Creation Mage 6 by Dante King (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📗

Odette took Ar-undead by the length of chain that fixed him to one of the porch pillars. Xel severed the chain with a touch of magic, and then Odette led him away. I couldn’t help but smile to myself, watching the zombie gamboling and frolicking through the drifts of snow, totally impervious to the cold. He reminded me of a big old labrador heading out for a walk, albeit a labrador capable of twisting the top of your skull off and chowing down on your gray matter as if it was a bowl of ice-cream. It was not long before the trio had vanished up the garden path and into the slowly strengthening snowstorm.

I went and sat back down next to Nigel and continued to wait for my ride. The two of us were lost in our own thoughts when a huffing and puffing from inside heralded the approach of someone else. The front door opened, and Rick Hammersmith stumped out. Our fraternity brother was dressed in his usual traditional grass and leather skirt, fastened with the belt that was also his vector. His massive torso was bare. The only concession that Rick seemed to have made for the frigid conditions was a pair of enormous green earmuffs that were clamped over his dreadlocked head.

“There you are, friends,” he said in his deep bass rumble. “I wanted to catch you before I took off for home. I am heading out the back yard, from the cliff top.”

The big islander held out an enormous hand and engulfed first Nigel’s and then my own in a handshake that, had Rick been so inclined, could have broken most of the bones in our arms.

“I’ll see you boys when I get back, eh?” he said.

“You sure will,” I said. “At least you will see me. If Nigel gets tangled up with those lovely ladies on Figueroa Street though, I doubt any of us will ever see him again.”

“Wait, what?” Nigel said.

“You looking forward to head back to your island and the tribe, man?” I asked Rick, ignoring Nigel’s attempts at getting me to elucidate.

Rick rumbled his assent. “Sure, sure, friend,” he said. “Been a good long while since I have seen my folks. It will be good to get back out into the forge with my father, like we used to before I came here. It’ll be good to eat some of Ma’s homemade blue bark and shadow shrimp gumbo. I hope she doesn’t think that I’ve lost too much weight or that I’m looking peaky.”

I ran my eyes over the Earth Mage. The huge square shouldered elemental looked as full as a tick that’d been living at the gym. His body was covered in massive slabs of muscle and tattoos that looked like etchings in stone.

“I think that she’s going to see that you’ve been in a pretty good paddock, bud,” I said, slapping Rick on the arm. It was like slapping a telephone pole.

Rick chuckled. “I will prepare my father’s portable forge while I am away. When I return, we will unlock that white staff of yours so that you can converse with your ma.”

I looked over at the white staff, leaning against the wall next to my father’s black crystal one.

“It’s all good, Rick,” I said. “Unlike with my father, where we needed to chat with him about learning how to create more spells, we’re not really in a big rush to speak with my mother.”

I didn’t voice how I had felt a growing trepidation about talking to my mother over the past couple of weeks. Bringing this doubt to the attention of my frat bros was unnecessary, seeing as how I was yet to understand it myself.

“All right, well you guys enjoy your break,” Rick said. “See you when I see you.”

“Not if we don’t see you first,” Nigel said. “Which we most certainly will.”

Rick showed his tombstone teeth in an amiable grin and stomped back into the house, closing the door behind him.

“Bradley still around?” Nigel asked me when the Earth Mage’s heavy footfalls had faded.

I shook my head. “Nah, he left early this morning. Left a note by the coffee and waffles.”

Bradley had snuck off, under the pretense of a wilderness trip, to take part in an Avalonian cooking competition called the Great Yule Bake Off. Entering under a fake name and thaumaturgically disguised, he was hoping that, if he won this revered culinary accolade, his snooty highborn family might come around to the idea that the only son and heir of the Flamewalker wealth and estates actually wanted to follow his dream of becoming a world renowned chef.

Nigel looked at me. “There are waffles?” he said. “I didn’t see any waffles when I made my tea. I want a waffle.”

“There were waffles,” I informed him. “You wouldn’t have seen them because you were busy doing your hobbit yoga.”

“It’s not hobbit yoga,” Nigel said in a resigned voice.

“Well, whatever the hell it is, while you were doing your Swedish exercises, Rick was downstairs nailing waffles. You know once the big man gets into the kitchen you have to move like something built for speed not for comfort.”

Nigel stared glumly out onto the pristine snow that covered the front yard, turning the bushes and hedges into perfect blocks of white. Then he turned to me. “What’re Swedish exercises?”

“Exercises,” I said, “from Sweden.”

“And what’s Sweden?”

“Sweden is the country that makes the women’s volleyball tournament the saving grace of the modern day Olympics.” I  held up a hand to stem the inevitable flow of questions that were bound to pour forth from my genius fraternity brother. “Don’t ask me any more questions, you’ll find out all about this on your vacation.”

I fiddled with the capture orb that hung from my belt and now contained the dragon that we’d faced off against