A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 9: Shadows and Wards



Chapter 9: Shadows and Wards

Molly's departure came without much fanfare. She had been upfront about their arrangement being strictly business, and once the contract was fulfilled, she moved on. Something about a bounty hunt, or maybe it was a magical errand—Michael hadn't pried. What mattered was that her lessons had made a real difference. Over the past four months, she'd given him the tools to navigate the Nightside's magical undercurrents, and for that, he was grateful.

With Molly gone, Michael found himself with more time to focus on his own projects. One of those was the enchanted belt—a goal that had once seemed distant and improbable but now felt closer than ever. He still needed a specific spell to bind the enchantment, but with his growing network of contacts and resources, finding it felt more like a matter of time than luck.

In the meantime, Michael had turned his attention to other tasks, like improving his coat. He'd started layering it with protective spells, a slow and meticulous process that required both precision and patience. Each spell was woven into the fabric, designed to repel small-scale magical attacks and deflect minor curses. It wasn't perfect, and it wouldn't stop a heavy hitter, but it was another layer of defense, and in the Nightside, every little bit helped.

One of his favorite new projects, though, was his Book of Shadows.

Molly had rolled her eyes when he'd mentioned the name. "A Book of Shadows? Really? Sounds pretentious."

"It's from a TV show," Michael had explained, grinning. "Charmed. It was about these three magical sisters who fought evil. Fun show. This is just my version—something to keep track of what I know."

"Whatever," she'd said with a smirk. "Just don't let anyone steal it. You put enough in there, and it becomes a roadmap to your weaknesses."

He'd taken her advice to heart. The Book of Shadows was a leather-bound journal he'd picked up at a market stall, its pages thick and slightly yellowed. He'd enchanted it with a simple ward to prevent unauthorized access, a spell Molly had taught him early on. The book wasn't just a repository of spells; it was a record of everything he'd learned—magic, creatures, lore, even the strange things he'd encountered in the Nightside.

One evening, Michael sat at his desk, the Book of Shadows open before him. A candle burned softly nearby, casting flickering shadows across the room. He dipped his pen into an inkpot and began writing out the details of a new protection spell he'd been working on.

Spell Name: Warding Veil

Purpose: To create a protective barrier around the caster's immediate area, deflecting minor magical intrusions and reducing the effects of curses.

Ingredients:

A pinch of salt (purification)A drop of caster's blood (binding agent)A small shard of quartz (amplifier)

Instructions:

Draw a circle on the ground with the salt, ensuring it is unbroken.Place the quartz in the center of the circle.Prick your finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the quartz.Recite the incantation:

"By salt and stone, I claim my space,

Let harm and malice leave no trace.

Wards I weave, a veil to hold,

Protection wrought, both fierce and bold."Visualize the barrier forming—a shimmering veil of light encasing the area.To deactivate, scatter the salt and remove the quartz.

Michael leaned back, reviewing his work. The spell was straightforward, designed for quick deployment. It wouldn't stand up to anything heavy-duty, but for someone like him, it was perfect. Simple, reliable, and easy to adapt.

He added a quick sketch of the salt circle and quartz placement to the page, then flipped back to review the rest of the book. Each entry was written in his careful hand, some pages adorned with diagrams or notes on alternative spell components. The book had become more than just a tool—it was a reflection of his progress. A record of how far he'd come since arriving in the Nightside.

Later that night, Michael tested the ward in his apartment. He cleared a small space on the floor, laying out the salt circle with steady hands. The quartz shard caught the candlelight as he placed it in the center, and when he pricked his finger and let the blood fall, the faint hum of magic filled the air.

Reciting the incantation, Michael focused on the image of a protective veil forming around him. The energy pulsed softly, and for a moment, he could see the faint shimmer of the ward before it faded from view.

He smiled, satisfied. The ward was holding, and his Book of Shadows had gained another entry. It wasn't just a fun project anymore—it was a testament to his survival and growth in the Nightside.

As he closed the book and placed it back on his desk, Michael felt a rare moment of peace. The Nightside was dangerous, unpredictable, and full of threats, but now, he had tools, knowledge, and a path forward. For the first time since arriving, he felt ready for whatever came next.

Michael moved on pure instinct, dropping to the floor just as a searing ball of fire hurtled through the air and slammed into the wall behind him. The heat scorched past him, close enough that he felt the skin on his neck prickle from the intensity. His swarm had seen them first, the two men in dark suits approaching with predatory intent. Through the compound eyes of his insects, Michael had watched their hands glow with gathering energy, magic coiled and ready to strike.

The men's surprise was palpable when he dodged. They had expected an easy target. What they hadn't expected was for Michael to turn the fight on them.

Michael rose swiftly, his hands outstretched as he pushed forward with his own will. A shimmering wall of force burst from his palms, the crude defensive spell one of the first Molly had drilled into him. It wasn't powerful enough to cause damage on its own, but it didn't need to. It was a distraction, a barrier that momentarily halted the attackers' advance—and behind it came his real weapon.

The tarantula hawks surged out of his coat like a storm, their orange wings glinting in the dim light as they swarmed toward the two men. The buzzing grew louder, drowning out the surprised curses of his attackers as they realized what was coming.

"What the hell—" one of them managed before the first sting hit. His scream cut through the air, raw and panicked. His partner fared no better, letting out a guttural yell as the wasps descended on him, stingers striking with unrelenting precision.

Michael's face remained impassive as the scene unfolded. The tarantula hawks, over twenty in total, struck with ruthless efficiency, targeting exposed skin with their paralyzing stings. The men's flailing arms did nothing to deter them; for every wasp swatted away, two more took its place. Each sting was a firestorm of agony, the kind of pain that shut down rational thought and left only raw, animal panic.

One of the men managed to conjure another ball of fire, but the magic fizzled in his hands as the tarantula hawks overwhelmed him. The second man collapsed to his knees, his face contorted in pain as he tried to scream, his throat too raw to make more than a hoarse croak.

Michael moved forward, his revolver already in hand. He didn't hesitate. Molly's voice echoed in his mind: Hesitation gets you killed in the Nightside. He leveled the gun at the first man and pulled the trigger. The sharp crack of the shot silenced the man's cries, his body slumping to the ground. The second man tried to raise a trembling hand, but Michael's second shot ended his struggle.

The sudden stillness was jarring after the chaos. Michael scanned the area through his swarm, ensuring there were no more attackers lurking in the shadows. Satisfied, he holstered his gun and stepped toward the bodies, his expression grim. The faint buzz of the tarantula hawks filled the air as they circled back to him, returning to the hidden compartments in his coat. They were tireless, efficient, and deadly—exactly as he'd intended them to be.

Crouching down, Michael rifled through the men's pockets, his fingers quick and methodical. Their wallets revealed little more than fake identities and crisp bills—nothing to explain why they had attacked him. Frustration bubbled beneath his calm exterior. He didn't recognize these men, but they clearly knew who he was. And they'd come prepared to kill.

"Why?" Michael muttered under his breath, slipping the wallets into his pocket. He stood, glancing around the dim alley. The fight had been loud, and while the Nightside wasn't known for its law enforcement, noise tended to attract opportunists.

He adjusted his coat, the protective layers woven into its fabric giving him a reassuring sense of security. The tarantula hawks settled back into their hidden chambers, their buzzing fading into the background hum of the swarm. Michael cast one last look at the bodies before turning and walking away, his steps quick and deliberate.

The Nightside wasn't forgiving, and tonight was a stark reminder of that. Whoever these men were, and whatever they wanted, Michael knew one thing: this wasn't over. And he intended to be ready when the next attack came.

Michael sat at the bar, flipping through the wallets he'd taken from the two men. The IDs revealed their names: Thomas Bennett and William Pembroke. He'd never heard of them before, and there was nothing else on them that provided a clear answer as to why they had targeted him. Still, the very fact that they'd come after him was enough to make his skin crawl. If there was one thing he'd learned in the Nightside, it was that nothing happened without a reason.

He approached Alex as the older man wiped down the counter. "Do you know these names?" Michael asked, sliding the IDs across the bar.

Alex picked them up, squinting at the names before shaking his head. "Nope. Not regulars, and definitely not anyone I'd recognize. What happened?"

Michael leaned in closer, his voice low. "They ambushed me. Tried to roast me alive with a fireball."

Alex frowned but didn't get the chance to respond. The door to Strangefellows swung open with a creak, and a familiar figure stepped inside.

Walker.

Michael's stomach twisted as the man entered. Walker, the man who acted as the Nightside's enforcer for The Authorities, was as calm and composed as ever. Dressed immaculately in a suit and carrying his iconic cane, he radiated authority. His very presence shifted the atmosphere in the bar, making even Alex pause.

"Well," Alex said, keeping his tone neutral, "we're not open yet, Walker. What do you want?"

Walker's eyes slid toward Michael. "I need a word with your employee."

Michael's fingers twitched, but he kept his face impassive. He knew Walker from the books—knew the power this man wielded. Walker's ability to compel people with his voice alone was legendary, and his influence in the Nightside was second to none. If Walker was here, it wasn't for small talk.

Michael forced himself to stay calm, funneling his nervous energy into the swarm buzzing faintly at the edge of his consciousness. "If you're here," he said evenly, "then it's because of the two guys who tried—and failed—to kill me."

Walker's lips curved into a faint smile, his tone measured. "Tried to kill you? Is that how you saw it?"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "They threw a fireball at my back. What would you call it?"

Walker stepped closer, his cane tapping softly against the floor. "Thomas Bennett and William Pembroke weren't sent to kill you. They were sent to get answers."

Michael laughed bitterly, his nerves simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Oh, they were just looking for answers? Funny way of asking questions—by trying to blow my head off and set me on fire."

Walker's expression remained calm, his voice steady. "It wasn't supposed to escalate. They were investigating you. We wanted to know why someone with no apparent background in the Nightside had suddenly appeared and was making waves. They acted... rashly."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Rashly? That's your excuse? You send two guys after me, they attack me, and now you're upset I defended myself?"

Walker tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. "You killed two of my people."

Michael crossed his arms, his voice sharpening. "And they'd have killed me if I hadn't. You think I'm going to roll over and let myself burn alive? They didn't exactly introduce themselves politely. When someone throws a fireball at me, I react. With deadly force, if necessary."

The tension in the room thickened, and for a moment, Michael wondered if Walker would use the Voice. He braced himself, focusing on the swarm as his silent anchor. But instead, Walker simply studied him, his expression cool.

"I had no idea who they were," Michael continued, his voice steady but firm. "All I knew was that two strangers tried to kill me. If you're here to pin the blame on me, maybe you should take a long, hard look in the mirror. If they were your people, then you did a piss-poor job training them."

Walker's smile didn't falter, but there was a glint of something sharper in his eyes now. "You're bold. I'll give you that. But you're also new here. You're playing in a world you don't fully understand, and that's dangerous—for you and for everyone around you."

Michael shrugged, refusing to be cowed. "Maybe. But I'm not the one who escalated things."

Walker leaned on his cane, his voice dropping slightly. "No, you're not. But if you want to survive here, Michael, I suggest you learn to avoid unnecessary conflict. The Nightside doesn't forgive carelessness."

Michael held his gaze, his jaw tightening. "Carelessness? Funny, considering your people started this mess."

Walker straightened, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his lapel. "Consider this your warning. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

Without another word, Walker turned and walked out, his cane tapping softly against the floor as the door swung shut behind him.

The silence in the bar was deafening. Michael let out a slow breath, feeling the tension drain from his body. Alex raised an eyebrow, finally breaking the quiet.

"Well," Alex said dryly, "that went better than I expected."

Michael shook his head, his heart still racing. "Better? He basically told me he's watching me."

"Yeah," Alex replied, grabbing a glass to polish, "but he didn't kill you. In the Nightside, that's a win."


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