Mystic Caravan 11 - Freaky Mage

  Freaky Mage

  A Mystic Caravan Mystery Book Eleven

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2021 by Amanda M. Lee

  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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Books by Lily Harper Hart

  Prologue

  Eleven years ago

  It was numbingly cold.

  That was hardly surprising for winters in Michigan. Thankfully I was in southeastern Michigan. If I lived only a few hours north – two-hundred miles really – the winters would be five times as bad.

  I often considered moving to a more temperate climate. New Orleans had always appealed to me, at least what I’d seen of it on television. It looked fun, funky and altogether frivolous at times. I liked frivolous. Living on the streets of Detroit left very little time for frivolity.

  I could make it down there. It would take some effort — and some long-haul rides from potentially dangerous people — but I was magical. I could read minds, as well as conduct a few other neat tricks. I could make it.

  That would mean leaving those I lived with in my small community. While I was a survivor, sometimes I wondered if those I chose to spend my life with were as hardy. Would they survive if I wasn’t around to supply magic? They didn’t know I had powers. I was careful to keep them to myself. They’d benefitted, though, and the thought of disappearing and leaving them to fend for themselves sent further chills down my spine.

  I, Poet Parker, queen of the tiny parks that littered Detroit, wasn’t the sort of person who could just abandon those I cared about. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

  I glanced around to make sure I was alone, and then concentrated. I wasn’t good at fire magic. I wasn’t even sure I could call what I was about to do fire magic, but it was close enough.

  It took a lot of effort, but after about thirty seconds the wood I’d been collecting from pallets on loading docks behind businesses ignited in the 55-gallon drum in front of me. Warmth — oh, I so desperately needed to get warm — blazed from the drum and I smiled when I opened my eyes.

  Fire. It was the only thing that saved us from freezing to death. We huddled together at night to share body warmth. During the day we needed to scavenge. Once the other members of my crew returned to the park, they could get warm too.

  It was glorious and sad. The fact that I could get so excited about a few hours of staving off frostbite was ultimately depressing, but I opted not to dwell on it.

  “That was fairly impressive,” a voice said from behind me, causing me to jerk my head in that direction and prepare for battle. There were no rules on the street. I hadn’t realized I wasn’t alone when I started the fire.

  “Who are you?” I asked the woman standing on the sidewalk behind me. She was bundled in a thick coat. She wore gloves and a hat, both nice and clean.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.” The woman’s eyes were wary as she circled around me. When she approached the drum, she looked inside and smiled. “That’s pretty good. How did you do it without access to fire magic?”

  I was taken aback. “How ... ?” I trailed off. I’d run into a few people with magic during my time on the street. Each time there’d been trouble. I wasn’t looking for trouble.

  “I live in Royal Oak,” she volunteered even though I hadn’t asked. “I have a coven there.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re a witch.”

  She smiled. “I am. What do you know about witches?”

  I wasn’t a fan of her tone. Condescending, as if I was nothing more than a street rat with no education. I was more than that. Of course, she wasn’t entirely wrong. I was definitely a street rat, and my options for learning had been severely limited the last year and a half. “I know that, like anything else, they can be good or evil.”

  “A very good answer.” Her smile was easy. “I’m not here to hurt you, Poet.”

  I managed to keep from reacting at her mention of my name. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Clara. I work with a group of like-minded women in Royal Oak. We own a store on Main Street ... and we’ve been following you for quite some time.”

  I froze. “You’ve been following me?”

  “Not in a creepy way,” she reassured me, her laugh sending tendrils of condensation into the freezing air. “We ... sensed you, for lack of a better word.”

  “Sensed me?” I glanced around to see if these friends she mentioned would suddenly materialize out of the gloom.

  “You’re quite safe, Poet,” she said in a gentle voice. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to check in with you. As for sensing you, I’m sure you realize that others can track you when you use your magic.”

  I hadn’t realized that, though I’d suspected. I could sense other magical beings. I could also feel in my bones when trouble was close. It only made sense that the reverse was true. “What do you want?”

  “To make sure you’re okay,” Clara replied. “It took us a bit of time to track you down. We sensed you for the first time about four months ago. You expended a lot of energy one day.”

  I knew the day she was talking about. “There was a shooting.” I don’t know why I felt so defensive. “There were innocent people in the park.”

  “And you raised a shield,” Clara said.

  I shrugged. “I guess you could call it that.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I don’t really call it anything.”

  “I know about the shooting,” she said. “It was in the news. I didn’t realize that the two incidents were connected. Several people died.”

  “Only the people who were shooting.”

  Her lips curved. “Did you ensure that?”

  The question felt like a trap. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe a little. You protected the innocent. That’s what a good witch does.”

  “I’m not a witch.” I blurted.

  “No? What are you?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m not a witch.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’ve done research. Witches have different abilities.”

  “What can you do?”

  There was no way I was answering that. It would only open me to attack. “A little of this, a lot of that.”

  Her grin never diminished. “It’s good that you’re protective of yourself. Keep that. As I mentioned, after your initial burst of power, we tried to track you, but then you went quiet.

  �
�After that, there were smaller bursts,” she continued. “Each time you used your magic, we narrowed our search grid. When we realized you were down here, we started making day trips. It took us weeks to find you. Even then, we weren’t certain what to do.”

  “Why do you have to do anything?”

  “Because ... you’re special. You can do things others only dream about.”

  “Yes, that’s what I often think. My life is like a dream.”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on her, but she didn’t react to it. “You don’t have to stay here, Poet. I know that you don’t trust me — and that’s okay — but I have a place you can stay.

  “There’s a room at the back of the store,” she said hurriedly when she read the mistrust in my eyes. “It’s not much, but there’s a bed and the building is warm. Once you learn to trust us, I’m sure we can help you get on your feet.”

  “That’s a very generous offer,” I said. “If living on the street has taught me anything, it’s that offers don’t come without strings attached.”

  “I’m sorry that you believe that. We don’t want anything from you. We simply don’t want you to waste your talents out here. You can be so much more.”

  The statement rankled. “Because someone who lives on the streets can’t be valued?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She looked frustrated. “I understand that you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. In your position, I likely wouldn’t trust me either. But trust can be earned.”

  “I’m good.” I turned back to the fire, holding my hands in front of the flames to chase the chill.

  “You’re not ready,” Clara said after a moment. “I guess I can’t blame you. Trust has to be earned.”

  “How are you going to earn my trust?” I might’ve been young, but I had the cynicism of a fifty-year-old.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to be patient.”

  I jolted when her hand started to glow. I reacted out of instinct, shooting a burst of magic toward her as I scrambled to get away. It was one of my better tricks and it had knocked more than one magical being to the ground. Clara, however, merely smiled and waved her hand, causing my magic to dissipate in an instant.

  “There’s no need for that,” she chided, her eyes flashing. “I’ve already told you I’m not here to hurt you.”

  It wasn’t fear coursing through me when I looked at her with fresh eyes. It was awe. “How did you do that?”

  “What?”

  “That.” I gestured toward her hands. “How did you deflect my spell?”

  “Practice. You have a lot of power, but you haven’t honed it. You’re all raw materials and no style. You need to add some style to the mix.”

  “But ... .” I wasn’t certain what to say.

  “You need to learn to trust me,” Clara said as she pointed her hands at the ground. The glowing increased, and by the time she finished a small pile of neatly stacked wood had appeared. “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

  My breath caught in my throat and I kept one eye on her as I inspected the wood. It was fresh, dry and thick enough that it would burn for hours. In this cold, it was an unbelievable gift. “How did you do that?”

  “Magic is different for different people. We can help you.”

  Part of me wanted to trust her, yearned for it really. I had the same problem whenever I entertained the idea of moving, though. I couldn’t leave my friends … or expose them to danger. “Maybe I’m beyond help.”

  “Nobody is beyond help,” she said. “In fact ... .” She trailed off as the sound of boots crunching on snow became apparent.

  I knew who it was before he approached the drum from the dark. Shadow, a member of a biker gang I’d helped months ago, appeared. Ever since we’d saved his life, he’d gone out of his way to check on us, like a fairy godfather – one who rode a motorcycle and hung out with murderous thugs.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, his gaze lingering on me. “You okay?”

  “Who are you?” Clara asked as she regarded Shadow with overt suspicion. “What are you to Poet?”

  “What are you to Poet?” Shadow challenged.

  “She’s one of those do-gooders who wants to help the homeless,” I said, surprising myself with the ready answer. “She’s harmless.”

  Shadow didn’t look convinced. “She’s not doing anything,” he said. “You don’t need to report her to the police or anything. She minds her own business, as do the others.”

  Clara smiled, though it was obvious she was leery of Shadow. “I have no intention of reporting them. I’m just checking to make sure they’re okay.”

  “They’re fine.” Shadow lifted a bag I hadn’t noticed on first inspection. “I’ve got your dinner, Poet.”

  I grinned. Shadow went out of his way to drop off a full meal for the group at least once every two days. We scrounged for food the rest of the time, but he provided full meals — usually coneys and fries — and sat with us to make sure nobody messed with us when we ate.

  “Yum.”

  He winked at me and then focused his full attention on Clara. “Are you with a church or something?”

  “Something like that,” Clara confirmed. “I really am here to help.”

  “They’re kids,” Shadow argued. “People try to take advantage of them all the time. No offense, but I don’t know you. I want to make sure that the wrong person doesn’t try to ‘fix’ things for them.”

  “It’s nice they have you.”

  “They deserve more.” Shadow handed me the bag. “I can’t hang tonight. I have a meeting. You guys need to be careful. I hear something might go down after dark. Sleep under the bridge in the other park tonight.”

  I nodded. He often tipped us when drug deals were afoot. He didn’t want us getting caught in the crossfire. “We’ll eat and then head out.”

  “You’re fine until ten o’clock. Stay here and keep warm with that fire.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He returned my smile and then gave Clara one more cursory look. “I like to think I’m a good judge of character. You look like you really do want to help. There’s only so much you can do, though. Don’t try to control them.”

  “That’s not my purpose,” Clara reassured.

  “Don’t try to separate them either.”

  She hesitated a moment and then nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good, now leave them be so they can eat their dinner while it’s still warm. The others are hiding behind the bushes over there. You’re making them nervous. They don’t often get warm meals. Don’t ruin it for them.”

  Clara nodded in understanding, her eyes drifting to me. “I’ll check in again soon.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted that, but I was intrigued. “Do what you want.”

  “I’ll check in again soon,” she repeated. “We’ll have another conversation then.”

  I watched her go, conflicted. I liked being the strongest person on the street. That couldn’t continue if I started spending time with her.

  “Dinner!” I called to those hiding in the bushes, smiling when they stumbled out. Whatever the woman had to offer, it didn’t matter tonight. Tonight was for family. The rest would work itself out ... eventually.

  One

  Present Day

  “Savannah is one of my favorite stops.”

  Nixie, one of Mystic Caravan’s pixie twins, sat in the back seat of my boyfriend Kade’s truck eagerly staring out the window. Beside her, the more taciturn sibling, Naida, filed her fingernails and did nothing to hide the fact that she was rolling her eyes.

  “What’s so great about Savannah?” Kade asked. He’d been holding up the conversation for the past half hour, but only because Nixie’s constant chatter had worn me down. There was nothing wrong with driving in silence. Absolutely nothing. Apparently Nixie thought otherwise.

  “It’s ... magical,” Nixie enthused. “Like, really magical. You know how we’re magical? Savannah amplifies it tenfold.”
>
  Kade’s gaze was curious as it landed on me. “Is that true, Poet?”

  I knew what he was really asking. As the son of a mage, he understood about magic. He’d been with the circus less than a year and had yet to master the nuances of his new reality. He thought he was a normal man until he joined us, that Max Anderson, the man who ran Mystic Caravan, was a family friend. In short order, since taking on the job as head of security, he’d discovered magic was real and that Max was his father. He’d been learning quickly since then but he was nowhere close to catching up.

  “Savannah is unique,” I confirmed, lowering the window as the fresh sea air hit my face. There was little I loved more than the scent of the ocean. “It has a storied history.”

  “For example?” Kade was the sort of man who wanted to plan for every contingency, and that was on full display today. Word that we were about to set up in a magical hot zone likely had his mind churning. Unfortunately for him, there was little for which he could prepare.

  “Savannah is the oldest city in Georgia,” I said. I’d read up on the city the first time we’d performed here. To be entirely truthful, I felt a kinship with the city that I couldn’t readily explain. The pull wasn’t as strong as that of Key West or New Orleans, but it still felt like I was coming home whenever we visited.

  “That’s pretty vague,” Kade said, grinning. “You usually have a lot more to say about the cities we set up shop in.”

  “What?” I shook myself out of my reverie. “Sorry. I was just thinking back to the first time I saw Savannah.”