Page 1 of Alpha's Magic

Prologue

Banshira,

(Also known as Leo)

I woke up in the dark with the sense that something was coming for me—something big.

Not big like one of those enormous old oak trees in the forest whose limbs grow so heavy they have to lay them on the ground. Not even one of those massive waves that sometimes sweep in and destroy everything in their path. But big all the same—important and life-changing—and coming straight for me.

When it arrived, I knew my whole life was going to be different. I don’t know how I was so sure of it—I’d given up on trying to understand things like that a long time ago. But I knew, just the same.

Maybe the absolute fucker who had taken everything away from me had left me some of my magic, which used to sing inside me like one of the tunes my mother used to play on her pianoforte. I hadn’t tried to access any of my magic in a long time, being too steeped in misery after the warlock finished with me, and too traumatized and horrified by what she’d made me into to even try and find its hiding place. I remember reaching for it once, right after I’d changed—flailing for it, desperate for it to save me, but it shied away from me, like a skittish pony, dodging past my hand when I reached for it as if trying to escape from a burning barn and save itself.

It was possible there were a few small scraps of it still left inside me, not quite seared away by the dark witch’s terrible spell. Fallen behind the door of my mind and almost forgotten in the general wrecking-ball disaster the horrible woman had made of me. Of my body and my mind and my entire life. Tiny scraps of magic remained inside me, little charms fixed in my mind and infused with just enough magic to produce some small effect over and over without any real thought or effort. They would have been left behind inadvertently, of course. She wouldn’t have meant to do me any kindnesses, however random or insignificant. But somehow, as she yanked my whole life out from under my feet like a cheap scatter rug, and tore away everything I ever was, even my humanity, she’d somehow overlooked my ability to call on my magic.

Or maybe she hadn’t overlooked anything. Maybe the evil harridan wanted me to know it was still inside me, though mostly useless to me in the face of her terrible spell. Maybe she relished the idea of me retaining a bit of precognition, so I could know what was coming for me and dread it, afraid that her evil dark magic had conjured up some fresh, new hell. It would be one more little torture to inflict upon me.

As if she hadn’t done enough already. Did she really think I feared death? After all that she’d done to me? Ha!

I hoped for it, prayed for it, longed for it year after year, but it had always stayed tantalizingly, mockingly, just out of reach, jeering at me and skittering back if I came too close to it.

My knowledge of coming events wasn’t usually clear, and it didn’t always happen. The gods knew I hadn’t seen the evil witch coming. If I had, I would have killed myself to avoid this thing she had made me. But sometimes I still had feelings about upcoming events in my life, and this one was one of those times. And it was strong.

Whatever was coming for me was hurtling toward me like a falling comet, or like a rock in a landslide, wild and dangerous and totally out of control.

I had hung breathless on the possibility of death before, but it had never quite materialized. Maybe now—now it was finally coming true—death and the end of everything the warlock had done to me. At long last.

A boy could hope, anyway.

As soon as it was light enough outside, I went out into the cool, gray dawn and looked up at the sky to see if I could see actually see something headed toward shore—maybe there was a big, bad storm on the horizon to account for this awful, unsettled feeling inside me. Or maybe there really was some kind of huge comet heading straight for us, its trail stretching behind it like the tail of a fiery kite, ready and willing to wipe out all of humanity and usher in another ice age.

But there was nothing there but the sea and the sky, one as gray-blue and serene as the other. It was actually kind of anticlimactic.

All that serenity was just a lie, of course. I was living proof that everything could change on a dime. Not only that—the sea could be calm and beautiful one minute and then hurl hurricanes and gale force winds at us the next, daring us to try and survive them. If there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that anything could happen out of the blue. And frequently did.

Grimora was late in returning and that worried me. He should have been back at the cave by now. He made these monthly visits to the village for supplies, and I’d always thought these trips far too dangerous, but I could never talk him out of them. Sometimes he let me go with him, wearing my hooded robe to hide my face from the villagers. They knew what I was—but they’d rarely had an up close look.

He needed to go, he said, to get the materials for his tisanes and potions. Plus, he said, he needed to pick up some of the tinned peaches that he knew I liked. But the supplies were heavy, and he was getting much too old to make the journey alone.

It was no secret among the villagers that he lived with me here in what they called Banshira’s Cave. That alone was enough to condemn him, and so I worried about him every time he went until he safely returned. Since the feeling I’d had in the night was so strong, I stayed outside the cave and paced up and down, peering into the distance and hoping to see him coming. I was far too restless to go back inside. I worried about him for a long time that morning. Long enough for the sun to rise fully in the sky, and still he hadn’t returned.

Too nervous to wait any longer, I set off down the trail to look for him, hoping I’d find him along the way. Perhaps he had decided to stop and rest and then fallen asleep instead. He was far too old to be making that climb up to the cave as often as he did, especially carrying heavy supplies. Too old for a lot of things, but I couldn’t imagine what I’d do without him. If I came across him, I could wake him up and help him carry his sacks and bags up to the cave. Maybe even carry him up if he’d allow it. I could almost imagine his slow, kind smile as he opened his eyes and saw me.

I did find him at the bottom of the trail, but Grimora would never open his eyes and smile at me again. He’d been dead for hours—maybe he’d died during the night and that accounted for my horrible feeling of impending doom.

I suppose it must have been natural causes. There were no marks on his body. But I still roared with pain and grief and shook my fist at the indifferent sky, and then, because I couldn’t control my anger, I began running toward the village, wanting to take out my rage and my hurt on something, someone. I thought they must have hurt him somehow.

I relished the reception I’d find there. I hoped they’d fight me. I wanted to destroy the place and lay waste to the entire village, kill every man in it and dance in his blood. I wanted to squeeze the neck of the village’s head man until his eyes bugged out and his head popped off. I could practically feel the crunch of his bones beneath my fingers.

I don’t know how long it took me to arrive. Minutes, hours, days. I don’t know if I would have really done anything at all, or if I was just blowing off steam. Grimora wouldn’t have liked it if I had. But as I topped a rise and looked down on the village below, I was stunned to see that it already lay in ruins.

All the houses were burned to the ground, their timbers smoldering in the waning sunlight. Animals lay in their pens, blood streaming from spear wounds in their necks. Smoke drifted across the village or hung over parts of it in a pall, and the bloody, blackened bodies of men, women and even children were sprawled in the dirt. Appalled and shaken, I fell to my knees and retched.

I’d been so furious and full of rage toward these people, but I hadn’t really wanted anything like this. Never this. This had been a sickening massacre. Who could have even imagined this, let alone carried out such a horror? And for the gods’ sake, why?

The answer came to me as clearly as if the wicked, murdering bitch had been standing beside me. To pin the blame on you, of course. That’s why the village was destroyed. She knows somehow that you’re still alive. She’s found out you’re not dead yet, and she wants you to get the blame for this.

In that instant, I knew who must have committed this atrocity—the same wicked, evil bitch who’d destroyed me and my entire family. It was Rozamond, the evil queen of Morovia.

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