Gunmage Read online

  Gunmage. Copyright © 2018 by M.S. Hund

  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.

  Cover imagery courtesy Cameron Whitman and Heartland Arts at Shutterstock.com.

  First ebook Edition — November, 2018 by M.S. Hund & Jebesyl Press.

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  For all the freaks who can’t escape the show.

  Or choose not to run.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by M.S. Hund

  1

  Ezra crumpled around the punch to his gut, head twitching aside to keep his cheek from brushing the bare flesh of the other boy’s arm. Another blow hammered against his back, driving him to his knees. Darkness swam at the corners of his vision.

  He spat blood. How many surrounded him? Three, maybe four? Through a dizzying mist of pain, he felt their hatred and fear pricking at him. And something else. Something more intimate.

  Fingers gripped his chin, lifting his head. Flesh against flesh. Warmth radiated out from the touch. There was no time to prepare, no strength to pull away before—

  Ezra winced, knuckles pulsing, scraped raw from punching. The other boy gasped, suddenly released from his own pain. But he did not let go. Ezra tasted fear like hot metal. Floorboards creaked in his mind, the heavy tread of boots echoing up from the boy’s buried memories, coming toward Ezra like a locomotive.

  His eyes flickered open and met the watery blue stare of the boy holding his chin. He knew what those eyes saw. Dark symbols swarming already dark skin. Swamp green eyes gone an inky black.

  A line of fire slashed Ezra’s back.

  The blue eyes blinked, cleared as the pain of his father’s belt faded from the boy’s mind. Not the memory of it happening, just the pain. Surprise warred with relief, then gave way, inevitably, to disgust.

  Ezra almost nodded as the familiar look arrived. Ugly twist of lips. Cheeks tightening above a snarl.

  “Demon!” The boy snatched his hand back and staggered away, staring at his fingers as if Ezra had infected them. “Kill it,” he growled.

  More fists. More pain.

  With every touch of his assailants’ skin against his own, Ezra absorbed fleeting impressions of life and suffering in the two-bit town of Promise. They hit him like a building collapsing.

  Now he was running for town clutching a rabbit and a rifle as night came on too fast.

  Now water filled his lungs as he thrashed and screamed, the big hands tangled in his sodden hair forcing him under again and again.

  Now a burst of fire devoured his arm as he fell from a horse.

  Ezra absorbed the memories, lived them as if they were his own. Though no touch was long enough for him to steal all the boys’ pain and fear, he got little tastes that complemented the sour mix of blood and bile on his tongue.

  Fingernails raked his cheek, and he raised gloved hands in front of his face, hoping to lessen any contact. How much could he take before he lost his soul? He wanted to grab the cross burning icily against his chest, but he couldn’t risk lowering his hands.

  Dimly, somewhere outside the haze of pain that engulfed him, he heard the first boy telling the others not to touch him. A prayer of thanks slipped from Ezra’s bloody lips, only to evaporate when the first rock struck his shoulder. Another glanced off his head, and Ezra fell back, curling into a ball. He made himself small, thankful that the boys were no longer touching him, even if it meant they would stone him to death instead.

  It was a minor mercy, but one he embraced.

  “Get away from him.”

  The new voice belonged to a girl.

  “You ought to be ashamed.”

  Sharp words, edged with anger.

  “But it’s a demon, miss.”

  “How’d it get past the wards then?”

  Muttering. Somebody spit. The red light coming through Ezra’s closed eyelids darkened as someone stood over him.

  “Go on and throw those stones now,” the girl said. “I dare you.”

  “Damned Kneeler,” one of the boys spat.

  “Cowards.”

  Boots scuffed the dirt. Muttering voices faded away.

  Ezra kept his eyes closed and tried to curl even smaller. Just because the boys had gone didn’t mean the pain would stop. The pain never stopped. He couldn’t block it out, couldn’t stop reliving the experiences he’d absorbed. In time, the stolen memories would sink beneath his conscious notice, only to rise like a startled rattlesnake when something awakened them. How long until he lost himself, lost his humanity?

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Ezra didn’t notice the cool fingers on his wrist at first because nothing rushed into him. No pain, no fear, just a gray fog. But something lurked in that fog, swelling and expanding, reaching out—

  Ezra snatched his arm back and rolled away, only for agony to blossom across his back, sparks shivering down his limbs.

  “Let me help.”

  “Get away,” he hissed, forcing his eyes open.

  “But you’re hurt.”

  A hand swam in his blurred vision. Long, pale fingers. Bare skin.

  “Don’t…touch…me.” The words were gravel, broken and unlovely fragments. It hurt to say them.

  The hand froze. Behind it, Ezra saw a spatter of freckles on pale flesh and a reddish fall of hair. He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his knees.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  Ezra licked blood and dust from his lips. “Is what true?”

  “Are you a demon?”

  His hand moved to his chest, seeking reassurance from Brother Lorenzo’s cross. He found only torn fabric and the frayed ends of a leather cord.

  “Where is it?”

  Twisting with sudden panic, he scanned the alley. If those town boys had taken or broken it—

  Ezra spotted the cross a few feet away and scrambled to it on hands and knees. He snatched the symbol up and pressed it to his lips, tasting dirt and the cold electric shock of purity.

  “Shield me, Protector,” he whispered.

  “So does that mean you’re not a demon?”

  Her name was Keren, and Ezra wished she would go away. Instead, she walked beside him as he limped toward the warding posts that ringed the town of Promise. She kept sneaking glances at him, at the cross in his hand, at the dusty satchel clutched to his chest.

  Miraculously, the bag had survived the beating far better than Ezra had, at least to outward appearances. He didn’t dare check the contents. Mama had sent him to the general store with a list for the shopkeeper. He hadn’t looked as the man filled the bag. Mama’s business was not his business, and curiosity brought punishment. Her pet mage, Aristide, would see to that.

  “What’s in the bag?” the girl asked.

  “Supplies.”

&
nbsp; Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? He’d thanked her for intervening with the bullies. Did she think he owed her something more?

  “Why do you wear gloves?”

  Ezra gnawed the inside of his lip. His cheeks burned and there was a buzzing in his ears. She didn’t need to know. She could come to the circus tomorrow. Gawk at the freaks with the rest of the townsfolk as they hated and humiliated Mama’s pets.

  His skin tingled as they approached a warding post. It was always like this with ward-rings, the pressure of a thousand invisible fingers pressing, pressing…

  Ezra gritted his teeth and pushed through the discomfort, stumbling as he passed the posts and was shoved out and away by the wards.

  His lip twitched. Good riddance to the demon-spawn.

  Ezra flinched away as Keren stepped closer, trying to help.

  “Getting late,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t you be getting back?”

  Back inside the wards. Safe.

  For some at least.

  “There’s time yet,” she said, her voice a strained whisper.

  He almost turned to look at her, wondering about that strain, wondering about the gray, hungry fog when she’d touched him. Ezra clutched the satchel tighter and focused on the circle of wagons a quarter mile or so outside Promise. Respectable towns didn’t let Mama Araña’s circus any closer than that.

  “Do you really have demons there?” Keren asked.

  She was too close.

  “I’d love to see…”

  Her hand brushed his arm, and Ezra jerked away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  “It didn’t mean anything. I just—”

  “Go home.”

  What did she expect to find? Deformed freaks and parlor tricks? Demon-spawn performing like trained animals? Of course she did. Just like the rest. Entertained so long as the madness was confined to the relative safety of Mama Araña’s tents and wagons. Townsfolk would never spend an evening outside their wards to meet a demon in the wild. Nor would they let the likes of Ezra enjoy the warded safety of their hamlets after nightfall.

  “But you have magic—”

  Ezra stopped and turned to face her. Keren’s blue eyes darted between him and the circled wagons, but he resisted following her glance to check if anybody was watching them.

  “Demon magic,” he said, and her eyes widened. “Evil.” He held up his cross, cold seeping into his cursed flesh through the glove. His fingers ached with the effort of holding it, but Ezra welcomed the pain, relished it.

  “Of course, but—”

  “Go home.”

  Her eyes glittered, and spots of color decorated her fair cheeks beneath the freckles. She glanced back at the town, the sinking sun dull orange behind the black rooftops.

  “There’s no magic in Mama’s circus,” Ezra said, his voice rising. “Just sin. Nothing here for your sort.”

  And what was her sort anyway? Brave enough, given that she’d stood up to a pack of bullies for him. Devout, if those bullies’ taunts of “Kneeler” were well-founded. But why the intense interest in magic? Townsfolk approached the circus with horrified fascination, not with eagerness etched in every line of their faces. The Protector’s followers were usually worse.

  So how to get rid of her?

  “I’ll get in trouble,” he muttered, lowering his gaze, staring at his battered boots.

  Keren was silent for a long moment before she sighed. “I know how that goes.”

  She left without another word, fleeing back to the town. Ezra watched her go, saw her almost turn back before squaring her shoulders and marching on. Was it his imagination or did she shiver and hesitate before she passed the warding post?

  “Made a new friend, Ezaryahu?”

  A chill brushed the nape of Ezra’s neck. He hadn’t heard Aristide approach, had seen no sign of the mage when he’d glanced at the wagons earlier.

  Ezra shook his head, not trusting his tongue as Mama’s pet mage moved around to block his view of the town. Aristide leaned forward, putting his black eyes level with Ezra’s, examining him from either side of a thin blade of nose.

  “Did she give you the beating?”

  Ezra hated the little smile dancing on Aristide’s lips. He balled his fists against the satchel and squeezed the cross, willing it to hurt him, to purify him.

  Mustn’t give in to anger, he told himself, the voice in his head sounding eerily like Brother Lorenzo. Mustn’t resort to violence. Violence is the path of the weak, the path of the demon. Violence is sin.

  A sin Brother Lorenzo had known all too well.

  Aristide reached for the satchel, and Ezra deflated as he released it. He thought he might fall, but steeled himself against the temptation. Aristide glanced at the contents of the satchel before slinging it over his shoulder, tilting his head and favoring Ezra with a lopsided leer.

  “You could heal yourself if you wanted. We share a gift. I could teach you.”

  Ezra ignored the mocking lilt in the mage’s voice as Aristide stepped toward him. Gripping Brother Lorenzo’s cross, he fought the urge to flinch away as Aristide leaned in close.

  “Such a pretty girl,” the mage breathed.

  The words were hot and dark, but they gripped Ezra’s chest with icy fingers.

  Don’t come tomorrow, he thought, hoping his silent plea would reach Keren. Please don’t.

  The weight of watching eyes pressed against Keren’s neck, and the temptation to turn around was an itch that slithered up under her hair and out along her arms. Her fingers tingled with it.

  That strange boy had done something to the bullies. She’d seen them react, and in some weird way she’d tasted the eerie workings of a force she couldn’t see, a force she both loathed and desired. The wagons behind her reeked of the same power.

  It made her teeth ache.

  Demon magic?

  The thought both tempted and repulsed her.

  Curling tingling fingertips against her palms, Keren remembered her response when she’d touched the boy. She’d wanted to hurt him. Like the bullies hurt him, but worse. She’d wanted to destroy him. Or something inside her had wanted to.

  Why? Was that what had caused the boys to attack him? Had the same violent urge infected them, or were they reacting to his dark skin and the ragged motley of the clothing that marked him as circus folk? More likely the latter.

  But why had he inspired violence in her?

  Keren slowed and almost turned back before she remembered that he’d said she would only bring him trouble. Trouble was an old friend, always betraying her to her father, though Keren rarely remembered why or how.

  She touched a cool finger to her temple.

  There were blank spaces in her memory, gaps bridged by fragile connections that seemed likely to fall apart at any moment. Did her sisters suffer these same gaps? Keren wasn’t certain, but she doubted it. They were never in trouble with Father, never punished like she was.

  Keren eyed the warding posts as she entered Promise, gritting her teeth against the sudden pressure, the tide she had to wade through. The air flickered around the posts, more noticeable now that the lengthening shadows reached out from town to embrace them.

  One step. And another. It was the same in every town her father dragged them to, and she wondered if that was the price everyone paid for safety in the Avernine Territory.

  Keren suspected it wasn’t.

  She staggered as the pressure gave way. Others didn’t flinch when crossing ward-rings. Nor did they shake their heads to get rid of the annoying buzz lodged deep in their ears.

  But the boy from the circus had.

  He’d stumbled when they crossed the ring, stumbled as if something pushed him.

  Her sisters were the same. At least they were alike in that.

  A calloused hand caught Keren’s arm.

  “Just keep walking, miss. We’ll soon have you back home.”

  On
e of her father’s men, she couldn’t remember which one. Daniel, maybe? They were all interchangeable. Gray men without smiles, devout and strict. Another came close on her other side.

  “You know you’re not to leave the town.”

  Keren tried not to hear the implied threat in the words.

  Tried and failed.

  Breaking her father’s rules meant punishment, no matter how small the infraction.

  2

  Ezra watched his transformation in the mirror. Josiah and his sister Sarah moved about him, marble fingers stained with kohl and color, making the dark mess of his hair vanish into a turban, painting black outlines around his eyes, highlighting lips and cheeks, hiding bruises. A clean cotton shirt had already replaced his servant rags, and now the white-haired twins slipped his arms into a green vest stitched with silver sigils. A maroon cloak slid over his shoulders, fastened with a clasp shaped like a heathen glyph.

  Josiah tilted his head, studying his work. His eyes, like his sister’s, were orange, the pupils cat-slitted. He glanced up at Sarah and nodded. She chirped something in what passed for language between them and spun away into the shadows. Josiah vanished as well, leaving Ezra sitting on a stool before the mirror, eyes stinging and throat dry, hands folded beneath the fabric. They felt naked and vulnerable without gloves.

  Something rustled behind him, and Ezra glanced up to watch Aristide approach in the mirror. The mage muttered and traced signs in the air. Eyebrows like crow’s feathers twitched and writhed.

  “The man has come, Ezaryahu. Mama wishes to see you before the ritual.”

  Ezra slid off the stool, resisting the urge to scratch at the clean fabric rubbing against his skin. He followed the black sweep of Aristide’s long coat out into the settling gloom of dusk. Transitions were portentous times. Times for magic.