Emergency Magic Chapter 1

The cool water was heaven against my scales as my serpentine body sliced through the depths. Fish and swaying strands of lakeweed were the only things marring my vision. That’s the thing about Lake Tahoe—on the surface, its waters are as clear as tears. You’d never guess how many spooks and deadly creatures are hidden in its depths.

Like me, for example.

My dragon form shimmered ghostlike between the waves, just translucent enough to dodge detection by those deep-water cameras the nosy research scientists at University of Nevada liked to anchor near the bottom. Loch Ness Monster? Please. Try Lake Tahoe Monster.

Straining against the pressure, I swam on. My dragon eyes cut clearly through the dark as the water deepened into a rich midnight blue. Even in this form, fatigue pressed in. That’s what happens when a universal plumber with no concept of time sends you to the bottom of a 1,600-foot lake. Once a day. For weeks.

But the roots of the world were rotting—and my boss had sent me to check the plumbing. We needed to find the source of the corruption before all Hell broke loose.
Literally. 

Whispers curled in my ears. Some Native legends and online conspiracy nuts claim Lake Tahoe traps the souls of the drowned. It’s only half paranoia—and half chain-smoking podcasters trying to stay relevant. What it does contain is a cluster of World Tree roots: a collapsed path to the Underworlds. One of many hidden under Reno.

Their outline shimmered in the deep. At first, they looked like a tangle of sunken trees, but the closer I got, the more massive they became. No human eye could see them for what they were—but to me, the roots rose from the abyss like angry, sleeping serpents. I pushed through the fatigue and dove deeper.

Ophis Lamprou had Rudy, Zan, and me on rotation, checking the roots for signs of sabotage. The ancient plumber was convinced someone had been poisoning the entrances to the underworlds to sever access. Never one to pass up a chance to make my life miserable, my boss eagerly volunteered me and Rudy for the job.

I forced myself downward, the cold gnawing at my bones as I circled the trunks. No mold, no rot—nothing but healthy bark. Same as yesterday. And the day before that. Ignoring the ache in my lungs, I gave the roots a thorough once-over, swimming along each length and spiral. When I was sure my boss wouldn’t make me repeat the dive—not even my energy drinks could keep my eyes open if that happened—I kicked upward.

The water warmed as I ascended. Propelled by relief, I cut through the lake with greater ease. My claws pressed to my sides as I broke the surface and took a shuddering breath. Bright sunlight made me squint. My muzzle reshaped into a human face, and I let the shift flow out of my limbs until I was just some weird chick skinny-dipping in broad daylight. My toes scraped the sand as I staggered toward the hot beach, massaging feeling back into my hands.

“Please tell me there’s finally something interesting,” a bored voice called ahead.

I pushed the hair out of my face and scowled at the lone figure perched on the brown-sugar shore.

Rudy lounged on a beach recliner that looked like it belonged in the 1920s, a red parasol fluttering over his head. His long, thin legs stretched into the sand. He wore his usual black, the perfect summer day making him look like a flamingo that rebelled against its parents and went goth.

He faced away from the water, politely giving me privacy. Not that I cared if he saw me naked. Pretty sure the reaper’s age hit triple digits—which meant nothing about anyone’s bare ass probably impressed him anymore. 

“I’m so sorry that you’re bored.” I reached for a towel lying in the hot sand and wrapped it around my torso. “Why don’t you take a dive next time?”

He scoffed and a glint of metal accompanied the sound. An ulak caught light in his hand, its curve razor-sharp. I swear he carried them with him everywhere he went so much that they had fused to his elegant fingers. The entire man was a contradiction of things—the deadliest ERS agent alive who also reaped souls had the face of a Abercrombie and Fitch model, complete with wavy blond hair and cheek bones you could grate cheese with. He ducked from under the parasol and gave me an even look.

“You know I hate water. And sunshine.”

I spread my fingers in a mimicry of a newsletter headline, and announced, “The Great Rudrakai the Reaper Finally Reveals a Weakness: Wading Pools.”

“Ha-ha,” he said evenly. He sighed, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Which, I suppose, it was. The underworlds, anyway.

Three months ago, a demon determined to break down the Gates of Hell had left a strange decay rotting the branches of the World Tree. That branch was now untraversable, by van or foot. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a fluke. The gates to Nav—home pantheon of yours truly—were now corrupted, too. We were here to find out why. Or die of hypothermia. Either way.

“Whoever is corrupting the roots needs a way to get around,” I said, padding toward my partner. “There must be a ley line running under Reno that’s allowing them to travel to the roots without our vans.”

“There are no ley lines under Reno,” Rudy said. “The roots had torn them out and eaten their magic a millenia ago, when the Underworlds were born from resident gods and human belief.” He took out a towel and began polishing his second ulak. “Our poisoner is likely connected to the Underworlds themselves.”

I shuddered. The thought of a culprit that had direct access to the dead realms of the pantheons gave me the willies. 

“Are we one hundred percent sure the rot isn’t organic?” I asked. “Maybe they need some magical pest control, not us hunting mysterious shadows.”

He stopped the perfection of his already perfect weapons to stare at me. “Do you really believe that, Chrysoberyl?”

He had me there, because I really didn’t. Two attacks on two underworlds that later became inaccessible seemed like too much of a coincidence. The whole nasty business smelled like deliberate malice—with end goals that made Asmoday look like Prince Charming. I shook my head.

“Fine. Let’s report back to Stonefield as see if he’ll send us down the sewer lines of Naraka—“

“Green?” he interrupted absently, his gaze on the sky.

“Yes?” I tensed, recognizing his too-casual tone for one of alarm.

“I think we might have visitors.”

Shadows spilled at my feet. Outlines of a dozen wings marred the sandy shore like splats of ink. Before I could think, my hand snatched the gun out of my pile of clothes and my feet were gliding into a combat stance. I looked up to see what hellish creatures were coming down on my head this time, and blinked in confusion.

Instead of an army of flying serpents descending to tear us apart, I was met with the round, vacant stares of a dozen birds. Not a threat—just pigeons. A few crows flanked them like overdressed bodyguards, strutting around as if they owned the place. I might’ve called myself a paranoid idiot, if not for the fact that these weren’t the usual trash birds from American cityscapes. They were clearly driven by some force, otherwise they wouldn’t be so far from their natural habitat of grocery store parking lots. Still, I couldn’t help the flicker of disappointment. When I saw the shadows overhead, for just a heartbeat, I’d hoped they belonged to a broad span of wings—and a certain salty demigod I hadn’t seen in a couple of weeks.

The pigeons landed in a flurry of wings and awkward grace, their feathered chests puffed out like they’d just flown in from Versailles. The crows hung back, perched like silent enforcers on nearby rocks and branches, black eyes gleaming with judgment. Meanwhile, the pigeons strutted right up to me—yes, to me—as if I were the guest of honor at some very strange skyfowl summit.

They waddled in formation and stopped a few feet away. I was still wearing my towel when the largest pigeon stepped forward. He was absurdly plump, with a neck like a stack of dinner rolls.

He carried a scroll delicately curled in one raspberry-pink claw.

I blinked at him. He blinked back. Nothing happened.

I just stood there, feeling like a soggy idiot at a Renaissance fair, until Rudy was suddenly right next to me.

“I think you’re supposed to take it.”

Feeling foolish, I did as the pigeon seemed to want. The scroll was surprisingly light in my hand, but the pigeon stared up at me with the weight of someone expecting a tip. Behind him, his entourage fussed—digging their beaks under their wings, shifting from foot to foot like they were late for an avian board meeting.

“I think he wants me to read it,” I muttered, glancing at the reaper. Where did these guys even come from?

Clearing my throat, I broke the wax seal. It bore the Spiral’s mark—a golden ammonite. Of course. Just my luck. The parchment crackled with ancient magic as I held it, tingling at my fingertips like it didn’t want to be touched. I got the distinct sense that if anyone but me had opened it, it would’ve incinerated them on the spot.

I unrolled it. Light burst from the scroll like a flashbang, and I winced as the words seared into view, bright enough to fry my retinas.

“Summons to the Court of the Spiral.
Dear Chrysoberyl Annabel Green,
You are hereby ordered to appear before the Spiral Committee to answer for the following charges:
—Trespass on restricted Hell territory
—Unlawful summons and subsequent release of the Prince of Demons
—Destruction of said Prince of Demons
The offended party, Lucifer Morningstar, will be present.
Failure to appear will result in further sanction.”

I stood frozen, mouth open, blinking spots from my eyes. The pigeons were already gone, satisfied with my stunned silence. No reply necessary.

Lucifer was suing me. 

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Emergency Magic coming soon! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F9Q2LN57