Blood-Mage

  Copyright © 2020 David Delaney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanically, including photocopying and recording, taping or by any information retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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

  Cover Art Design by: Deranged Doctor Design

  derangeddoctordesign.com

  The Paragon Society Series

  Orson: A Paragon Society Novel

  Gypsy Witch: A Paragon Society Novel

  Lucy: A Paragon Society Novel

  Cabal: A Paragon Society Novel

  Blood-Mage: A Paragon Society Novel

  Singularity Barbecue: A Paragon Society Novella

  Blink: A Paragon Society Novella

  Join the Paragon Society Newsletter for updates on new releases and more. See details at the back of the book.

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  Paragon News

  Chapter One

  It had been several months since Jimmy Tobin had fled Stanford. How many, he wasn't exactly sure, because time seemed to be acting funny lately. Hours felt like days and days felt like minutes. He had been so positive after he used Dahlia—

  Murdered.

  You're a murderer.

  Jimmy slapped his hands against the sides of his head and squeezed his eyes tight.

  "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."

  That night and its aftermath felt dream-like. In his mind, Jimmy could see himself pulling the gun from his pocket and shooting Lucy in the head and hearing Maddie scream, but it was like he was watching it unfold in front of him, an eyewitness to the crazy, not an active participant.

  It wasn't until after the first spell at the rest stop in Montana when things finally began to seem real, as if the magic helped snap him back into his body. With his access to magic, he really thought his life would change. Well, at least change more than it had. He wasn't sure what he had done wrong. He'd followed the instructions in Tinkerbelle's book of magic with the precision he would use for any scientific experiment. His goal had been to draw abundance—money, women, power—to himself. He had used the blood—

  Dahlia's blood.

  He had used the blood to draw the correct sigils on his body, covering his torso and arms in an ancient language he couldn't even read without the help of the book. When he had traced the last bloody squiggle across his stomach he felt a surge of energy flow into him. It was a rush, like the best drug ever created, and he had howled like a madman at his magnificence.

  After quickly disposing of the body—

  Mutilated corpse.

  —deep in the trees behind the rest stop, Jimmy had driven straight to the Indian casino he had previously scouted. Surprisingly, he found a parking spot near the door. Was the magic already working? He checked himself in the rearview mirror, making sure his shirt covered the sigils.

  And the blood.

  He ran his fingers through his messy hair, trying in vain to look more presentable. Oh well, the kind of people who frequented casinos in the middle of the night weren't exactly fashion models.

  Jimmy knew next to nothing about gambling except for what he'd seen in movies. But he figured he didn't need to be an expert to use a slot machine. He didn't even know if magic would work on something mechanical. It seemed like a stretch that the basic computer code that ran modern slots could be affected by the energy he had harnessed. Then again, he had witnessed Lucy shoot fireballs from her hands, so anything should be possible.

  Jimmy's question had been answered the moment he had walked in the door. He almost giggled when he spotted, in the midst of the rows of slots before him, two machines that glowed with supernatural energy. He walked straight to the first one and fed it five dollars. He pulled the handle, because it seemed cooler than pushing the little button. Ten seconds later the clatter of coins pouring out of the machine had Jimmy jumping up and down. Five hundred dollars—he had been in the building less than two minutes and he was already five hundred dollars richer. A casino worker approached him and offered him a bucket to put his coins in. Jimmy smiled and thanked her.

  He spent less than an hour in the casino. After he hit the second glowing slot machine for an additional two hundred dollars, people—including big, mean-looking guys in suits—started watching him. He realized he needed to play it cool, maybe lose a little so he wouldn’t be tagged as a cheater.

  Jimmy fed handfuls of coins into a poker machine. He didn't have any idea what he was doing and after winning a few hands, ended up losing what he estimated was about a hundred dollars. With the quarter-filled bucket pressed tight to his chest, Jimmy wandered over to the money cage. He exchanged his coins for fifty-dollar bills.

  A loud cheer grabbed his attention and he walked deeper into the casino to find the table games. He had zero knowledge about Black Jack and Craps, but roulette looked promising. Jimmy stood at one of the tables and watched how the betting and game play worked. It was pretty simple, pick a number and wait for the wheel to stop spinning. There was no magical glow surrounding the table or wheel, but Jimmy didn't think that was a problem. He figured with his earlier wins that the magic had led him to slots that were ready to payout. In roulette the magic would be different. Maybe it would manifest as some kind of telekinesis and all he needed to do was focus on the number he wanted the little white ball to land on?

  He changed one of his fifties for green-colored chips, each worth a dollar. There was no reason not to be bold; he had magic to back him up. Jimmy placed ten chips on the number thirteen. He couldn't resist the irony of it supposedly being bad luck. After all the bets were made and the ball was whipping around the wheel, he concentrated on the number thirteen, creating a detailed image in his mind of the ball landing on that number. A moment later the dealer called out thirteen. Jimmy had won, again. And at thirty-five to one, he had just added three hundred and fifty dollars to his winnings.

  Had he felt something, any kind of connection between him and the ball? He couldn't be a hundred percent certain. He needed more data to understand the process the magic was using to provide his desired outcome. Jimmy didn't want to draw too much attention. He was wanted for kidnapping, after all.

  Murder.

  It was murder.

  He figured he could hit one more number, just so he had a nice fat wad of walking-around money. He couldn't use any of his credit cards or ATM card, not if he wanted to remain free. So, another three hundred and fifty dollars sounded about right. Jimmy dropped another ten dollars on thirteen. He couldn't help himself. Intellectually he understood he should have picked another number, but he wanted the other gamblers watching him to see how cool and calm he was. He wanted them to witness that his luck was perfect and shouldn't be questioned.

  Thirteen hit again and people actually cheered for him, Jimmy Tobin, the guy everybody usually ignored. He collected his winnings. The dealer congratulated him with a smile. Jimmy would learn later that big winners usually tipped the dealers, but even if he had known that fact he wouldn't have given the lady a dime. He had earned the money. It belonged to him, just as the magic coursing through every cell of his body belonged to him.

  Or so he had thought.

  The truth Jimmy quickly learned after that first glorious night was that magic was a ravenous, selfish bitch that required constant fuel.

  Blood.

  The magic required blood.

  And you have been only too happy to supply it, Jimmy.

  He had left countless bodies in his wake across multiple states. His victims were mostly the homeless drifters that seemed to populate the in-between places outside of large cities. One time he tried to harvest—

  Murder.

  —a prostitute, but she fought back and even with his magic she almost overpowered him. He never made that mistake again.

  The problem he had was capacity. He had become very adept at drawing the magic into himself, but he couldn't keep it level. It was like he was an old lithium battery, he could take a charge, but he couldn't keep a charge. It was immensely frustrating.

  Jimmy could keep just enough magic flowing through him to stay safe from the police. Glamour was the spell's official name in Tink's book, probably because she used it to project the beautiful façade she used to lure people in. But he was pretty sure in the end, when she and Lucy were facing off, her true self had become visible.

  Jimmy shuddered at the memory, the scary black doll eyes and lizard-y -looking skin. The thought that magic physically corrupted the user and that he would end up looking exactly the same as Tink had crossed his
mind many times. When it did he would remind himself that Lucy looked normal, and if she could use magic and still look human, then so could he.

  Blood-mage.

  That's what Lucy had called Tink.

  And that's what you are.

  He scrunched his face up, trying to forcibly eject the thought from his brain. After a moment it worked.

  Jimmy had been living in New Mexico the past few weeks. Well, living wasn't really the correct word; it was more like he was passing through on an extended stay. He had been drawn to the southwest state because of its reputation for mystical energy vortexes. He shouldn't have bothered. The whole thing seemed to be a scam built by aging hippies to draw in tourist dollars. He had spent two weeks travelling through the state hitting all the supposed hot-spots—Taos, Chaco Canyon, El Santuario de Chimayo—and hadn't discovered anything useful. No free-flowing magical energy wells that he could tap into to charge up his reserves, just a lot of hot, dusty canyons and plateaus.

  It had been a total bust, and Jimmy was planning on leaving the state in his rearview mirror, but first he wanted to fill up his magic stores because he was starting to run low. He had targeted a cluster of mobile homes at the end of a dirt road. The fabricated dwellings were weather-beaten pieces of crap held together with duct tape and bailing wire. The fiberglass and plastic shacks seemed to be the living space of choice in the poorer areas of all the counties he'd travelled through. And the inhabitants of the shabby homes were just as old and weather-beaten as the buildings, perfect targets that nobody would really miss. Jimmy considered them parasitical dregs sucking on the resources of society. He should be thanked for ending their existence.

  He waited until the sun had set and the desert became a black void, the moon just a sliver crescent hanging low in the sky. Not wanting the headlights to give him away, Jimmy parked the car about half a mile away and walked the rest of the distance. He had learned enough about magic to camouflage his approach to the cluster of tiny homes. If noticed at all he would've looked like just another shadow in the night. He was even able to mask the noise of his footfalls.

  The knife locked into place as he unfolded it, gripping the steel handle tight in his fist. He had the element of surprise, and the old woman who lived in the first trailer was smaller than him, so he didn't expect much resistance. The plan was simple enough, he would knock on the door and slit her throat the instant she opened it.

  When his knuckles were an inch away from the aluminum doorframe, a voice whispered from behind, "What you do with that blade?"

  Jimmy stumbled off the small wooden steps, falling sideways into the dirt. He barely avoided gutting himself with his own knife. The darkness that, moments before, had been his ally now hid a deadly threat. There was a spell that could give him perfect night vision, but Jimmy had never been able to make it work. So, he squinted into the blackness surrounding him, trying to see who had spoken.

  "Who's there?" he squeaked.

  Something massive moved toward him, and as it stepped from the shadows, Jimmy pissed his pants. The thing was huge, easily twice the size of the biggest football player Jimmy had ever seen. It was naked except for a leather kilt and it had mottled green-tinged skin.

  "You on Rez land, blood-mage." Enormous, hooded eyes glared down at him. "You don't ask questions, you only answer."

  Jimmy was certain he wasn't on a Reservation. He'd learned early that Native Americans have a kind of power of their own. The magic he had been accessing over the past months must've left some kind of energy signature on him, because he would receive hard looks from people if he so much as stepped one foot on tribal land. It spooked him and he made it a rule to avoid Reservations.

  Jimmy thought about running. It was dark and maybe that would give him an advantage. Who was he fooling? He would lose a foot race even before it began. So, he lay where he fell, keeping the knife pointed toward the ground. His mind raced, trying to think of a spell that could help him, but he had never been able to perform any of the flashy battle spells Lucy tossed around with such ease. If this thing was about to kill him, he had to at least know what it was, because to Jimmy it looked like something out of a video game—an Orc or some other kind of creature.

  "What … what are you?"

  It barred its yellow, chipped teeth and let out a low growl.

  Jimmy held up a trembling hand. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

  "Stop talking. Throw knife here." The creature pointed to the ground in front of its giant feet.

  Could it be a giant?

  Or maybe a Bigfoot?

  No, it would have more hair if it were a Bigfoot.

  It stamped one of its massive feet, causing the ground to shake. Jimmy hurriedly tossed the knife over. He glanced up at the mobile home. There was no movement from inside. Either the occupant knew about the big green thing or they were deaf as a post and hadn't heard anything.

  The creature picked up the knife and tucked it away in a pocket. "You come with me. Now. Or I crush you." It jabbed a meaty finger the size of a salami at Jimmy.

  "Where are we going?'

  "No talking. Come now."

  "Are you going to hurt me?"

  "Yes. If you not listen and keep talking."

  Jimmy stood up. His wet pants stuck to his legs, which made walking unpleasant.

  "Which way?" asked Jimmy.

  "There," the creature grunted, gesturing.

  "You want me to walk into the desert?"

  Moving faster than Jimmy would've thought it could, the thing snapped out a hand and flicked Jimmy's shoulder with a couple of its sausage-like fingers. Pain flared and Jimmy stumbled.

  "I say no talking. Go that way. Now."

  Jimmy rubbed his shoulder and sighed. He looked up the dirt road, toward where he'd left his car; there was absolutely zero chance of reaching it alive. Without any more comment, he turned and marched into the night.

  Chapter Two

  I had to duck to the side as a body flew past me. It made a horrible thud as it impacted the wall. My super-hearing let me know that no bones had broken, but I was sure that was no consolation to the poor guy who groaned behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. The otherwise smooth surface of the wall now sported a person-sized divot. The young battle-mage whose body had created the new feature was lying on his back, his eyes closed. He was still breathing and groaning, and he wasn't in any immediate danger of dying.

  A triumphant shout pulled my attention back toward the middle of the room. Morgan—muscles tensed and veins popping out along his neck—held the second battle-mage over his head. He looked like a professional wrestler at the end of a world title match-up. The battle-mage's eyes lolled around unfocused. Morgan had rung the dude's bell, hard.

  "Wait. Wait. Morgan, don't—" said Lucy, too late.

  Morgan used the strength in his entire body. Springing up and forward he threw his opponent across the room. The young battle-mage landed in a crumpled heap.

  Lucy sighed, and finished, " ... throw him."

  "Whew," Morgan smiled. "Did you see that?"

  Lucy frowned. "You know that this is just a training exercise, right?"

  "Well, yeah. But these guys are alright." Morgan gestured to his fallen sparring partners. "I mean, they've got accelerated healing."

  "It still hurts, dude," I said from my spot on the sidelines.

  "Training, real training, doesn't exactly feel good. It's how muscles grow," he said with a shrug.

  "Is that right?" said Lucy.

  She nodded in my direction, "Orson, why don't you step in and help Morgan out with his real training?"

  Morgan's smile faded. I stood my ground for a moment, scrutinizing the man before me. He was more than twice my age, but decades of military training had given him a muscular physique that would be the envy of any twenty-five-year-old gym rat. And he was strong. I don't mean weight-lifting strong, I mean lumberjack strong and yes, there is a difference. But the strength, the raw power he'd just exhibited, went beyond training and natural ability.