Swift (Strangetown Magic Book 1) Read Free Page A

evil minds into yours you are lost, theirs to do their bidding, and they are playing havoc with our lives. But we fight back and the only good thing that has come out of it is that us human magic users are no longer held in such contempt as before. Yeah, whoop-de-do, thanks for nothing everyone.
    "Not any more, you aren't." I wasn't in the mood for showdown chit-chat and the magic was becoming wild, ready to explode if I didn't release it soon.
    The air hummed, the grass burned away, and my body vibrated. I turned in a circle, slow then gaining momentum, spinning with my arms out wide and I was a blur, head snapping around faster and faster, trying to stop myself getting too dizzy as I entered a different place, a different world. A reality where time slowed and I caught snapshots of the troll as the elf goaded it forward, until it was running right at me, intention clear.
    Timing it just right, watching the troll like it was wading through air as thick as soup, I flung myself in an upward arc that saw me launch at the elf like a javelin, trajectory perfect.
    Arms outstretched, hands brimming with magic, I caught the elf around the throat and we sailed backward, me pushing more and more barbed magic through my hands and inside of him. As we dove toward the ground I saw the understanding in those impossibly beautiful eyes, and watched, transfixed, as a perfect single silver tear trickled as slowly as the Galaxy traverses the Universe itself from the corner of his eye.
    We landed with a thud, the wind torn from his lungs as he hit hard with a crunch, me atop him, hands still around his throat, a knee on his breastbone. I squeezed tight, his long and elegant neck bruising beneath my cramped hands oozing malevolent magic that was already fading.
    It was enough, and I watched dispassionately as the tear slid across his cheek to the ground and the eyes closed.
    Dead. He was dead. It wouldn't bring back my friend, could never right the wrongs the elf had committed, and it gave no sense of satisfaction, it just was what it was—me protecting myself. Selfish, I suppose, but I'd done the best I could as soon as I could. But it was too little, too late.
    The magic went away, back to the Pool. Waiting to be called, to make me something else again, take away a little more of who I am and what I am, but I've lived this long and I intend to live a lot longer.
    The troll just stood there, shaking its head. It would be a while before it was back to being itself, and who knew what damage had been done. But there was nothing I could do for it, so I left, and went home.
    "Oh," I said, turning. "You might want to stomp that elf until it is flat and food for the worms. We don't want the place to be untidy." I studied the troll, knowing my words must have filtered through as it slowly moved, joints stiff but functioning.
    They are incredible creatures—silent, always watching, but easy prey for those that would do them harm. Only bonus is they cannot be killed, but I often wonder if maybe that isn't the worst kind of curse imaginable.
    I didn't stay to watch. There would be no joy in that, and the morning had been bad enough already.

 
     
     
    Home
    I needed a rest, and food. Lots and lots of food. Using magic makes many a witch, wizard, sorceress, vampire, even zombies, et al, ravenous. Lucky for me, my tastes are focused on pasta and meat rather than the blood or brains of humans—definite drawback to being one of the undead or immortal human or ex-human beings, depending on your point of view.
    Dragging my feet like my boots were full of troll bits, I got to the outskirts of the city, passed through the various communities that spread to fill the abandoned streets, skirted the no-go zones, and made it to the relatively new witch HQ. I had a nice simple semi-detached. Light, airy, spacious, and quiet, the perfect antidote to my often jumbled thoughts and my sometime memory loss.
    Meaning I hated it.
    The Queen thought it would be a good idea