Read Online Blue Moon by Cindy Lynn Speer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cindy Lynn Speer
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leaked. In fact, he was not entirely sure he wanted her. He loved her, true, but she liked to make things difficult for her little boy.
He knelt by the chalk pattern he had drawn on the asphalt of the abandoned parking lot. The recently boarded-up building stood between him and the highway. Behind him, it was all trees. The asphalt, although cracked, made a perfect place to cast spells, being both reasonably flat and easy to draw on.
It was night, and the only illumination here was a single light by the back door of the building. There were others in the parking lot out front, meant to scare away the bad guys; he supposed the owner was still trying to sell the place. He didn't know and didn't care.
He had soaked the chalk in magic and allowed it to dry. He put the stub in its pouch then rubbed the powder from his fingers into his cheeks. The skin would be rough for as long as he owned this body, and it would be cheaper, magically, to move to another than to continue using magic to make it look repaired. He thought perhaps, when the blue moon came and all his magic was restored, he could take away all this body's scars. He liked it—it was far handsomer and better made than the one he had been born with, and it had an affinity for the magical most didn't anymore.
He sighed and removed some cut stones from another pouch, placing them on intersecting lines. It did not matter. Days and years moved swiftly, and he'd wear out this body soon enough and have to find another.
Sabin hummed softly under his breath. Amber in the east and amethyst to the west. Night and day and rise and set. The cool electric light caught the facets, and his mind was lost in them for a time, fragmented. Eventually, he pulled himself together and placed a fist-sized ruby to the north and a counterpart sapphire to the south. The last stone he placed in the center. It was like shadow, with no real edges, no gloss to catch the light. Any shadow it threw was absorbed into its form, and it sat there as if it did not exist.
He cut his hand and dripped blood on the shadow stone. It did not react in any way, so he had to take it on faith he had done right.
Sabin stood and paced around the circle of stones. He whispered as he walked, strange old words that had long ago lost their meaning. This was not his true magical talent, making a soul call; his true gift was a strange one. He could move souls from one body to another. His other magics were weak—pitiful, really—but he considered that a flaw of the parched world he lived in.
He had only a little magic left, about two jam jars full, found in a rare buried pocket of a cracked and dried-out ley line, but it ought to be enough to last him until the full moon.
He opened one jar with great reverence. Magic had not started out as a tangible. He remembered when it was as light as air, when you could breathe magic, feel it in the thrum of life around you—when magic had been a thing of provable faith. You only had to know how to tap into the great well of it that made up the core of the planet and you could do anything. There were rules, of course, always rules, but the magic had been worth it.
Sabin remembered—he thought, but was not sure for it had been many, many years ago—lying out beneath the stars with his mother.
"Listen, Sabin,” she whispered in her Shadow voice. “Feel the ley lines beneath you. If you close your eyes you can see them running under the ground, pounding in time with your own heart."
Now, for what little magic was left to survive, it had to be bound to the tangible. Water was the best medium—it could sink into things, it could be doled out with a dropper. He took a spoon from his pocket and dripped out a tiny bit on top of the rock. It mixed with his blood and glowed redly. The redness spread along the drawn lines. He needed to keep thinking of her, to give the spell focus.
Sabin paused, and tried to remember more of his mother. What she had done to cause her name to be
He knelt by the chalk pattern he had drawn on the asphalt of the abandoned parking lot. The recently boarded-up building stood between him and the highway. Behind him, it was all trees. The asphalt, although cracked, made a perfect place to cast spells, being both reasonably flat and easy to draw on.
It was night, and the only illumination here was a single light by the back door of the building. There were others in the parking lot out front, meant to scare away the bad guys; he supposed the owner was still trying to sell the place. He didn't know and didn't care.
He had soaked the chalk in magic and allowed it to dry. He put the stub in its pouch then rubbed the powder from his fingers into his cheeks. The skin would be rough for as long as he owned this body, and it would be cheaper, magically, to move to another than to continue using magic to make it look repaired. He thought perhaps, when the blue moon came and all his magic was restored, he could take away all this body's scars. He liked it—it was far handsomer and better made than the one he had been born with, and it had an affinity for the magical most didn't anymore.
He sighed and removed some cut stones from another pouch, placing them on intersecting lines. It did not matter. Days and years moved swiftly, and he'd wear out this body soon enough and have to find another.
Sabin hummed softly under his breath. Amber in the east and amethyst to the west. Night and day and rise and set. The cool electric light caught the facets, and his mind was lost in them for a time, fragmented. Eventually, he pulled himself together and placed a fist-sized ruby to the north and a counterpart sapphire to the south. The last stone he placed in the center. It was like shadow, with no real edges, no gloss to catch the light. Any shadow it threw was absorbed into its form, and it sat there as if it did not exist.
He cut his hand and dripped blood on the shadow stone. It did not react in any way, so he had to take it on faith he had done right.
Sabin stood and paced around the circle of stones. He whispered as he walked, strange old words that had long ago lost their meaning. This was not his true magical talent, making a soul call; his true gift was a strange one. He could move souls from one body to another. His other magics were weak—pitiful, really—but he considered that a flaw of the parched world he lived in.
He had only a little magic left, about two jam jars full, found in a rare buried pocket of a cracked and dried-out ley line, but it ought to be enough to last him until the full moon.
He opened one jar with great reverence. Magic had not started out as a tangible. He remembered when it was as light as air, when you could breathe magic, feel it in the thrum of life around you—when magic had been a thing of provable faith. You only had to know how to tap into the great well of it that made up the core of the planet and you could do anything. There were rules, of course, always rules, but the magic had been worth it.
Sabin remembered—he thought, but was not sure for it had been many, many years ago—lying out beneath the stars with his mother.
"Listen, Sabin,” she whispered in her Shadow voice. “Feel the ley lines beneath you. If you close your eyes you can see them running under the ground, pounding in time with your own heart."
Now, for what little magic was left to survive, it had to be bound to the tangible. Water was the best medium—it could sink into things, it could be doled out with a dropper. He took a spoon from his pocket and dripped out a tiny bit on top of the rock. It mixed with his blood and glowed redly. The redness spread along the drawn lines. He needed to keep thinking of her, to give the spell focus.
Sabin paused, and tried to remember more of his mother. What she had done to cause her name to be
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