That final set of runes he’d carved over the plaque was a long shot, at best. He’d pleased the three weird sisters — their pause their tell – but his freedom would not go unpunished. But what was he now? Continue reading
Whisky looked over the shoulder of her Speakeasy moneyman and accountant, Smokin’ Fingers; Business had not been booming lately and she had a sense that he’d been dipping into the till at the same time he’d been cooking the books for her. Like the Scottish mage, he had become a liability, even if he was a lot younger and quite a bit more handsome. Continue reading
With a soft click of metal on metal, he snapped the brass tablet shut, whispering the final words to ensure its tight seal to the wall of the bootlegger’s walkway through the city sewer, for the next hundred years…or so.
“Ingress and egress, shadow between,
Passage do rest on the right sequenced three.
The spirit now locks it, twin set will it free,
As I do pray it, so mote it be.” Continue reading
“So this is it, The Scholarism’s Spell for transference to and from the hidden dimension,” a man in a slouch hat and thick leather coat said as he spun the dusty leather book half way around to a woman in a black watch cap and matching wool turtleneck. Continue reading
The plaque on Andrew’s lap hummed, its runes flickering invitation, and the boy dropped his eyes from the strangely familiar face flickering beside him as if in dappled shadow, drawing them back down to the characters carved in the cool, muddy brass; he touched the runes with burnt fingers and pursed his lips to pronounce them out loud. Continue reading