0.5-The Asylum Interviews: Bronx: An Asylum Tales Short Story Read Online Free PDF

any intruder, but it was extremely dangerous and aggressive. I didn’t always feel safe down in the basement with it activated even though I was the original spell caster.
    I paused in the center of the room and looked around, checking to make sure that the three walls of cabinets hadn’t been disturbed. They contained some of the rarest ingredients in the world. My secret stockpile for whatever I wished to stir. Most were lethal on their own, and a number of them I would be killed just for having.
    More than seven years had passed since I escaped from the Ivory Towers. I had never wanted to be a warlock if it meant being a power-hungry megalomaniac dedicated to a lifetime of death, destruction, and domination. By the grace of the gods or whatever powers there may be, I was given a reprieve from the Towers so long as I never used magic again except in self-defense. But upon opening my own shop, I discovered that I couldn’t give up magic. Not only was it my only true source of protection, but I was more likely to cut off my right hand or stop breathing than give up magic. So I worked to keep it secret, or I would be killed by the Ivory Tower council.
    Shaking my head, I walked over to the large tabletop pushed against the far wall, which I used as a workspace. I was past regrets about my choices. I wasn’t a warlock, but I wasn’t quite human either. Just something that hovered in between that needed to keep one hand tapped into the power around me.
    My eyes danced over the collection of crystals hanging along the wall that I used in a variety of spells. The tabletop was covered in random items, like a packrat’s treasure trove of crap. Pieces of tree limbs, chicken feet, smooth marble stones, half a deck of tarot cards, stubs of candles in a rainbow of colors, a jar of clover honey, two large containers of salt, and a few rusted nails littered the table among other junk. At the far end was a stack of hardcover journals that I used to write notes for original spells and potions that I created. I grabbed the top journal and ran my left hand along the back of the table, which was lined with old baby food jars filled with different color pieces of chalk, each in its own jar. It was one of my rare attempts at organization that worked. Snatching up a couple pieces of black chalk, I waved my hand at the symbols on the far wall, reactivating the protection spell as I ascended the stairs again.
    Slamming the trapdoor back in place, I also grabbed a pencil from one of the tables in the back room and hurried out the door to the alley. Chalk in hand, I paused at the bottom step leading up to the second floor apartment and quickly inscribed a magic symbol, followed by a little burst of power to kick off the spell. I waited, glancing over my shoulder as every muscle in my body tensed, waiting for the blow. But nothing happened. Maybe my warden wasn’t watching.
    I stepped over the chalk-etched symbol and climbed the stairs. At the door to the apartment, I set about inscribing a series of symbols and glyphs around the wooden doorjamb and on the door in the black chalk. As I finished with each one, it briefly flared to life before fading. There was nothing subtle about this magic, but I couldn’t think of anything subtle that would be effective against something as strong as the magic obviously emanating from Parker.
    There was a soft sigh behind me as I turned the doorknob to enter the apartment. “Fuck,” I whispered just before a blast of energy slammed into my back. Thrown against the door, I fell into the living room and rolled across the floor, dropping the journal, pencil, and chalk somewhere along the way. Heart pumping. Body tensed. No thought. Instincts reacted to the crackle of energy in the air. Someone was attacking me with magic—I had to protect myself. Rolling to my feet, I turned with my hands out to my side, drawing power for the attack.
    Gideon stood in the doorway, running one finger along the doorjamb,