Title: Magic or Die
Series: Inner Demons, Book One
Author: J.P. Jackson
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: July 2, 2018
Length: 87300
Genre: Paranormal, Fantasy, paranormal, demons, witches, magic
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Synopsis
James Martin is a teacher, a powerful Psychic, and an alcoholic. He used to work for the Center for Magical Research and Development, a facility that houses people who can’t control their supernatural abilities, but left after one of his students was killed, turning to vodka to soothe his emotional pain. The problem is he still has one year left on his contract.
When James is forced to return to the CMRD, he finds himself confronting the demons of his past and attempting to protect his new class from a possible death sentence, because if they don’t pass their final exams, they’ll be euthanized.
James also discovers that his class isn’t bringing in enough sponsors, the agencies and world governments who supply grants and ultimately purchase graduates of the CMRD, and that means no profit for the facility. James and his students face impossible odds—measure up to the facility’s unreachable standards or escape.
Do you have a writing schedule or do you just write when you can find the time?
I really need to put a schedule in place.
Life is so chaotic.
I love writing, but it’s a newly formed hobby for me. Well, that’s a little bit of a lie. Let me explain.
I think writing could be considered an extrapolation of reading. There’s a lot of people who read (although, admittedly, not nearly enough), but I think there’s a much smaller percentage of those avid readers who then challenge themselves to go further.
Can I write a story?
Maybe it’s a short story, perhaps even a novella. Goodness, do you even consider a full on novel?
I was a pretty solid reader for years and years. In my search for books that peaked my interest, I wanted to find books that had gay guys like me in them. What does that mean though, gay guys like me?
I like dark and creepy. The TV show Supernatural is right up my alley. I own every single season and have watched certain episodes over and over. True Blood, another fav. I hunted for years to find books where the main focus was the supernatural and the lead character was gay. Oh sure, I found several books where the secondary characters were gay. I’m thinking of the Mercy Thompson series by Patricia Briggs – LOVED THEM – but the main character was a kick-ass, take-no-hostages woman (which was fantastic!). Warren the werewolf, however, was in just about every book in the series, but, I really just wanted a story about him.
So, the old saying “Write the books you want to read” took over. I became one of those invested readers who thought “I can write the book I want. Maybe others will want it too?”
That’s how my first novel happened. Daimonion is sort of like a gay version of Supernatural, but all from the demon’s perspective. Then Magic or Die was written when my editor asked if I would pen a short story for an anthology. That spiraled out of control, and very quickly, a twelve-thousand word story became a three hundred and sixty page novel.
I enjoy the writing process. The creativity, the planning, and the problem solving stretches my abilities in directions I never thought I could go. And I love that. Now that I’ve done this book thing twice, I think I’m going to keep doing it. And besides, I have more stories to tell!
But, as much as I want to sit down and type, life sometimes has other ideas. There’s that day job that I’ve been at for 18+ years. Yeah, you know, the one that provides a paycheck that lets me make mortgage payments. Yeah, that one. It gets in the way.
And then you have social obligations (like spending time with my husband, which I love doing), meeting up with friends and family, household chores, trying to stay fit and healthy…really the list goes on. For the past five years, the writing has really happened whenever I’ve had some spare moments. But the deeper I get into this realm, the more time I want to spend here.
Like I said at the very beginning…I really need to put a schedule in place.
Magic or Die
J.P. Jackson © 2018
All Rights Reserved
One: Call Back
“YES, MIRIAM. YES, I know. I know it’s been over a year. I’m not sure I’m ready.”
The knuckles on my hand cramped from clasping my cell phone in a death grip. I glanced at my watch. This conversation had gone on too long. In the span of two minutes, Miriam had managed to exhume memories and history I wanted buried and forgotten. I sucked in a short breath as nausea surged like a tsunami of fear. Its behemoth wave washed bile against the back of my throat.
I slumped down the stained and weathered wall of the coffin-sized studio apartment I reluctantly called a home. It wasn’t a bad place to live, except for the cockroaches I found on a daily basis. I’m sure they considered it a veritable paradise. Absentmindedly, I toed an old pizza box near my foot while listening to Miriam. One of the insects scampered across the matted Berber carpet.
Gross.
Cody. A pale ghostlike face flashed before me. His hair, the exact colour of fall fallowed fields, hung listlessly over one eye, as blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. His chapped lips parted, asking me, “Why?”
I ignored the vision. Well, ignored wasn’t the right word, more like boxed it up with a heavy rock and pitched it into the abyss of my mind with all the other terrifying nightmares.
“I know. I owe you, yes. I’m just not sure—” I crawled over to the upended crate being used as a coffee table, grasping for my last pack of smokes. I lit one, enjoying the soothing crackle of the tobacco as it ignited, and then inhaled deeply.
Ah, yes. Hello, nicotine, my demon friend.
Miriam continued blithering while I half-heartedly listened to her soul-sucking voice. She was demanding my presence.
“What? You mean, tomorrow? Miriam, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I drew in another steady stream of the toxic smoke. It burned my lungs as the addictive chemicals flooded through my body. I really need to quit. Scraping together the smallest ounce of courage, I attempted to defy her. “No, I can’t.”
A wraithlike hand, desiccated and fragile, inched its way across my shoulder and gripped my tense neck muscle. Its sharp nails dug into my flesh. Its bite, a warning.
Cody’s lifeless lips brushed my ear, sending cold shivers skittering across my back. Eruptions of goose flesh covered my neck and shoulders. His voice was a memory and a sound I would never forget.
“Don’t do this. You’ll kill me again.” His icy breath whispered to me.
Another box, a bigger rock, another addition to the pit of despair in my head.
“No,” I replied to one of Miriam’s inane questions. “There’s an Arcane too? I’ve never been good with them. They creep me out. No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that. Shit.” Miriam had just described a scene for me. My flesh turned buggy, as if I had chiggers nesting and burrowing deep into my skin. “Oh god that’s gross. It’s also not a good sign.” I pointed uselessly at the wall, waving my finger, trying to make a point to the caller. “I never took the exam for the third class.” Miriam had asked if I’d kept up my licensing. I instantly felt guilty. I should have done it years ago. One thing was becoming evident from the conversation—she needed my help. Help only I could give.
“All right, maybe, I think I can. Consult only. Do you hear me, Miriam? Just a consult.” I had tried desperately to stay the hell out of this. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to go back there. “What time? Yes. I’m pretty sure. Miriam—” A thousand reservations ran through my mind, a wild stampede, unbridled, laced with dread and fear. “How many? How many in this class?”
The question sat like the world perched on my shoulders. The higher the number, the bigger the world, the more responsibility, an undeniable possibility of…
“Five! Are you kidding me? I can’t do five. No. No! It’s not possible.”
She was out of her mind.
“Yes, my sister is still on the streets. You know that’s close to blackmail, right?” I stubbed out the cigarette. The lacquer of smoke in my mouth tasted like I had just licked the bottom of an ashtray, and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. Why do I smoke again?
“Fine. Tomorrow. Yes. Ten a.m. Yes, I’ll be there. What do you mean dress appropriately?”
I looked at my cell phone, disgusted as the call ended.
I flipped the device onto the floor as if it had burst into flame and branded the conversation into my hand. I snorted. Like, I’d forget.
Stretching around to the other side of the crate, I grabbed blindly for a bottle I hoped was there. By all the gods’ great divine gifts, it was. And it still had liquid in it. In fact, it was surprisingly half-full.
I tipped the vodka bottle back, allowing its burn to strip away the cancer stick’s smoky film inside my mouth.
Swaying back and forth with my eyes closed, I tried to drown out the endless voices in my head. The words inundated my impending thoughts of doom and failure, and I could feel the chaos and panic mounting. Steadying myself and regaining my mental capacities, I gazed out the window. It was dark already and only six, early evening at best. Yay for daylight-savings time and late fall in Canada. Lights from the downtown cityscape lazily twinkled and danced before me. It should have been a pretty sight, but the darkness always seemed too oppressive, like a shroud. And I knew better. Things lived in the shadows.
I took another swig from the clear glass bottle. The burn hit my throat and disintegrated the bile that had crept up there.
Five very gifted students.
I rubbed the stubble covering my face and took yet another nip. Except it wasn’t a quick sip, it was a good one. A long one.
The window acted like a mirror, and my image reflected against the backdrop of the city skyline. I looked like shit. My short brown hair had cowlicks; thank god I kept it close. But the rest? No wonder Miriam instructed me to clean it up. The shirt I was sort of wearing was only half buttoned and stained in several spots. I had no pants on, but the pair of tighty-whities, which weren’t exactly white anymore, or tight, were ripped and showed more flesh than they were supposed to. Jesus.
How did my life get here?
Five young people had no control of their gifts.
And I had a sister who was lost out in the sparkle-light of downtown’s darkness, up to who knew what, and doing it with god only knew who, mired in her own addictions.
I glanced around my shit-hole apartment, wondering what the fuck I was going to do.
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J.P. Jackson works as an IT analyst in health care during the day, where if cornered he’d confess to casting spells to ensure clinicians actually use the electronic medical charting system he configures and implements.
At night however, the writing happens, where demons, witches and shape shifters congregate around the kitchen table and general chaos ensues. The insurance company refuses to accept any more claims of ‘acts of the un-god’, and his husband of almost 20 years has very firmly put his foot down on any further wraith summoning’s in the basement. And apparently imps aren’t house-trainable. Occasionally the odd ghost or member of the Fae community stops in for a glass of wine and stories are exchanged. Although the husband doesn’t know it, the two Chihuahuas are in cahoots with the spell casting.
J.P.’s other hobbies include hybridizing African Violets (thanks to grandma), extensive travelling and believe it or not, knitting.
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