Page 53 of Outfoxed

Once, the boundary lines for the East, the South, and the Alley had converged on poor Jackson, leaving the stunned residents struggling to cope with the influx and ever-changing magic. Not even quadrant masters could handle where three boundary lines collided.

I avoided places like Jackson, where the bad could go to worse in a hurry.

The music mages continued to sing, and the electric charge intensified.

Only a fool stuck around where electricity sparked over skin and clothes alike, and if I’d been given a choice in the matter, I would have fled for the relative safety of Tulsa and its endless storms. I gave it a matter of minutes before the electric charge building in the air took a lethal turn.

My magic liked offering me hints of impending doom, which I took seriously.

The past couldn’t hurt me, but what I witnessed always left some form of mark.

The magic the music mages wove didn’t leave me waiting for long. With a deafening crack of thunder, light flashed through the room, bathing the choir in a blue-white glow. Then, because my magic wanted me to remember, time froze.

I refused to question my magic’s choice, although I wondered what was so important about that specific moment my magic halted the flow of time for me to better witness it.

The robes all matched, black with dark blue stitching, which the lightning revealed in an oddly stark contrast. The distinct shape of twisters decorated the sleeves and hem of their garb.

A single tornado embroidered in gold thread over their hearts suggested a group or cult, and I took my time memorizing the design. The first thing I would do once I headed back to Tulsa involved hunting for Sandro, cornering him, and asking him if he could get information on the design. Then I’d question him about his willingness to venture into the South to chase after me, as I had a violent date with a bunch of murdering assholes planned.

I wouldn’t mind the help of a quadrant master, and I didn’t care what kind of magic he used.

Given a few hours to gather the talisman I needed, I could do just about anything I wanted when in the South. Most called my brand of magic Voodoo, a name founded on pure ignorance. My workings didn’t mesh with anything of the Haitian’s Vodou, the Cuban’s Vodú, or even African Vodun, which served as one of several foundation points for the New Orleans Voodoo, a religious practice commonly mistaken for the magic some witches in the South wielded.

The way I figured, Voodoo witches might be able to learn New Orleans Voodoo, one of the variants of Vodú, Vodou, or Vodun with a little work, effort, and knowledge.

I’d learned just enough about the spiritual practices of the New Orleans Voodoo to step with care, avoid using as many of their religious symbols as talismans as possible, and keep out from their eye.

The New Orleans Voodoo queens did not much appreciate witches who trod all over their turf, but shown the proper respect, they would teach a fox a few new tricks.

I’d learned a lot of tricks from a New Orleans Voodoo queen during my stint in the South learning to control my magic.

Of all the places I’d wandered, I’d always carry some love for New Orleans around with me—and a hefty amount of respect for the secret queens who ruled the place. Hell, with a little work, some time searching for the right offerings in the East, and patience, I bet I could ask the New Orleans Voodoo queens for help.

Given a chance, they’d love to get their hands on the bones of wayward music mages.

I counted heads, considering my options. Fury over the idea thirty-two people would work in concert to attack my home burned brighter than the electric-induced flames consuming the robes of one of the singing bastards.

Well, the formerly singing bastard.

Corpses couldn’t sing, and his smoking, charred, and flame-licked body slumped to the floor. In the firelight, the smoke spun.

The other mages continued to sing, and in the haze, a shape began to form. Before I could determine what it was, the spinning smoke coalesced into the sickeningly familiar shape of tornadoes, which danced in a spiral and converged on the shadowy form.

The flames extinguished, and the room fell into darkness.

Wednesday, May 6, 2043.

Owasso, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

In my determination to get another glimpse of those behind the storms, I checked every damned piece of debris I could get my hands on in Owasso, but my magic refused to awaken a second time. I did find several promising sticks for Batbayar; one which might work well for a katana, while several others might be suitable for shorter blades to teach younger children the art of surviving against an armed opponent.

Before my magic had opted to tell me the bitter truth, I wouldn’t have thought twice about the lessons the old man taught. Now, I wondered. If Batbayar learned someone deliberately tried to kill us all, would the nature of his lessons change? Overnight, I’d transformed myself. I couldn’t ignore how some assholes in the South sought to kill us all. What had we done to deserve it? Why?

Not even those within Asylum benefited, although they enjoyed a questionable sense of security.

Aware I’d blown both of my grace days hunting for information, I sheltered again in the half-destroyed basement and waited for the evening storms to sweep through. Either the storms were natural or the music mages had no interest in battering Owasso and neighboring Tulsa anymore than they already had, but I made it through the night with only a single scare, and the lone twister touched down and pitched a temper tantrum for a few minutes before dissipating. Uncertain if I should take that as an omen or not, I decided I wouldn’t push my luck and transform into a fox again for the journey back to Tulsa.