Magick Rising

Magick Rising

by

P.J. Bishop

Evelyn Vaughn

Karen Fox

Laura Hayden

Jodi Anderson

Parker Blue

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of

the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or

dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Magick Justice
Copyright © 2013 by Paula Gill writing as P.J. Bishop

Spirits Rising
Copyright © 2013 by Yvonne Jocks writing as Evelyn Vaughn

Blood Rising
Copyright © 2013 by Karen Fox

A Shift in Magick
Copyright © 2013 by Laura Hayden

Destiny Rising
Copyright © 2013 by Jodi Anderson

Wolf Rising
Copyright © 2013 by Pam McCutcheon writing as Parker Blue

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic

or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without

permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages

in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo credits:

Man (manipulated) © Artemfurman | Dreamstime.com

Moon (manipulated) © Mohamed Osama | Dreamstime.com

Clouds (manipulated) © David M. Schrader | Dreamstime.com

Texture (manipulated) © Jill Battaglia | Dreamstime.com

:Ermj:01:

This anthology is the result of a sisterhood that has

withstood the ups and downs of the publishing industry

with unflagging support and good humor. We dedicate this

book to our collective families and to the folks at

BelleBooks/Bell Bridge Books for their faith in us and

general coolness.

MAGICK JUSTICE

P.J. Bishop

After many cross-country moves, P.J. Bishop has settled at last in the

Pacific Northwest in a quirky house with stunning views of valleys

and volcanoes, which she shares with her husband and two spoiled

shelter cats.

To Anne McCaffrey, who told me to go for it. May flights of fire

lizards sing you to rest.

And always, to Charlie m’ darlin’

“SKID ROW BUTCHER TOLL RISES TO FOUR”

—Banner headline, seventy-two point type. Continued page three.

“SKID ROW BUTCHER STRIKES AGAIN”

—Right side, above the fold, sixty-point. Continued page eight.

“BUTCHER CONTINUES TO PUZZLE POLICE”

—Metro section, below the fold, forty-eight point. Half column.

“NO LEADS IN SKID ROW BUTCHER CASE”

—Metro section, below the fold, twenty-four point. Twelve lines.

“HOMELESS DEMAND ACTION”

—Buried ten pages into Metro section, twelve-point. Four lines.

“FOUR MEASLY LINES.” Miko Jones slapped the Metro section into the

recycle bin under the desk she shared with a day shift
City Gazette
reporter.

Sure, it was her byline beneath each of those headlines, but each week saw

her dreams of hitting the journalistic big time with this serial murder story

fading faster than her ex with her alimony.

Not that her career was more important than catching a serial

murderer. Finding justice for the victims, that came ahead of writing for a

big media outlet. Always.

But if a big media outlet took her on, there’d be a better chance of

Uncle Nic seeing one of her articles and maybe contacting her. So, she

hoped for the big time.

“Jones, get in here.” The second-shift desk editor didn’t wait for her

answer before he bellowed again. “Jones. My office. Now.”

To compose herself and also to make a point, she took her time

twisting her long black hair up and securing it with two
kanzashi
—intricately

inlaid hair sticks passed down by Uncle Nic from their Japanese Samurai

magicker ancestress. According to Nic, they both had a magicker bloodline

that made them exceptional fighters. Before his stint with the Marines in

Iraq, before he retreated into PTSD psychosis and homeless camps, he’d

won every martial arts fight he entered. As his pupil, Miko had proven

unusually adept, but she drew the line at crediting magick, no matter how

much Nic told her it was so.

Miko shook her head. Other than occasionally making her skin hum,

the
kanzashi
were nothing but hair decorations. But that didn’t prevent her

from wearing them anytime she need a confidence boost.

“Jones!”

Yep, her editor’d read her latest.
Prick
.

He had his mouth open to yell again as she strode into his office.

“We’ve established my name. What can I help you with?”

He jabbed a finger at the computer. “What the hell is this?”

A glance told her she’d been right. “My follow-up on the Skid Row

Butcher.”

“I told you to drop that story. It’s deader’n those bums he killed.”

Miko suppressed the urge to throttle him. “Just because they’re

homeless doesn’t mean they—”

“Homeless people don’t buy papers.” He pressed the delete key and

glared up at her. “Hit the streets. I want a new story. Gotta give the readers

some fresh gore.”

She stalked out, banging the door closed behind her. “Got it. Gore.

Fresh. Whaddaya want it on?”

EVENING MIST slithered up from the river, muffling sound, haloing the

streetlights. Birds twittered uneasily in the highest limbs of the shadowing

oaks. Dogs howled then fell to whimpering. A grungy old man shuffled

along the river trail, worn knapsack weighting his back, threadbare blanket

draping his shoulders. Two joggers passed him, covering their noses.

Banan gave a wheezy chuckle at their discomfort and hitched the pack

higher. “Just you wait, you high and mighty bastards. My day’s comin’.”

Under his filthy shirt, a dark heat throbbed insistently in his chest. He

rubbed at it. “Not long now ‘til the Gathering. Not long at all.”

Quickening his steps, he headed toward the place where others like him

congregated. Soon night would reign, and it was best in these times to be

with one’s own kind. The Skid Row murders hadn’t gone unnoticed on the

streets, and now they all kept an eye peeled, fearing they’d be next.

He had a half mile to go when he heard footsteps on the gravel behind

him. Close and gaining fast. He adopted a tremulous tone as he turned.

“Don’t hurt a poor old man.”

The mist parted around a tall male form, clad in black. “I don’t hurt

poor old men.” His smile flashed white in the darkness.

Banan eased the pack a bit on his shoulder. Only a mortal. Nothing to

fear.

“However, I
shall
kill
you
.”

Others had died at the hands of men, but Banan was ages older, craftier

than them. With a bellow that scattered the birds from the trees, he hurled

his pack at the man.

The black-coated figure deflected it as if it were nothing and reached

beneath his coat. Withdrawing a glowing dagger the length of his forearm,

he studied Banan as a scientist might study a loathsome bug.

The smell of incense hit Banan. Dread snaked through his gut, freezing

him where he stood. Not merely mortal.

The dagger flickered, first bright as the noonday sun then black as a

moonless night. The man stepped closer. “I smelled your evil stench.”

“I ain’t afraid of you,” Banan croaked. Lunging, he grappled for the

weapon.

A normal man would have been laid out flat by the ferocity of the

assault, but Banan’s adversary was no normal man. Not with that strength,

not with that reek.

“I felt your heat, Banan.”

“M-my heat?” Banan’s eyes widened as his enemy dragged him closer,

the dagger pricking his skin, circling his chest, then dropping to his

abdomen.

“Don’t pretend, Banan. I know the feel of
crasboethiad
heat.” The dagger

dug deeper, blood sizzling as it touched the metal.

The man’s eyes blazed into Banan’s with unearthly fire. The dagger

plunged deep. His adversary grated out, “I know your kind. I know
you
.”

Banan’s back hunched as he writhed against the blade, his eyes popped

and bled, his hands gnarled and twisted backwards. Blood spattered to the

ground as he gazed up at the man and whispered, “Butcher.”

“I see
you
know
me
.” The man pulled back on the dagger only to drive it

deep into Banan’s chest to still his pulsating heart.

To obliterate his
crasboethiad,
his hellfire’s soul.

MIKO STOPPED HER ancient Jeep behind the coroner’s van. As the

solitary crime reporter for the city paper and with the TV news teams

occupied at a multi-car pileup on the interstate, she was the only media rep

present. A small crowd of looky-loos complicated the street cops’ job.

The medical examiner stood on the opposite side of the yellow crime

tape. “Hey, Kelly,” she said. Dr. Kelly Wyzinski had been her BFF since

they’d met and bonded while volunteering at the city homeless shelter. She

dropped her voice. “The Butcher again?”

A wave of anxious mutters ran through the crowd, drawing the

attention of Detective Garm. “This is a murder scene, Jones. You know we

can’t make any statement—”

“—until you’ve completed your preliminary investigation. Yeah, yeah, I

know. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Miko glanced past him; Kelly nodded.

Flashing Garm a smile they both knew was phony, Miko retreated to

scrounge the crowd for witnesses.

As usual with the Skid Row Butcher, there weren’t any. After an hour,

she considered calling it a night when she noticed a boy, maybe nine or ten,

still crouched beneath the overhanging limbs of a blue spruce, eyes as big as