The Gellboar, Part 1

As promised, here is the first installment of my forthcoming e-book and podcast, The Gellboar.

Part 1

“And now,” blasted the loudspeakers, “here she is again: Miss! Christine! Cooper!”

Sparse applause greeted the woman who bounded on stage. She was tall and athletic, wearing a brilliant blue-sequined bustier above tight black pants. A flaxen ponytail cascaded behind bare shoulders. The harsh lights bleached her skin and hair nearly white, but those clothes kept their color. Music swelled, fast, aggressive, electronic. The performer sketched a figure eight in the air before her and clapped her hands. With a throaty bang, a moebius strip of fire appeared. The inattentive audience jumped in their seats, turning toward her.

At midnight on a Thursday, The Cauldron was mostly empty. Vacant tables made pale discs in the shadowed club, like lily pads floating on dark water. Beneath his tone of noisy hype, even the announcer sounded bored. With few customers to serve, the waitresses had begun turning up chairs well before the second show started.

Sitting at a table near the stage door, the other Christine Cooper watched critically. This one had dark hair falling to “her” shoulders in glossy waves. A crimson satin dress was tight over small breasts, then flowed in gentle pleats below the waist. At least there was no way the two of them could really be confused. The performer on stage was blue and gold, her style was fast and loud; her counterpart was red and black, softer, more feminine.

It had been something of an insult to learn they would be sharing the stage tonight. In fact, the Christine Cooper currently wowing the crowd was the real star. She had come all the way from Ishe, in the western provinces. The second one’s presence was just a gimmick. When the manager learned there were two magicians named Christine Cooper, he got the brilliant idea of hosting “Christine Week,” including a faux duel on Saturday night to decide who was the real Christine Cooper.

If only he knew. Of course, if anyone did find out that one of the performers was actually a man, Dan Forster, the club would be closed on the spot. Men were forbidden to use magic in Chantain. If Dan was caught, he might well be killed. But there were no monitors in The Cauldron tonight. He could spot those witches in a heartbeat, even when they didn’t shave their heads. And if there was, he had faith in his skill as a female impersonator. The invitation might be hollow, but Dan needed the money desperately, because Grace needed her medicine. Two years ago, he’d fallen behind on his bills after his wife, Marilyn, died. He never again wanted to see one of those alien creatures the hospital sent to collect.

But there was more to it than that. Dan needed magic even more than money. He needed the power, the thrill of bending the world to his will. The twin compulsions of magic and money made him put on women’s clothes, drew him to these cheap clubs. With his own show over, he leaned forward, staring intently as Christine turned her flaming hoop into gold foil, which quickly shaded into silver. A wave of her hand and it transmuted into water, showering the audience with sparkling droplets.

That Christine Cooper didn’t need a magic wand. She used only her hands, shaping her will on the air with quick strokes timed to the music. Her rival glanced anxiously at the shiny black wand lying on the table, as if it might somehow vanish. It was hard to imagine casting spells without a wand, and the Christine who watched wanted badly to know how his name-twin managed it. Eyes half-closed, he tried to sense the flow of psais, that mysterious energy which formed the basis of all life and magic.

Since the disastrous Spellwar, no one would teach a man magic. Dan had to learn when and what he could. If he picked up another spell or two this week, that would make up for the short pay.

“Miss Cooper?” A voice above his head distracted him from the performance.

“Yes?” Instantly he assumed the soft smile and sweet voice of his stage persona.

The smile became forced as he looked up at the alien standing over him. There were lots of these creatures in a city the size of Chantain — refuse and refugees of the Spellwar. This one looked familiar. And repulsive.

Like many aliens, it shrouded itself in a trench coat and fedora, a gesture of respect to the sensibilities of the humans who, however reluctantly, gave it sanctuary. But it stood too broad for its height, and the coat covered bulges that suggested something ugly underneath. Dan saw a flabby, grayish face. No hair showed beneath the hat. In the shadow of its brim, eyes glittered black and strangely refracted, too large for its face.

“Will you sign this, please?” The voice was a buttery growl, too high for such a heavy frame.

Dan swallowed his revulsion. He was sure he’d seen this creature before, had already signed his autograph at least once. Well, a fan was a fan, grotesque thought it might be. He didn’t have many.

“Of course,” he said in his nicest Christine voice. “It’s sweet of you to ask.”

Their hands touched as he accepted the paper and pen, and he did his best not to flinch from the clammy skin. All the while, he tried to keep one eye on the stage, where the other Christine had turned a broomstick into a snake and was swaying with it in a weaving, winding dance. Dan’s pulse quickened. She hadn’t used that spell during her earlier performance.

A hand fell onto his shoulder, ice cold through the thin fabric of his dress. “Miss Cooper,” the creature insisted.

“Oh, of course,” he tittered. “I’m sorry.”

Dan looked at the paper again, searching for someplace to sign, and paused, frowning. The sheet wasn’t paper, but some kind of parchment covered with angular runes. Although he couldn’t read the language, it had the unmistakable look of a legal document.

Canned music got louder, more dramatic. Dan looked up to see Christine juggling a set of rainbow-colored balls which she sent spiraling upward. They folded in on themselves and became a flight of rainbow-colored birds. He watched intently, following the flow of the magic.

As the birds winged over the audience, the alien’s hand tightened. Something slippery touched Dan’s neck. A tentacle! He jumped despite himself, trying to throw off the disgusting appendage.

“What are you doing?” he squealed in Christine’s voice. The tentacle tightened, not enough to choke him, but the threat was clear. An iron hand held him in his seat. The  alien creature bent over him.

“Sign.” It was not a request.

Dan stared into the gray, fleshy face. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Those eyes, like black tar, dragged him down, smothered his will. The music reached its climax and the audience gave meager applause, but the sounds were distorted, as if heard over a distance. Dan jerked feebly at the constricting band, fighting for breath, for sanity. He felt ice cold, and terribly weak.

“Sign,” the creature insisted.

Then a new voice shouted, “Hey! Let go of her, you!”

There was a kind of pop, and suddenly Dan could breathe again. And move.

“Get off me!” he screamed, clinging to his feminine persona even in an emergency. Dan yanked the tentacle away from his skin and thrust his elbow as hard as he could into the  alien creature’s mid-section. It yielded to the blow with unhealthy softness, but he was able to wrench free. Dan snatched up his wand and scrambled away.

His name-twin stood on the opposite side of the table, her left hand outstretched, palm up. Concentrated psais gave her hand a piercing glow. A stern frown was directed at the alien.

“Leave this place. You are not welcome here.” She spoke with a flat drawl, the accent of her native Ishe.

“It is you who are unwelcome,” the creature answered with a guttural snarl.

It came after Dan, tentacles whipping out of its coat sleeves. The few occupants of nearby tables shrieked and scattered. Stumbling a little on high heels, Dan came to Christine’s side. He knew the spell she was using by its feel. He stopped and raised his wand. Psais answered his will, and he joined his rival in the summoning of pure force.

The creature rushed at them, tentacles arcing like whips. Christine shoved at the air with her raised palm and Dan riposted with his wand, timing his thrust with hers. There was a deep report, a brilliant flash. The creature flew backward, striking the wall with a blubbery smack. Its hat fell off, revealing more tentacles in a tight coil. Then it slumped to the floor beside the fire door.

To be continued…

More coming on Saturday. And when this link is active, you’ll be able to buy the whole book!

Meantime, I’m still running a subscription drive. Sign up for my newsletter and win a free E-book, The Weight of Their Souls. Just to go my Facebook page, AuthorDebyFredericks, and click the link on the left that says “Join my mailing list.” Easy, right?

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