The Balance Omnibus Read online

  The Balance Omnibus Edition

  By Alan Baxter

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  THE BALANCE | RealmShift

  MageSign

  Running Wild From The Hunt

  Stand-Off

  The Balance

  RealmShift | Book One of The Balance | By Alan Baxter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Epilogue

  MageSign | Book Two of The Balance | By Alan Baxter

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13 | ‘Fancy a cone?’

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Epilogue

  Running Wild From the Hunt | An Isiah Short Story | By Alan Baxter

  Stand-Off | An Isiah Short Story | By Alan Baxter

  END | If you enjoyed the Balance Omnibus, try Alan’s Alex Caine trilogy, beginning with book one, Bound. | Want to keep up with the latest news about Alan and his work? Click here to sign up for his newsletter.

  Books by Alan Baxter

  About the Author

  THE BALANCE

  RealmShift

  Isiah is having a bad day. Samuel Harrigan used ancient blood magic to escape a deal with the Devil and now Lucifer wants Sam’s soul more than ever. But Isiah has to protect the blood mage for a greater destiny, with the fate of humanity itself in the balance.

  MageSign

  In an effort to track down the evil Sorcerer, Samuel Harrigan’s mentor, Isiah uncovers a blood cult bigger than he ever imagined, with a plan more dangerous than anyone could have dreamed. Only Isiah stands between the cult and a world-shattering disaster.

  Running Wild From The Hunt

  A schoolboy is plagued by nightmares of being hunted until a strangely powerful man offers him assistance.

  Stand-Off

  A young man finds himself caught in a supernatural tug-of-war between two powerful beings.

  The Balance Omnibus Edition

  Copyright 2016 by Alan Baxter

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by Gryphonwood Press

  www.gryphonwoodpress.com

  RealmShift

  Copyright 2005, 2016

  MageSign

  Copyright 2008, 2016

  Running Wild from the Hunt

  Copyright 2011, 2016

  Originally published in the The Game anthology (ed. Kent Holloway, Seven Realms Publishing)

  Stand-Off

  Copyright 2009, 2016

  Originally published by Wily Writers.

  No part of these books may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  These books are works of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is

  entirely coincidental.

  The Balance

  RealmShift

  MageSign

  Running Wild From the Hunt

  Stand-Off

  RealmShift

  Book One of The Balance

  By Alan Baxter

  1

  Torrential rain. The sky crying tears of shame to wash the filth from the streets of the cramped, choking city below. An impossible task, the filth ingrained in the buildings, roads, windows. And in the hearts and souls of the people, everybody huddled in their selfish little boxes of material illusion.

  Raindrops chased each other down the window pane, an endless race to the dirty stone windowsill. Zig-zag left, right, left, always down. The drops sound a repetitive tattoo on the glass, strangely soothing in spite of itself. The sky outside a solid leaden grey, like some great hand has closed the lid on a best forgotten box of horrors. Too dark for the time of day, mid-morning. The towers of the city stark and black, almost silhouettes against the slate sky.

  Several stories below neon light on shops, bright blue, pink, green, shimmered reflections on the tear soaked road. Little people like ants, hiding from the pouring rain under umbrellas and newspapers, protecting their designer suits and expensive hairstyles, preserving the image. Shiny, hard shelled cars slid up and down the road.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, like the embarrassed god of this city clearing his throat as he averts his eyes. Isiah sighed as he stared out into the weeping morning, the glass misting, fading away, his eyes sliding up once more to stare at the dead weight of the clouds. He could sense the impatience building in the figure behind him. Sighing again he turned slowly. He could not see the figure too clearly, shadow masking the bulk of it. Unlike normal shadow, more like black light. And it was a bulk, malevolence exuding from its very presence, the only things really visible were two red, glowing eyes. A typical manifestation, the believer’s image personified like many others, yet unique in its own way. Isiah could sense various other images shimmering and shifting behind, within, but this was the one he was dealing with now.

  He took another breath and looked directly into those pulsing eyes. ‘You can’t have him.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, tired.

  A wave of pure anger, tangible, swept the room. Its voice did not use the space between them to get to Isiah but boomed straight into his head. He hated that. Vaudeville. ‘We are already enemies, Isiah. Why make it worse?’ The voice sounded like worms crawling through the rotting flesh of the dead, amplified by hollow skulls.

  Isiah looked down, slight shake of the head. ‘I suppose the expression “Patience is a virtue” is lost on you, isn’t it? Do you want to fight me for him now? You know he’ll eventually have to come to your Realm, you’ll get him in the end. But I’ll find him first and he’ll work for me.’

  There was an audible hiss and whine of heat bowing metal, a crackle of wood and fabric burning. The voice contained such fury, such impotent rage. ‘You are a thorn in my side, Interferer. It may not be worthwhile fighting you here but the race is on. I will send my Hell to your world, Isiah. I will harry your every move.’ The figure hunched, muscles tightening as it leant forward dramatically to point one black, taloned finger at Isiah. ‘And one day I will piss in your eyes as I watch you burn.’ A dark flash of light revealed sloping brow, horns, taut, shiny, black skin, then nothing but the cloying smell of sulphur. The carpet and floorboards were burned away, the pipes beneath grotesquely twisted like silver-grey candles left in the sun. Isiah picked up his tattered leather jacket, glanced once more at the burnt floor, and left the apartment.

  He had been living here for some time now, no particular reason to move had arisen. It wasn’t often that he got a job so close to home. It made him think of news reports on commercial stations, neighbours with shocked faces, I never thought it could happen here!

  Stepping from the building Isiah pulled the collar of his jacket tight against the stinging tears, headed for the station. There were rather more etheric methods of travel open to him, but he preferred to travel like humans, mortals. It kept him in touch. He could not think of himself as either human or mortal any more, bu
t it was important not to lose contact. He had been human, centuries ago.

  After a short walk he arrived at the station and trotted down the steps leading underground, shaking the water from his dark hair, pushing it back from his eyes. Leaves and plastic packets gathered up in the corners, bright graffiti battled for supremacy on the walls. People jostled all around him, hurrying, heads down, insular. The ever-rolling human tide. As he came out into the ticketing area the metallic smell was a relief after the stairs, but the air was stale, processed.

  He watched all the grey people, dividing up, tumbling through the turnstiles like cattle. Ticket in, click, ticket out, next. A guard leaned laconically against his little plastic booth, staring mindlessly at the crawling crowd, absently chewing on gum.

  Isiah stepped up into the end of the nearest queue of commuters, slowly bumped his way along to the gateway. A slight gesture, mental pressure, and the electronics were overridden. The turnstile clicked open and he stepped through. No one noticed. No one ever did.

  Walking toward the stairs, he caught the scent of sulphur thick in the air, though knew only he smelt it. He smiled crookedly, So it begins. He started down the stairs, scanning with eyes and mind. There. Bottom of the steps, in among the shadows. He couldn’t see it clearly, but its presence was unmistakable. Minion. Demon. Sent as promised, a little piece of Hell on Earth.

  He could sense the malevolence in its aura, but also its mischief, joy at this opportunity to wreak a little havoc in the mortal plane. He would have to be careful. The commuters, bustling, jostling, would not be able to see it, but they would see him. See him react if it attacked, like a lunatic swatting at invisible flies. He could move fast, faster than the mortal eye could follow, but he would have to deal with it quickly, draw no attention.

  As he processed these thoughts, it moved. Like a streak of black lightning, from the shadows into the harsh, fluorescent light, laughter like insane childrens’ minds snapping in dark corners. As it flew up the stairs he stepped with supernatural pace to the right, left arm thrusting out, palm flat. He struck the Minion full in its grotesque, slimy, fang-crowded face, deflecting it violently into the wall. With a crunch like stamping on dry twigs, it slammed into the tiles and dropped to the floor, draped across three steps. As it raised its head, eyes swimming randomly, Isiah gathered a handful of raw energy, released it with a flick. Evil squeal, black smoke and a smell like burning rubber. A couple of commuters looked up, surprised, Where did you come from? Then looked away again.

  Isiah paused for a moment, confused. That was pointless, only one. No threat at all, just a hindrance. It made him think of the little sharpened stars used by Japanese assassins. Shuriken. Nasty little thrown weapons, not really designed to do any damage, just distract, confuse the enemy, make an opening for the killing blow.

  He stepped onto the platform as a train hissed to a stop. With a mechanical sigh of resignation the train doors slid open and he stepped aboard. Sitting on the hard, dirty fabric seat he contemplated finding a quiet corner in order to use a rather less mundane mode of transport. It was only a couple of stops. He let a field of energy build up gently to put off any more nasty little Minions that might be sent. Make them think twice before attacking. A small, balding man with glasses like milk bottle bottoms and an oversized, threadbare suit in the seat beside Isiah shivered as the energy field built up. He glanced up and shivered again without knowing why. Isiah looked down at him over his shoulder with no expression. The little man’s eyes widened slightly, owlish behind thick lenses, at Isiah’s black eyes and he moved over an inch. He made a point of ignoring Isiah, studying the material of his trousers intently.

  The journey went along quietly for several minutes. Then a shimmer in the air, like heat haze, caught Isiah’s eye. Simultaneously, he sensed the shift between Realms and a slimy, taloned demon stepped into view. Some mortals would be able to see these evil interlopers, but not many. This was another private visitation, its effect intended to be public, not its appearance.

  It grinned maliciously, a forest of black teeth like miniature sabres. It sat there, just a couple of feet away, staring. Isiah let energy gather in his hand, raised an eyebrow to the demon. It raised one gnarled, black finger to its dripping lips, bile green eyes glittering. It leapt backwards, landed in the lap of a fat black woman sitting opposite and melted away into her stomach. Dirty trick. The woman scratched absently at her rotund abdomen, staring into space.

  What would it do? Obviously sent to cause some havoc, slow him down. Why did this one have to believe in God and the Devil? All Heaven and Hell, demons and angels, it could all get so damned complicated.

  The woman turned her head slowly to look directly at Isiah. He saw the flash of madness in her eyes a moment before she leapt, screaming like a banshee, hands stretched out for his throat. People all around jumped, looking to see what the fuss was. Definitely a dirty trick. He could not simply destroy her in a carriage full of people. With the demon using a human, he had to move at human speed too. Everyone was going to see this fight.

  He let her hands get almost to his neck, then grabbed her wrists, one in each hand. Twisting at the waist, he stepped up out of his seat and turned her into his place, using her own momentum. She hit the seat with a heavy thud, fingers writhing like little snakes, long, red nails glittering in the fluorescent light. Isiah could hear the demon laughing maniacally within her. Her foot flew up between his legs. He turned in his knee, deflecting the blow against his thigh.

  Other commuters were beginning to sidle away, heading for the doors as the train began slowing into the next station, but helplessly staring, fascinated. No offers of assistance, no one helping to hold her down. Just watching, What a remarkable thing I saw on the train today! Isiah’s attacker was writhing under his grasp like a giant, round eel, still wailing, lips flecked with spittle, kicking wildly. It was getting harder to hold her down without hurting her.

  As the train came to a halt at the platform he reached into her mind with his own and grabbed the demon in a psychic headlock, their minds a mirror of their bodies. It screamed, its cry mingling with hers, one inside his head, one outside. As the doors slid open, he twisted again, throwing the woman by her wrists from one side of the carriage to the other, superhuman strength, tearing the demon from her mind as she flew into the wall between the seats and the door. There were gasps and exclamations from the other passengers as her banshee wail stopped dead with a rush of breath. With a mental blow, Isiah crushed the demon away to nothing, its crazed laughter fading.

  He stepped from the train and walked toward the exit sign, chuckles and hushed conversation from the commuters around him, Poor fellow, How embarrassing, I hope he didn’t hurt her. Not his problem. This was really going to be a pain if it continued.

  The city downpour was refreshing after the cramped confines of the underground. After a ten minute walk Isiah looked up, squinting against the rain, at a dully glowing sign. O’Malley’s Pool Hall. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the building, suddenly enveloped in artificial heat and light.

  He climbed the steps leading up to the first floor slowly, letting his mind gently scour the large room above before he reached it. Smoke, beer, mixed emotions, depression, hostility, competition. Not a great deal of joy.

  There were several tables, a dozen or more, with little crowds around each one. Lots of denim, leather, hair, tattoos. There was a thin crowd at the bar. An undercurrent of clinking glasses, converging conversations, the solid thock of cue ball on colour, all overlaid by the sound of Dire Straits piping out from a juke box through cheap speakers. Shadowy faces floated in the corners, under faded prints of cars, motorcycles, bikini girls.

  Isiah walked towards one of the nearest tables, the players pausing to watch him approach. He quickly scanned their thoughts. It was obvious which one they looked to as a leader. Bald head, shaved, long beard, more tattoos than skin, arrogant stance and expression. Mean. Isiah nodded as he approached. Mean didn’t.

&n
bsp; ‘You guys know where I can find Samuel Harrigan?’

  The painted one shrugged, shook his large head. ‘Never ‘eard of him.’ He wasn’t lying. The others shook their heads too with sneering expressions.

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’ He felt them watching him as he walked away. He approached another table, more of the same people around it. Modern tribes. There was no obvious leader in this group. He stopped, not looking at any one in particular. They paused playing to look back.

  ‘Anyone know where I can find Samuel Harrigan?’ He felt it immediately amongst the general shaking of heads. There. He was shaking his head, but thinking of Samuel. He knew him well. Isiah stepped around the table nearer to this one. ‘You sure?’

  The man looked left and right, confused. Isiah leaned forward, the table light illuminating the left side of his face. The pool player tensed a little inside as he looked into Isiah’s black, bottomless eyes. ‘Where is he?’ Isiah’s voice was deep, threatening.

  The pool player looked to his friends again, then back at Isiah, trying not to look into those eyes. ‘I don’t know, man.’

  Isiah put a little psychic pressure on, made him feel like something was squeezing his brain. Something was. ‘Where is he?’

  The pool player’s eyes widened, his adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow. Isiah sensed a big man to his right step forward. Hostility. ‘Leave him alone, pal.’ The man’s voice was like gravel in a wooden box.

  Isiah didn’t take his eyes from the one in front of him. As Dire Straits faded from the room the susurration of conversation seemed to swell slightly. ‘Step back friend, and I won’t hurt you.’ Isiah’s presence was powerful, his confidence obvious. A pause. Piano began to float in the air. Isiah concentrated on the heavy, not really listening, but he recognised it. There was a long moment of discomfort as the man tried to decide what to do. Of course, it was Queen flooding the air. The big one stepped back a little, uncertain. The one in front flicked his eyes to his friend, back to Isiah. His head was beginning to hurt. He started to blink rapidly.