Lyn South

Unexpected Magic

Novel extract

Chapter One

I can predict which mortals will wield the power I grant without corrupting themselves, but like truth in a liar’s mouth, they are rare. Even the handful of truly selfless humans I’ve known have done bad things for good reasons, then tried to justify the unpardonable. They think they’re the exception to one universal rule: actions have consequences.

Having power doesn’t change a person; it strips away the pretense, laying bare who they’ve always been. It shows what they truly value, what lines they’re willing to cross, and what—or who—they’ll sacrifice when they decide the end justifies any means.

I’m pontificating, aren’t I? I won’t ask your pardon for it because I can’t help myself. After eons of testing Flesh and Bloods by granting them magic, I’ve gained a perspective I’m compelled to share. Choices, not eyes, are the true window to a soul, revealing ugly truths people hide from the world and themselves. 

Are you surprised that gods test mortals? We watch with fascination and curiosity as humans oscillate between brilliance and folly, kindness and cruelty, courage and cowardice. We never warn them about the test—how else would we see their true nature?

I should introduce myself. I’m called by many names, some whispered in reverence, others cursed under a breath. But since we’re just getting acquainted, let’s keep it simple. Call me Oz. Short, easy to remember, with just the right touch of mystery. 

I am a trickster, a divine irritant, and a connoisseur of mortal absurdity. After I set the stage for a little chaos, I sit back and watch the show. Because nothing is more entertaining than watching people who think they’re in control, and believe no one’s watching. 

This brings me to the tale I want to tell. There were once three neighbors whose lives were safe and ordinary until I met them. I gave them a life-changing challenge: Use their unexpected magic without losing their humanity. Would they learn the line between foolishness and wisdom is one misstep wide? Or would they discover, too late, that good intentions never guarantee clean hands?

Chapter Two

Jules Witherspoon snatched a silver tray of smoked salmon canapés from a blond pony-tailed server and shooed the girl away. More servers, outfitted in black vests and crisp white shirts moved through the crowd. When they passed near Jules, they stole quick glances but were careful not to get too close. They let her rearrange the catering stations to her liking. Even their boss—a formidable woman who ruled the banqueting team at Howes House with the empathy of a grumpy, soon-to-retire drill sergeant—offered Jules no stronger reproach for her interference than a raised eyebrow. Anything more wasn’t worth the aggravation.

Moments later, Mike—Jules’s husband of twenty years—placed his empty dessert plate on the table in front of her rather than the vacant one near the wall meant for used dishes. She glared. He smirked. It would be a long evening for both. 

Mike wasn’t supposed to eat before the guests arrived, but he used the buffet as an excuse to continue a fight with his wife. Before they arrived, he’d argued everyone around her paid the price for her inability to relax. She drove everyone up the wall with her unending micromanagement, which turned simple issues into battles nobody won. 

Jules argued he never took anything seriously when it mattered. He coasted through life with infuriating ease, disregarding her feelings, leaving her to be the only adult in the house. He was more Prince Chaotic than Prince Charming.

It had been ugly. And now, here they were, dressed in costume, trying to maintain a carefully curated public image while silently waging a cold war over a damn plate.

Mike leaned in to press a kiss on Jules’s cheek. She stiffened, determined not to react, but the warmth of his breath on her skin ignited frustration—exactly as he intended. 

That smirk of his had always been trouble. She’d called it his ‘I’m-about-to-make-a-bad-decision’ face, and she was usually right. They used to laughed about it. Now? Not so much.

Her ire simmered, not just because of the argument, but at the way he could so easily short-circuit her logical brain with a single touch. His fingertips skimmed the back of her neck as he walked away. She shivered. Damn him. 

Jules was grateful the gala hadn’t started. She dabbled in neighborhood gossip but couldn’t stomach their marital friction becoming grist for the rumor mill. She took a steadying breath and moved the plate to its designated spot on an empty table. He barely made it fifty paces away when a striking woman they both knew headed straight for him.

‘Michael!’ Penny Lane’s high-pitched voice cut through the noise with the confidence of someone who never worried about being loud. She closed the distance between her and Mike with slow, deliberate sways of her hips.

She was dressed in full Marilyn Monroe glamour: platinum blond wig, the infamous white dress, and lipstick so red it should’ve been a warning sign about her dangerous, husband-stealing ways. Jules half expected her to burst into a breathy rendition of Happy Birthday, Mr. President to grab people’s attention. 

He leaned in to whisper, his lips dangerously close to brushing the tart’s cheek. She laughed—a high-pitched cackle, sharp and honking, that turned heads whether they wanted to or not. Jules gritted her teeth. Prince Chaotic had struck again. Mike bit his lower lip and frowned when he realized Jules was watching him. Jules’s stomach clenched in a slow, sinking twist—she knew that tell. He was hiding something.

A voice from behind Jules startled her. ‘So, pistols at dawn?’ 

Jules turned to find her friend, Andrea Sommerville-Porter, standing beside the buffet table. She held a martini in one hand, likely not her first of the evening. ‘I’ll be your second but only if I don’t have to wear a bra so early in the day.’ 

‘You’ve binge-watched too much Bridgerton,’ Jules replied. ‘I admit calling Penny out on the field of honor sounds appealing. A duel would give us something more interesting to discuss at the next PTA meeting than dwindling parent participation.

Andrea’s eyes narrowed in concern. ‘I know the two of you are going through a rough patch, but you’ll get through it, right? Bickering is a form of flirty banter in some cultures.’

Jules had vented enough to Andrea in recent months to prompt the question. She wasn’t in the mood to answer. Jules snatched a chocolate covered strawberry from a three-tiered dessert stand and shoved the entire thing in her mouth. She washed it down with a glass of champagne.

‘Ask me again tomorrow,’ she said.

Andrea gave her an empathetic smile and rubbed her back. It was one of those sweeping pat-rubs usually followed by phrases like ‘bless your heart’ or ‘you look tired’ or ‘the Botox job looks shitty, dear, here’s my aesthetician’s number.’ 

‘I can help bury bodies but don’t put them under the garage floor. That kind of work needs jackhammers. I don’t use power tools unless there’s a guaranteed orgasm at the end.’

Olivia, Andrea’s wife, appeared at her elbow. She grinned. ‘Guaranteed orgasms? Whatever you’re planning, sign me up.’

‘Always do, babe.’ Andrea stroked Olivia’s cheek as they kissed.

After decades of friendship, Jules had a love-hate relationship with Andrea’s take-no-prisoners bluntness. On one hand, she’d led the charge to protect the forest preserve near the river, refusing to let developers turn it into a strip mall. Watching her expose politicians with property development connections at the city council meeting—armed with facts, cutting wit, and a never-say-die attitude—was a thing of beauty. On the other, Andrea also talked loudly, frequently, and unapologetically about her sex life—a hill she seemed willing to go down on. TMI, Jules always told her.

Jules tilted her at Olivia. ‘Who are you supposed to be?’

Olivia frowned, disappointed, then smoothed the front of her white corset-inspired pinafore. Her impossibly short blue mini skirt flared out with layers of white petticoat that barely covered her upper thighs. ‘I’m Alice in Wonderland.’ One of her thigh-high stockings had slipped to her knee, and she hastily tugged it back up.

Jules gave Andrea’s a once-over. She wore skinny black trousers, a white lace bustier, and a gold waistcoat. Over that, a crimson cutaway coat with tails gave her the look of a circus ringmaster. A small top hat fascinator, adorned with white rabbit ears, finished the look.

‘Let me guess,’ Jules said. ‘White Rabbit?’

Andrea laughed. ‘That’s me.’ She looked Jules up and down. ‘You look like part of the Roman Colosseum.’

Jules sighed. ‘It’s a replica of Dior’s Palladium dress, actually.’ The gown shimmered like molten silver, sculpted to her frame with metallic pleats that cascaded to the floor, catching the light with every move. She paired it with a feathered mask, the same luminous shade as her dress. 

‘And your other half?’ Andrea asked, pointing across the room at Mike, who sported a Greek toga that made him look less like a god of Olympus and more like he’d stumbled drunk out of Animal House.

Jules exhaled through her nose. ‘I wanted refined. He went for frat party.’

A flicker of gold caught the light as Andrea moved, drawing Jules’s attention. Her gaze dropped to the object hanging from a fob on Andrea’s vest—a watch, a battered one from the looks of it. Its face bore faded Roman numerals, and the rim’s engravings had been worn smooth by years of handling.

‘Does Party City sell vintage accessories with their costumes now?’ Jules asked.

Andrea’s sigh slipped into an irritated growl. ‘This isn’t some mass-produced costume from a bargain chain store, honey. I curated every piece from the best costume shops in Chicago.’ She held the watch up by the chain, it swung in a slow pendulum motion, gently twisting one way then the other as momentum carried it. ‘We found this at the new antique shop on Main Street.’

Jules frowned. ‘There aren’t any new shops on Main. I was at The Bake Shoppe yesterday.’ She’d stopped in for a piping tip—an essential tool for perfect buttercream swirls—but hadn’t seen any new storefronts.’

 ‘There is. It’s called…’ Andrea snapped her fingers like it would help her remember. She turned to Olivia, who answered for her.

‘Oz & Ends.’

‘That’s the one. It’s next to the baking shop.’ Andrea shrugged at Jules. ‘I don’t know how you missed it.’ 

‘It’s a neat place, filled with all kinds of funky things.’ Olivia pointed at the watch. ‘When I asked the shopkeeper how old that thing is, he said it was as old as the gods. Too bad it doesn’t work.’

The watch glinted in the light as Andrea held it by the chain. At first, Jules only noticed the way it caught the light, but the longer she gazed, the more mesmerized she became. It didn’t just reflect light, it glowed with a honey-colored aura that pulsed like a heartbeat. She cradled the watch in her hand, stilling its movement. The second hand moved for five ticks and stopped. 

When Jules blinked, the aura was gone. She yanked her hand back. ‘Did you see that? It moved.’ She stared at her palm as if it might tell her what had just happened. The hand that touched the watch felt warmer than the other.

‘Did you see that? It glowed when I touched it.’ Jules stared at Olivia.

Olivia placed the back of her hand against Jules’s forehead. ‘Are you sure you’re not coming down with something? Maybe the stress of gala planning got to you.’

Jules brushed her hand away. ‘I know what I saw. That thing glowed, and the hands moved.’

Andrea lifted the watch by its chain, letting it settle in her palm. She studied the motionless hands. ‘I could’ve sworn it started ticking when I first held it, but it hasn’t moved since. Then again, I wasn’t wearing my glasses.’ She turned to Olivia. ‘Maybe it’s like our handyman service—works when it feels like it. Have you seen anything—’ 

‘Nope. It’s broken.’ 

Andrea pocketed the watch and stopped a passing server for another drink. ‘You should check out the antique shop. That place is magic.’

‘What kind of magic we talking about, gals?’ Ben Lister, who was neighbors with the Witherspoons and the Sommerville-Porters, leaned into the conversation as he filled his plate. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, he had a sturdy build that made his Fred Flintstone costume look less like a joke and more like a perfect casting choice. 

Mari, Ben’s wife—dressed as Wilma—was right behind him. She looped an arm around Andrea in a quick hug.

Ben’s costume tie, knotted loosely around his neck, fell into the pâté as he reached for the cheeseboard. Andrea shot him a pointed look, then flicked her eyes toward the food on the tie. Ben grabbed a napkin with his free hand and swiped at the blob, smearing more of it than he cleaned.

Olivia narrowed her eyes at Ben. ‘What do you mean what kind of magic? It’s all the same, isn’t it?’

 Ben looked at her like she had two heads. ‘That’s like saying a house cat and a lion are the same because they both have whiskers. Magic comes in many forms. I explain it like this—’

‘Please don’t,’ Jules and Andrea said in unison.

Ben kept talking. ‘The best kind of magic is the Lord of the Rings sorcery type stuff. None of that herbs, crystals, or waving a smudging stick around crap. It takes real discipline, real power. Not sure it would be your kind of thing.’

Olivia quirked an eyebrow at him. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

His wife, Mari, gave him a wide-eyed look then whispered in his ear. They all knew Ben could be a dick, but they tolerated him because Mari was sweet.

Ben’s face reddened. ‘I can say what I want.’

Andrea peered at him, waiting to see just how much deeper he’d dig the hole he was standing in. ‘You don’t think women can handle magic powers?’

He crammed an appetizer-sized calzone into his mouth—an excellent opportunity to stop talking, but unfortunately, not one he chose to take. He spoke through the mouthful, his words muffled. ‘No offense, but serious magic requires massive power. Ladies are softer and—’

Wide-eyed, Mari clapped a hand on his arm, cutting him off. ‘What he’s trying to say is women would use magic to protect and nurture instead of blowing things up.’ She grinned at her friends, her expression far warmer than the one she’d given her husband. ‘It’s an interesting question, though: What would you do if you had magic powers?’

‘Funny you should mention that,’ Andrea said. ‘The owner of the antique shop asked the same question when I bought the watch.’ 

Olivia laughed. ‘Tell them how you answered.’

Andrea smiled, raising her glass in a loose, easy motion. ‘That it wouldn’t take me ten seconds to cast a spell that made everybody in the world happy.’ She took a sip, smacked her lips, and eyed her drink, unsure if she liked it. ‘Or at least conjure myself the perfect martini.’

Andrea spotted me in the crowd and her eyes went wide. Her smile faltered for half a second before she straightened and lifted a hand to motion me over.

As I approached, she squeaked to her friends, ‘That’s the owner of the antique shop.’ 

I thought my Monopoly Banker costume would help me blend it. Apparently not. It was probably the top hat’s fault.

Andrea rested her hand on my arm like she needed to confirm I was real. ‘Mr. Oz. What are you doing here?’

‘After hearing about this gala fundraiser from you, I simply had to see it for myself,’ I replied. ‘Hearing your conversation just now, I’m even more intrigued.’

Jules studied me, head tilted slightly, eyes sharp. She was thinking if the strange watch came from me, then I must be just as strange. 

‘I’m curious about you, dear,’ I said to her. ‘If you had magic, what would you do with it?

Jules’s first instinct was to dismiss it as ridiculous, but something about the way I watched her—expectant, amused—made her pause. She wondered why it felt like her answer mattered.

Ben jumped in. ‘If it were me, I’d go back in time and take some roads I didn’t take the first time ‘round.’

Mari’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and assessing. Something—annoyance, suspicion, maybe even hurt—flashed across her face before she masked it. 

Ben cleared his throat and mumbled, ‘Well, wouldn’t anybody?’

I kept my eyes on Jules, telling her she wouldn’t wriggle off my hook. But wriggle she did until she blurted out, ‘I’d make sure everyone I love is safe.’

Her husband, who had wandered over with a bottle of scotch just as I arrived said, ‘If you’d relax, you’d see we already are. Safety’s an illusion anyway—nothing real comes without risk.’

Ben chuckled and motioned for Mike’s drink. Mike handed it over, and Ben poured himself a generous four fingers. ‘If you’re gonna spout Freud bullshit, I’ll need a lot more of this.’

Mike took a long gulp of Scotch. ‘It’s Plato, but…whatever.’ 

I had an idea as I watched Ben. I turned on the glow in Andrea’s watch, allowing only him to see it come to life. Would he take the bait? 

‘Go on, then,’ I whispered. ‘You know you want to.’

Ben eyed the watch like it might bite. His fingers twitched at his sides, eagerness creeping in though he tried to look indifferent. He cupped the watch in his palm but let go just as fast. ‘Why is that damn thing so hot?’ he muttered.