The Shadow Guard: The Carnival of Chaos, #2

By Elie James Wile

ONE VIRAL VIDEO TURNS THE MAGICAL WORLD UPSIDE DOWN.

 

Thea's prepared for revenge, but starting college and moving in with her best friend has put everything on hold. Life almost seems normal. That is, until a series of bizarre videos posted online mysteriously coincides with an unusual crime spree hitting her community.

 

One common link connects the events and launches her hidden world into the spotlight: all the illegal misdeeds are being committed with the help of energy magic.

The witchy world has gone public, and this novice Lightworker finds herself face-to-face with one of the culprits.

 

Thea must set aside her resentments and join forces with the very faction she wants to destroy. Together, they must disarm a greater threat, or centuries of their protected history will be revealed—and annihilated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Euphoria Publishing
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224481897

Book preview

Carnival of Chaos

The Lightworkers

The Shadow Guard

The Gatekeepers (coming soon)

For A.K.

Let’s meet at the spirit realm gate for a chat.

I miss you.

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What do you get when you cross an amateur witch destined to be alone forever—unprepared for college, let alone her legacy as a Lightworker—with an obnoxious amount of stubbornness and relentlessness, determined to try and figure just one magical thing out on her own?

A mess, that’s what.

Eyes closed. Deep breath. Focus all the energy into the center of the palm o the hand. It's warm. Vibrating. A tension building up until it can't be contained. Think hard about the intent.

Aim.

Release.

The empty soda can sitting on my end table crushes inward on itself. The aluminum splits. Droplets of dark, syrupy, caffeinated fuel leak out.

Not at all what I was trying to do. Aghh! Come on!

A composition notebook lies open next to me. The cover says Econ 101, but the only numbers inside are my tallies totaling the number of times I've failed at every witchy thing I've tried. Levitation, telepathy, shape shifting, healing... I scribble another tally in. Maybe it's unhealthy to keep track of how bad you suck, but this magic gig is no joke. I mean, Econ 101 came with a textbook as thick as my arm. Why can't there be some sort of Lightworker Encyclopedia—something summing up all the tricks and tools up my sleeves? Instead, I hang out in my room like a loner and try to figure it all out for myself.

Of course, there's no official book because we can't be seen as an official, uh, species? Some days, that's exactly how it feels. We're a completely different organism, fated to keep hidden. It may be the world's biggest secret—that I know of, at least.

I don't only degrade myself in my notebook. I take actual notes, too. I've tried to remember the spells I've heard, the strange ancient-sounding language used by others I've tried to speak myself.

Phonetically, I've spelled out lines like, Winiday off a torith so tie but I have no clue what it means. "Need day ray tot something something" sounds more like a toddler learning to speak, yet I'm pretty sure it's the line that split the ground wide open at the barn.

The barn.

I shake off the thought and focus on my current goal: making something, anything, rise into the air. I've decided it's the most convenient spell to learn right now. Think how cool it can be. I can be sitting on the couch watching a movie, realize I'm hungry, and float a snack over to myself without moving an inch. Witch goals.

But as of now, all I can do is break stuff.

I look at the flourishing yellow orchid hanging in front of my window. How'd I heal you and not accidentally rip you to shreds? Ever since the dumb plant made me realize maybe there was something odd about me, all my magical attempts have been destructive—some in the worst ways imaginable.

I think back to destroying the energy gate but not Shrike. Shrike murdering Sloane. Sloane leaving behind her wife and daughter. My family not speaking to me ever since. No one speaking to me, except Scarlett.

The familiar pit plants itself in my stomach. I screwed up. I don't know how or what I could've done to prevent it, but deep down, it was all my fault, and it could never be fixed. If only my memory could be wiped like Scar's.

A door closes somewhere in the apartment, and I’m sure it’s Scarlett. Our new home in Emmel Beach is a cozy two-bedroom with a huge kitchen and a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean, and when you open the windows, you get this cacophony of ocean waves and car engines. There's always something going on in this college beach town, but nothing beats the independence of being out of my childhood home. Scar knows nothing about me — not about the magic or about the horrifying events she went through. It's for the best. She's happier that way.

I turn up the TV to drown out any more noises of cans imploding. A kickboxing video plays on a loop. My punching bag sits a few feet in front of the TV as I'm instructed to strike it, but I'm on my bed, reading through my notes and trying to make any object in this room cooperate.

My notebook is filled with my own interpretations on how I've gotten magic to work so far. It's taken deep focus until the concentrated energy is practically ready to explode. Once I'm all charged up, then I know the magic is ready to take over. Reigning in that fiery, lightning feeling until my palm feels like it'll burst into flames is getting easier every day, so why aren’t the rest of my intentions working how I want them?

I try again.

I close my eyes, focusing my senses solely on the energy that resides in my veins. Now that I know what I am, I can feel it all the time. Before, I'd just feel jittery, distracted. I’d get chills randomly or think my heart was palpitating. Now, I recognize it for what it is: a supernatural energy flowing through my blood stream, through my nervous system, crossing the synapsis of my brain. It's always there, ready for use, but every time I try, it's with too much force, like I'm trying to pummel everything in front of me. Less peaceful breeze and more hurricane-force gust.

I let out a huff. Focus. My palm heats up, the energy swelling like a puddle about to overflow. I open my eyes and look at the crumpled can. Lift.

My wrist twists as I aim my palm toward that side of the room. Right as I'm about to release it—

Knock knock.

I jump up to standing and the energy bolt shoots outward with no direction. It crashes into the punching bag, knocking it over, barely missing my hand-me-down flat screen. The instructors in the video tell me, Jab, cross, right hook.

Hey, Thea, Scarlett calls from the other side of the door.

I slam my notebook shut and let her in. Scar waltzes in dressed like she’s ready to go somewhere: sundress, sandals, a full face of makeup, and her blond hair blown out in cute, beachy waves. She surveys the room, noticing the toppled bag.

Working out?

I'm wearing pajama pants and a tank top, but I guess it suits the facade. Better yet, it gives me an excuse to look slob-ish compared to her. I nod yes.

She walks across the room and lifts the punching bag. Only then do I notice the huge slit in the lining. Cream-colored foam peeks out.

Taking out all your anger for Owen? I don't correct her as she touches the tear, seemingly amazed by my physical strength. When do we have to get you a new one of these? she asks.

I'm working out some frustrations, I tell Scarlett. It's not a lie. It just doesn't come close to the truth. Owen hasn't crossed my mind all week. My new identity, however, has taken over all my attention.

Don't let him get to you. There are plenty of guys out there who'd be interested in you and would treat you better. If this one doesn't work out, brush it off and move on.

Touching the gaping hole in my punching bag, I think I can try to patch it. Surveying the rest of the bag, I count the other patches and stitched up moments of rage. One, two, three. Four, five. This is number six, even though it was an accident. Eventually, the bag will give up.

I turn off the video as Scarlett plops down on my bed.

Sooo, she starts, and I feel instant dread. "Did you go to any classes this week?" She patiently waits for a response, and knowing her, she won’t back down until she gets one, so I don’t bother avoiding the topic.

I’ve had other stuff on my mind. It’s the truth.

You can’t keep skipping. You’re gonna fail. You don’t want that, do you? She fumbles with her phone, like she’s only half-participating in the conversation. I know this tactic. She doesn’t want me to go on the defensive, so by acting extra casual, she can get her point across in a more harmless way. I don’t know whether to appreciate her for the consideration or be offended by the assumption I can’t handle talking about this.

I’ll catch up. Don’t worry about it. I just needed a few days. I match her coolness with my own while I grab a change of clothes and disappear into my bathroom—disappearing from this conversation.

She calls behind me, I won’t tell Mom about it, but she has her ways of finding out.

High school graduation feels like yesterday. But somewhere between skipping out on awkwardly accepting a diploma on stage and right now—me standing in front of the mirror, taking in the bags under my icy blue eyes— we'd completely redefined our lives.

It took less than a day to gather my belongings and move them forty minutes away to here. It then took a solid week of sorting, packing, crying, and napping to deal with my dad's house. Everything felt foreign now that I knew more about my family—a long-running bloodline of Lightworkers, tasked with protecting the energy balance between the Earth and its energy realms. The mom I thought abandoned us had made the ultimate sacrifice for me. The alcoholic, neglectful dad—actually a warrior who'd braved the Shadow Guard in defending the energy gates. A warrior that faded into a hollow version of himself. No love. No magic. No memory of any of it.

A warrior that died not remembering who he really was.

The worst, though, was when I came across a drawing my four-year-old cousin, Penny, had made after Dad's funeral. She'd stuck it on the refrigerator using blue painter's tape.

Three stick figures having a tea party in a whimsical garden. Of course, she's four, so it was mostly jittery circles with vague disproportionate facial features, but she'd assigned me my dark hair and put an enormous smile on my face. Next to me, a much shorter girl with ringlets. Clearly, Penny. And next to her, a woman with bright red lipstick holding the tea pot. The letters m o M displayed legibly enough to be translated but crooked, misshapen.

Her mom. Sloane.

Back in my room, Scarlett throws out one more attempt at encouragement. We’re worried about you.

Standing at the mirror, I watch my vision blur with tears. Again. Every time I think of the woman who was my role model throughout my most confusing preteen years—the one who did what she could to take care of me, even while living hundreds of miles away—my heart breaks all over again.

It's not fair.

What? Scarlett snaps me out of my despair. You say something?

I sniff and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I'm going to take a shower.

I push the door closed and turn the shower knob to its hottest setting and wait for the lava to kick in. Sloane did not die in vain. She was there for me, and I will figure out some way, somehow, to be there for her. Her wife won't take my calls, even though I want her to know I feel as guilty as she thinks I am. And Penny. Poor freaking Penny doesn't have her mom anymore. She'll never know how great Sloane was at talking you down from a ledge after your first breakup, stuffing your face with ice cream and making you watch terrifying horror movies to prove how much worse it could be. She'll never hear her snort when she laughs hard enough and compare it to the fact she does the exact same thing. She's going to grow up being her mother's daughter and never recognize the similarities because Sloane's not here anymore.

I step under the steaming water and try to wash away all the painful feelings.

It's not fair.

I must fix it. How do I fix it?

Every compulsive thought goes back to one name. Ellis Shrike. He and his Shadow Guard are the real problem. If we Lightworkers are here to protect this mystical energy, then why are they here? It's like they started off the same way and then morphed and mutated into the corrupt, power hungry, evil cult they are today. Something has to be done about them. I may be brand new to my Lightworker identity, but if no one else will take a stand, I will.

I finish rinsing through my hair and turn off the water. Standing there dripping, I consider if I'm really capable of bringing down an ancient evil.

What's the worst that can happen? I lose? I die? So be it. I'll take them all with me in the process.

I square my shoulders and hold my chin up high. Thea deLarue. Shadow Guard Hunter. Now, there's a title. It's a little catchy but oh-so cheesy, I laugh.

Are you losing it? I feel like you're losing it. Scarlett's on the other side of the shower curtain, and I nearly jump out of my skin. She turns her head away from me while handing me a towel. I want you to see this.

Can’t it wait? I was hoping our heart-to-heart about school was finished, but she’s ready to push it more.

Nope. She thrusts her phone in my face, and it takes a minute to understand what she's showing me. It definitely has nothing to do with college. Instead, it’s a random user-uploaded video on the internet. Scar loves sharing these with me.

Who's this? It's some bald-headed guy—probably close to our age—pulling an audience together on the beach. I don't recognize him at all.

I don't know, Scarlett answers. Some stranger, but this is Emmel Beach. I notice our pier in the background, weathered from hurricanes. Okay, so this guy's a local. Watch what he does. It's the coolest trick, and I can't figure it out.

The video's off to a ridiculously slow start. I don't understand the appeal, but Scarlett's always finding the cool viral posts, so I humor her and keep watching. Mr. Clean isn't dressed at all for the beach. He's wearing a black trench coat and holding a dramatically ordained staff like he's some cosplay sorcerer. The waves are choppy and the sun sits high. It's all so very boring as he continues to call people over. At least we aren’t focused on me anymore.

Come see my power!

You don't want to miss this.

Have you ever met a god in person?

I chuckle. This guy's a loon. When does he get arrested?

Scarlett smiles. Right? She points to the screen. Here we go.

The self-proclaimed god