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    All You Magicians
    All You Magicians
    All You Magicians
    Ebook55 pages47 minutes

    All You Magicians

    By Trent Jamieson

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    About this ebook

    Four magicians, four worlds.

    Magic never makes things easier, and things are never easy.

    Here you'll find a city grown addictive, a dark wizard mourning his wife, a world that has lost its colour, and a man who can persuade anything into becoming anything, except the woman he loves into loving him.

    Trent Jamieson is the multi-award winning author of the Death Works series, and the Nightbound Land duology.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTrent Jamieson
    Release dateApr 8, 2011
    ISBN9781458186331
    All You Magicians
    Author

    Trent Jamieson

    Trent lives in Brisbane with his wife Diana. A teacher and a bookseller, his Death Works series is published by Orbit Books, and his Nightbound Land Duology is published by Angry Robot Books.

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      Book preview

      All You Magicians - Trent Jamieson

      All You Magicians

      Trent Jamieson

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2011 Trent Jamieson

      All You Magicians

      Table of Contents

      Hardeen Reflects on the Dark Arts and his Wife

      Tumble

      Bounty

      Persuasion

      HARDEEN REFLECTS ON THE DARK ARTS AND HIS WIFE

      Ten days after Hardeen's wife was in the ground, and he'd started selling the possessions that he could no longer bear to see around the house, the things that rang too deeply of her, he found a photo of them on their holiday at Hastings Beach when they'd rented a house for four whole weeks and he'd made love to her like they'd made love when then they'd first started dating, and this was a good decade and a half after that. There'd been much to regret by then, infidelities on both their parts, spells cast that had failed, spells cast that had been all too successful, and the craft being what it was those were often the worst. He put the photo down after such a brief perusal because it stung him, there she was, and there he was, both dressed for dinner and not a hint of death about them, though surely neither of them could have been so naïve to think, even then, that they would have forever.

      He picked the photo up again, and found a dim pleasure in the pain, in the recollection, all those kisses, passionate, and stinging. He could see nothing that did not make him love her, and while he did not regret his presence in the photo, he resented the narcissism it revealed, that even in this moment, just two weeks from the last time he had ever spoken to his wife, or kissed her living flesh, feverish then all too swiftly cold, he still cringed at his own image, at the already thinning hair, the already widening belly, which he had done something about in his forties, but given up on in his fifties, focussing instead on his skills with the word and the way and the application of metaphors to reality.

      He remembered driving back from his labours to her. He remembered her displeasure, at the worst of his castings, at his cruelties, so that in the end he had kept this aspect from her, where in all other parts of his life he had been totally honest.

      He put down the photo and considered the mirror. Not liking what he saw, he gave up on reflection for the comfort of the fridge and another beer on the balcony.

      The phone rang, twice, but by then he was too drunk to answer it.

      Besides that's why you had a message bank. His wife had never liked answering the phone refused to do it when he was home, when he called her, he could sense her hesitation, it both frustrated and delighted him that someone so strong could have such a weakness, he could see her face, the creases, the tension that her muscles possessed in those eternal moments before she answered the phone, he knew that if he was ever going to find her, it would be then, in the pause between rings, and he wished that he did not possess all the power that he did, because he might find her then, it was possible, as much as it was wrong.

      It had never seemed right that he should have such a great love, he who had yearned, who had ached, and regretted every lonely wank. And then it had become all about the power, and that was just a yearning too. They had met through a mutual friend, now long dead a victim of the internecine wars of the practitioners of dark and light, and the relationship had quickly escalated, physically and emotionally, and the first time they fucked he'd already known he was in love, in the dark, bound in their sweat,

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