Excerpt from Pandora’s Box
Book Two of the Heirs of Cataclysm
___________________
Christopher G. Nuttall
Available from New Mythology Press
eBook, Paperback, and coming soon, Audiobook
* * *

Excerpt from Pandora’s Box

Chapter One
“I feel like an idiot,” John moaned as he walked down the street, “and I look like one, too.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment,” Scout said archly, “but no one will be looking at your face.”
John sighed. The outfit was almost a grotesque parody of the clothes he’d worn when Katrina had dragged him to a masked ball, right down to the sheer whirlwind of colors that made him look like a blancmange on legs. He might not be a sight for sore eyes, the nasty part of his mind reflected, but anyone who looked at him would get sore eyes. 
The mask, covering his upper face, was almost pointless. He’d given himself a handful of fake warts and scars on his jaw to mislead anyone who happened to look at his face, but he doubted anyone would. They’d be too busy sniggering at the walking jelly.
“Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but at least you look stunning.”
Scout elbowed him. Her dress was as elaborate as the ballroom outfits Katrina had worn, once upon a time, complete with a frame under the silk that ensured no one could do anything more intimate than hold hands, unless they were prepared to break the frame. Scout had covered herself from head to toe, then used cloth to make her breasts and hips look several times larger than they were. It looked almost as if she were wearing a tent. 
It was difficult to believe the girl he knew was the fancy woman in front of him, but… he shook his head. No one else would recognize her the moment she took off the dress and ran. Scout’s weirdling gifts made her hard to see even at the best of times.
John held out a hand, bracing himself as they walked towards the lodge. It was easily the largest building he’d seen in the badlands, five floors tall, with a surprisingly pretty garden surrounded by walls. 
It stood in odd contrast to the grim mining town around it, where men worked their lives away in hopes of striking it rich. He shuddered, reminding himself, not for the first time, that his childhood could’ve been much worse. The children he’d seen in town were lucky if they weren’t fetching and carrying for the miners almost as soon as they could walk, then working in the mines themselves when they reached puberty. John had heard tales. The town’s owners had trapped their entire population in debts they could never hope to repay, debts passed down from parents to children.
He schooled his face into a mask as they passed the guards, who looked them up and down before waving them inside. In theory, the lodge belonged to everyone, the one place the entire population could meet as equals. In practice, it was owned and effectively dominated by Boss Edwards, the undisputed master of the town. A man, if the reports were accurate, who had somehow merged his roles as a ruthless businessman and an underground kingpin into a single entity. It was not that different, John reflected, from the aristos to the east. If you enjoyed the boss’ patronage, you went far; if you didn’t, you were screwed… and not in a good way.
The music seemed to burst out at them as they pushed through the doors and stepped into the lodge. It was a ballroom, a pub, a dining hall, and a multitude of other things, all compressed into one. 
John’s eyes swept the room, spotting dozens of men and women in fancy outfits and masks, bright colors blurring together into a nightmarish mockery of the aristos he’d known. There were no visible weapons—Boss Edwards had ordered his guests to come unarmed—but he’d be astonished if some of the people weren’t carrying concealed weapons or objects that could be turned into weapons at a moment’s notice. A handful of maids scurried about, dressed in outfits that belonged in brothels rather than aristo ballrooms. 
John doubted anyone knew or cared about the maids not being particularly authentic. They were only here because their master had summoned them.
Boss Edwards himself sat on a raised chair, his eyes sweeping the room. He was a tall, powerfully built man, his slight paunch and long beard failing to detract from the air of menace and imminent violence that surrounded him like a shroud. His suit was poorly tailored, yet John doubted anyone would dare point it out. The clearly visible gold chains were proof he was a very powerful man, indeed.
A maid stopped in front of them and bowed so deeply, she left nothing to the imagination. “Would you like a drink, my lord?”
John felt a stab of pity. The maid looked utterly terrified. 
“No, thank you,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to know she had a mole on her right breast. “We want to dance.”
The maid bowed again and hurried off. John scowled, then forced himself to relax as Scout pulled him onto the dance floor, leading the way around the room. The dancers didn’t seem to know what they were doing, but half were too drunk to care, and the other half were merely having fun. 
John kept his eyes open, mentally tagging the guards, the guests who were probably carrying weapons, and the locations of the exits. They’d learnt from their sources the lodge had quite a few secrets. The entire structure had been designed to allow the master and his trusted associates to move around without being seen.
He kept his face blank as he spotted Joyce and Bard on the other side of the room, whirling around as if they were a middle-aged couple trying to reclaim their youth. John felt a twinge of admiration at how well they played their roles, from Bard constantly ogling the maids to Joyce dragging him away every time his staring became too obvious. If he hadn’t known Bard, John would have fallen for the act. He allowed himself another twinge of pity as he saw the maids backing away. They had no way to know it was all a pretense.
Scout’s dark fingers twitched into a message. Magic?
John closed his eyes, trusting her to steer him around the floor as he reached out with his senses. Magic was rare in the mining town, but if there was anyone in the district who had a semi-legal or flatly illegal magician in their service, it was Boss Edwards. 
He frowned briefly as he mentally touched a handful of wards, low power, but put together with enough skill to worry him. He couldn’t tell if the caster had been trained at school, like himself. 
He scowled again. Boss Edwards could pay in more than just money. The bastard would happily indulge the worst of perversions if it meant keeping a magician under his thumb. 
Wards, he signaled back. Low-level, but there.
He tensed as the clock chimed the hour. It was time.
Joyce bumped into a gaudily dressed man, then swung around and shouted, “How dare you grope me?”
Bard howled something incoherent and punched the man with immense force. John knew he’d held back—Bard was a blademaster, and a great deal stronger than he looked—but it was still something his victim couldn’t ignore. 
The victim staggered forward, his companions closing ranks behind him; Joyce shouted again, acting for all the world like a woman demanding her man protect her honor, as Ted and Hans made things worse by punching the nearest targets or throwing beer in their faces. The fight was on before anyone, even Boss Edwards, could stop it.
John had no time to watch as Scout led him to the exit. A guard stood beside it, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes flickered between Scout’s fake chest and the growing fistfight. 
John muttered a quick charm, and the guard’s eyes unfocused, slipping into a waking dream as John and Scout pushed past him and into the corridor beyond. John muttered a brief command—entranced people tended to be highly suggestible, and having a guard go wild would add to the chaos—and then closed the door behind him, drawing his focus as they hurried to the hidden staircase and headed up. 
The sound behind them faded with astonishing speed. John glanced at the walls, puzzled. They were so thin he thought he could put a fist through them without even trying.
Scout collapsed the frame under her dress as they reached the top of the stairs and stepped out into a meeting room. John tried not to roll his eyes at the décor—the chamber was as crude as any other, but the lodge had hung a flag from the wall—as Scout found the inner door, then nodded. 
John stepped forward, tapping his focus against the lock, and reaching out with his magic. It was a fiendishly complex design, with several spells woven into the metal to make it impossible to pick without magic. John allowed himself a moment of admiration, then channeled his own magic into the lock. The designer was clever, but not clever enough. John didn’t have to pick the lock. He just had to convince it he’d put the right key in the keyhole.
The door clicked open. John raised his focus, bracing himself. Boss Edwards was no magician, as far as anyone knew, but he had at least one magician in his service, someone who might sense the lock opening and come to investigate. 
They’d found out everything they could about the lodge, yet none of their sources had ever been into the boss’ private chambers. There could be anything in there, from his private drinks cabinet to a small army of guards or whores. The air smelled unpleasant as they inched into the darkened chamber. 
John muttered a night-vision spell and peered around. The office was as dark and silent as the grave. The walls were bare, save for a single painting that dominated the wall behind the heavy wooden desk. John was no prude, but even he flushed when he looked at the painting. It was so explicit, he found it hard to look at it.
“Check behind the painting,” Scout ordered. “And hurry!”
John nodded. The fight wouldn’t last forever, no matter what the team downstairs did to prolong the struggle, and then Boss Edwards would wonder if the whole affair had been a diversion. He put the thought out of his head as he tested the painting for magic, then pulled it from the wall. 
A weird spell flickered underneath the canvas, barely detectable even to his senses. He cancelled it with an effort, then rested the painting on the floor. The wall behind looked unbroken to the naked eye, but he picked out the concealment charm hiding the safe. He had to admire the workmanship as he dismantled the spell, then went to work on the safe. Whoever had put the safe together was a remarkable magician.
And probably someone kicked out of school, like me, John thought. He’d never dreamed he’d be expelled until it had happened, and then he’d been lucky to find employment with Joyce and her adventurers. If Greyshade hadn’t given him a hand… 
He wondered sourly if he’d have allowed hunger and thirst to drive him into criminal hands. It was easier to have a sense of morality when one had a full belly and enough money to ensure one wouldn’t starve in a hurry. What happened to this magician?
His lips twitched, silently thanking the gods he was a natural magician. The safe was designed to resist anyone who came at it with a focus rather than inherent magic. 
Odd. It was crafty, and brilliant in its own way, but… were they wrong? Did Boss Edwards have magic of his own? It was possible. The Grey Men rarely came this far from civilization, and they certainly weren’t testing for magic. And no one knew for sure where Boss Edwards really came from.
But that’s hardly unknown out here, John reflected. The safe clicked, the sound loud enough to make him start. Half the population wants to forget their pasts.
The hatch opened. John peered into the safe. It was larger than he’d realized, the interior made up of multiple compartments that each housed a different set of documents. John’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the titles, looking desperately for the papers they’d been sent to find. 
Scout was already checking the rest of the office, relying on her instincts and weirdling talents to find any other hiding places, but time was running out. How long would it be, he asked himself, before—
He grinned as a sheaf of papers came into view. “Got them!”
“Check them,” Scout advised. She was picking through a desk drawer that seemed to be crammed with alcohol and tobacco. “Make sure they’re the right ones.”
John nodded, scanning the documents one by one. The land ownership titles were printed on charmed paper, making them difficult—if not impossible—to duplicate or destroy. Boss Edwards had stolen the papers, intending to use them to lay claim to lands further to the west. 
John didn’t know or care if the story was true. Boss Edwards was a monster, and putting a finger in his eye would be a good deed in and of itself, even if the other side was just as bad. It wasn’t uncommon, not in their line of work. And yet, John liked to think he’d clung to his ideals.
“Got them,” he said. The charms were intact, proving their validity to all who knew how to look. He folded the papers, then shoved them into his undershirt. “We need to get out of here and—”
“Ahem,” a new voice said. “Who are you?”
John blinked, nearly jumping out of his skin. A young girl, no older than himself, stood by the doorway, hands clasped behind her back. There was something about her face that was subtly wrong… another weirdling? Scout was hardly the only person whose ancestors had been exposed to wild magic… hell, she was one of the lucky ones. John had met weirdlings who looked like shambling parodies of humanity, others who appeared to be impossible crossbreeds and, worst of all, things so warped and twisted that the only thing anyone could do was put them out of their misery. And yet the girl wasn’t like that. She was just… wrong.
He cast a minor spell, a simple entrancement charm. The girl looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She could go back to sleep and wake up the following morning with no memory of them. John had no idea who she was, and he didn’t much care. Their time was running short. Boss Edwards might have asserted his authority downstairs by now and—
The girl brought her hands out from behind her back. John barely had a second to recognize the focus—two focuses—before she cast a spell of her own. His focus was yanked from his hand and thrown across the room, his body slammed back into the wall. The girl’s hand barely twitched as she tossed a simple freeze spell at Scout. 
John gritted his teeth as he gathered himself, mustering his magic. She was the magician! He kicked himself for his oversight. Katrina had been a powerful magician, and she’d been far from the only sorceress in the world. Just because it was rare to encounter a female magician so far from civilization didn’t mean they didn’t exist.
And she’s had some training, he thought numbly. The girl stepped forward, keeping one of her focuses aimed directly at his head while holding the other at the ready. 
John was impressed. Wielding two focuses at the same time was tricky, to say the least, and it was an art he’d never mastered. He’d never needed it. But she doesn’t know what I can do.
He gathered himself as the girl closed on him. She wasn’t being dumb. Magicians who could cast spells without a focus, even a makeshift one, were rare. Under normal circumstances, she could be sure of putting a bolt of raw magic through his skull before he could so much as twitch. 
He concentrated, shaping the magic in his mind. The downside of being able to cast spells without a focus was that they lacked proper form. The tattoo on his palm twitched, a grim reminder of Katrina’s near death. Perhaps if he channeled power through the tattoo instead…
“I will ask this only once,” the girl said. Her accent was odd, a strange mix that reminded him of middle-class girls from school. There was a gleam in her eye that chilled him to the bone, a faint sheen of sweat that bothered him in a way he couldn’t put into words. “Swear yourself to me or die.”
John cast his spell. The girl’s eyes went wide with shock, but she reacted with admirable speed. John had hoped to blow her right across the chamber, stunning her before she hit the wall, yet she deflected much of the spell before it could strike her.
The girl brought up her second focus—she hadn’t even lost her grip on the first—and started to cast. Scout smacked her on the head before she could finish the spell. The girl started to say something, then collapsed.
You froze her dress, John thought, answering the unspoken question. All she had to do was stand still until you looked away, then melt and escape the frozen tent.
“We need to go,” Scout said. She hesitated, seemingly unsure if they should kill the girl while she was stunned, then turned away. “Now.”
John nodded. In the distance, he heard the sound of running footsteps.
Their time had just run out.
* * *
Get Pandora’s Box now at: amazon.com/dp/B0BNPQ61DX. 

Find out more about Christopher G. Nuttall at: chrishanger.net/. 

Find more from New Mythology Press at: chriskennedypublishing.com/new-mythology-press/. 
* * * * *