek myth stuff. Monkey’s paw.”
“I am none of those.”
“What are you? Who are you? Alien, ghost, genie in a bottle, er, box?”
“You invoke names without understanding them,” said the voice. “I am no ghost. I am not of the djinn. I am Mitu, and humanity has long forgotten me. Most of my time reaches back further than the history you know. I had much in common with the angels, but I am not of Heaven, and I would not bend the knee.”
“Angels,” said Evan. “Okay. We’ll go with that.”
“Many things you believe myth are real, Evan. You face more than one such being tonight. You sensed the power behind Anatole’s voice when he compelled you to speak.”
He did. He had questions about that, too, but: “Keep on topic. You wouldn’t bend the knee? To whom, the angels? God? Like, as in Christianity God, or… Islam? Same? Who are we talking about here?”
Mitu let out a sad laugh. “There was a time when mortals merely believed their gods superior, before denying the existence of all others. Eventually, most gods faded or moved on, or turned to the Pit. The angels left few alternatives. I would not bow, nor would I descend. As mortals turned from me, I did not hold them back, but the angels would brook no potential rival.”
“You’re… you mean, like a god?” asked Evan.
“I claimed no such name.”
“Okay, but that sounds like a god. A forgotten god, in a box, in an asshole hockey star’s basement in the Hollywood Hills.”
“Evan.”
“Sorry. Keep going.”
“I fled and hid until my last followers died out, millennia ago. This box holds my last tie to this world. It is an idol, found in a cave by Roman soldiers, then taken by secret masters with great ambitions. My idol passed from one shadow to another until claimed by a petty monster named Cornelius. He kept the idol as a mere trinket on a shelf for centuries; this room is filled with the treasures of his long unlife. Anatole stole this hoard when Cornelius died. I am forgotten, yet still imprisoned, and further jeopardy looms. As I said, you are the first person of any merit to come within reach in a very long time.
“My story spans millennia, Evan. Your life may end tonight. We do not have much time. The dangers you face are greater than you know. Anatole employs monsters and magic, and I am unsure of his true nature. I need your help, and you need my power to escape.”
Evan sucked in another breath. His situation was bad enough without existential revelations and magic… but Anatole did break his bones with unnatural ease. And there was that whole glowing eye thing, and the “glow” that concerned his goons.
“Alright. Whatever we do, I’m sure it’s bad for the bad guys, too. Fuck ’em.”
“Open this box.”
Slowly, wary of heat or electricity or who-knew-what from that glow, Evan complied. He felt nothing but plastic and metal at his fingertips, and it wasn’t heavy. He set the box on the floor and popped the latches.
Radiance from within overpowered Evan’s vision, though without glare or disorientation. If anything, he felt new relief to his fear and trepidation. The light neither threatened nor harmed. It also didn’t last, diminishing into carved marble nestled in dark foam padding. He found a crude and simple bust no larger than his hands if held together, with upward arcs like wings to either side. If facial features had ever been part of the carving, age wore them away. Finer characteristics showed only as shallow creases.
The light faded completely, plunging the room into darkness—yet his eyes took in color, fine detail, and distance. He saw the pitch-black room as if under a soothing shade.
“This… this carving isn’t you, is it?”
“The carving is only an idol,” said Mitu, “kept by the last of my mortal followers. It holds me here. If I am to leave, I must escape. We must escape. Free me, and I will owe you.”
“Owe me? Wait, you said I owed you.”
“Our enemies may kill you, but they cannot take your soul. My peril is greater. We are not the same, Evan. The debt will be mine.”
“Okay. Sure. Owe me what?”
“All that I have left to give,” said Mitu. “You would call it sorcery. The angels will not see a threat in such power invested in a mortal. Others wield magic, though they come to it differently. You will gain in a moment what they strive years to learn.”
“Then what’s the catch?” Evan asked. “There’s always a catch.”
“Rightly or wrongly, the angels tolerate only so much, and mortal forces still determine mortal paths. Magic may change lives, but it does not change the world. Secondly, this power and the fight ahead may earn you enemies. You will have to live with that.”
“Is that the only catch?”
“You must let me go, Evan. The angels still hunt me. I wish to leave this world. My release will not be difficult, but you must carry me from here, and you must agree to let me go.”
“Then what? You go away to wherever and I go about my life?”
“Yes,” said Mitu. “You will see in any darkness as you see now. You will heal as I have healed you, from injury or sickness. You will never be without weapons and armor, and you will learn tools others cannot match. You will never be lost.”
A distant slam caught his ear, muffled by concrete walls, but reminding him they weren’t really alone and didn’t have much time. “Alright, let’s go,” said Evan. “What do I doooooo?”
Light returned, glowing from the idol and now his own body. He felt a rush like the pull of a rollercoaster and wind on his skin. As soon as he could put names to the sensations, they vanished, along with the new light. “The fuck was that?”
“The investment of my power,” said Mitu, “now yours. It is done.”
“I don’t feel any different. I feel normal. All better, physically. But normal.”
“You are still human and mortal, and will remain so. You will sense the rest with time, but we have little of it. Will you trust me?”
“Kinda committed already, yeah,” said Evan.
Without thinking, without really choosing, Evan curled up his left arm and made a fist. Faint light shimmered in tiny dots across his body, hand and torso and legs all at once, and then vanished. Once again, he felt nothing.
“Armor,” said Mitu. “It can be overwhelmed. You are not invincible. Try not to test its limits.”
Evan scratched his hand. “Still not feeling a difference. It’s just my skin.”
“This is sorcery, not iron and boiled leather.”
“Y’know, when you said, ‘armor,’ I thought more like Kevlar.”
“I do not know what that is.”
Evan frowned. “Mitu, do you know what guns are?”
“Vaguely. They kill at distance, like arrows or stones from a sling, yes? Your magic holds much the same power.”
“Oh boy,” Evan sighed. “Alright. We work with what we’ve got. The healing magic is still amazing. Cheaper than medical bills, too, so that’s awesome.”
“Your injuries are healed, but blood remains. This is easily cleansed.”
Evan waved his right hand in a circle, pulling and making a fist. Blood, sweat, ashes, and grime flew from his body, disappearing entirely. He looked down at clean clothes and skin and wondered how he knew to do that.
“Whoa. Where did it go?”
“Nowhere. It is gone. Destroyed.”
“It’s physical matter,” said Evan. “You can’t create or destroy matter.”
“Magic can,” said Mitu. “It is a tiny amount of matter, to be missed by no one. More meaningful measures are beyond your abilities, but trivialities of fluid and grime? These are of no consequence.”
“No consequence?” Evan repeated the motion intentionally this time, staring at the trail of his own blood reaching to the bottom of the stairs. It, too, flew toward his hand and vanished, along with the strands of his hair and scuffs on the tile. “That’s my DNA, Mitu. That’s evidence.”
“Mortals of this era may have concerns beyond my understanding,” Mitu conceded.
The mess of ashes diminished with the effect. One more try purged the ashes entirely, leaving only their empty vessel. “What’s with all the urns?”
“Cornelius kept the remains of vanquished foes and executed subjects. To him, they were trophies. Anatole found some greater value to them, but I do not know why.”
“Gross. Okay, how do we get out of here?”
“We haven’t the power to work greater wonders. Magic will aid, but you must leave on your own. I believe you will have to fight.”
“Great.”
“I will not control you, but you will know what you can do when you need. Will you trust me?”
Evan still had a million questions. Magical healing was huge, but it had to have limits or costs. Mitu’s idea of weapons and armor didn’t exactly match his. So far, the only magic he really understood was the effect on his eyes.
Muffled voices at the top of the stairs forced his decision. He could see in the dark; might as well use it. “Sure. I trust you.”
His gaze snapped toward the ceiling lamp, and his hand followed. A tiny, faintly shimmering orb shot from his open palm to shatter the bulb. Evan blinked with only half a realization before he waved and shot out the next. He struck the third and final lamp in time with the beep and unlatch of the lock at the top of the stairs. The sound of the door covered the last tinkle of broken glass.
Click. Click-click. “Shit,” grunted Mike. “No lights.”
“Careful,” said Donny.
“He isn’t special, right? He didn’t glow like the others,” said Mike.
“Don’t take chances. Let’s get—”
Evan whipped around the stairway railing to cast another shot. Light streaked up the stairs to hit Donny in the chest, staggering him back from the doorway. Though wary and armed, Mike had his gun low. Evan threw one more orb before he fired. “Gah, fuck!” Mike turned with the blow, opening himself to a follow-up that put him down.
Evan flinched. “Shit! Did I kill them?” he hissed.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“My power needs time to truly take hold, and killing was not your first instinct. You must strike again to finish them.”
“How about if we don’t do that?” Evan crept up the stairs, watching and listening for danger.
“They imprisoned and tormented you, Evan. They intend to kill you. Their paths have taken them beyond redemption.”
“Yeah, and they’re down,” he murmured.
The long hallway was clear, though more than one corner opened to other parts of the house. He heard no more conversation or music, which fit their plans to kill him after the party. Donny held his chest and softly groaned. Mike was out cold with a brutal abrasion on his head.
Evan stuck to the trick that had already shown value: he threw tiny orbs of light into the ceiling lamps, plunging the hallway into darkness. Mindful of the two goons at his feet, Evan kicked Mike’s pistol down the stairs. His foot hesitated at Donny’s gun. He didn’t know guns, but he also didn’t really know magic.
“What the fuck is happening? What am I throwing? Are they bullets? Rocks?”
“It is the luminosity of the infinite night sky,” said Mitu.
“I’m throwing stars?”
“Only as the ancients saw and imagined them. It is your simplest weapon.”
Shimmering light had accompanied the healing effect, and his ‘armor’. He could see in the dark. He flung tiny bits of… his shoulders sagged. “You gave me sparkle-magic?”
“I gave you the power to save your life. Blatant effects such as your weapons are rare even among master sorcerers. Are you unhappy with the aesthetic?”
“Fine.” Evan kicked Donny’s pistol after Mike’s; better to rely on magic than shoot himself by accident. Mitu’s idol already kept one hand occupied, anyway. He got moving. “What’s the glow they’re talking about? Is that star-stuff, too?”
“They must have some way to recognize magical power,” said Mitu. “It is likely a ritual bound to this home, or a spell upon the guards. I don’t believe it defeats darkness, or these guards would have seen you. Shadow is still to your advantage. Do you know where you are going?”
“Garage, I hope. I think it’s this way. We need a car to get out of here.”
“I have heard of cars. That is why you came, yes? It is truly necessary for our escape?”
“No, but the garage is the closest exit I—”
The door at the end of the hall opened, producing two more men in suits—and Christian. Light spilled from behind them. “Shit! Shoot him!” Christian blurted. The goons had the same instinct, reaching inside their jackets.
Evan followed his instincts, too. The hallway branched right and upstairs. He bolted.
“You have magic!” Mitu began. Gunfire drowned out her guidance. Rounds flew past Evan’s head and smashed drywall at the hallway junction. One bullet shattered the handrail as he passed.
“Guns bad!” Evan blurted.
“Yes. I understand now. Your armor should help.” Mitu paused. “Try not to test it.”
“Ya think?” Evan emerged into the broad lower living room: pricy-but-neutral décor, emphasis on space, most of the lights still on, no more guests or staff—except for another thick-looking guy in a dark suit with a gun in hand. Genuine intent flew with another of Evan’s tiny stars, knocking the man through a glass coffee table behind him.
“He should survive,” said Mitu.
Evan put his back to one side of the stairway and flung tiny stars at the living room lights. Windows and a sliding door to the pool prevented complete darkness.
“Ground floor! He’s glowing,” warned a voice from downstairs. Evan winced; not only was the gunfire enough to draw attention from anyone inside, but apparently enough security remained on hand to require coordination.
“Please tell me I can do more than this,” said Evan.
“With time, yes. Right now—”
The guards rushed the stairs. Evan didn’t dare pop out and throw his little stars while they had guns and running would only make him an easy target. He launched his elbow at the first guy to reach the top, Mitu’s idol still in hand. The other man kept his pistol in close rather than held forward like in all the movies. Evan heard the bang and felt something hard hit his hip, but his right cross was already in motion.
His fist landed at full force and with a brilliant flash of light. The guard snapped backward into the wall with a shriek of pain, trailing whisps of smoke and burnt cloth. His partner went down, too.
“Or you could just punch them with magic, I suppose,” grumbled Mitu.
Evan barely noticed her. Worse, though the pair of goons tumbled down the stairs, a third figure shoved through them. Christian’s podcaster nonsense could overshadow his first career, but he was a legitimate hockey star. He tackled Evan and brought him down hard.
It wasn’t Evan’s first brawl, but it was his first against a professional meat shield. A hefty shoulder plowed into his gut, and then the back of his skull hit the hardwood floor, with only adrenaline to mitigate his woes. That flash of light with his punch seemed to discharge whatever armor Mitu had given him.
Evan drove his fist into Christian’s ear before the other man rose, then again into his jaw. He kicked Christian off, buying a little space, but both men remained on the floor and Evan was still on his back. No more bursts of light accompanied his fists, as if he was out of magic. He had one more weapon, at least.
Christian planted a solid shot on Evan’s cheek. Evan returned the favor with the marble carving in his other hand. Christian’s face went slack, and his body followed.
“Okay, that felt good,” Evan exhaled.
“Don’t hit him with me!” Mitu protested.
“I thought this wasn’t you!”
“It’s close enough,” she replied sourly. “I was going to suggest conjuring a spectral blade or a blast of fire. Perhaps terrify them with a glimpse into the deathless infinity beyond all mortal skies. Something simple.”
“Ow. My hip,” he winced as he kicked free from Christian. “Wait, did I get shot? I don’t even have a hole in my clothes.”
“Magic,” she reiterated. “And luck. Renew your armor, and try not to test it against such a weapon again.”
“Hold on.” Evan rolled his defeated foe over and patted him down. “C’mon, c’mon, yes!” He pulled the keychain from Christian’s pocket with relief. Naturally, Christian had gone to check on his car, and for that he wanted his key fob. “Cry about this on your fucking podcast, dipshit.”
“What is that?”
“Our way out, and a little revenge.”
“Ah. Then I approve. What is a podcast?”
Evan renewed the armor with Mitu’s silent guidance, pushed himself to his feet, and limped for the stairs before another thought hit him. He repeated the circular wave-and-grasp motion, pulling bits of blood and debris from the floor and from Christian’s body. Once again, everything swept up by the spell vanished into thin air. No DNA. “Okay. Magic is cool,” Evan muttered.
“Your bones are mended, you hurl the light of the night sky, and yet you are fascinated by the simplest use of all my powers,” muttered Mitu.
New light appeared at the far side of the living room: an open door, a hallway, another suited goon, and Anatole. Evan reached out and pulled the door—from across the room, without touching anything.
Anatole blinked as the door shut. Evan fled down the stairs.
“You are not ready for that fight,” said Mitu.
“Yeah, figured.” He rushed over the remaining man at the bottom steps—and crumpled clothes amid spilled ashes. It had to be the one he punched. “Holy shit, did I kill this guy?”
“A vampire, I believe. The world is better without him.”
“A vampire? Working security?”
“They are the lowliest creatures of the night, no matter what they pretend. Did I mention Cornelius? He ruled the vampires of this city, and others before it. Nine hundred years on a vampire’s shelf. The humiliation, Evan. You cannot imagine the humiliation I have—”
“Did I shut that door on Anatole?” Evan rushed down the hall. “Can I move things with my mind?”
“It’s magic, Evan. Of course, you can reach past your fingertips.”
Bright lights and open space awaited on the other side of the door. Most of the vehicles he found earlier in the garage must have belonged to VIP guests. Of the nine spaces available, only three had occupants: the Bentley, the long-body Escalade, and in between, the gleaming seven-figure status symbol that brought Evan here in the first place.
Bright red metal. Futuristic lines. A single low, sleek arc from end to end. Tinted windows, scissor doors, shining chrome rims. A V12 hybrid inside. “That’s it,” Evan muttered to Mitu. “Insecurity on wheels. Shiny waste of millions, and here we are fighting over it.”
No one guarded the garage. Evan had already located the panel for the doors, already knew the gate was keyed to the same button. He knew the cameras, too, and pushed them both to the ceiling before running into view. The Lamborghini beeped with a press of the key fob.
The gunshot, the awful explosion in his head, and darkness happened all at once.
Agony overwhelmed everything but the floor beneath him. He couldn’t open his eyes, didn’t know where he was, could barely think. Disorientation and pain terrified him, more so as enough wits returned to give him a sense of place.
“Heal, Evan,” Mitu urged beneath the clamor in his brain. “Heal.”
“God damn, you must really want that car, kid.” Frank stepped out from behind the Escalade, pistol in hand.
“Evan, you cannot rest. Do not pass out. You must heal.”
He had landed with his left arm under his torso. Frank stood near his feet. Evan slowly closed his left hand, remembering how it felt when Mitu healed him.
The clouds in his brain cleared.
“Hey, I put him down,” Frank said. “I’m in the—”
Evan twisted and flung one more orb of light. Frank fired in the same instant, hitting Evan’s ribs, but he got the worst of the exchange. His head snapped backward with a burst of embers. The rest of his body wobbled before collapsing, smoke trailing from above his shoulders.
The bullet surely bruised a rib, if not fractured it, but Evan could move. He found blood on the floor beside him, on his clothes, and felt it on his face. The purging spell came to hand and mind before he thought about it, banishing all but the lingering ache in his head and the much more assertive complaint at his chest. Evan pushed himself up despite the pain, found the idol and the key fob, and then he found Frank.
“Oh, he’s dead,” said Mitu before he asked. “He’s very dead. And not a vampire.”
“Uh-huh,” Evan grunted.
“He would have killed you. I believe we have found the limits of your armor.”
“Yeah.” He got to his feet.
“You are not upset?”
“Getting over it.” Wincing, Evan crouched over Frank’s body. Escape had been his single goal until Frank appeared; the Lamborghini only mattered as transportation, despite the added “fuck you” to his tormentors. With Frank dead in front of him, though, Evan knew better than to pass up the opportunity to cut any further strings. Frank’s phone laid unlocked beside him, presumably tied to the security team’s net. Evan grabbed it and patted Frank down for his phone and wallet, finding both in a pocket. He accidentally pulled another wallet out with them, flipping it open onto the floor.
And then he got upset.
“Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh fuuuuck,” Evan gasped.
“What is it?” asked Mitu.
“That’s a badge. That’s a fucking badge. This guy’s—oh, fuck.”
“I do not know what that means. Evan, we have to go. If Anatole—”
Evan abandoned his discovery. He winced with pain, but Mitu was right; stopping to heal probably wasn’t worth it. He grit his teeth and got into the Lamborghini’s low, futuristic interior, grateful he didn’t have to fuss with keys. The engine came to life at the push of a button. An open-palm thrust toward the garage door panel popped it open immediately.
Oh good. Magic works through glass, he thought.
“They are coming,” Mitu warned. “I sense Anatole and others. This is a car? Is it fast?”
Evan peeled out of the garage in quick, tire-squealing swerves around Frank’s body and through the half-opened doors.
“Oh,” said Mitu.
The gate rolled open on cue with the garage door. The Lamborghini surged and hooked right through it, missing black iron by inches before finding open road. Other details caught up with Evan’s brain: three AM, a full tank, clear skies. The only people in view spilled into the mirror behind him rather than the exit and the winding hillside road ahead. At least they hesitated before shooting in this neighborhood.
“We left behind other cars. Can they catch us?” asked Mitu.
“Heh. No.” At this hour, residential traffic wouldn’t be a problem. He knew the paths out of the Hills. It wasn’t his first high-value repo.
It was, however, his first with a passenger. “What do you need from me? You said you wanted to ‘leave,’ right? Like, more than escaping that house?”
“Yes,” said Mitu. “I need only a moment of peace under the open night sky. Somewhere high for the area and some peace and quiet would be nice.”
“I think we can do that,” said Evan.
He drove.
Winding residential roads took him past more mansions and estates. A little distance eased his breath, and with it, his heartbeat. He took a breath to gather his wits and details; with that, he remembered to kill the security on Frank’s phone before it locked up again. Then he considered destinations. The Hollywood Sign might work, but the observatory was higher. Mulholland would lead to the 101 soon. “Mitu, do you need the highest point possible? It’s maybe twenty minutes away, unless something closer works.”
“It would help. Please.”
“Are you alright?” Evan frowned. Her assertive banter had vanished. “You sound different.”
“The land holds so much light,” she answered quietly. “The eye can barely see the stars.”
“They’re out there,” he assured, and turned for the observatory.
“Always. I feel them, even while hidden. I feel them more now. The stars remain, yet this world is… I knew the world had changed, and humanity, but… so much. So many people.”
“This city’s bigger than most.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about anything?” he asked.
“I understand much already. I only ever needed to come under the night sky to see.”
Mitu grew quiet, so Evan shut up and drove.
Surface streets at the foot of the hills allowed smooth driving at this hour. Mitu said nothing through the city, though Evan felt her presence. Without traffic to dodge, he took the simplest route back into the hills toward Griffith Park. He hadn’t been there since high school.
Back then, he had to forge a signature on a permission slip. This time, his main obstacle was a chain across the road into the park. He dashed from the car and dealt with the lock with practiced ease. “Killed a cop and made a deal with an ancient god,” Evan muttered as he dragged the heavy chain out of the way. “Not gonna worry about trespassing. Although, shit, there’s bound to be security at the observatory. And cameras.”
“You will not be seen, at least until I leave,” said Mitu. “I hope that is enough.”
“I’ll be fine. Not my biggest problem.”
She fell quiet again as he drove onward, easy and smooth despite the uphill incline. It wasn’t long before Evan remembered he didn’t need headlights. He turned them off and found the road darkly shaded, but no harder to navigate than a cloudy day.
Nothing crossed his path on the way to the top. He didn’t see so much as a deer.
“Does this work?” Evan asked as they came to the parking lot. “What do we need to do?”
“This is better, yes. I only need the open sky. The idol will crumble as I leave, or it would still tie me to this world.”
“Right.” Another thought hit as he looked for a place to stop: “Am I another tie?”
“You are not the same. You are mortal, and this is your world. I belong among the stars.”
He didn’t ask her to elaborate. He parked along the side of the road and stepped out, idol in hand. The observatory awaited, but he didn’t want to test security.
“So much altered stone covers everything,” said Mitu. “I see the utility, but…”
“The trees are nice?” Evan suggested. Much of the hillside dropped quickly beyond the parking lot, but patches of greenery stood out.
“Yes,” said Mitu.
He brought the idol to a nearby oak. If the branches and leaves obstructed her plans, Mitu made no complaint. “I should probably ask you a million things before you go, but I’m not sure where to begin,” said Evan. “Magic and how to be a good wizard and stuff.”
“Sorcerers,” Mitu corrected, “or in your culture, the term is Practitioner. Good and evil vary among them as widely as any mortals. The same can be said for the djinn. Vampires and werewolves are inherently foul, or they would not be what they are—and demons, too, of course. Anyone and anything else demands your own judgment. Magic pulls back upon itself, and thus it will cross your path now, whether you search for it or not. You will know real magic when you see it.”
“Werewolves and demons, huh?” His mouth tightened. “And angels are a problem, too?”
“Not for you, as long as you hold to your sense of what is right. I doubt you will ever meet one. Your soul matters more to them than your power. I might linger if the same could be said for me, yet I have yearned for escape for too long. I am sorry, Evan. I must go.”
“Nah, it’s fine. This is, ah—” His voice cracked. He stopped. Where did that come from?
He knew, of course. Running from danger was fine; running from himself never worked out.
“This is more of a goodbye than I got with my mom.”
“You found your own way then. You will find it again. You will be fine.”
His breath shook. Something pushed within his throat and his eyes felt wet.
“What is wrong?” asked Mitu.
“It’s, um.” He blinked his reaction away—mostly. God, this was too much like those counseling sessions. “For a long time, I’ve, um… I’ve wanted someone to tell me I’ll be okay. Someone I can actually believe.”
“You will be fine, Evan,” Mitu repeated. “You will thrive. Thank you, and goodbye.”
The idol glowed brighter than ever with a light that shot into the sky, outlasting Evan’s next breath. Half the city would have seen it, if awake and looking in the right direction. Mitu’s escape held on longer still in Evan’s eye.
Her idol cracked and crumbled, as she predicted. Evan held the remains until they thinned into nothing, turning them toward the oak tree. White marble became white sand, carried away on the breeze.
GRAND THEFT SORCERY is available in ebook and paperback now!