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Her spell to make (or possibly borrow) items came in handy sometimes, especially when conjuring emergency clothing after one of Kingsley’s shapeshifting incidents. Though, the magical items’ habit of disappearing without warning after a short time led to some embarrassing moments for the big guy. It also gave her a super satisfying way to prank people she disliked. Like the butthead former manager at the radio station. Bring him a huge coffee in a conjured mug… that would disappear and dump its contents everywhere without warning.
Sam hadn’t liked that prank, though. She called it ‘coffee abuse.’
One thing about this realm: her conjuration abilities did get more grandiose. As in, she could summon a whole horse-drawn carriage plus horses. Back home, her spell could only make relatively small items like helmets, tools, clothing, and so on—but nothing living. Or at least nothing pretending to be alive. The two horses pulling this conjured coach appeared normal in every way despite not being truly alive.
Having this newfound ability to conjure passable simulacrums of living beings tempted her to try making a temporary version of one of her numerous celebrity crushes, or perhaps even a second Kingsley. Sam would totally freak out, though. The idea sounded exciting for about five seconds before it plunged into creepy and weird, especially considering her spell would not be able to replicate intelligence or personality. It would be anyone’s guess how a conjured human being would act. As soon as her mind mixed up the idea of horse-drawn coach with celebrities and gave her a mental image of Orlando Bloom neighing like a horse, she burst out laughing.
Mood ruined.
Kingsley and Damon—who’d talked his way into going on this trip—jumped, startled by her sudden outburst.
“You okay, Allie?” asked Kingsley.
Trying not to blush too much, Allison brushed at her dress. “Dumb random thought struck me funny is all.”
“Are you sure it’s wise letting the boy go off on his own?” asked Damon, still seeming in disbelief about learning Anthony’s age. He’d assumed him to be about twenty.
“He’s only walking around the city looking for signs of a dark master.”
“That’s what I’m concerned about.” Damon glanced out the coach window. “He’s no longer dressed like a commoner. Thieves might decide to ambush him thinking he’s carrying a coin purse to go along with his outfit.”
Kingsley laughed. “For their sake, I hope not.”
Damon shot him a quizzical stare. “This experience becomes stranger and stranger.”
“You find the idea of a young man able to kick the butts of pickpockets weirder than being dragged across a dimensional boundary?” Allison chuckled.
“Well, no. But…” Damon shifted his gaze back and forth between them. “I get the feeling there’s something unusual about the boy… something unusual about all of you.”
Kingsley grinned. “Bingo.”
Allison yawned. “Sorry, this dimension hopping is really messing with my circadian rhythm.”
“Perhaps if you worked reasonable hours, you wouldn’t have that problem.” Kingsley smiled.
“Reasonable hours, yeah right.” Allison folded her arms. “The kinds of people who’d call into a psychic radio show aren’t awake at reasonable hours.”
Damon laughed. “Whoa? People still listen to the radio?”
“Surprisingly…” Allison let her head lean back against the cushioned wall and closed her eyes again, though this time, not for psychic seeing.
She probably didn’t have enough time to nap before they arrived at their destination: the estate of Nald Mur. Rather than take Sam’s approach of sneaking in and snooping around, Damon suggested paying the man a social call. As Lord Ceomar, duke of the north, it wouldn’t seem at all improper to drop by the man’s home. While Damon’s character counted among the nobility of the kingdom, his house did not exist within the inner circle of succession. None of the major houses would consider him a threat to their machinations for power. This granted him a degree of safety as well as opened the possibility that the one responsible for the unrest might reveal themselves to him amid a solicitation of loyalty.
About an hour and a half after they left the gates of Tarramor, the coach arrived at the estate of House Mur. Allison had been expecting a stuffy old manor house out in a field. Instead, she gazed out the window at a sprawling complex consisting of multiple buildings, all single story. The largest reminded her of the giant ranch homes found in old Western movies with white adobe walls and red tiled roofs. At least one of the buildings appeared to be a warehouse, another looked as though it contained a wine-making operation.
She directed the coach toward the one that most resembled a home, the fourth largest among them. Miles and miles of farmland surrounded them in every direction except for the road they’d followed from Tarramor. Thankfully the directions they’d gotten from Demetria had been simple: follow this road until it ends.
Some farm workers nearby stopped in their tasks to stare in awe at the driverless coach going by. Upon seeing their baffled expressions, Allison bit her lip.
Oops. Forgot there’s no driver sitting up front. Yeah, that’s going to look weird. Boo. Too late now.
The main house had an L-shape with a small courtyard tucked into the hook of the L, near the main entryway. A covered porch spanned the entire length of the front, wrapping around both sides as well. All manner of ivy, flowers, and creeping vines weaved through the lattice around the columns supporting the roof.
Wow. This place is so big I’d get tired walking from one end of the house to the other. This guy must have an entire team of housekeepers.
A man a bit too old and thin to be Nald Mur emerged from the main entrance, his expression curious. He wore a green tunic of a style neither common nor wealthy.
Damon opened the coach door and stepped out.
