The Beginner's Guide to Selling Your Soul
Volume 1: Dancing with Demons
J.P. Rice

CHAPTER 1


Standing in my driveway, munching a melting Snickers bar, with dusk looming and cicadas chirping, I leaned down and picked up the newspaper. A fresh flowery scent lingered in the muggy, early summer air as I strolled into the garage and took a gander at the headline of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
“Gone without a trace. Another young woman vanishes.”
I closed the garage door and skimmed the first paragraph.
“Another twenty-one-year old of similar height and weight to the others. That seems to be the only pattern. Has to be a supernatural being,” I muttered to myself as I chewed up the last bite of my candy bar and tossed the wrapper in the tiny garbage can.
Having been through a traumatic event like this, I understood the helpless feeling. Most parents would agree that the safety of their children is their number one priority. Every loving parent has envisioned nightmarish scenarios involving their son or daughter. It’s just what parents do.
However, nothing can prepare a parent to deal with the reality of a missing child. When a paralyzing beast known as despondency sinks its bloody fangs into your soul, it is almost impossible to remain positive.
Imagine a world without crime. Impossible, right? Well, that is my ultimate dream. Law and order were two societal cornerstones I held dear, and they were getting trampled in my city.
Fourteen young ladies had gone missing over the past three months and the authorities didn’t seem to have a single clue to go on. No bodies had been found. The women were out there. Still alive? Hopefully.
Saddled with family responsibilities due to my father’s untimely death, my hands were tied. I wished I could do something—anything—to make the screwed-up world just a little bit better.
My father had instilled a passion for criminal justice in me. I wanted to take the power from the crooks and put it back in the hands of the victims and their families, where it belonged. Unfortunately, my job in construction prevented me from actively pursuing it. I chuckled at the idea of dishing out vigilante justice with a shovel and nail gun.
Also, I had no connections with law enforcement officers or supernatural detectives. I’d always fancied myself as an amateur sleuth, but I had no real experience in the field. Arm shaking from equal parts frustration and anger, I tossed the newspaper on top of a stack of folding chairs.
Instead of chasing down the perpetrator responsible for the missing women, I grabbed a rag to chase away the cobwebs in my garage.
“Hey. Anyone care to help out?” I yelled into the house to my brothers and sisters.
I hated cleaning the garage. Life’s distractions conspired with procrastination to turn spring cleaning into late June cleaning. I couldn’t put it off any longer, but it also wouldn’t kill my little brothers to give me a hand. As soon as I mentioned the cleanup, everyone suddenly remembered a forgotten homework assignment.
I could play that game too. I wondered over to the door that led to our backyard and set the cleaning rag on a spare tire. Looking through the split windowpanes, I put my hand on the warm knob and froze.
A plump, red-eyed blackbird the size of a penguin sat on a plastic outdoor table in all its resplendent glory. It had the characteristics of an enormous raven, and its burning burgundy eyes prompted me to remove my hand from the doorknob.
I was surprised the cheap table could support its weight. A gigantic red-eyed raven, huh? Perhaps it was a sign I should stay inside and stick to my cleanup effort. I grabbed the rag and peeked outside again. Out of sight, the raven couldn’t have wandered too far.
Brushing off the odd occurrence, I moved the bookshelf away from the wall to dust behind it, releasing a musty aroma that stuck in the back of my throat. As the shelf screeched along the concrete floor, a book tumbled to the ground. I bent down and picked up The Rise of the Slumbering Dragons. My all-time favorite bedtime story.
My mother had crafted a cloth dust jacket for the old book because the spine was cracked and frayed. She had woven a near perfect replica of the cover art, which featured three sleeping dragons in a green valley with mountain peaks in the background.
Feeling nostalgic, I peeled back the soft jacket to compare it to the original hardback cover. A flat white rectangle slid out, fluttered through the air, and landed on my shoe.
I set down the book and opened the innocuous sheet of blue-lined notebook paper. Someone had rough-sketched a map, and there was some handwriting at the top and bottom. In the extended margin at the top, in my father’s writing, it said, “*Give to Ezekiel on June 23 of his 22nd year.*”
I snatched my phone out of my pocket and checked the date. June 23. But I was only twenty-one. Ha, ha. Oh, wait. My champagne celebration was short-lived as I realized I was older than twenty-one, which meant I was in my twenty-second year. What the hell kind of voodoo was going on here?
As I perused the paper, I discovered that it was a treasure map of the woods behind our house. Hmm. In script, at the bottom of the page, it read, “Hope, Faith and Charity.”
“Guess I should clean up that shovel over there,” I said to myself as I glided across the garage and scooped up the tool.
Like Elmer Fudd with his shotgun, I rested the shovel on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what I was hunting, but it wasn’t a wascawwy wabbit. Just before I left the garage, my trench coat caught my eye. Despite the blazing heat, it seemed like the perfect attire to execute a treasure map.
I swiped it from the hook, and as soon as it hugged my body, the sweat began to flow. I went outside, remaining wary of the raven. A few footsteps later, the sticky humidity attacked me, and the dam of perspiration broke on my face and head, the warm liquid already trickling from the stubble on my chin. The sacrifices I make to look the part.
The directions on the map led me to the beaten path in the woods behind our backyard.
I came to the first big X marked, “Witch hazel shrub.” Following the map, I hooked a right off the beaten trail and plunged into a denser area populated with ferns and jagger bushes. Fifteen footsteps later, I carefully maneuvered around some jaggers to get to the next clue.
“Oak tree trunk with X carved into it.” It had faded somewhat over the years, and even in the falling darkness, it still stood out, plain as day.
I went left from there and hopped over a moss-covered tree branch. The final destination was only a few feet away in the form of a copper pipe that had been pounded into the ground.
I stuffed the paper in my back pocket and went to put the shovel to good use. As I did, a huge wind burst kicked up, blowing tiny particles into my eyes. I blinked to recover, a blurry image coming into focus. A deafening squawk caused me to spring back, away from the sound source.
Five feet away, pecking the ground with its beak, stood the red-eyed raven. It used its beak to clear away some brush, exposing another copper pipe—this one barely poking out of the ground. With insistent head movements, it pointed to the pipe, encouraging me to dig there.
I consider myself relatively brave. However, my legs didn’t stand in unity with that bravery, and wouldn’t carry me closer to a predatory bird half my size. Sensing my apprehension, the giant raven stumbled backward, two elegant wings extending from its body. Powerful wing beats caused me to turn away and avoid the building dust storm.
The avian breeze felt nice, whistling through my hair and providing temporary relief from the nasty humidity. A few moments later, the uneven wind slowed, then came to a stop. I lifted my chin, head poking around, trying to see if the raven had landed on a nearby branch.
When I didn’t see it anywhere, my bravery buoyed, and I shuffled my feet over to the other copper pipe. Apparently, the first pipe I had found was a decoy, set by my father to throw someone off the trail, or perhaps the raven was a joker. One way to find out: I brushed away the leaves and twigs around the pipe first, then started digging.
The dying sunlight added difficulty, especially under the forest canopy. I also had no clue what I was searching for. How big was it?
I got about three feet into the ground and hit something small, but solid. I spiked the shovel, dropped to my knees and used my hands to pry a rectangular object out of the soil. An old cigar box sat in my palm.
I swept it clean the best I could and rose slowly. It had weight to it. A dramatic drumroll played in my head, my heart beating along with it. The moment of truth. I took a deep breath and cracked the lid of the box.
And…it was full of…dirt. Nothing but soggy soil. Was this supposed to be some lesson my father had planned to teach me? A Zen style of thinking? Don’t expect anything and you will never be disappointed?
Ah well. With my monotonous life, even a few fleeting moments of excitement were nice. Wait a second. Maybe the raven had tried to throw me off the real trail.
I overturned the box in my hand and dumped out the moist mold of dirt. It splintered upon hitting the ground. Wisps of smoke rose from the cracks and thickened into roiling thunder clouds, which then transitioned into a dense apparition that floated in front of me. The obsidian fog twisted, breaking apart and forming indistinct shapes, then blending back together.
Several sudden movements later, a figure took form. I took two steps back—eyes wide with wonder and concern for my well-being, my jaw agape—and wrapped my fingers around the shovel. Just in case.
An elongated face, extended neck, two outstretched wings, four legs, and a huge body came into sharp focus a mere three feet in front of me. The rough outline of a dragon expanded until it was about ten feet from chin to backside, not including the long tail. A swirling mass of flame developed in the belly of the intangible beast.
Words sprang from the phantom’s mouth, and I felt the fiery heat burn against my cheeks, “Who dares come to claim the treasure of Arameus, the Smoky Dragon?” The dragon spoke English with a slight French accent, its voice deep and booming.
I chortled unexpectedly. “Sorry. Are you related to Smokey Bear, by chance?”
Being a smartass extraordinaire, I couldn’t help myself.
“Smokey Bear? Who is this Smokey Bear you speak of?” the dragon asked with a tinge of anger attached to its words.
“He’s not as big in the east and was a lot more popular back in the eighties,” I explained.
“You dare laugh at Arameus while you are swathed in winter attire, sweating like a thieving prostitute in a warm confessional.”
“You making fun of me?” I pointed two thumbs at myself.
“Cease this mindless chatter at once,” the metaphysical dragon demanded. “I’ve been commanded to protect the contents of that box by any means necessary. Unless you know the password, that is.”
“What? Password?” I asked and watched a funnel of flames corkscrew up from its belly to its chest. It matched the burning stomach bile racing up my esophagus.
“You have five seconds. Five…”
What password? I didn’t want to throw out random guesses, but I was stumped. My father had set this protection spell. What were his favorite phrases?
“Four.” The flames crept higher, narrowing in Smoky’s lengthy neck and shattering my concentration on the password.
“Three.” The fire coalesced in its throat, taking on a bluish-green tint.
Should I just give up the contents of the box to avoid getting burned? Oh, shit. Wait a damn minute. What was that writing on the bottom of the map? My hand dove frantically into my back pocket.
“Two.” The fire moved into the mouth of the shadowy beast hovering a mere three feet from me.
Drops of perspiration poured off my face from the extreme heat and a questionable wardrobe decision. One big expulsion of breath would be the end of me. What a shitty death that would be.
I fumbled with the paper as my sweaty, trembling fingers pried it open.
“One.” Smoky’s mouth gaped, and I heard wind rustling.
“Faith, hope, and charity,” I screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear and held my hand out in a pathetic attempt to protect my face.
My words were met with silence, even the whistling wind had ceased, and I cringed as I awaited the dragon’s verdict. Peering through the fingers of my outstretched hand, I spied Smoky nodding slowly.
“Correct,” the dragon wheezed, and the fire extinguished immediately with a loud poof. A stiff breeze caught hold of the apparition and swept away its tail first. Then the wind picked up the rest of the body and carried it away as it broke up progressively and disintegrated into the descending dusk.
What the hell was that? Excitement was cool, but I didn’t want to risk being charred beyond recognition. My father must have put a powerful protection spell on the contents of that box. I dropped to my knees to see what was so special about this clump of dirt.
Instantly, a glittery gleam caught my eye. I leaned over and fished through the cracked mound of dirt. Using my index finger, I hooked the band of a silver ring and brought it closer to my face.
I recognized it immediately. It was the silver band with a dragon head setting that my father had given me when I was twelve years old. It was the ring my father had taken away from me after I had almost burned down these same woods that fateful day.
I only had ownership of the ring for a few short hours before my dad confiscated it.
It was so big that I had worn it on my thumb when I was twelve. My father had been teaching me about drawing magical inspiration from different figures and objects in mythology when my focus had drifted. For some reason, the bonfire at my uncle’s house had entered my mind. As I’d envisioned the mighty flames, a burning sensation had erupted in my chest.
A second later, flames had shot out of the ring and set the woods ablaze. My father had panicked initially, but he created a gale force gust of wind to put out the blaze. Then he had pried the ring from my reluctant thumb.
He had warned me I needed to wait until I matured to practice magic again. It was the first and final time we’d practiced magic together. I’d blamed myself, wondering what I had done to draw his ire. Until then, I’d been dealing with weird internal feelings and wild mood swings. Almost like another person was inside me.
The day after the fire, all my internal issues had resolved themselves. The swirling strangeness had ceased. I’d studied magic on my own after that, and I’d eavesdropped on my father and his friends every chance I’d had, but it wasn’t the same.
I started playing football in junior high school and began dating my girlfriend Carolyn a few years after, so magic had taken a backseat after my freshman year. Even though I’d been the starting quarterback of my high school team, I was secretly a magic and fantasy nerd.
When my father was killed, I’d blamed his magic lifestyle for his death. I’d sworn off following in his footsteps and taken a safe job in construction to support the family. But the passion for magic and law enforcement never left me. It felt like it was lying dormant inside and just needed to be awakened, like the slumbering dragons. I still loved the arcane practice and dabbled in harmless magic acts any chance I got.
I slid the ring onto my index finger, and it fit perfectly. The corners my lips curled up, and a jolt of energy lanced through my hand and rippled up to my shoulder.
In the strangled rays of the setting sun, the ornate dragon face setting gleamed. A few seconds later, the rune markings on the band glowed.
The first symbol emitted a molten brilliance. The second shone like polished lapis lazuli. I twisted my finger, and the third held a moss green radiance. The fourth gleamed fiercely like mother of pearl.
Because I’d only had the ring for a few hours, my father had never explained what the runes stood for. He’d only said that they were ancient symbols unique to our family. My hand tingled from the magic, and when I removed the ring, the sensation halted, and the runes stopped glowing.
I slid the ring back onto my finger and my hands burned. I held them in front of my chest, staring at my fiery palms. A millisecond later, two magical discs appeared, hovering a millimeter above my open hands. What in the world?
With rune symbols and sigils spinning around the perimeter, the still interior held overlapping geographic shapes. They were the size of a large pizza and took on a deep orange appearance, little flames sprouting from the strange objects.
Then, just as soon as they’d arrived, the two discs fizzled, flashed brightly, and before I could figure out what they were, they were gone.
I leaned against the planted shovel. My father had said I wasn’t ready for magic when I was twelve. According to his note, I was now ready. Too bad he wasn’t around to teach me.
Even though it was three years since his death, there was still a little speck of dreamer blood inside me that anticipated I would see him on earth again. Unfortunately, it would take a hell of a lot more than magic to make that happen.
A lightning bug flashed in front of my face, perhaps a cosmic sign from my old man. That used to be our curfew signal to get home when my sister and I were younger. He had told us repeatedly, “When you see their butts light up, that means you need to get your butts home.”
I wanted to stay out here and test the ring, but I had other pressing matters to tend to, which included getting out of this damn coat. I bent my neck to peer through the tree branches above. As the sun sank below the horizon, the full moon started to take form. That meant I could make my mother’s magic potion to encourage her happiness.
Right before I turned to leave, four points of light next to the moon caught my eye. The mystical beams created a diamond pattern and seemed like they were staring back at me. Unblinking, they burned brighter than normal stars and it still wasn’t dark out. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. When I looked back, the spots of illumination were gone. What a freaky day.
When it comes to magic, I am a two-trick pony. I know how to make potions and summon an angel. The ring could extend my repertoire vastly, but last time I’d tested it, I’d almost burned down a forest. That meant I had to be extremely careful with it.
My name is Zeke Brennen, and I’ll be your tour guide on this wacky adventure. One rule: No littering. It’s detrimental for elemental magic. One warning: I really don’t know what I’m doing, but I am more than willing to jump into the fire and have no problem making it up as I go.
Together, we can fly by the seat of our collective pants as we attend the school of hard knocks. Just don’t take my word for scripture and keep your head on a swivel. Hold on tight and prepare for turbulence.
I had a spring in my step as I turned for the house. It was shaping up to be a good night. In a little while, I get to practice magic.
For a split second, I mused about using the ring’s powers to hunt down the culprit behind the missing women. I envisaged rescuing the young ladies and returning them to their families. My heroic visions faded along with the sinking sun, and I circled back to the question burning a hole in my mind.
What kind of sick, twisted freak was behind the missing women?



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