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  SORCERESS, INTERRUPTED

  Dear Reader,

  Like superheroes? Well, picture the Human Spark throwing a tantrum because he’s tired of being invited to your Labor Day barbecue just to light the grill. Or Lady Seductra dodging ex-boyfriends at her high school reunion. Maybe that’s why A. J. Menden’s characters are so compelling: they’re as familiar as they are quirky. Her books aren’t about the superhero in you. They’re about the you in every superhero.

  Sure, Phenomenal Girl 5 has superstrength and can fly, but she also fell in love and married the man of her dreams. (He died saving her life and was reborn in a different body, but that’s what you get for dating a guy called The Reincarnist.)

  Fantazia’s got similar problems. She’s a powerful sorceress who can’t age or be killed, but that hasn’t made her relationship with her parents any easier. Nor has it made finding a boyfriend a piece of cake: you’d be surprised how many men aren’t worth keeping around after twenty minutes let alone three hundred years. The good news is, she’s about to get exactly what she needs. And it’ll be forever.

  Think Jim Butcher meets “As the World Turns.”

  We hope you feel the magic, too.

  Christopher Keeslar

  Senior Editor

  MARKED

  I glared at him. “You’re saying you wrote ‘Property of Cyrus the Virus’ on my body.”

  He laughed. “Not in the way you’re taking it, no.”

  “Then in what way could you possibly have written it?”

  “In the same way a guy gives a woman an engagement ring,” he said.

  I stared.

  “I’m not as commitment-phobic as you are, Fantazia. I’m not afraid to admit when I want to be with someone. Maybe it’s because I have an average life-span, but I know life is short and at any moment something can take it all away. You’re going to have to decide what you truly want. Do you really want to be left alone for all eternity, or do you want to be with the rest of humanity? You’re going to have to decide pretty damn quick.”

  Other books by A. J. Menden:

  TEKGRRL

  PHENOMENAL GIRL 5

  SORCERESS,

  INTERRUPTED

  A. J. Menden

  For Lisa, who is the true meaning of a BFF.

  DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

  June 2011

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2010 by Amy Phelps

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1120-2

  E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0948-1

  The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stared at the glamorous woman in front of me. She’d never looked more lovely than she did at the moment, her long, dark hair curled in waves down her back, a stark contrast to the long white dress that draped her perfect figure and somehow managed to avoid the dirt and dust passing chariots and horses kicked up in their wake, her arms bare except for the few golden bracelets. Her otherworldly beauty was almost terrifying. I struggled to find my voice. “You’re leaving?”

  She sighed. “I never should have come. This isn’t my place, you understand. I should be with my own people. I don’t belong here. I never have.”

  I tried to process her words. My mind wouldn’t let me. “You can’t just leave.”

  “My family’s come back for me,” she said, glancing over to the small group of equally extraordinary-looking people who were watching the scene before them like they were watching animals fight for scraps of food: insignificant, and not worth their time.

  “I must go with them,” she said again, as if addressing a small child. “This was a mistake.”

  It was as if she physically hit me. “This was a mistake? I’m a mistake?”

  She looked back to where her family stood waiting, embarrassment obvious on her beautiful face. “Don’t be like this.”

  “How am I supposed to be?” I bit back the tears that threatened. I didn’t want her to see me cry. Not because it would upset her, but because she wouldn’t care and that would be worse. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “You’re a big girl, you’ll be fine.” She glanced over to see the bearded man motioning to leave. “I’ve got to go now.”

  My hand shot out. She looked down at where I gripped her arm and then back up at me. Her eyes narrowed, and I waited for her to slap me to make me let go.

  “What about him?” I hissed. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. A coldness settled over her features. “You should probably take care of him. Someone should.” She yanked her arm out of my grasp. “Good-bye.”

  “You selfish bitch!” I screamed at her retreating back. “If I ever see you again, I swear I’m going to cut that cold heart of yours out of your chest!”

  She disappeared with her family, to whatever glories awaited them in the far-distant land where they had sequestered themselves.

  A handsome young man, dressed in the garments of the wealthy, came out of the dwelling behind me, passing by one of the altars to the gods in the vestibule. “Who were those people?”

  I gritted my teeth. “No one important.”

  He nodded as if he understood, even though I knew he didn’t. “And . . . who are you again?”

  I fought down the urge to strike him. “No one important either, apparently.” Dad.

  I woke up momentarily confused. I took in my surroundings, expecting to see the decor of the ancient home that I had just revisited in my dream but instead was met by lush contemporary furnishings. Repulsed by the dream, I shivered. At least this time I’d called her a bitch and didn’t just cry and beg her to stay. If you’re going to dream about past events, you might as well act how you wish you had.

  Remembering I wasn’t alone, I glanced over at the man lying next to me in bed. He was snoring loudly, as only someone drunk could. I remembered all of the booze we’d tossed back together in my bar last night. At some point we stumbled to my “throne room,” the chamber where I met with my patrons who wanted to ask for favors, and I had transformed it into my bedroom. No wonder I’d dreamed of the past: I always get depressingly sentimental when drunk. Which is why I don’t get drunk very often. But the knowledge of today’s significance had begun haunting me last night, and at the time having a drink or two in the company of a man with scruffy good looks seemed like a good distraction.

  With a hangover and a man in my bed whose good looks were decidedly more questionable in the cold morning light, things were different. This was just another reason why I flirted outrageously with anyone male but usually went to bed alone: the letdown and aftermath are always too much. I’d had my heart broken more than a few times in my long life and it never got easier. Which was why I was careful never to give
it away anymore.

  I whispered soft words in Italian, a spell to rid me of my pounding headache, then whipped the sheet off the bed. When that didn’t rouse him, I poked my guest in the arm. “Hey. You. Wake up.” What was his name again? He wasn’t one of the regulars who came to my little corner of the universe to drink and hang out with others of the magical persuasion. He was one of the surprisingly few magic-users who didn’t owe me a favor—although, after his performance last night, he just might. If he didn’t want the details spread around.

  If only I could remember his name. I knew he was one of the Brothers of Power, one of the five charming and gorgeously handsome siblings whose magical abilities were so great they had earned a reputation among those in the magic circuit as being able to do whatever was needed—for a price. In a world where powered-up heroes and villains do battle in gaudy costumes in the street, gods and goddesses crawl out of their ancient hidey-holes to join in the fray or avenge childish grievances, and powerful magic-users can easily destroy city blocks, those with less power are always in need from those more powerful. That’s usually where I came in: helping weaker magic-users right wrongs, giving them protection, or whatever was needed . . . but also for a price. In a way, the Brothers of Power were my competitors, but where I used my great powers to gain favors from others or to get information for later use, the brothers did it for monetary wealth, which they immediately blew on lavish lifestyles.

  Joseph was the one with whom I had the most dealings, and while I recognized his brother here, it wasn’t enough to sort the name with the face. That had been advantageous last night when I was drunk and depressed and out of my mind enough to seek some momentary physical comfort, hoping that if I didn’t know him very well, he wouldn’t expect anything else later. Now it just put me in a horrible mood to know I’d been stupid enough to go there with a stranger.

  His name began with a D—I knew that much, though I hadn’t exactly been calling it out last night—and it was bland and ordinary-sounding, like Joseph. But it was too early in the morning to play guessing games.

  This time, I shoved my visitor hard. “Hey!”

  He opened one blue eye. “Oh. Good morning, luv.” His voice was heavy with sleep. Seeing my nakedness, his other eye opened and he smiled. “Ready for round two?”

  I gave him a mean grin. “After round one? No thanks.”

  He grunted and scratched himself. “It’s all the alcohol. I’m much better when I’m sober. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “The magic groupies you and your brothers hang out with aren’t too hard to impress.”

  He ran a hand through his shaggy, dirty blond hair and reached over to the bedside table to light a cigarette. “You’re the one who came on to me, luv. Remember?”

  “Not so much.” I glared at him. “You need to leave. Now.”

  “Don’t get all dodgy just because you can’t remember how I rocked your world last night.”

  “Sweetheart, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll find few men rock anything but themselves. And stop talking with that fake British accent. You and your brothers and those affected accents you put on as part of your mysterious mercenary routine . . . Everyone knows the closest you’ve come to the United Kingdom is watching the BBC.”

  He smiled. “Ladies love it.”

  “Good thing I’m not one. Now get lost before I toss you out without any clothes.”

  He chuckled, standing up and tossing on his jeans. “You’re one to talk about fake speech patterns, Fantazia,” he drawled in a bland American accent that I knew was his own. Under my baleful glare he threw on his shirt and donned his long coat without bothering to button up. “Because I know someone who’s lived since the dawn of time and avoids technology like the plague wouldn’t really talk like a bimbo on a reality show.”

  I shrugged. “Hey, I model my way of talking and acting like I see the rest of you do here in the bar. But don’t imagine you know the real me. None of you does.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong,” he laughed. “All of us magic-users do know: you’re a witch. A cold-blooded one. Cheers.”

  The overemphasized British affectation was followed by a cruel laugh, and he walked out of my bedroom and into my bar. From there he walked out of my reality and into everyone else’s. Literally. It forced me to wonder once again if it had ever been a good idea to move the pocket universe I called home closer to the real world. Did I really want magic-users powerful enough to know how to access the doorway able to travel between the two?

  When I first discovered this plane of existence, I saw it as an oasis away from all suffering: Living entirely alone, I wouldn’t have to watch everyone I ever knew slowly rot away and die while I remained unchanged. I wouldn’t have to invent new lives in new towns every twenty years or so when it became apparent that I still looked the same while everyone else grew older. I wouldn’t have to see the jealousy in the eyes of those I let know about my immortality, when they started to be affected by age and sickness. I’d already been through all of that and more.

  Also, I wouldn’t have to deal with my father anymore.

  It was a welcome respite for a while, but eventually I came to realize just how awful solitude truly is. Calling forth djinn servants helped, as did visiting other dimensions. But eventually I came to miss being around people. Which was when I had the idea of turning my pocket universe into a hangout for the magical set, a crazy bar called Memory Plague, or “The M. P.” for short. Alcohol can be a plague on the memory—or take away such a plague. And this way, while I couldn’t be of the people anymore, I could at least be around them. So I took on the moniker Fantazia—I left my real name safely in the past, along with a whole lot of pain—and began my stint as barmaid and hostess.

  Eventually some realized how powerful I was and started coming to me for favors. Eventually I started granting them—for a price, since it’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone worth a freebie. And since one of the best places to get information is a bar—people always confide in bartenders once they get a few drinks in them—I started trading in information, too. Information doesn’t come cheap. My public persona is a hard-as-nails bitch who doesn’t care about anything or anyone. If you don’t care, no one can hurt you.

  I drew that detachment around me again like a cloak as I got dressed in a complicated black lace body stocking. Why do I dress like this? To be totally honest, I like men looking at me. It’s one of the few thrills I still get in life. I like to wear sexy outfits to get attention. It’s one of the reactions from people that I trust to be genuine. Sex appeal is our basest instinct, and that being the case, I say, if you’ve got it, you should be allowed to flaunt it.

  I noticed as I dressed that the protective wards I usually have the djinn servants paint on my arms in henna were smeared from last night’s debacle. I didn’t feel like having them redone this morning, though. It would serve as a reminder to myself of what happened when I got maudlin and drunk. They’d still serve their function, even in mild disarray.

  I zipped up my thigh-high stiletto-heeled black boots and exited my bedroom, not stopping until I was out in the bar area. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet. Memory Plague was usually a place of muted conversation, but it wasn’t the absence of the patrons that set me on edge. Things hadn’t been the same here since the Elite Hands of Justice stopped by to play houseguests.

  The EHJ. Usually a cadre of respected crime-fighters, they’d been on the run from the law after a series of misunderstandings and needed a safe house. The man that used to be my father, the Reincarnist, now named Wesley Charles, had seemed to think he could just crash here. I’d let him. I’d magically redone the whole pocket universe to accommodate him and his friends, magically locking all of the patrons out for reasons still unknown to them and turning the bar into a damn dormitory for heroes. When it was over, they went back to their superstar lifestyle and I went back to my reclusive one. Oh sure, they offered me a place on the team, but I know better than that.
I’m not the hero type. And I didn’t think I could handle being around the Reincarnist all of the time.

  Now things were back to normal: me in the bar, them in their gilded tower in Megolopolis. Yet . . . in the short amount of time they were here, I got used to it. I got used to having people around. I normally wouldn’t dare say or even acknowledge it, but in my current hungover state, I had to: I’d had a taste of a family for a short time, and I was craving it.

  I cursed my weakness. I know what needing people leads to: disappointment. My father especially. He had a new life—literally, again—and a new family. He didn’t need me in it. I hadn’t seen him much in the year or so after his stay, just on a few rare occasions of magic-related questions.

  Lainey, his new wife, actually brought their daughter and my half sister Emily over to visit while they went out hero-ing or to movie premieres, or wherever it was they spent their free time. I didn’t know if this was from a wish to build a relationship with me, concern for my young sister’s safety, or just because I’d elicited a promise to bring her at one point. Emily was the only one of my half siblings over the many years that I’d ever taken any interest in, though I have to admit it’s in large part because I know what supposedly lies in store for her. It wasn’t necessarily sisterly affection; it’s more of a morbid curiosity to see what this person prophesied to save the world or destroy it would do next.

  I sighed. If all I was going to do was think about the EHJ and Emily, there was only one thing to do. My bar was a bit out of range for transmitters, phones and the like. That was really no problem: while I really do try to update my speech to the popular vernacular so that people around me feel more at ease—I’ve done it to the point that even my thoughts have started to sound modern—technology and I have never been friends. I’m always a decade or more behind, and I’ve pretty much given up on trying to move forward. No, if someone needed to get a message to me, they usually came to me personally or went through one of my djinns.