Bottomless Purse

By Karen Avizur

Attending Victorsson Academy, a boarding school for the conceited, cruel teenagers of rich parents, sucked for me. After being put in the foster care system when I was fourteen, I was given the so-called honor of a scholarship, and when I graduated, I thought I’d dye my hair platinum blonde before going back. But a local girl, rated as a bottomless purse like me, was almost murdered for her power tonight. She’s been taken in by Victorsson for her own protection, and I can’t keep myself away.

Despite having a relatively below the radar life with my magic, I’ve found myself drawn into the case, my anger leading the way. And yet the more I learn, the more dire I realize the circumstances are. If I don’t tread carefully, I might start stepping on the toes of some powerful people. But my lace-up combat boots are made for stomping, and I’ve never been one to back down from a fight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Avizur
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215103883

Karen Avizur

Karen Avizur grew up on Long Island, New York and ended up in Orlando, Florida, with stops in Connecticut, West Virginia, and Los Angeles along the way. She's been writing stories since she was twelve years old. In those early days, she discovered it was impossible to keep up with her thoughts by writing longhand, and ended up borrowing a 7-pound laptop from her dad, quickly honing her typing skills. After graduating film school, Karen moved to Los Angeles, where she worked as a film editor for several years while also pursuing her writing. She now lives in Florida with her dogs Malcolm and Kaylee, and spends altogether too much time either scrolling through memes or with her nose in a book.

Book preview

Bottomless

Purse

Karen Avizur

Bottomless Purse

Copyright © 2023 by Karen Avizur All rights reserved.

First Edition: April 2023

Cover and Formatting:

Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Acknowledgments

Firstly, many thanks to the those on /r/writingprompts. Two of the prompts I wrote stories for started Bottomless Purse and it never would have been written without them. Also, any and all upvotes, encouraging comments, and notes of constructive criticism, well, any writer knows they’re worth their weight in gold.

Thank you to all my knowledgeable friends, who are always generous in taking time to give a lesson in information they are fluent in. Beth Levendusky, Bishop’s bar is all you, and Derek Serra, thanks for your info on…hm. [REDACTED], because spoilers. Oh well.

If you’ve read my other books, you know of my science nerd friend Mark Barrett who, per usual, consulted on things like bismuth, electrolysis, and the wonderfully fun uses of fire (FUEGO!). And Tyler Sedergren, you were a great help with my questions on alcoholism. Also, shout-out to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s article on New Amish.

Chapter 1

My boss once described me to someone as a cross between Morticia Addams and Dr. Gregory House. You’d think that might be a kickass compliment, until you realize he was describing, respectively, my appearance and my personality.

My wardrobe is almost completely comprised of black fabric, I’ve consistently worn black eyeliner for years and, I’ll admit, I don’t always have the best manners. But in my defense, dressing like the cliché version of the witch that I am, combined with the demeanor of someone who is clearly choosing to sit alone at the bar, restaurant, etcetera, tends to get me exactly the kind of treatment from others that I want. It has worked since I was a teenager, it continues to work at twenty-five, and I have no plan on changing any time soon.

But working as a witch and security for a bar’s magic-on-magic fighting ring doesn’t just allow for such eccentricities; when I applied for the job, I hoped they were an advantage. And yes, Chuck Metcalfe, the aforementioned boss and owner of Bishop’s, a bar in the sizeable city of Rock Springs, New York, had taken in my appearance with a casual nod when he first met me.

Chuck himself was bald and a few inches taller than me with a solid build, which I suppose came in handy for throwing troublemakers out on their asses. He had a more casual look, a button up shirt with master rolled sleeves and jeans, with sneakers that I knew he wore for comfort, being on his feet all night behind the bar.

Word of the job opening had reached me through the grapevine, as it does with these things, from another witch that ran a shop I frequented for my herb garden. It was nice to get word ahead of time, knowing that the job hadn’t been posted online, where I would be just one more person in a vast pool of talent.

Sitting down in the one of two worn faux leather chairs in front of Chuck’s desk in his office, I’d handed him my resume. It included things like my education in witchcraft of various kinds, some basic martial arts training, training I did on my own, and magic I’d learned after college.

You went to Victorsson? he’d asked slowly. It was the first thing his eyes had caught on as he sat back in his chair, looking at me skeptically.

On full scholarship, I’d replied. Then my college major in chemistry and minor in healing to start a witch’s garden and sell potions.

He’d nodded once, leaning back in his chair and looking back to the paper. The reason that had resulted in a full scholarship? A particular rare strength as a witch that, while it had an unfortunate source, was only a plus on this resume. Though he had to know that I wasn’t a D student; even with my talents, idiots and slackers weren’t admitted to Victorsson. When he was those particular two words on the paper in his hand, ‘broad conduit’, with a knowing nod, Chuck’s eyebrows rose in comprehension, and I’d known I had the job in the bag at that moment.

That was almost three years ago now, and the work was entertaining, called for a variety of skills, and the two hours or so every night even paid well, so the gig was just as I’d hoped it would be. That combined with my potions business set me nicely in the tax bracket I’d always hoped for. I lived modestly in a small house, my four years at Victorsson rubbing elbows with the spawn of the wealthy leaving me wanting nothing to do with them or that kind of life. And if I felt like treating myself on occasion, I’d head out for a steak dinner and a bottle of wine or some exorbitantly priced plant that gave me a thrill to grow in my garden.

When I’d first come to the bar for that interview, I remember liking the atmosphere. Warm, clean, and comfortable, the dim tungsten lighting making it cozier. Most of the customers are regulars, since it isn’t a well-known place that brings in tourists. Even being a bar that hosts fight nights in the basement isn’t uncommon in a big city like this. But if you happen to wander in, there’s something about it that makes you want to come back.

There are a bunch of booths that work for small groups or for private meetings, which don’t decidedly cater to criminal types, but Chuck made it clear that as long as they don’t cause trouble, he wouldn’t let trouble find them. My general impression is that any cops that might accidentally find their way in would think it’s a spot that has more ego than it has a right to, and maybe it does.

Downstairs was run in a similar manner, but with an altogether different purpose, to which you would buy a ticket. Tonight was just like any other weeknight here in the expansive basement: loud, crowded, and hot. You didn’t expect it, the staggering square footage and high ceiling compared to the bar upstairs. Even with the wide space it was stuffy, and Chuck cranked the air conditioning so we wouldn’t pass out, but there’s only so much you can do.

And my outfit was as it always was, black pants and a t-shirt, lace-up combat boots, all matching my long black hair that I kept back in a ponytail. Far from the bandana and loincloth combo some of the other women vied for, as they eagerly grabbed the excuse of the stifling room to show off their well-sculpted bodies. Though I suppose anyone who works out enough to look like they do has the right to flaunt what they have, so I can’t really hold it against them.

Jewelry was not exactly something I went for in general while on the job, aside from the half-dozen decorative studs in my ears, mostly because I’d never been fond of it, but also for liability reasons. When you have a job where things could get rough, the last thing you want is a dangling target for someone to yank clean through the flesh of your ears, or bracelets or necklaces that could get ripped off and trampled or, even worse, work as a handhold if they refused to snap. That being said, my work usually consisted of the ‘spells’ more than the ‘security’ part of the role, since most who showed up knew what the rules were and that troublemakers were swiftly dealt with.

This wasn’t an underground fight club, aside from the literal part of the title that made it fun to drop into conversations before I clarified. It was like any tournament, with rules, scarce as they were with the waivers fighters signed beforehand. On the limits of what the city would permit, it was randomly inspected by a guy from up high who would make sure we were following regulations and that things weren’t getting too dangerous. But as far as things went for the consenting adults wanting to kick each other’s asses, I think objectively the rules allowed for as much as was necessary.

Tonight’s fights were standard as any other and were designated a night for all manner of fire and combustion. The pure silver circle twenty feet in diameter embedded in the floor was all the cage that was needed, to keep the fighters and ‘weaponry’, as it were, in and the customers out. Imbued by my magic, I maintained it through the fight. There was also a five-foot buffer for staff between the crowd and the fight that I maintained, for Chuck and me and the coaches, to walk around and have an unobstructed view of what was going on.

I wore two rings, one on the middle finger of each hand, black on my right and white on my left, that were the only weapons I needed. They were stored with enough energy to pack a punch far beyond that of my fist in case of emergency, like if I didn’t have access to my wand. But of course, I wasn’t the one fighting.

Well. At least on the nights that went as planned.

Chuck was always there walking around that buffer zone even before the wall went up, from when the people first starting traipsing in, having paid admission to part-time bartender George at the bottom of the stairs, right until the last of them were shoved out back up the stairs and onto the street. The bar closed on weeknights at midnight, fight night beginning right after, and going until about two a.m. The first half hour or so was for taking bets, scanning fighters for contraband, and writing up the names of each of the adrenaline junkies that were going to kick each other’s asses up on the board on the wall in chalk.

Another guy named Randall did that sort of work, a quiet type who tended to do his job here each night and then promptly take off after he was paid. My side of things was the magic that kept everything powered up and tidy, and I called it up with a gentle wave of my hand, bringing it to the edge of my consciousness. The first two fighters, Ricky Mercado and Mike Slater, were regulars, as were most who we brought out for the first few rounds, always wanting to save the best for later.

Chuck raged his excitement (and a fair bit of spittle) into the microphone as he riled up the crowd. A corner of my mouth ticked upward in a smile, always entertained at how into this he could get. As the volume rose, I drew my wand from its secure sleeve professionally handsewn into my khakis on my right leg, a sleeve that was on each set of pants I owned, to cast a small spell on myself to turn down the volume a bit for my particular ears. I needed to hear everything clearly, of course, and healing eardrum damage was fairly simple, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed concert-level decibels five nights a week.

The basic magic of imbuing the circles was something I could do without my wand though, since the spells were already in place and just needed charging. I charged the buffer circle with a press of my fingers to the edge of the paint that marked it, giving a green glow that slid up and over us all in a sphere, reminding the patrons to stay back.

Once everyone was clear of the line and out of the way of the barrier’s attempt to coalesce, it solidified. Then the two fighters took their positions on opposite sides, and I proceeded to imbue the silver circle, a more jarring, sharp silver sphere crackling up and over them. It didn’t hurt to get hit by it, any more than tapping your fingers against a brick wall.

Being thrown into it, of course, was a different story.

"Are you ready for some fire and brimstone?" Chuck screamed above the roar of the crowd. I smothered a smirk, but those who were here for just that cheered and roared in response. They regularly pummeled the barrier like they would a chain link fence in a cage fight, and I would mentally gauge its power to maintain it throughout the next two hours.

Then, with each of the warlocks facing each other, wands in hand, Chuck pressed a button in his hand that triggered a bell from the loudspeakers, piercing enough to be heard over the cacophony of the spectators. And they were off.

At this point in my job, I know the regular fighters pretty well. Ricky is more about speed and Mike is more about force, but they are just about level in talent and experience, which was on purpose. Well-matched fighters meant longer fights, longer fights meant more excitement, and that’s what these nights were all about. That and the violence, of course.

It seemed Ricky had been working on his aim and control lately, though, which was a new variable. He hit first, but only just, his wand calling up a finger of flame that he twirled like a cyclone at Mike, just as Mike gestured sharply and thrust a fireball at his opponent. Imperceptible wand movements triggered defense shields, as much as could be mustered in the milliseconds that could mean the difference between victory and loss. Anything that got past that would hit their basic defense spell, wearing it down until there was nothing between them and an incoming flame.

Ricky was able to dodge Mike’s attack more easily, it being a solid ball, which disintegrated on impact with the invisible wall behind him, but Ricky’s cyclone technique caught Mike harder. My eyebrows went up and I frowned, impressed at his new move. My guess was he’d either learned this one from a new trainer or he’d been studying up. Either way, he was moving up in the world, having only been on the fighting circuit for about four months now. Most fighters needed that long just to figure out their specialty and find their footing.

Mike didn’t hesitate, though, sending an X of fire in two top-to-bottom slices, wielding his wand like a sword, as Ricky sent another cyclone. Mike got another glancing blow that I sensed cut into his defense spell once again, but this time Ricky also got an impact in his shoulder. He’d ducked and rolled, a clean movement, but just not fast enough.

In the time it took for me to glance at the clock on the wall before looking back to the fighters, Ricky had thrown one of his more common attacks, a slash of his wand that produced a wave. But Mike knew Ricky well enough to expect this one eventually and, even though it was big enough to graze him again, he ducked out of the way. Then he did something that surprised me: he stopped, pulled up a shield to buy himself a moment’s time, and then gestured with his wand in a circular motion.

Pursing my lips in a grimace, I saw what was coming just as Ricky did. In the exact opposite anticipation of a soccer goalie’s preparation to dive, on the balls of his feet, Ricky saved his power instead of expending it on a shielded opponent. And then he leapt away from the explosive fireball Mike drove at him.

Key word here? Explosive. Ricky hadn’t realized the shield wasn’t just for an attack prep; the fireball burst like a Molotov cocktail, throwing Ricky into the opposite wall and crashing to the cement floor. His wand was fast, up and shielding himself, but Mike promptly pushed his advantage, slashing waves of fire at his opponent. Even as Ricky got to his feet, shoving more energy into his shield, he was on the ropes, and Mike didn’t let up for a moment.

I saw the moment in Ricky’s face when he realized he was beaten, but the fight wasn’t over until someone got hurt, everyone knew that. Otherwise, who could say someone couldn’t have made a comeback? And with a wince of anticipation, Ricky could only watch as a wave of fire tore a gash straight through his defenses and threw him back with a scream, collapsing to the floor. Chuck hit the bell (a button in his pocket, in this modern day and age) and everyone the crowd either roared or booed, depending on who they’d been hoping would win.

A nasty burn covered half his torso and the arm he’d been holding up in front of him, and Ricky shivered from pain as Mike let out a war cry, his fists clenched in the air, his wand held tightly in one of them. I dropped both shields and let their respective trainers (who also doubled as healers, perhaps unsurprisingly) enter the ring for their fighters. Ricky shouted as his injury was jarred when his trainer pulled him to his feet, and they stumbled off. The air was acrid, heavy with the stink of burnt skin and hair, but with a wave of my wand, I dispersed the tainted air up toward the ventilation system.

The fight that I guessed had the most money in on it with the bookies was a bout between a female and a male fighter, and it went the woman’s way, which made me smile. He hadn’t fallen easily, though. Even though it had been quicker than the average, serious bouts being more unpredictable in that way, the fight had been entertaining enough to satisfy the crowd’s thirst for the brutal fight they’d been promised. An hour and a half later, about half the patrons had already bowed out, throats hoarse from shouting and exhausted from energy they’d expended in the excitement, leaving only the diehard fans and gamblers, and eventually the last fight finished off.

Pulling the rest of the energy from the shields, my shoulders slumped from magically draining evening, I easily swept up the garbage from the floor with telekinesis, compressing it and shoving it into the large trash bin in the corner. Chuck was currently giving the evil eye to one last guy who was raging complaints, calling one of the fighters a cheat, presumably having lost money on the fight that he didn’t have. Chuck tried to avoid letting those types in, since they were a pain to deal with, but he didn’t know every face. I kept an eye on him in case Chuck wanted me to coax the guy out the door, but he eventually gave up and left, trudging back up the stairs, defeated.

When my cell phone rang and I plucked it from my pocket, my eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar number. Robocalls were horrendous, but they tended to stick to daylight hours. Swiping to answer, I lifted the phone to my ear and spoke, Yeah?

Nadira Eryn?

Yeah.

This is Headmaster Hughoc at Victorsson Academy.

My eyebrows shot into my forehead and, for the first time I could recall in quite a long time, I was speechless. What? I finally managed.

His sigh rattled the line with static. I know I’m not exactly someone you would expect to be getting a call from, especially at this hour.

No shit. How do you even have my number?

It’s in a file on my computer, Ms. Eryn, that’s all I know.

I rolled my eyes. It’s past two a.m. Forget why you’re calling me; why in the name of all that is holy are you even awake? You’re not as young as you used to be.

A terse silence that made my lips twitch in a smile hung on the line momentarily before he answered. Because I have a thirteen-year-old girl in my office who could use your help, Hughoc said.

My smile vanished. His voice was quiet and tired and worrying. But more than that, the context of that sentence sent something uncomfortable rippling through me. What kind of help? My voice was tight, and I tried to project my typical devil-may-care attitude, but Hughoc had known me too long to fall for that. He knew this struck home, and if it did so in the way I thought it might, I was on the edge of letting something flare up inside me