Magia Rising

By Monique O'Connor James

New Orleans is teeming with warring witch clans. Their world goes unnoticed by the people of the city,unseen by the masses. Nixon was one of those people, oblivious to the battles brewing around him.That is, until his eighteenth birthday.
Abandoned and on his own after the deaths of his parents...he'd grown used to being alone. Now he's discovering strange powers, learning secrets about his ancestors, and falling for the wrong girl--or is she the right one? In this new world he can trust no one...even the dead tell lies. Friends are enemies,
and enemies hide the truth. Who can he trust? What's real and what's illusion?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monique O'Connor James
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301884681

Monique O'Connor James

I have two beautiful children and a wonderful husband. I've been writing since I can remember. After my mom died in 1998 of breast cancer, I couldn't write for several years - nine to be exact. The first time I put pen to paper again, it was instant therapy. I gain great joy from having people enjoy my writings.Thanks for reading and feel free to write to me on facebook!About the Books:I am going to be posting The Angel Chronicles Soon - Part 1 The Fallen. Of course this is my angel/vampire book, however this story has been the hardest for me to share. If you take the fantasy out, this is my story, and the first thing I wrote 9 years after my mothers death. The symbolism and truth in it is difficult for me to put out there, but I'm going to shortly. I'm doing another draft currently so look for it soon.Jamais Vu - Jamais Vu was inspired by my mom, who had an accident when I was baby playing with a loaded gun. However, Darby's psychic connections, her rockstar boyfriend, and the tale of dreaming people back from Death is fictional. This is one of my favorite stories.DeJa Vu - this is the follow up to Jamais Vu - Darby has no idea where she came from or who she is until she meets the characters in Jamais Vu. The story only goes deeper into the secrets of her past. It's a fun read.The Awakening - This story came to me while I was writing Jamais Vu, and I started it and then quit. After a few months, I picked it up again, and just started throwing ideas out. My husband told me I could never make it work...I think its pretty cool.I have a billion ides going on in my head, and honestly more important than making money, is that I have a following who loves to read my stories....I love to write...I know it's not perfection, but it IS a lot of fun.I hope the stories bring you joy, and you have a great time reading them!Monique

Book preview

Magia Rising

By Monique O'Connor James

Bayou Brew Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Monique O'Connor James

Published in the United States of America 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Monique O'Connor James

Cover Art by Elaina Lee and For The Muse Designs

Formatting by Dingbat Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or in part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

Magia Rising has been a labor of love. Since this was my first time stepping out into the world of self-publishing many people came together to make it work! The term self-publishing in no way describes the effort that goes into getting a book out to the masses when you do it without a publisher behind you.

I'd like to first thank Rachel Conerly and Kim Miller-Callegan for the hours of beta-reading and brainstorming. We had so much fun coming up with twists and turns for this book, and I couldn't have done it without you.

A huge thanks to my awesome editors Kay Springsteen and Traci Pollitt for your patience and guidance. It is wonderful to be surrounded by a team of people who care about my work as much as I do and who drive me to be better.

To Gunnar Grey thank you for leading me in the right direction and helping me get my work in front of the readers!

Elaina Lee, your beautiful covers have spoiled me. I can't live without your talent and artwork. Thank you for all you do!

As always, thank you to my husband, kids and my family for all their support and love of my life-long passion.

And finally, thanks to God for the words and stories and for putting people in my path who will appreciate them.

Prologue

The voices violated Nixon's brain, ripping him from his dreamless sleep. He shot up, his body stiff as he grabbed hold of the rickety metal bunk. Pressing his eyes shut, he shook his head, trying to turn the volume down in his mind. It was all to no avail. Maybe he was still locked inside the prison of a night terror. It wouldn't be the first time.

The smell of human waste and sweat burned his nose and verified the fact that the sound was real. He slammed his hands over his ears and dug his feet into the mattress, until his back met the concrete wall behind him. Where was all the static coming from? The vibrations emitted by the voices created a constant chatter in his brain and made the room spin around him.

He could make out the doorway, the entrance to the large room where he'd slept every night for the last couple of years. In amazement, he watched as a blue wave of light rippled from there toward his bunk in the far corner of the room. Nixon's breath caught in his throat as he realized the light was dialing in on the thoughts of each person it passed.

Where am I going to sleep tomorrow?

What's wrong with the kid in the corner?

Why is it always cold in here?

On and on, the voices came rushing at him. Men lay in cots next to each other for as far as Nixon could see, but none of their lips were moving. As far as he could tell, they were all asleep, or at least, pretending to be. So why were their voices polluting his mind? Sickness twisted his gut, growing until he grabbed the bedrail again and hurled onto the cement floor below.

A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped off the tip of his nose, but he couldn't feel it. The only one of his senses that seemed to be operating was his ability to hear, and then again, all the sounds seemed to be locked inside his brain.

He was still hunched over, his vision blurring as the man next to him pushed his covers back and pulled his legs over the side of the bed. Nixon couldn't make out his features, but his mind screamed, What the hell is wrong with you?

What a way to start your eighteenth birthday, Nixon thought as he grabbed at the bedding and pulled back toward the icy concrete wall. The roar of the voices mounted with each passing second, and to block out the horrendous noise he pressed his eyes shut and began to hum.

He could hear the men around him start to stir one by one, and when he opened his eyes they sat on their bunks or stood next to them. Every eye in the room was focused on Nixon and fear gripped him, giving his chest a twist as it stole his courage.

The noise had reached a level that was impossible to ignore or block, so he wrapped his arms around his knees and squeezed. He'd never experienced the kind of pain that sliced through his head and, at that moment, it took everything in him not to lose consciousness. This couldn't be real. Between the voices in his head, and the sound of his own humming, he heard their laughter. They were making fun of him, pointing and drawing nearer, and Nixon couldn't escape the panic that welled inside him.

STOP! He hadn't intended to shout, but the word expanded as it crossed his lips. Had the building trembled?

He glanced up, fear still paralyzing the rest of his body. He hadn't meant to anger or provoke them. But they didn't seize him or drag him from his bed. Instead, they stood motionless. The chattering from their brains had apparently ceased as their bodies became frozen. Some of their mouths hung open as if they'd been trying to scream. Others were crouched down protecting their own ears.

Nixon inhaled, thankful that the world had gone silent again, and then he saw it again. The blue light pulsated across the room, and as it passed each of the men, they collapsed and were forced into a deep sleep.

Chapter 1

Nixon's boot scraped against the curb as he shuffled down Basin Street. The vibration drilled into his body, reminding him of the eerie emptiness that had been taking over him for the last few weeks. He closed his eyes for a bit and inhaled the familiar smell of seafood cooking somewhere close. It had just rained and under the haze of dark clouds the aroma lingered, making him hungry. The French Quarter didn't resemble the place he'd been using for years as an escape from the pains of reality.

He'd walked so long, trying to clear his head, that he'd wandered out of the Quarter and could see St. Louis Cemetery's whitewashed walls. A jazz band was playing on the corner, and he stopped to drop some change in the open guitar case. He gazed at each one of the musicians as he passed. They all had that look, especially the old man holding the saxophone. This wasn't the first time he'd seen that look. A heavy glaze moved across the man's eyes, and his head appeared to become too cumbersome for his shoulders as it fell forward. He continued to blow into the instrument, but Nixon knew it was just instinct that drove him now, because his mind was numb, putty in Nixon's hands if he wished it that way.

The musician's head snapped back into place, and he glanced around discreetly, as though he were wondering if anyone else had noticed his lapse. Nixon pushed his hand into the brick wall behind him to brace himself for what he knew he would feel now. When his mind was no longer reeling, he headed toward the cemetery, leaving the jazz band under the street sign.

This wasn't the first time he'd watched someone become completely detached from reality in his presence. He'd only turned eighteen three weeks ago, and from that day forward, people seemed to lose their bearings when he was near. He'd grown to hate--no fear the way his knees went weak when he saw the transformation he caused in his fellow humans. The only thing he'd figured out for sure was that if he wasn't careful his thoughts would become their thoughts, and they'd act on those things. He'd seen it for himself and spent days trying to prevent it from happening again.

Pigeons huddled around a half-eaten hamburger someone had dropped against the curb. As he thought about the way his life had changed over such a short time, he aimlessly kept up his pace, his eyes fixated on them. The birds were still pecking at the ground, apparently oblivious to his presence, until Nixon shuffled through the flock. They flew off screeching their displeasure, but he wasn't concerned with their protest. All he could think of was the first time he'd noticed a subtle change in who he was and the fact that it had been his eighteenth birthday.

Nixon had been living in a shelter on Rampart and working with a crew that cleaned up the bars along Bourbon Street once the crowds cleared out every morning. The boss was a guy named Flint Coburn who wasn't but a year or two older than Nixon.

That morning, weeks ago, as he'd stood watching Flint climb out of his brand new pickup, he'd wondered what it would be like to own his own car. He'd been unable to peel his eyes away from the vehicle as he imagined what a nice apartment Flint must have. Nixon had never seen the place, but there had been talk about the big screen TVs and new furniture. He had envied him, because he'd probably never know what it was like to get out of the shelter.

Nixon shook the thought away as a car zoomed past nearly clipping him with its bumper. He stepped up on the curb and kicked at the leaf litter as he pushed on towards the cemetery. His mind was spinning, not allowing him the reprieve of eluding his thoughts. As he brushed past a group of azalea bushes that were just beginning to bloom, his foggy thoughts pushed out their pungent aroma and went back to the day he'd met Flint.

Flint had stepped out of the shiny, red vehicle with that same lost look in his eyes and then quickly seemed to refocus his glance on Nixon. Hey Trudeau. Flint had taken a step closer and playfully pushed Nixon's shoulder, breaking him from his own trance.

Nixon finally looked away from the truck and ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't respond but gave Flint his full attention.

I'm looking for a roommate. You interested?

Nixon watched the way the other man coolly leaned against the fender of the Chevy. He wouldn't fully understand he'd pushed his thoughts into Flint's mind then. It would take other circumstances and more evidence before he could see the sequence of events that was unfolding. Of course, he had accepted Flint's offer and he'd been staying with him in his swanky pad ever since. The best part was that the apartment was located on St. Charles and Nixon didn't need a vehicle to get just about anywhere in the world he wanted to be.

He squashed the thoughts once again, pushing them to the dark reaches of his mind and stepping up to the stone wall. Moss had taken over and crept over the top, lending to the eerie feel of the place. This opening had once just been a crack, but it had grown to nearly man-size proportions and Nixon squeezed through it scraping his shoulder against the concrete. The fresh wound sent a jolt of pain through him, but he ignored it and righted himself on the other side of the wall.

He'd come here many times when he'd needed to get away from the torment that could sometimes be his reality. The first time had been the night his parents died, the night of the fire two years ago when he'd lost it all. A memory of his father standing at the grill on a summer afternoon teased his consciousness and his steps faltered. He bit at the skin on his thumb and pushed forward. Forgetting the past was much easier than reliving it.

He passed the oven vault tombs with their arched shapes and rough brick exteriors, but he didn't stop there. The graves were packed so tightly into the place that Nixon could lose himself mentally and physically if he ran in any direction. Being lost would be a blessing, so he sprinted down the rows, ducking into tiny crevices between graves until his lungs burned and his legs ached. If he ran fast enough, maybe he could outrun the way people stared at him and the noise that littered his mind.

For the past few weeks, he had been hearing things that he'd become sure were the thoughts of the people who surrounded him. He'd done everything in his power to block them out, trying to allow the sound of the city with its cars and tourists to separate him from the voices that were trying to drive him mad. Maybe none of it was actually happening, and he was just losing his mind. After all, since the death of his parents he'd spent his nights in the shelter with drug addicts and drunks, hunkered in the corner of a building that smelled of urine and sweat. Surely, it had done something to his brain, and he was teetering on the edge of sanity.

Nixon stopped running and let his body fall against one of the tombs. He moved his hands over his face, trying to erase thoughts of his mental stability. Whatever was going on with him, he couldn't fix it now, and he wanted to think of anything besides his sanity.

He looked up at the tomb where he sat. There was something divine in the gothic nature of the cemeteries in New Orleans. There was no flow or rhythm to the shapes of the crypts that surrounded him. Some of the graves were vaulted monsters decorated with anchors and crosses. They created boundaries around the box tombs and coping graves that sat lower to the ground covered in ivy.

The tomb where he'd chosen to rest had a pitched roof and some of the bricks were crumbling. He'd parked himself on the small steps which created access to the opening of the structure, and minutes later he was still trying to catch his breath. He twisted his body so he could examine the plaster and brick. The name Dubois was emblazoned across the top in