Ed Sutter's 3-Book Box Set, page 1
ED SUTTER'S ANCIENT MAGIKS: THE ALEC GAVINS CHRONICLES 3-BOOK BOX-SET
by
Ed Sutter
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright © 2015 by Edward B. Sutter
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68146-085-7
Printed in the United States of America
ANCIENT MAGIKS:
THE ALEC GAVINS CHRONICLES
BOOK 1:
THE MAGIC SHOP
by
Ed Sutter
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright © 2009, 2015 by Ed Sutter
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-60313-691-4
Credits
Editor: Dave Fields
Printed in the United States of America
~~To Carolyn, always.~~
Prologue
Alexandria, Egypt—88 B.C.
It was close to midnight as the shaven-headed priests moved silently through the huge temple, following their leader, Thutmoses, the High Priest of Ammon Ra. Their goal was the sarcophagus of the last great pharaoh of Egypt, albeit by adoption—Alexander the Great.
When Iskander, as he was known in the land of Ra, crushed the Persian occupiers of ancient Egypt, he had been welcomed as a savior, and he’d proven to be just that. The Persians had tried to force their state religion upon the Egyptians, which had resulted in frequent uprisings in the face of this religious persecution. After all, the native Egyptians had worshipped their pantheon of gods for three thousand years, since long before Persia was even a whisper among the world powers.
Alexander, with his Macedonian and Greek army, had freed Egypt and mandated that the Persian religion would no longer be observed. Going a step further, he worshipped and made offerings at the temple of Ammon Ra, whom the Greeks associated with Zeus, the chief god of their own pantheon.
The Egyptians, in a frenzy of adulation, made Alexander Pharaoh, the first non-Egyptian to receive this honor in thousands of years. He was worshipped as a god, the son on Earth of the king of the gods, Ammon Ra. This deification fit in neatly with a secret that Alexander’s mother had confided in him. His mother, Olympias, had told him he was the son of Zeus. Of course, this had enraged Alexander’s father, so the subject was largely dropped, but Alexander never forgot.
Now the priests of Ammon Ra were going to prevent a sacrilege to the tomb of Iskander, son of Ammon.
Thutmoses spoke to Menes, his second in command, saying, “This latest Greek moron, who styles himself Ptolemy the Ninth, has driven the country into bankruptcy and the Upper Nile into revolt, and now he’s preparing to melt down the sarcophagus of Iskander and spend the money on maintaining his own inept rule. Too many of the tombs of our sacred pharaohs have been despoiled, and I refuse to let the same happen to our savior.”
The small troop of shaven-headed Egyptian priests and muscular Nubian slaves arrived at the sacred precincts of Alexander’s tomb. The golden sarcophagus in which the mortal remains of the great king had been enclosed stood alone in the middle of large room. In the flickering torchlight, it could be seen that the walls and ceiling were covered in colorful murals depicting the life and death of Iskander, as well as his association with the Egyptian gods in the afterlife.
At Menes’ direction, the burly Nubians set their burden down next to the golden sarcophagus. It only took minutes to replace the golden sarcophagus with its duplicate. The duplicate had only a thin veneer of gold covering it, but Ptolemy wouldn’t know the difference. He’d assume that the makers of the coffin had been as venal as he was himself.
Thutmoses said, “Good. Now let us take the real sarcophagus to a safer place.”
Menes smiled and added, “A much safer place.”
The group of hooded priests and sweat-glistening slaves retraced their steps through the funerary temple. No one spoke, and no one inquired as to their business at this hour. Thutmoses was well-known, and no one dared to thwart him.
Outside, the slaves loaded the shrouded coffin onto a cart, and the procession moved off toward the docks.
Alexandria was one of the great ports of the world, and ships were coming and going at all times. Near one huge pier, a Phoenician galley waited. The slaves removed the heavy sarcophagus from the cart and carried it onto the ship.
Thutmoses turned to Menes and said, “You will take the body of our lord Iskander to the place of the New Temple and erect a pyramid over his tomb, as he wished.”
Menes bowed. “As you command, my lord High Priest. It shall be done.”
Thutmoses remained on the dock and watched as the galley pushed off, extended its oars, and started its journey, passing the great Pharos lighthouse and setting a course to the west.
From where it lay on his chest, the High Priest of Ammon lifted a large amulet and held it up in the dim light of the torches. “By this amulet, we will know where the tomb of great Iskander is located. All praise to Ammon Ra and his son!”
Lightning lit the skies to the north as the ship disappeared into the darkness. Thutmoses and his minions never saw the ship again. It was as though it had vanished from the face of the earth.
Summer Job
Chandler, Arizona—today.
I got my first real job last summer. Well, maybe first real weird job would be more appropriate, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.
I’d turned seventeen in February and wanted my own car in the worst way. I mean, how can you pick up girls if you don’t have a car? A lot of the other kids had cars that were gifts from their parents, second-hand from older siblings, or paid for through part-time jobs. No way in the world could my mom afford to buy me a car.
We lived in Chandler, Arizona, next to, but not in, several pretty affluent neighborhoods. Our three-bedroom slab home was never affluent, even thirty or forty years ago when it was first built.
Mom divorced my dad five years ago, and we hadn’t heard much from him since. Apparently, he’d left the state entirely because we’d never seen a dime of child support from him. Mom worked two jobs and was taking classes at the community college in the evenings. We had hopes for the future, but the present kind of sucked.
My little sister, Colleen, was three and a half years younger than me, and had just hit puberty. Jesus! She’d been driving Mom nuts, and me too, since I had to keep an eye on her after school with Mom gone so much.
I’d pretty much decided that I never wanted kids if looking after Colleen was any sample of what I’d be letting myself in for. We used to be pretty tight when we were little, even though she always wanted to tag along with me and my friends. Now, though, she wanted to be independent; independent of Mom’s rules, anyway. Colleen still expected Mom to support her, of course, but she saw the responsibility and loyalty only going one way—hers.
Colleen’s rebellious nature was yet another reason for me to get a summer job. If I were working, then I couldn’t be around to watch Colleen all the time.
The trouble was, last year the economy took a nosedive, there were lots of layoffs, and all the loose jobs had been snapped up—unless you had a relative at one of the companies, of course. I didn’t have much in the way of relatives, but I did have friends, sort of.
Marina Torres and I had pretty much grown up together. She lived two streets over from our house, and I think she kind of had a crush on me. Well, one girl out of a thousand was bound to, statistically. Anyway, Marina had an uncle who had a shop in downtown Chandler. A magic shop.
“He could sure use some help, Alec,” she said in a quiet, breathy voice. She always sounded like that, as though she were telling you secrets.
Marina was five-five or so, which made her not much shorter than me, but built much slimmer. Good thing for her. Where I was c
Even Marina’s fingernails, and occasionally her lipstick, were black. I guess that was because she thought she was a witch. At least, that’s what she told everyone. I always figured she did the witch bit just to get some attention. Maybe not. Maybe she was going gothic or just avoiding having to do color matching.
“A magic shop? I’ve never heard of any magic shop in Chandler. Where is it?” I asked.
“It’s just one block off Arizona Avenue and Boston,” she replied. “You know, behind those shops around the San Marcos Hotel?”
“Well, I know where you mean, but I’ve never seen any magic shop there.”
Irritated by my obtuseness, she snapped, “Well, it’s there. Actually, it’s been there for a real long time. My uncle Zack took over the business when my grandfather died, and he’s been there ever since.”
Never let it be said that I don’t know when to concede victory. “Okay—thanks for the lead, anyway.”
I wasn’t real sure that this was the job I was looking for, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. The next day, I rode my third-hand bike over to the shop area and looked around. It wasn’t classy transportation, but it was all I had.
There was no real town square as such in downtown Chandler, but there was a wide lawn and a small park with a fountain on the east side of Arizona Avenue, in front of the city offices. Facing the park on the west side of the street were the San Marcos Hotel and an array of shops and restaurants. The shops extended down the side streets that border that area, framing the little park.
It was in this park that the annual Ostrich Festival was held every spring. At least, a lot of the activity and booths were centered there, although the actual ostrich races were held in a nearby field. During the festival, Arizona Avenue and the side streets were all blocked off, and dozens of booths selling food or arts and crafts were set up. Although it sounds hokey, I’d found that the festival could be a lot of fun. If nothing else, you could just walk around, eat junk food, and look at the girls. With the warm climate, the girls in Arizona tended to not wear a whole lot, which was perfectly fine with me. Besides, I’d never gotten a chance to do anything more than look. Girls just didn’t find me interesting, I guess.
I pedaled past the park and hotel and cruised down the side street Marina had mentioned. Sure enough, there it was, The Magic Shop.
The red brick building was kind of old and weathered-looking. The sign was badly faded, but just as I rode up, a yuppie-looking couple came out of the door, with bags full of what I presumed was magic stuff.
I chained up the bike to a nearby fence, and then went back and entered the shop. It was dim inside after the intense May sun. The cool air inside was a blessed relief from the dusty Arizona near-summer heat.
Bells rang as I entered the store, and a voice from the back said, “Just a minute.”
While waiting, I looked around. The inside of the place was a lot bigger than I’d expected from the narrow storefront. Along one wall were lots of bottles and bags of what appeared to be herbs and other, less identifiable things. The center of the store was taken up by several racks of books, about magic I deduced. Yet another example of what a keen mind I had. The other sidewall had shelves with various things. Some appeared to be sticks with crystals embedded into the shafts and on their ends. There were some weird-looking daggers and lots of crystals, some in crystal ball form. Packs of cards and even videos were also visible.
About that time, an old man came out of the back. He must have been at least fifty, but this guy moved with an athletic step. He was tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair worn short and combed straight back from his forehead. He wore what appeared to be a white silk shirt and black jeans. Fancy black cowboy boots made sharp sounds on the highly-polished wooden floor.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a melodious voice.
Boy, this guy is smooth, I thought. I said, “Your niece Marina, uh, Marina Torres, said you might need some summer help.”
His face cleared, and he said, “Ah, Marina mentioned you to me. She says she’s known you all her life and that you are most trustworthy.” He looked at me intently and then replied, “And do you know anything about magic, Mister…”
“No, sir, and my name is Alec. Alec Gavins.”
“Gavins. An ancient and honorable name.” This was news to me, but he extended his hand and continued. “Okay, Alec, you’ve got yourself a job, if you want it. Just between you and me, you’re the only one who’s applied. I think the more conventional businesses have snapped up your competition. My name, in case Marina didn’t enlighten you, is Zacharias. Zacharias Torres. Please call me Zack.”
I shook his hand, which was as hard as a block of wood.
“What will I be doing, sir?” It never hurt to be polite to people who were going to be giving you money for your first car.
“Let me show you around the place, and I’ll explain as we go.”
I learned my new duties would be pretty mundane for such an exotic place. I was to sign for any shipments. Anything marked specifically for Mister Torres was to be placed in his office. General deliveries were to be unpacked and either placed into the stockroom in the back of the store or arranged right onto the display shelves if we were getting short there. He showed me where the dumpster was—in the same alley where the larger deliveries were made. Zack also introduced me to the janitorial equipment, which was to be my responsibility as well. Okay, I could live with cleaning floors and even toilets if that’s what it took. I’d keep my attention on the prize.
By the end of the tour and explanation, I was getting a headache, but I agreed to be back bright and early the next day.
Outside, I brightened. Cool! This job might be kind of boring, but the money would go to a good cause.
Boring? I should have been so lucky.
In The Beginning…
My first day at the Magic Shop seemed like it would never end. There was delivery after delivery, way more than I would have expected for such a small place. Books, crystals, and herbs, all packed as densely as the size of the boxes would allow, which of course made them all unnaturally heavy, or at least that’s how it seemed to me at the time. In between deliveries, I swept and mopped and dusted. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, had a headache, and had to drag myself to the front of the shop.
Mister Torres, whom I’d begun to think of as Zack, was still bright and chipper. “See you tomorrow, bright and early,” he promised, “I’ll teach you about how the rest of the store works.”
Slavedriver.
On the way home, I stopped at a Circle K to get a Coke. I guess I was tired enough that I wasn’t paying much attention because I almost walked into somebody who was coming out as I was going in.
“’Scuse me,” I said, trying to get out of the way.
“You’re liable to walk into something and hurt yourself with your head down like that. You should be more careful.” The voice was sweetly feminine.
I looked up and realized I was talking to Amber O’Neill, the most beautiful girl in school, maybe in the world. She was as tall as I was, with big blue eyes. Her slim and tanned body was perfectly toned and perfectly shaped. I knew this because she was wearing only a skimpy halter top and very short shorts. Her long, tanned legs held me mesmerized for a moment.
Never at a loss for witty repartee, I answered, “Huh?”
At that moment, the lights of the store were dimmed as though a cloud had passed before the sun. I looked beyond Amber and saw her boyfriend, Chip Allison.
Like Amber, Chip was blond and blue-eyed. He was also the star quarterback, six-three, and about two axe-handles across the shoulders. I came up to his shoulder, if I stood real tall. He had muscles in places where I didn’t even have places.
“Move it, you fat faggot!” he rumbled.
I almost tripped over my own feet getting out of the way. He barked a laugh, while Amber only smiled. I was pretty sure that she looked sympathetic for a microsecond, before she followed Chip out to his truck.
