Muckrakers & Minotaurs Read online

  Muckrakers & Minotaurs

  Terra Haven Chronicles Book 3

  Rebecca Chastain

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogue, places, and incidents either are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2021 by Rebecca Chastain

  Excerpt from Magic of the Gargoyles copyright © by Rebecca Chastain

  Cover design by Yocla Designs

  Author photograph by Cody Watson

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  www.rebeccachastain.com

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  All rights reserved. In accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

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  Mind Your Muse Books

  P.O. Box 374

  Rocklin, CA 95677

  ISBN: 978-1-7344939-4-8

  To everyone who self-isolated, social distanced, and masked up: Thank you for helping save the world (and the people I love).

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Rebecca Chastain

  Excerpt: Magic of the Gargoyles

  About Rebecca Chastain

  Now Available

  1

  My heart hammered against my rib cage, desperation clogging my throat. Not Airstrong. Please, don’t let it be Airstrong burning. In the still summer air, the column of black smoke billowed high into the sky, easily visible half the city away. The echo of the explosion still rang in my ears.

  “Hang on,” Grant ordered.

  I tightened my grip on his belt. Squeezed cross-legged behind Grant on his personal flying carpet, I leaned into the turn as he took the corner fast enough to raise a spiral of dust from the cobblestones eight feet below. Ocher clapboard and a dizzying rush of reflective windows flashed past inches from my shoulder, whipping my hair into my face. I blinked stinging tears from my eyes and searched the horizon.

  Grant barked orders into message spheres while dodging low-flying air carts and pedestrians on slower carpets. The elements cupped to his mouth prevented me from hearing his words, but I recognized the magical signatures of his squad embedded in each spell. In seconds, four disparate messages blasted into the air, arcing toward their intended recipients.

  A slash of orange burst through the smoke tower, soaring on hawk-size wings. From this distance, I couldn’t pick out the individual black bands on the bird’s amber feathers, but its fiery marigold chest—and its proximity to the burning building—was enough to confirm my worst fears. The explosion was no accident; someone had planted a phoenix egg in the warehouse district and allowed it to hatch.

  The carpet jumped, then dipped, and only my white-knuckled grip on Grant kept me from flying off the narrow surface. By the time I stabilized myself, the phoenix had caught an updraft. In seconds, it was little more than a speck against the magenta sunset.

  I reached for the elements, feeling for Quinn. No boost amplified my magic. The gargoyle was still out of range. Whereas Grant and I were constrained by the limited levitation of the carpet, forced to zigzag through the streets of Terra Haven, Quinn had flown straight over the rooftops.

  I silently willed speed to Quinn’s flight. The people at the explosion site—the hatching site—needed his elemental boost.

  The people. The generic term bounced around my head, a pointless attempt at distancing myself from my fear. Mom was the people. Mom had been at Airstrong today, managing her shipping company’s operations. Mom would need Quinn’s special magic. If she wasn’t . . .

  I refused to finish the thought, instead resuming my silent prayer. Please don’t let it be Airstrong.

  Somehow, Grant muscled more speed from the carpet’s propulsion spell once we cleared the busy downtown district, pushing us to a reckless speed. Emerald Station raced past, the busy train terminal swarming with confusion and defensive spells. More than one person pointed to the sky, either at the smoke or the phoenix. The deadly bird’s hatching would monopolize the front page of every newspaper tomorrow. Despite our mad dash to the scene, I wouldn’t get the scoop, but I didn’t care. The story could go to some other journalist—one not currently suspended—so long as Mom was safe. Please let her be safe.

  We careened into the warehouse district, and relief chased the familiar gut-flipping sensation of a gargoyle’s enhancement amplifying my elemental strength. Quinn was close. I drew on his boost, gathering twice as much magic as I’d previously held, prepared to offer aid in whatever form was needed. I no longer had to crane my head to see the column of smoke. It billowed far too close for my earlier prayers to be answered, funneling through a massive water-and-earth ward visible over the rooftops—a spell designed to contain fire. Then we banked around the final corner, and the last of my hopes died.

  Airstrong burned.

  A cavernous hole had been torn through the corner of the brick warehouse, from the first floor to the roof four stories above it. Chunks of wood and brick from the collapsed upper levels filled the bulk of the cavity at street level. Thick, acrid smoke streamed out the top of the jagged opening and poured through gaping holes where windows had once been.

  The carpet shot sideways, the curved horn of a wild-eyed ox tearing through the air inches from my knee. The beast thundered past close enough for me to count the flecks of sweat on its flank, the flap of a torn harness strap whipping against the underside of our carpet. Panicked, the ox veered down the nearest alley, but not before clipping the edge of the brick building, shaking it on its foundation.

  Grant slowed, and I jerked my gaze back to Airstrong. The pulverized wooden sidewalk and dozen-foot radius of decimated cobblestones defined the blast crater, but the damage extended much farther. Overturned carts, broken crates, and shattered glass lay strewn along the street in front of the ravaged building. Terrified hippogryphs and horses churned debris underfoot and threatened to trample the frantic riders and drivers attempting to soothe them.

  Three buildings down from Airstrong, a trio of men in blacksmith leathers freed a centaur trapped beneath a mangled air sled. Injured and dazed people sat or lay sprawled among the havoc, healers already darting among them. Spells saturated the air, cooling, mending, containing, protecting—and speeding down side streets and over rooftops to carry messages to people beyond the disaster. I clung to Grant’s waist, my gaze bouncing from one bloodied face to the next, my heart in m
y throat.

  Where was Mom?

  The oblong ward encasing the warehouse narrowed through the alleys on either side and bulged into the street, preventing the fire from spreading to nearby businesses. The fluidity of the spell’s shape and the ever-shifting magic swirling within it radiated a herd harmony unattainable by ordinary humans. I scanned the ward’s perimeter. A smattering of statuesque figures were posted at even increments along the spell. Each was over six feet tall, female, and as voluptuous as she was large boned. Each also possessed a tan-and-black bovine head. A frisson of hope cut through my panic. Minotaur magic cradled Airstrong. If the minotaurs had reacted fast enough, Mom might be all right.

  Grant jerked the carpet to a halt, dropping the levitation spell fast enough to click my teeth together. When he leapt to his feet, my fingers spasmed, cramping into a fist. Spinning, he planted a hand on my shoulder when I tried to rise.

  “Wait here and be careful.”

  He jogged off before I could respond, calling out to city guards already on the scene. They readily relinquished control of the disaster site to him. As captain of the city’s Federal Pentagon Defense squad, Grant Monaghan outranked everyone in the vicinity. He also possessed years of experience in the FPD working high-risk situations with volatile magic and deadly creatures. I hadn’t had a chance to ask, but I doubted this was his first run-in with a phoenix. It obviously wasn’t his first time running post-catastrophe cleanup. He quickly began constructing order in the chaos. If I hadn’t been so worried, I would have been impressed.

  Quinn dropped from the rooftop behind me, a flash of the late-evening sun reflecting off his citrine lion body catching my eye. Snapping open powerful wings, he slowed his descent, landing with a clatter of quartz paws on cobblestones. His wings kicked up debris and swirled smoke into my eyes, but I didn’t care. Leaping off the carpet, I rushed to him.

  “Have you found Mom?”

  Quinn shook his head. “I’m boosting her, though, so she’s close. In that direction.” He pointed toward Airstrong just as a heavy crash inside loosed a cascade of broken bricks from the front wall. Someone on the street screamed. Fresh smoke gushed out of the roof and high windows.

  My heart squeezed tight. A handful of people milled about between us and the warehouse, but Mom was tall, pale, and blond, like me. If she had been among them, I would have spotted her.

  I crossed my fingers and spun together a tracking spell with more speed than finesse. Maybe Mom was behind the warehouse, standing safely on the loading dock. To be certain, I tossed a second tracker high into the air. Both golden arrows dove straight into the burning building, disappearing for a breathless count of four seconds before returning through a smoke-choked window. I caught them in a trembling net of air.

  Oh mercy. She was inside.

  Alive, or my spell wouldn’t have found her magical signature, but something was preventing her from escaping the warehouse on her own. I searched the street for Grant, but he had vanished. I couldn’t delay.

  Hang on, Mom. I’m coming. “Quinn, you should stay—”

  “I go where you go,” he declared.

  I shot him a tight smile. “Thank you.”

  Banishing the extra tracker, I anchored the remaining arrow to me, then darted around a spilled bin of used horseshoes and scrap metal, Quinn on my heels. Broken glass and jagged hunks of wood forced me to slow when I wanted to sprint, and I almost fell when my foot slipped in a murky puddle leaking from toppled casks. Quinn caught me, and together we pushed through the ward. For one step, the spell bathed me in an elemental waterfall, cool and cleansing, the acrid odors of charred stone and campfire smoke washed away. Then heat battered me. I gasped, expelling clean oxygen from my lungs and swallowing a mouthful of ash.

  “Child, no!”

  The nearest minotaur lunged for me, and I dodged her long reach. “I’m going in. Mom’s inside.”

  Her brown eyes widened when they snagged on the tracker quivering at my side, and her ears stiffened. “We missed one,” she shouted to the minotaur on her right. “Someone’s inside!”

  The cry was taken up along the line of minotaurs, and their magic shifted, spiraling cool tendrils around me. I gratefully gathered their magic inside mine, forming a pocket of breathable air around myself and Quinn. Then I plunged into the wreckage.

  The minotaurs’ magic preceded us across the tattered threshold, pushing aside the smoke. A long, narrow room stretched the width of the warehouse. Yesterday, it had been a peaceful lobby with an assortment of comfortable furniture, large windows to let in light, and an employee’s desk on the far right, where prospective clients claimed and booked shipments. Along the back wall, a sturdy door had guarded the warehouse, separating the lobby from the bustle and dangers of an active shipping yard.

  Today, it was unrecognizable. A shadowy mound of rubble loomed on the left, all that remained of the front corner of the building. Thick wooden beams protruded from the floor at disorienting angles, flames licking along their ragged breaks despite the fire-retardant spells coating them. Broken bricks and grit were spewed across the lobby’s encaustic tiles clear to the desk on the opposite side. Molten puddles of phoenix egg residue dotted the floors and walls, providing eerie, flickering lighting. I squinted against the gloom, hunting for the door to the warehouse. It was missing, along with half the wall and the no-trespassing ward that had previously defended the opening.

  I flinched away from the splintered front doorway, the heat of the battered frame singeing my elbow through my thin cotton shirt. The tracker blazed bright in the dim interior, its tip pointing toward the remaining section of the back wall. Thank goodness. A bank of offices marched along the opposite side of the wall, accessible only from the warehouse. Beyond the offices stretched the open floor of the warehouse, stocked with shipments awaiting transport or pickup. Anything from textiles to fireworks to cockatrices could be stored inside the warehouse on a given day.

  “Stay close,” I told Quinn.

  He pressed to my side, the coolness of his rock shoulder seeping through my jeans. We shoved our way under a crooked board and over a pile of plaster and wood that had once been the second floor. The material cracked and popped beneath Quinn’s weight. I scurried forward, and Quinn leapt free before the wreckage collapsed. Dust and ash billowed into the air.

  Swiping sweat from my brow, I formed a glowball and floated it ahead of us, forging a convoluted path through the detritus. The arrow gradually rotated, pointing first to our right, then behind us, but crumpled shipping crates blocked a direct route, forcing us deeper into the warehouse. The minotaurs’ magic weakened the farther we traveled. When it faded completely, ash choked my shield and heat beat against my skin. Darkness pressed in on me, my light unable to penetrate more than a foot or two of smoke, turning the cavernous warehouse into a claustrophobic nightmare. My breath hitched, my pulse thundering in my ears. The groans and pops of burning boards became the rumble of rock above my head, threatening to collapse and bury me.

  This isn’t Lunacy Labyrinth, I reminded myself. I don’t have tons of rock above my head.

  Just one partially collapsed roof, more than heavy enough to crush Quinn and me both.

  Not helpful, I told myself.

  A spray of sparks rained from the ceiling, illuminating ghostly shapes in the destruction as they fell. The first two offices were unrecognizable, pulverized under the weight of the collapsed floors above them. My heart migrated up my throat, worry strangling me. The tracker pointed toward Mom’s office at the end of the line. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out if it was still whole. It had been farthest from the blast, but the ceiling might have—

  A loud crack split the air above us. Short pops like bones snapping echoed through the building, then the warehouse released a pained growl.

  “Watch out!” Quinn shoved me to the ground. I slammed to my knees, then to my stomach under the weight of Quinn’s paw. Hunkering low, he straddled me, his wings forming a quartz cocoon even a
s I hardened a ward above us. Something heavy hit my shield and shattered it. Magic backlashed, whipping pain through my brain, and I sucked in an ash-clogged breath. Coughing, I scrambled for the elements. When I shoved a ward against the weight above us, it didn’t budge. Cycling the elements, I attempted to purify the air, but it was too late. All the clean oxygen had dispersed.

  “Are you all right?” Quinn asked, dipping his head to touch his cool nose to my cheek.

  “I think so,” I wheezed. Knitting a mask of water and air, I fitted it over my mouth and refined it until I could breathe through it. Then I replicated it for Quinn. It helped, but my lungs still burned, and I couldn’t suppress my coughs. “You?”

  Quinn flexed his wings, bumping up against solid surfaces on both sides. Carefully, he retracted them. Embers tumbled down on either side of him, following the arc of my ward. When nothing heavier followed, I shimmied out from under Quinn, groaning as pain spiked through my abraded forearms and bruised knees. A wooden beam as thick as my body canted against the demolished crate beside us, one end smoldering red hot. Even more charred and burning timber was piled behind Quinn, where it had slid off his wings. A dim light wavered above us, and the haze of smoke parted long enough to catch a glimpse of crepuscular sky through the fresh hole in the ceiling. The minotaurs’ fire-smothering spell swelled to fill the opening, quelling the rooftop flames.