Runaway magic, p.1
Runaway Magic, page 1
Runaway Magic
GUARDIANS OF BOSTON
BOOK ONE
ZILE ELLIVEN
Copyright © 2024 by Zile Elliven
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 art by Leigha Wolffe-Stoirm
Editing by Aspen Tree E.A.S.
www.aspentreeeas.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Disclaimer
Preface
1. The Boy
2. Fourteen
3. The Boy
4. Fourteen
5. Cym
6. Fourteen
7. Marshall
8. Fourteen
9. Cym
10. Marshall
11. Cym
12. Cym
13. Marshall
14. Fourteen
15. Fourteen
16. Cym
17. Cym
18. Cym
19. Marshall
20. Cym
21. Fourteen
22. Cym
23. Fourteen
24. Cym
25. Cym
26. Fourteen
Author’s Note
Also by Zile Elliven
To all of the readers who stuck with me through the first incarnation of this book. Your support and encouragement are the only reasons I made it this far.
Disclaimer
Sadly, this is a work of fiction. Unless the men with the lovely drugs and darling white coats say otherwise, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the patient’s—ahem—author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is a coincidence. But if you want, feel free to do as I do and believe with all your heart that, in some dimension or under some fairy hill, they are in fact real. Because it makes life more fun that way.
Preface
Hi everyone! I wanted to drop an FYI here to prevent any potential misunderstandings.
A chapter or so into this book, a small number of you may find yourself thinking, “This is incredibly familiar. Did this author plagiarize this story???” The answer is an unequivocal NOPE! I wrote a book very similar to this one, but on my journey of transitioning, I realized I couldn’t continue to write from a female point of view.
This led to me rewriting the entire thing with a male main character, which is something I’ve been secretly wanting to do for a long time. I got to take the first book I ever wrote, pour all the skills I’ve learned over the past few years into it, and make this puppy into something worth reading. And wonder beyond wonders, I’m actually happy with how it turned out. Shocking, no?
Anyway, thank you for getting my book and giving it a chance. I truly hope you all enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it.
Cheers!
Chapter 1
The Boy
If it got any colder, his bloody feet were going to start sticking to the pavement. On a good day, touching his bare feet to the urine-scented ground of the alley behind his efficiency apartment would have been unthinkable. But today wasn’t a good day—it was a running day.
The Boy couldn’t believe he had been so careless as to forget his shoes, but it had been worth it. If his choices were capture or cold, sore feet, he would always choose the latter.
They were getting better at finding him and figuring out how to lure him in. He thought blending in with the norms would keep him safe, but that had only worked for so long. His family wouldn’t be at the top of the food chain if they weren’t adaptable, and as of tonight, it was obvious that they were now as adept at navigating nonmagical society as he was.
He wondered how they had figured out the finer points of norm society. It was doubtful it had been the way he’d done it. For longer than he wanted to contemplate, he’d had nothing but norm books to keep him company. Mother had said teaching him about witchcraft would be a waste and that he could make do with the garbage norms read.
Fortunately for him, the books and magazines, so carelessly shoved at him by the servants, were his salvation. From spy novels to Shakespeare, from gossip rags to cooking magazines, all readable discards from the world of normal humans had kept him from going insane. As long as it didn’t teach him about the society that was his birthright, he was allowed to read it. It was from these books that he learned how to pick a lock, how to sneak past a guarded perimeter, and how to assimilate into a crowd.
He didn’t blame his family for locking him away. How could he fault them for wanting to protect the rest of the world from his unfortunate disability? He often questioned the gods in their decision to make him. Why on earth make someone whose sole power was to enrage others?
There were a few exceptions—some of the servants managed to remain (almost) normal around him—but since he turned seven, no one in his family could stand to be around him for more than a few minutes without going nuts.
It was a good night for sneaking around if one didn’t mind the cold. The cloudy sky kept the moon and stars from exposing his position. Creeping around the edge of a building, he did his best to stay out of the lamplight. It wasn’t hard—the residents of the neighborhood had busted most of the bulbs in the alley. Apparently, The Boy wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be seen.
He’d had to abandon most of his things this time—most notably his shoes, a battered paperback copy of Much Ado About Nothing, and an iPod he’d found on the sidewalk. It had a broken screen, but it worked even around his magical interference, which was rare since technology and magic didn’t play well together. There had only been enough warning to push open the window of his efficiency apartment and climb down the fire escape before they shattered his door. If he was lucky, they would think he wasn’t home. If he was unlucky, they would be fanning out to find him.
Not that he’d had much to leave behind. Today he’d spent the last bit of money he managed to get from selling his necklace—the last gift he received before his magic had manifested. His books may have taught him how to escape and how to cook, but finding a job that wasn’t terrifying hadn’t made it into the rotation. Cooking skills didn’t mean much without food to cook.
He pulled his thin hoodie around himself, glad he’d chosen dark clothing to wear that day. It would make getting away from his family’s goons easier—if you could call sneaking past an unknown number of people who’d been taught battle magic from an early age easy. They had all the magic his powerful and influential family could muster, while he had a black hoodie and no shoes. He was going to need a miracle.
“You hear that, gods? If you made me for any reason other than a joke, I could use some help right about now.” He kept his voice low, but the hopelessness in his tone was clear even to him. “Footwear would be a good place to start if you’re interested in suggestions.”
Hearing a shout behind him, he had no choice but to run blindly, hoping he could find enough darkness to cover his retreat. The sound of gunfire coming from his only avenue of escape let him know, without a doubt, that the gods were assholes.
Chapter 2
Fourteen
Agent Fourteen was having a night. He no longer had good nights or bad nights. They all blended together at this point. Everything that happened to him rolled off his mind like it was made of a hard, rubbery substance. He could still feel, but what he felt no longer mattered to him, as if it were happening to another person.
Nothing was wrong with his mind, though. No matter what they had done to him, his mind was as agile as ever. It was what made him such an asset to The Company. No morals and a quick mind—how many times had he heard that? Usually, right before a mission they’d have to make him forget.
He rubbed the scar on his left hand absently. One day he’d woken up, and it was just there without any explanation.
There had been something inside him once. He didn’t know what, but there was a hole that had been empty for so long that he didn’t notice it anymore. Thinking about it made his stomach roll, so he’d stopped that train of thought long ago.
What Agent Fourteen was thinking right now was that his handlers were idiots.
Only they would think of scheduling an assassination with the intended target. They claimed to have wanted a meeting beforehand to get intel, but Fourteen knew the truth. They’d wanted to gloat. Unfortunately for them, it turned out the target wasn’t as stupid as Steve and Frank had hoped and had brought snipers of his own.
Fourteen had managed to eliminate the target because he knew how to do his fucking job, unlike the two rapidly cooling meat suits who used to be his handlers. There was still the small matter of being currently pinned down by gunfire behind a trash bin, but it was manageable. He was nothing if not creative.
As he was weighing his options, a small body came barreling toward him, nearly landing in his lap. His knife was at the person’s throat before he even considered the action.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize this hiding spot was taken.” The soft voice was at odds with the situation. Paying no attention to the knife, the person looked around, possibly searching for a less-populated part of the alley.
“Are you with the smugglers?” Fourteen asked slowly, not relaxing his grip on the knife.
“The only thing I’m smuggling right now is me.
There was just enough light for him to see the person crane their neck and survey their surroundings. Fourteen was used to being ignored. It was something he usually cultivated, but, at the moment, he found it irritating.
He was fairly certain the tiny, hooded figure crouched next to him was not part of the mission, just a random child in the wrong place. In his line of work, fairly certain wasn’t good enough, but he didn’t hold weapons on children. He tucked the knife back into his jacket.
Fourteen gestured with his gun hand to the dead bodies littering the alley. “Go smuggle yourself somewhere else. This is no place for a kid.”
The moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing the bloodstained corpses into sharp relief.
Fourteen could tell when the kid’s eyes landed on the heap of bodies two yards in front of them because they let out a squeak and hastily scooted backward until they hit the wall next to him. The movement knocked the child’s hood free of their head, allowing a shower of long, baby-white hair to cascade past an androgynous face.
“You’re right, I should probably go.” The kid pulled their hood back up, stuffed their hair inside, and made to stand up, but Fourteen knocked their legs out from under them with the butt of his rifle just in time to keep the kid’s head from getting blown off by a flurry of renewed gunfire.
“For fuck’s sake! Stay low,” Fourteen snapped and returned fire with more gusto than he usually did—children didn’t belong on the battlefield regardless of what The Company thought.
“Sorry! Sorry.” Sprawled out on the asphalt, the kid struggled to pull themself back to a crouching position.
“This isn’t part of the mission. This isn’t what I do,” he muttered to himself.
“What isn’t your job?”
“Keeping people alive.” Fourteen’s hand gripped his rifle tightly, and he wondered why he had even bothered to knock the kid out of harm’s way. If he’d done nothing, they would be dead, and he would be free to complete protocol and present himself for debriefing.
“Oh. That’s okay. I wasn’t asking you to.” The kid made as if to creep off in the opposite direction they had come from.
Again Fourteen stopped them with the butt of his rifle. “Not that way, idiot. That’s where the bullets are coming from.”
“True,” they conceded. “But it’s also where my pursuers aren’t coming from, so I’m going that way.”
In the patchy darkness, Fourteen could see the kid’s shoulders shaking, but from their tone of voice, they could have been telling him directions to the post office. They were an odd little thing.
He looked them over, squinting at their bare, most likely battered feet, and he felt something flutter against the icy prison around his soul. He didn’t know why he was even considering this. He should just leave them here. On the other hand, they were small enough to fit in his equipment bag. If Fourteen took out the rest of the C4, it was possible he wouldn’t notice the difference.
“Do you mind?” The kid poked the gun blocking his way. “I really don’t want to involve you in this. It would be better for you if they don’t notice you.” They’d had to raise their voice to be heard over the increased gunfire peppering the trash bin in front of them. The members of the cartel were getting impatient, and if Fourteen didn’t do something soon, they would come to him.
Fourteen threw a grenade in the direction of the gunfire. He waited for the screams to die before he said, “You’re worried about me.” It was a statement, not a question.
It was a first for him—someone worrying over his welfare. The fluttering grew stronger, but he continued to push it back. Sentiment was useless baggage in a fight, and he’d had it beaten out of him long ago. Every now and then, a whisper of his former self piped up, but he would crush it as soon as it showed up. He had neither the time nor the desire to feel. But that didn’t explain why he was planning to go off-book to rescue a helpless civilian.
“Here.” Fourteen threw his equipment bag at the kid, and it knocked them against the wall. The muffled curse the kid let out was more masculine than Fourteen was expecting. Were they a him?
They struggled under the weight of the bag as it threatened to put them on their ass. Enormous eyes peeked over the bag in hurt surprise. “What was that for?”
“You carry that, so I can keep my hands free. When I say run, you run back the way you came. I’ll cover us.” Fourteen hefted his rifle.
“I already told you—”
“Run!” Fourteen rose, grabbed a handful of the kid’s hoodie, and yanked them to their feet. When the kid didn’t respond, he flung them back down the alley and then pressed the detonator in his pocket.
The abandoned warehouse exploded, showering everything in flaming debris. It should be all the distraction he would need to retrieve what he needed and shepherd the kid to safety. Then he would ditch them at the nearest bus station.
Fourteen darted out to the bodies of his handlers and rifled through Steve’s pockets until he found what he was looking for. When he turned and saw the kid standing where he left them, he growled, “Move!”
The kid took off like a frightened—if overburdened—bunny in the proper direction, but Fourteen had to keep shoving at the bag slung over their shoulder to keep them moving. At one point he considered hoisting the kid and the bag over his shoulder, but when they turned onto the next street they found a renewed interest in running. The kid was still going too slow for Fourteen’s liking, though.
Fourteen pulled the bag out of the kid’s arms so it wouldn’t weigh them down, and he ran down the sidewalk with them side by side, their pace matching, all hesitance gone. Fourteen thought he might have to help them, considering the state of the kid’s feet, but they kept up.
Fourteen was glad he didn’t have to carry them. He hated touching people. Random touches always felt like such a violation to him, and it was his one small rebellion against The Company. They controlled all aspects of his life, but he chose when and how he was touched. It was common knowledge in Storage that the last person to clap him on the back had gotten their arm broken in three places.
Fourteen waited until the kid began to stagger and gasp before he searched for a suitable hiding spot to allow them to catch their breath. When he spotted a partially burned-out building tucked in between the shadows of two larger buildings, he said, “This way.”
After making a quick circuit of the old two-story house, he decided to set up their rest stop inside the boarded-up porch. He chose it because it had enough broken boards in it for him to see out of, but it was too dark for anyone to see into—well, anyone but him. His enhancements gave him a leg up in the senses department.
Which was handy. Fourteen’s enhanced vision let him know the whole place was so shabby and cluttered that, if anyone tried to sneak in through the back, he was sure to hear them long before they got close—if the house didn’t fall in on them all first, that is.
He pried a board away from the screen door, dislodging a tattered sign announcing the building was scheduled for demolition, and ushered the kid inside. After one final look around to make sure they weren’t being tailed, he followed them into the dim interior of the porch.
A squatter must have called the porch home at some point—it was filled with old garbage and the occasional skittering creature. The kid didn’t complain about their accommodations, nor did they look around for a comfortable—or even less disgusting—place to sit. Instead, they collapsed to the floor, shaking with exhaustion.
How long had the kid been running before they found Fourteen? Together, they’d run a fair distance, but they were acting like they’d just finished a marathon. He couldn’t make out much in the scant light, but what Fourteen had seen of the kid so far made him think they were underfed.
They were probably a runaway. The sooner he got them back to their family the better.
“Listen, kid. I’m sorry you got caught up in that mess back there, but I think the worst of it is behind us. I’ll let you rest for a few more minutes, and then I’ll get you to a bus stop. Get you a ticket back to your folks so they can take care of you.” It didn’t sound right as he said it, but there was nothing more for Fourteen to do here. He was way out of his element, and he wasn’t a nanny.
