Ink & Blood: Tales of Awakened Magic, #1

By Leslie Claire Walker

In the shadows of the Bayou City, the unusual and bizarre snare the unwary. Enter the secret Faery underground.

* * *

Malek, the serpent from the Garden of Eden itself, will do anything to be left alone, but humans keep tempting him to join the world. When someone he loves steals his potent and dangerous blood, they hope for healing but risk a terrible death. Can Malek save them from himself?

* * *

Sassy high-school senior Beth is a trouble magnet. When she spots an unusual object in the house of a god, she needs to know more about it, and delves too deep. With the murderous god hot on her heels, she asks for help from the only person with a hope in hell of saving her bacon. But Malek doesn't help anyone for free. Will she be brave enough to live through the fight--and to pay the price?

* * *

Stacy works hard to be the oddball witch she wants to see in the world. Everyone at school knows. So do all the unique denizens of the magical underground. An actual faery princess popping into her life? Not surprising. A faery princess on the run, cursed with amnesia, and destined to destroy the entire Faery realm? Books and solitary practice can only teach a girl so much. The clock is ticking, and helping this princess requires special magic. Malek's magic. Can he and Stacy save the princess, her memory, and the realm in time?

* * *

Second chances are essential. Turn the page. Join these bold heroes (and anti-heroes) of the human world and the Faery underground…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie Claire Walker
• Release date: Feb 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201249144

Leslie Claire Walker

Leslie grew up among the lush bayous of southeast Texas and currently lives in the spectacularly green Pacific Northwest with ornery cats, two harps, and too many fantasy novels to count. She takes her inspiration from the dark beauty of the city, the power of myth, and music ranging from Celtic harp to heavy metal. Even in the darkest of her tales, a spark lights the way. Leslie Claire Walker is the author of the young adult contemporary fantasy series The Faery Chronicles, including the novels HUNT, DEMON, and FAERY. Her urban fantasy series, The Soul Forge, launched in in 2016 with NIGHT AWAKENS.

Book preview

Ink & Blood

INK & BLOOD

TALES OF AWAKENED MAGIC VOLUME ONE

LESLIE CLAIRE WALKER

Secret Fire Press

CONTENTS

About Ink & Blood

Snakebite

Blood To Blood

Phoenix

Silver Dust

Girl in Black

Reviews

Also by Leslie Claire Walker

About the Author

ABOUT INK & BLOOD

Second chances encouraged…

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In the shadows of the Bayou City, the unusual and bizarre snare the unwary. Enter the secret Faery underground. 

Malek, the serpent from the Garden of Eden itself, will do anything to be left alone, but humans keep tempting him to join the world. When someone he loves steals his potent and dangerous blood, they hope for healing but risk a terrible death. Can Malek save them from himself?

Sassy high-school senior Beth is a trouble magnet. When she spots an unusual object in the house of a god, she needs to know more about it, and delves too deep. With the murderous god hot on her heels, she asks for help from the only person with a hope in hell of saving her bacon. But Malek doesn't help anyone for free. Will she be brave enough to live through the fight--and to pay the price?  

Stacy works hard to be the oddball witch she wants to see in the world. Everyone at school knows. So do all the unique denizens of the magical underground. An actual faery princess popping into her life? Not surprising. A faery princess on the run, cursed with amnesia, and destined to destroy the entire Faery realm? Books and solitary practice can only teach a girl so much. The clock is ticking, and helping this princess requires special magic. Malek's magic. Can he and Stacy save the princess, her memory, and the realm in time? 

Second chances are essential. Turn the page. Join these bold heroes (and anti-heroes) of the human world and the Faery underground…

SNAKEBITE

HE WORKED BY appointment only. She was his last customer of the night.

Malek put the finishing touches on the compass rose and wiped freckles of blood off the woman’s pale belly. She’d chosen red instead of black and gray. The tattoo more than came alive. It writhed in her skin.

Good magic, she said.

Her words hit the downbeat of the death metal blasting from the speakers. Outside the green-and-black neon sign buzzed and flickered. SNAKE BITE, it said. Truth in advertising.

His magic wasn’t good or evil. Like dying, it just was.

He didn’t say that out loud. He couldn’t. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Happened a long time ago. He was philosophical about it. He considered his artistic talent the trade-off.

The writhing ink meant the venom in it had bonded with the woman’s flesh. Working its will. His will.

By morning, her transformation would be complete. She’d go to bed a woman with a missing kid. Tomorrow, that kid would be found whether or not the ending turned out to be happy. It almost never was.

He took her cash and pushed her out the door. Cleaned up. Pulled his knit hat over his shaved head, slipped on his leather trench, and locked up. He stepped onto the sidewalk and into the freezing rain.

Five feet away, traffic on Westheimer moved at a Saturday-night crawl. Hot tires slicked melted tracks in the street. A couple of crazy motherfuckers out on their Harleys, the roar of their bikes drowning out the loud drunks huddled with their smokes under the awning of the Margarita Factory next door.

Predators watched them all from the shadows, looking for easy marks. Watched everybody but him. From him, they kept a respectable distance.

He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his inside pocket and shook one out. Before he could tip it into his mouth, a pair of combat boots stepped toe-to-toe with his.

They belonged to Ry Weld. Five-foot-nine, a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, beak of a nose, lip full of silver. The kid shivered in a soaked and stained white tee and holey jeans. No jacket. In fucking February.

Ry hugged himself, waiting to be looked in the face. To be seen. Understood. Can I borrow five bucks?

Malek signed his words. Your pimp cut you loose?

Ry took that with more speed than others. He’d had a deaf baby brother. ASL had been his second language.

Kind of, the kid said.

Malek waited.

Ry averted his eyes. He’s in the dumpster behind Striptease. Throat’s cut. Five-0 is everywhere. I can’t go back there, man. I need bus fare or something. Get lost for a while.

He meant buy a can of something cheap at the corner store and huff himself high.

Malek shook his head. He gave the kid the same answer every time. Buy you dinner.

Not this time. Ry backpedaled a couple steps. Sorry, man.

Sorry for what?

Malek sensed the movement. The hard, fast breeze racing toward him. No time to turn. No time to block the butt of the gun that laid open the back of his head.

The world grayed out.

When the color washed in again, it came in waves. Of overwhelming ache in his skull and his wrists, bound in plastic cuffs behind him. Of blurs and lines as his vision refocused.

Windows. Painted black on the inside. Streetlight halos shone through the places the painters had missed. Stink. Spilled beer and piss. It settled in the back of his throat.

He lay on his side on a concrete floor. He made out the dusty legs of barstools pushed under a counter. No overhead lights. Only guttering candles. Eviction notice stapled to the nearest wall. Bloodstains on the paper.

Who’d snatched him? Somebody new to the neighborhood? Someone who thought he’d have cash to spare? Maybe some drugs in the back? For sure, they’d thought of his expensive equipment. It could be fenced.

Surprise, then, to see Ry straddling a wooden chair, arms folded on the chair back, his left foot tapping a hundred miles an hour on the floor. His jeans were still damp. He’d got himself a sweater.

Ry knew better.

Had to tie you up, the kid said. Sorry. Couldn’t help it. I know you can’t talk with your hands like that. That’s okay. We just need you to listen.

Of course there was a we.

A girl. Couple years older than Ry and skinnier. Red hair chopped into spikes, green eyes, freckles. Sweater two sizes too big. Jeans that hung on her hips. Brand new sneakers with the store alarm tag still on them. She smelled familiar. Sweet. Like cough syrup. And something else.

Ry cocked his head toward her. This is Lizbeth. She’s like you. Can’t talk.

That didn’t make her special.

She’s in trouble, Ry said.

She didn’t know how much.

Ry stood up and pushed the chair away. Its legs squealed against the concrete. The way he crossed to Lizbeth, how he stood at an angle in front of her, told Malek a couple things. Ry thought of her as his responsibility. And the kid loved her. Probably stole those shoes for her.

I’d’a asked you for help, straight up, Ry said, but what she needs, you’d never give without a price.

That could mean only one thing. His blood.

She didn’t know what it would do to her or she wouldn’t have put Ry up to this stupid shit. He couldn’t tell her with his hands tied behind his back.

He shook his head.

He fought when Ry hauled him up. Landed a solid kick to the kid’s knee before dizziness took him to his own.

Ry didn’t take his revenge. He limped over and hauled Malek to his feet. Dragged him to the chair. Set him in it.

The effort had Ry breathing hard. It’ll cure her, Mal. You get that, don’t you?

His blood never cured anybody of anything. It burned their veins out.

Ry leaned over him. Malek head-butted him with all he had.

The crunch of Ry’s nose filled Malek’s ears. Blood sputtered from the kid’s nostrils.

Malek sensed the darkness reaching up to claim him before it grabbed him by the throat and started to drag him under. A blade sliced his wrist. Dry lips sucked at the wound.

The girl knew what he was. Had to know.

She swallowed hard and greedy. Once. Twice.

The third time, she screamed.

The torture in it followed him into the black.

When he came to again, gray light crept through the clear streaks in the window glass. Wracking sobs carried from the far corner. Choking breaths, too. Ry’s.

Malek didn’t have to look that direction to know that Lizbeth was dead. He did it anyway.

She’d bled out on the floor. The bottom half of her body still lay in the congealing pool. Ry had hooked his arms under hers and pulled her to him. He cradled her in his arms.

He met Malek’s gaze. You did this.

Malek didn’t deny it. He stretched his fingers—his hands were almost numb—and wrote his question on his face.

Ry shook his head. If I untie you, you’ll kill me.

Malek let the statement stand. Fact was, he’d kill Ry anyway. He couldn’t allow what happened. He didn’t believe in bygones.

The kid was slow thinking things through. It wasn’t in his nature to consider all the angles.

Ry set his girl on the floor. He walked over, boots leaving blood prints. What are you, man?

Proof that the fucking up started before Ry and his girl hatched the plot.

The kid paced the length of the bar and back again. He stopped in front of Malek and hunkered down. Close enough to get his brains kicked in. He held up both hands. A prayer for time.

Let me live long enough to tell you what happened, the kid said.

Malek supposed he could do that. He nodded.

Ry pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open, rust-colored stain still on the blade. He slit the cuffs.

Malek rubbed his wrists. His hands. Returning circulation flushed them pink. He stood, knees creaking. Back stiff.

He looked the kid in the eye. Signed with stiff fingers. Spill it.

I only know her a week, Ry said. She was still present tense to him. She had this thing about you, Mal. Asked a lot of questions. Wrote ’em down. She said she was sick and it was bad and she wouldn’t tell me what it was, you know. Just said she needed a cure or she’d be gone in a month. I believe her. The way she smells…

Syrup sweet. Cheap high, cough syrup. Under that scent, the smell of blood rot. HIV. Untreated. The kind of smell most humans never catch until it ravages a person to the point of death. The kind of smell animals pick up as soon as it gains a molecular foothold.

Ry read the expression on Malek’s face. Yeah. You get it. And she tells me you have the cure. That you’re some kind of magic. I know that. Everybody around here knows you are. But not that kind. Not the curing kind. She kept on about it. I went along.